A Scheme for Love, page 12
Lady Pennypiece suddenly was much improved. “I like things done in the proper way at the proper time.”
The first few drops of rain splattered onto the flagstones as Mathilda glanced back, a fitting portent for the day to come.
* * * *
The rain was falling in a steady rhythm when Mathilda awoke the next morn. A chill belied the June day and the gloom of the heavy clouds filled the room. Drawing the coverlet closer about her, she surveyed her quarters. The room’s heavy furniture, drab curtains, and dusty ledges strongly reminded Mathilda of the Hollows. She thought of Dannon and Mrs. Bertie and shivered.
It must be your imagination, she told herself, to think it cold. Rising, she dressed hastily, choosing the heaviest gown she had brought.
“Sir Grewould must have conjured up this weather,” she murmured, thinking of his cold reception and how he had ignored them last eve. With her toilet complete, she wondered what to do. Few sounds had come from the large house, and she did not know if Sir John or the servants were about. If had been quite clear that Lady Pennypiece had descended upon Sir John without warning. At a knock at the door Mathilda started. “Yes?” she called out.
“Lady Pennypiece requests that you come to breakfast, my lady,” sounded a voice Mathilda recognized as the maid who had helped unpack.
Mathilda opened the door. “Her ladyship is to breakfast already?”
“And Sir Grewould also,” the girl answered. “Very punctual is his lordship. I’ll show you the way if you wish.”
“Please do.” Mathilda smiled her gratitude.
“Good morn,” Lady Penny piece greeted Mathilda cheerfully as she entered the breakfast room. “I was just telling Sir John how well you slept in the country air.”
“The room is very comfortable,” Mathilda told her host, who continued eating as if she had never spoken.
Lady Pennypiece motioned for her to sit and remain silent. “Sir John,” she spoke loudly, “since the rain prevents our touring your gardens, would you consider showing us through the house? It has been many years since I stayed with you. I would love to see some of Elizabeth’s collections, especially the dolls.”
“Collections? Hurumph. Nasty things—they only collect dust, you know. Nasty.” He returned to his eating with vigour.
A shrug and eye-rolling look from Lady Pennypiece told Mathilda her opinion of their cousin. Setting her teacup firmly in its saucer after draining it, the countess tried once more. “Many years ago....” She paused. “Sir John? Sir John?” she shouted.
He looked up from his eating. “What’s that?”
“I was saying,” Lady Pennypiece continued, “many years ago I gave Elizabeth some dolls for her collection. Would you consider letting me take any of those I had given her as a remembrance of our friendship? It would please, me so.”
Sir John stared for a moment, then returned to his food without a word.
Rising, Lady Pennypiece signalled Mathilda to follow her from the room.
“How long have you been up, Aunt Nettie?” she asked, once they were in the corridor. “I never heard a sound.”
“That is because our rooms are in a part of the house never used these days,” she answered. “Come, let us begin.”
“Begin? You don’t mean to look for the doll collection, do you?” Mathilda asked, suspicious of the gleam in the other’s eyes.
“Of course not,” she replied gaily. “You are going to assist me.”
“We dare not. What would Sir John say?”
“He’ll probably never rise from his table,” Lady Pennypiece poohed. “If we are to judge by yester eve we can be certain of no interruption.”
“But the servants?”
“They will not dare to approach me. My looks and manners do have some benefits, you see,” she winked. “Now, I believe Elizabeth kept some of her collections in one of the salons on this floor. Come along,” she said sweeping forward majestically.
Mathilda’s fear was overridden by curiosity as they progressed from room to room. Each chamber revealed another interest of the late Lady Elizabeth. Buttons, hats, vases, vinaigrettes, fans, quizzing glasses, and music boxes were only a few of the dust-covered wonders they discovered.
“Where have you been?” Sir John scolded when they came from the fourth room on their expedition. “I thought you wanted to see Elizabeth’s dolls.”
“We do,” Lady Pennypiece assured him and took his arm. “Could we now? I do believe we are not occupied at the moment.” She looked at Mathilda and winked.
“Then to it,” Sir John urged. “A cold collation will be served soon.”
Giving her wig a jaunty pat, Lady Pennypiece stepped out with Sir John. Mathilda followed, fearful of bursting into laughter at the picture the odd pair presented.
His lordship led them past the rooms they had searched and on toward a pair of large doors, which opened with a mighty creak after being threatened by his pudgy hands. Inside, glass doors encased shelves of books. A huge stone fireplace engulfed one end of the room while at the opposite end stood more glass cases filled with dolls. Tiny miniatures of wood, clay, and bisque reposed on the centre shelves, their dainty dresses and suits, mere swatches of lace and silk, correct to the most minuscule detail. Their arrangement led the eye naturally on to the slightly larger dolls, with their opaque brown glass eyes and flaxen hair. Intermingled were dolls made with more advanced skill-some with human hair.
The women’s gazes travelled admiringly over the multitude of richly costumed dolls, halting here and there to take in an especially intricate dress or highly colourful costume. French fashion dolls or “fashion babies” as French noblewomen called then, had been used to keep abreast of fashion trends during the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries. They delighted the eye with their delicate period toilets. Over row after row Mathilda and Lady Pennypiece scanned the dolls, marvelling while searching, but unaware of the irony of all the eyes emptily staring back.
“I never quite realized Elizabeth had so many,” Lady Pennypiece noted as she walked slowly toward the cases.
“She liked them best,” Sir John said proudly. “They’re the only ones that don’t collect dust.”
“How many are there?” Mathilda asked staring at the collection in wonder.
“Never counted,” he answered. Waving at the collection he concluded, “Enough.”
All eyes went back to the amazing array. There were dolls in court dress, in eveningwear, and in day gowns. Some were dressed as peasants and servants.
Both women studied them, row after row, shelf upon shelf. Their hopeful expressions slowly ebbed from their faces.
Among all of these dolls there were only ten dressed in red. None was Doll in Red.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Melancholy brought on by the failure to find Doll in Red, the dreary rain, and an unwilling host prompted Lady Pennypiece to order her coach readied and the baggage packed.
Far from objecting to so precipitate a departure, Sir John welcomed it with relief. He saw them off in the rain, which had lightened, and returned to his table to partake of a proper dinner.
In the coach Mathilda stared out of the window. All was going awry, and each lurch closer to London increased her apprehension.
Safely back at No. 31 Golden Square, Mathilda found nothing to dispel her foreboding. Viscount Bartone avoided her or worse, stood staring into the distance.
Lady Pennypiece launched her upon a new round of balls and soirees.
Kittridge escorted them to the theatre and the opera; he took Mathilda shopping and even on a visit to Tunbridge Wells. But all failed to raise her spirits beyond a weak smile.
Even Lord Potters noticed her melancholia and sought to cheer her with reports of Bartone’s help with the bill against the slave trade. But even he wondered at his friend’s sudden coldness toward Mathilda.
Realizing that they were all troubled for her, she assumed a false gaiety, which relieved them all save Lady Pennypiece, who saw through the pose. The countess also noticed that Mathilda had become restless, as if constantly looking for someone whenever they were out. Only the appearance of Bartone quieted this agitation she saw. It was also evident that the viscount, though seemingly reformed and now highly spoken of by many, went out of his way to snub them.
“Where have you been?” Lord Potters protested as Viscount Bartone ran up to him in the outer chamber of the Lords. “They are about to put it to the vote.”
“Matters on the reform issue,” Bartone panted. “Let us go in now.”
“You go in. I must see if I can find Clarke and Mahew. They wandered out during Grenville’s speech.”
“Then let me help you look for them. Wait, here they are.”
Together the four men entered just in time to take part in the vote. Leaving some time later, they went to Brooks’. It was evening when Bartone and Potters returned to the viscount’s home.
“What will you do now, Potts?” Bartone asked, pouring brandy for them both.
“There is the last vote on the reform bill to be taken on the morrow. I suppose after that I shall go to the country for the summer and prepare for the fall session.”
“Do you suppose Wilberforce will drop his efforts after today’s failure?”
“No, he has endured years of failure. What is important is that his effort gains support each year. In a year, perhaps two, he will manage to get a bill through the Commons and then we will have a greater chance in the Lords,” Potters replied.
“We? I don’t know about myself. All this work you have been at it constantly for weeks and all the while knowing you would fail? Why do it?”
“Because it matters. The day will come when men of any colour will no longer be shipped like cattle across the seas. How can life have meaning if we run each time we fail?”
Bartone moved to refill Potters’ glass.
“No, Will, I’ve enough. And so have you,” he noted, watching the viscount refill his own. “We will need you on the morrow.”
Gulping the brandy, Bartone sat down. “I don’t know, Potts. I’m tired. So tired.”
“You’ve a right to be with all you’ve tried to do. How is Lynn doing at the Hall?” he asked, trying to change Bartone’s tread of thought.
“Troubles. Nothing but troubles. Each new repair reveals more that needs attending. The people are clamouring for more and more.”
“Neglect is seldom righted in a week or a month, Will. You knew what you faced.”
“Don’t lecture, Potts. Not now. You’d better go. I’m bad company this eve.”
“Why don’t you come with me? I mean to stop at Mahew’s ball,” Potters urged his friend.
Bartone shook his head. “I’ll think on it. Perhaps later I’ll come by.” After seeing Potters to the door, he returned to his office and poured another brandy.
The pace he had been keeping for the last weeks was collecting its dues. Exhaustion triggered depression, which grew deeper and deeper as he drank.
Falling asleep, Bartone dreamed of the Indies and awoke filled with an anger he had sought to leave behind. He rose, quaffed a drink, and paced to and fro.
What had Potts mentioned? Mahew’s ball. There is diversion for me there, he thought, and ordered his phaeton.
* * * *
“Thank you, Lord Potters,” Mathilda told the baron accepting the lemonade he had brought her. “There is such a crush this eve.”
“This is one of the last balls of the season,” he replied. “Everyone wishes to make a last appearance before departing for the summer. Will you be going to Pennywise with Lady Pennypiece?”
“No, I mean to return to the Hollows, perhaps next week,” she answered. “I have imposed upon the countess too long already.”
“She has never been in higher spirits. My mother says you have done her a goodly turn by staying,” he assured her.
“It is my dance, Mathilda,” Kittridge said, joining them. “Sorry about the vote today, Potters.”
“It was expected. There will be another day.”
Kittridge nodded. “But now is the time to forget serious matters, my lady.” He bowed, holding out his hand.
Mathilda placed her hand in his with a smile. “I regard my steps very seriously, and so would you if I did not,” she warned.
Bidding Potters to find a partner, they joined the dancers for the country set. By its end, perspiration beaded upon Mathilda’s brow.
Kittridge led her to the gardens. “It is a very warm evening,” he commented, “but at least we have a breeze here.”
“Thank goodness for these light muslin gowns,” Mathilda returned, dabbing at her face. “I am surprised you gentlemen survive once the weather warms.” She fanned herself with her kerchief.
“Ah, a woman of compassion at last,” he laughed lightly, taking her hand. “You must let me return it,” he said, becoming serious. “Could you not tell me what is worrying you?”
“I worried? You are mistaken—”
“No, I am not. But I will not press you.” He lightly kissed her hand.
Impulsively, she kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Kitt.” Shaking her head at the question she saw upon his face, she said, “I have not changed my mind. This week will be my last here. Now off with you before some poor damsel dissolves in tears because you have not claimed your dance with her. I will sit here for a time.”
With a sigh, Mathilda settled back, wiggling her toes in her satin slippers. One slipped from her heel as she did so and she raised her skirt to reach it. Bending over to redo the slipper’s ties, she found the light blocked by a man’s figure.
“I am fine, Kitt. It is only my...” her voice trailed off as she raised her eyes and saw Bartone’s angry stance.
“So it is ‘Kitt’ now,” he swore. “You are to marry him, then.”
“Mr. Kittridge has been very kind to me, Lord Bartone,” she replied, shrinking from his glare, “but I am not to wed him.”
“He has not asked?”
“What Mr. Kittridge does or does not do is of no concern of yours,” she retorted, trying to draw strength from her growing anger.
Bartone grabbed her arm and pulled her upright. “Has he asked?”
“Yes, my lord, and I have refused,” Mathilda answered with tears threatening as she looked into Bartone’s eyes.
“Refused—but why? Wasn’t he wealthy enough for you?” he sneered.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she returned, a tear coursing its way down her cheek. “I know nothing of Mr. Kittridge’s affairs.”
“Why do you persist in this studied ignorance of his title? An odd way to treat one of the gentry when you insist upon being ‘my lady.’”
Mathilda winced as his grip tightened on her arm. “How can you object to a man’s name? Release me. You have no right—”
“You want me to think you really believe he is Mister Kittridge,” Bartone said, incredulous. “You really do, don’t you? Is that why you refused his offer?”
“Why would I refuse a man because of his name? Are you mad?” Mathilda asked, beginning to fear it must be so.
Bartone released his hold. “So you wanted a title. Was Potters to be your choice, then? You will find he is not fool enough. No, you lost your chance, my lady,” he mocked her.
“You could have been Lord Kittridge Pennypiece’s wife. Now you shall be no one’s.” A bitter laugh taunted her confusion.
“Oh, yes, he is Lord Pennypiece. Ask anyone—your precious countess. Kittridge is a given name.”
Numbly shaking her head, Mathilda walked away. Tears no longer came—she was beyond them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
For most of the night Mathilda lay awake in the darkness of her room. She had taken a hackney cab to Golden Square and feigned sleep when Lady Pennypiece looked in on her. Daylight had not eased her aching heart. Dressing was a mechanical chore done from habit as she tried to sort out her thoughts.
“Mathilda, I am glad to see you up,” Lady Pennypiece said, entering her room. “Were you taken ill? Why, you are frightfully pale,” she exclaimed. “Let me send for a doctor.”
“Is Kitt your son?” Mathilda blurted, unable to contain the question any longer.
“So you have found it out,” Lady Pennypiece sighed. “Is that why you left so suddenly last eve?”
“Why—why did you lie?” Mathilda asked, fighting back tears.
“It was harmless, or meant to be; an accident that was compounded. Remember when you first met Kitt in the lane outside of Farnham? He said his name was Kittridge—am I not correct?”
Swallowing hard, Mathilda nodded.
“Was it not you, yourself, who presumed to address him as Mr. Kittridge?” Lady Pennypiece put her arms around Mathilda. “How was he to know he would see you again? It seemed senseless for him to explain.
“Then, later, he did not want to embarrass you, and he could not see the harm. There was no other reason.”
Her head on the old woman’s shoulder, Mathilda broke into sobs.
Lady Pennypiece held her until they ceased, then handed her a kerchief. “Who told you?” she asked.
“Viscount Bartone,” Mathilda said through sniffles. “He—” Tears came again.
Her lips in a thin line, Lady Pennypiece patted Mathilda’s shoulder.
“I want to go home today,” Mathilda said, raising her tear-reddened face.
“There is something we must do before you go,” the countess said quietly. “I was going to suggest it soon. I think today must be the day.”
“The day for what?” Mathilda asked, wiping her eyes.
“Ever since our return from Grewould I have searched every corner of my memory for what I could have done with Doll in Red.”
“Oh, forget it, Aunt Nettie. I should never have come,” she protested.
“I thought you were concerned with the welfare of Bannon—”
“You mean Dannon,” Mathilda corrected, sniffling.
“Dannon, then, and his wife. Do you no longer care what happens to them?”
“Of course I do. Their fate is like a puppy’s—you can’t help but trip over it wherever you turn.”
