Practical Heart, page 4
“No!” the Viscount exploded. “No! Not another word will I hear. Every sentiment revolts; the very notion is nauseating, abominable, unthinkable!”
“And yet you have thought of it without Miss Spencer’s even mentioning it,” Miles observed. “What exactly is this piece of strategy, ma’am?”
“Why, simply that the Viscount might—”
“Marry her,” Valerian interrupted again. “Marry her! I! Miss Spencer, you have not long been acquainted with me, and so I will excuse you your suggestion, but let me inform you for future reference that I am an ardent and active supporter of beauty and grace in every sphere of life. I believe in beauty, Miss Spencer; I am dedicated to the admiration and worship of all that is fine. All my life I have been—Ah! A priest in the temple of the muses, a sacrifice on the altar of loveliness, a supplicant to the god of elegance! To take sacred vows, to bind myself forever to a—a whey-faced chit of a woman…it is beyond contemplation, that is all there is to it; it defies consideration.”
“Have you quite done, sir?” said Gillian, exasperated with this unnecessary spate of eloquence.
“I think so.”
“Then all I ask is that you bear the possibility in mind.”
The Viscount was about to respond indignantly to this, but Miles interceded, saying, “She’s absolutely in the right of it, you know,” and Sherbourne merely flung up his hands in silence. Gillian flashed Mr. Lawrence a grateful glance; however, she feared her scheme had been but ill-received.
This meditation was interrupted by the entrance, nearly simultaneous, of Felicity and Cordelia, who had been watching the street from a window upstairs. “Someone is arriving,” said Felicity, almost squeaking in her excitement. “Miss Spencer, do I look pretty? That is,” she corrected hastily, “are my bows tied properly, and so forth?”
“You look very pretty, my dear,” Gillian said obligingly, “and so do you, Cordelia.”
“Thank you,” Miss Collins replied.
“You look pretty, too,” Felicity added shyly.
Gillian smiled warmly but said only, “That is neither here not there. If Mr. Lawrence would be so kind as to tie his Lordship’s cravat, I believe we will be quite prepared for our guests.”
“Tie your cravat?” said Miles to the Viscount.
“I do not know how,” the latter answered sheepishly.
Much to Sherbourne’s discomfiture, Miles laughed long and loud at this gap in his uncle’s education. By standing behind the older man, however, he managed to tie quite a passable Waterfall, so that by the time Trigg appeared at the doors of the drawing room, the Viscount was able to greet Lady Letitia Vaughn and her son Winsted, Lord Vaughn, with tolerable composure.
“This must be Delia,” said Lady Vaughn, an imposing woman in a yet more imposing turban. She advanced majestically upon Cordelia and grasped that young lady’s cheeks between firm hands. “Very comely,” she pronounced, turning her face toward the light. “I knew you when you were an infant, my dear. I do not suppose you remember Me.”
Cordelia murmured that she was delighted to meet Lady Vaughn again and turned away to curtsy to Winsted.
“You are Felicity,” Lady Vaughn informed that lady, and turned to Gillian. “But you do not look familiar to Me,” she declared. “Who are you?”
Miss Spencer introduced herself, though the Viscount would have done so in a moment.
“So you are to chaperone the girls, are you? In My opinion, you are no more than a girl yourself, Miss Spencer.”
Gillian was not certain whether to thank her or to apologise. In the end she did neither, but merely dropped a small curtsy, wondering meanwhile how it was that Lady Vaughn communicated the capitals that were so clearly attached to all words pertaining to herself. Her wonderment increased when Winsted spoke, for he did exactly the same.
“It is a great pleasure to meet you, sir,” Cordelia was saying to him.
“The pleasure,” he answered, “is all Mine.”
“Valerian,” Lady Vaughn said to Sherbourne, “you are looking very haggard. What have you done to this room? It used to be different.”
“What a memory you have, Letitia!” cried he. “Merely a little refurbishment. Do sit down, my dear, and tell me all the latest on-dits.”
“My dear sir,” she replied, seating her angular frame upon a hard wooden chair, “I do not gossip, you know. Let Me tell you, instead, about Winsted.”
“Yes, he is grown into a very fine young man, indeed,” said the Viscount, who had forgot his existence entirely. “He must be…eight-and-twenty, by now?” he guessed at random.
“Thirty,” she corrected. “He does look very young, though, does not he?”
Since the Viscount was engaged in stifling a yawn, Miss Spencer agreed that he did.
“He has been a great comfort to Me. since his Father passed away, you know. He is quite prominent in politics, too.”
“Politics?” said Miss Spencer, feigning interest with difficulty. “Indeed!”
“Oh yes. Winsted, My dear, come sit by Me and tell his Lordship all about the speech you delivered in Parliament last year.”
Winsted obliged his mother promptly by seating himself next to Miss Spencer upon the settee and leaning forward earnestly towards the Viscount. “It was a most important speech, sir,” he began, “and I flatter Myself it went over pretty well. It had to do with a proposal relating to the poor…” Lord Vaughn went on to explain every intricacy of an exceedingly tedious proposal invented, Valerian concluded, by a total imbecile. Who would benefit by it, if it passed, and who suffer, the Viscount could not make out, but he did gather that the crux of Winsted’s oration had been a metaphor something to the effect that if Charity were Silver, then Labour was Gold. This pithy, and apparently meaningless, phrase was reiterated so many times during Lord Vaughn’s explication that Sherbourne began to feel very sorry indeed for those peers who had been subjected to the entire speech. By the time Winsted concluded, the company had all been given to understand that were it not for Winsted Lord Vaughn, the British Isles would sink immediately into the ocean. The only thing that prevented the Viscount from falling to sleep altogether was the croaking of the doorbell, which was followed some moments later by the entrance of the Earl and Countess of Ransford, their son Courtney, and daughter, Caroline.
Miss Spencer and the Viscount rose with unusual alacrity to greet them. Soon they were drawing the new arrivals in towards the assembled party and introducing everyone all round. The Earl and Countess, despite their exalted titles, were a quiet, unassuming couple who avoided society whenever possible and were, after some thirty years of marriage, deeply in love with one another. The “Ransfords Holding Hands” was one of the best-known sights among the ton, and attracted not a little ridicule from their less happy acquaintances. They had come to London for this particular season because Lady Caroline had reached the age of eighteen and was therefore in need of a husband. Courtney accompanied them even though he, like his parents, preferred to live retired. He did this out of a sincere filial loyalty, and an equally sincere fraternal affection; he was determined, if possible, to ease his shy sister’s entrance into society.
They were a remarkably handsome family. The Countess’s sweet, if faded, features were reborn and refreshed in her daughter’s countenance; Courtney had inherited his father’s steady grey eyes and his handsome, serious aspect. All shared a dark, pleasant colouring, and each, to some extent, partook of a positive terror of society. United as they were now, they made their presence felt, but individually each was the sort of person who could sit in a room for hours and yet remain entirely unnoticed. This shrinking tendency, however, did nothing to alter the fact that the Earl was the sixth to hold that title, nor did it change the circumstance of the Ransfords’s extreme wealth, in consequence whereof their position in society was unassailably assured.
“So you are down from Oxford now, are you, Courtney?” the Viscount was saying.
“Just down, sir,” he corroborated.
“Your father and I were schoolfellows there together, you know,” Sherbourne informed him.
Courtney was about to reply, but Lady Vaughn pounced suddenly into the conversation. “Oxford!” she exclaimed. “I understand some people are quite content with such an education, but My Winsted did not find it sufficed for him, did you, My dear?”
For the next half-hour, Lord Vaughn single-handedly debated the value of an Oxford education versus a private one, for the benefit (apparently) of the hapless Courtney Yates. Everyone else turned away from the monologue as soon as they possibly could, and engaged themselves in conversation otherwhere. The guests had begun to arrive with alarming rapidity; it was quite peculiar, Miss Spencer reflected, but there seemed to be rather more people than the Viscount had been expecting. At the first opportunity, she inquired of Sherbourne how he accounted for this phenomenon.
“My dear,” he replied, smiling rather smugly, “people have always responded to my invitations. Poor in many things I have been, but in friendship—never.”
“If they are such dear friends of yours,” Gillian answered a little sourly, “you might ask a few of them to leave early. I do not know how we are to contain them in this room much longer.”
“Miss Spencer, you sound quite overset, almost accusatory, even, may I say, bitter!”
“Well, my Lord, we have worked wonders thus far this evening, but I do not think we shall be capable of miracles. Whatever possessed you to invite so many people?”
“But I did not!” he protested, utterly innocent. “You can see for yourself: They’ve all brought their children.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, one might have expected they would.”
“But how was I to know so many of them would be old enough to attend a gathering like this? The last time I saw Ransford’s son, he was in short-frocks.”
“And when was that, my Lord?”
“Twelve years ago,” he answered promptly.
“Children do have a way of growing up,” she pointed out.
“Do not they?” he agreed, a dreamy look entering his eyes and a paternal sort of smile alighting on his lips.
Miss Spencer prudently removed herself from his company, for she sensed—quite rightly—one of his rhapsodies coming on. Moving with difficulty through the room, which was indeed crowded by now, she sought out Mr. Lawrence. She found him at last, engaged in overpowering Lady Caroline with his wit, which was not a terribly difficult feat to accomplish.
“My dear Mr. Lawrence,” she began, when she had detached him from Caroline’s admiring, and slightly bewildered, gaze, “might I have a few words with you?”
“As many as you like, ma’am,” he bowed. “I believe we have had words before.”
“You may save your witticisms for more worshipful audiences, Mr. Lawrence.”
“Do call me Miles, please. We are allies, you know.”
Miss Spencer cast him an exasperated glance, but she obliged him—for the sake of expediency, she told herself. “I have yet another favour to ask you,” she informed him.
“Have you! A dangerous assignment, I hope.”
“It may well be,” she answered frankly. “You have no doubt noticed the number of people in the room?”
He nodded.
“I cannot keep an eye on all of them, and I am afraid…” She paused for a moment, suddenly a little embarrassed. “I am afraid some of them will drift into other rooms soon. If only—do you think you could—”
“Sentry duty!” he broke in cheerfully. “Hardly the beginning of a brilliant military career, General, but every soldier must do his part, do not you agree?”
“No, I do not agree,” she exclaimed, her temper flaring. “That is, I do…O, call it what you will, call me what you will, but for the sake of the Viscount and of the girls, do go and stand by the doors!”
“I shall, ma’am; but not for the sake of my friend, nor for his daughters.” He lifted her ungloved hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. “For your own sweet sake, and yours alone,” he said, and made off straightway for the door.
Gillian felt that she could easily spend an hour or two pondering this erratic piece of behaviour, but there was no time. A thousand things claimed her attention just at present, most notably Mrs. Trigg. That good lady had appeared at last with the biscuits she had baked, and was now barrelling and elbowing her way through London’s most select society for all the world like a street vendor. Gillian rushed to her side and aided her in the disposition of her various trays, afterwards hurrying her off towards the kitchens, where, she hoped, she could do no harm. Mrs. Trigg’s taciturn spouse had been assisting all evening in the distribution of what beverages the Viscount had to offer, and Gillian had to admit he had done fairly well. At least he did not, like his helpmeet, stridently instruct the guests to “get out the way.” On the other hand, very few people seemed to have found their way to refreshments of any sort. This, combined with the fact that it was hot in the drawing room, and stuffy, and crowded, led Gillian to suspect that the guests must be almost as uncomfortable as she was herself. And yet, they all seemed to be enjoying themselves. Miss Spencer puzzled over this problem and was forced, at last, to credit the Viscount with being a very talented host, indeed. She watched him as he floated easily from group to group, never stopping anywhere too long, and investing each of them, it appeared, with the power of speech. In the final analysis, it was the delight of his conversation and their own that so amused the company; Gillian, though she had cursed Sherbourne’s tongue before, was forced to admire the use he put it to now.
The evening went on, it seemed to Miss Spencer, for ages. Miles did his duty stalwartly, and very well. How he was able to persuade the various young ladies, elderly matrons, and inarticulate gentlemen who were headed purposefully for the front hall and points beyond, that they did not really wish to leave, Gillian never discovered. He did it somehow; probably, she admitted to herself grudgingly, by charm. Whenever she could spare a moment for them, she observed her young charges, and was pleased to find them conducting themselves admirably. Cordelia, poor soul, was cornered by Lord Vaughn for a large part of the evening, but she bore it with a good grace and even contrived—Gillian could not guess how—to look animated. Her younger sister, meanwhile, was set upon by a long series of her father’s old friends, who pinched her cheeks and clucked at her good-humouredly. Whether her colour was raised because of those pinches, or because of her embarrassment at all this unwonted attention, or for some reason Gillian knew nothing of, she was certainly blooming, and looked very, very pretty.
And somehow, the night passed off without disaster. When the last guest had gone—except Mr. Lawrence—the five of them sat for an hour or two recovering from the excitement and exchanging stories: how Miles had dissuaded Mr. Metcalfe from seeking a moment’s silence in the library; how Valerian had remembered, at the last moment, the identity of that stout little woman in lavender. They laughed, and talked, and congratulated one another on their success until Miles, yawning, took his leave and the rest of them stumbled sleepily off to bed. Despite Mr. Grouse’s warning, they had all forgotten the import of the morrow—even, for a few hours, the vigilant Miss Spencer.
Chapter IV
“Mrs. Trigg,” Gillian found the Viscount saying, as she descended the staircase in the morning, “I do not blame you for being disturbed. We are none of us comfortable here, and I make no doubt that you and your good husband deserve and are accustomed to better circumstances. However, we must strive together for some sort of order or we shall all, surely, go mad—and for that reason, my good woman, I implore you to get me some coffee immediately, and not another word from you!”
Mrs. Trigg said nothing, but folded her arms meaningfully across her chest and regarded his Lordship in silence.
“Good morning,” Gillian ventured.
“Miss Spencer!” said Sherbourne with relief. “Good morning, indeed. This woman has had the impertinence, the boldness, the, may I say, effrontery to refuse us coffee!”
“Good morning, Mrs. Trigg,” said Gillian, concealing a yawn. “What is all this about?”
“Ain’t no coffee,” Mrs. Trigg explained briefly. “Good morning, Miss.”
“Perhaps if you made some, there would be some?” Gillian suggested.
“I mean, there ain’t no coffee in the house. No coffee beans. O, I seen desprit straits before, but this I never see!” And on these words, Mrs. Trigg went off into a gale of private laughter.
“Then we shall have to buy some,” Miss Spencer concluded. “My Lord, why do you not give this good lady some money and send her out to purchase some coffee?”
“She won’t go,” Sherbourne said flatly. “Won’t go?”
“Send out the kitchen maid, if you want your purchasing done,” said Mrs. Trigg, still giggling. “I weren’t hired to do no shopping.”
“This is ridiculous,” Miss Spencer pronounced. “I absolutely refuse to settle such a dispute.”
“But, Miss Spencer,” the Viscount pleaded, to Gillian’s retreating figure, “you must—O, very well,” he interrupted himself, “I suppose I shall have to do it myself.”
“Trigg might do it,” Mrs. Trigg informed him, then added, “for a small fee.”
“Well, for the love of Heaven, fetch him to me!”
“Now, I’m not saying as he will…” Mrs. Trigg qualified.
“Fetch him!” Valerian commanded. “Fetch him!”
“What is the matter, Papa?” asked Felicity, appearing at the top of the stairs as Mrs. Trigg made a lethargic exit from the hall.
“Nothing, my dear. Go and talk to Miss Spencer; she is in the drawing room, I think.”
“I could go and get the coffee,” Cordelia offered as she followed her sister through the hall.
“It will not be necessary,” Valerian stated, “that either of my daughters trot off to accomplish vulgar commissions. Go into the drawing room, please.”
