Madeleine Robins Read online

  Lady Bradwell and Miss Cherwood turned in surprise to see what had made Mrs. Ambercot exclaim with such vehemence.

  “I do beg your pardon, my dears. It is only that dreadful Eliza of mine. I can’t allow Lully to speak ill of her, but for myself, I will allow that this nonsense of hers has almost brought me to my wit’s end. Look at her, languishing on Jack’s arm! What a dreadful child it is.” Indeed, Miss Eliza Ambercot could be seen hanging on the arm of a rather rattled-looking Lord Bradwell.

  “Quite unlike Ulysses and Jane,” Lady Bradwell agreed, straining to locate Miss Ambercot in the crowd. “Lord, I loathe these abominable things!” she announced, removing her detested spectacles from her nose, despite Rowena’s admonitory cluckings. “Where is Jane? I haven’t seen her since you arrived.”

  “I fancy she’s talking with one of Squire Polwyn’s boys now, about the hunt last year. Consider me, Louisa,” Mrs. Ambercot said mournfully to Lady Bradwell. “A fribble for a son, one daughter more at home at the hunt than in the drawing room, and one who is determined that she will marry a duke — a royal duke for preference, an she can find one not too corpulent.”

  “Are any of them left unmarried?” Rowena asked with interest, and was rewarded with a comical look of dislike from Lady Bradwell and Mrs. Ambercot.

  “I have often wondered, Rowena —” Lady Bradwell began repressively, but broke off as Jane Ambercot joined them. Miss Ambercot was a neat, stocky woman with a squarish sort of face, and square, short-fingered hands; her manner was forthright and rather engaging. Just now her pleasant, freckled countenance was alight with smiles as she offered her hand to Miss Cherwood.

  “Good evening, Lady Bradwell. Hullo, Mama, are you bemoaning your children again? Rowena?” This last as said with a touch of shyness.

  “Hello, Jane,” Miss Cherwood returned, and gave her old friend a quick kiss. “How pretty you look.”

  “O certainly,” Miss Ambercot agreed wryly. “Quite like a plow horse dressed in muslin. You look pretty. Do you know, Lady Bradwell, that when I was eleven, and Miss Cherwood fourteen, I wanted nothing more in the world than to look just like her —”

  “Jane, you must be funning. At fourteen I was a complete bean pole —”

  “With masses of beautiful hair, and so tall and slender! And here I am, defeated by my freckles and my resemblance to poor Papa.” She made a rueful movement with her hands. “Somehow I always expect to find pockets, and they’re never there.”

  “You’re not in riding dress, Jane,” Mrs. Ambercot reproved.

  Lady Bradwell, charmed with these insights about her companion, nevertheless was bound to do her duty as a hostess. “Children, it is time we sent you back into the party and continued our gossiping.”

  “Shall we return to find ourselves married off, and everything tidy?” Rowena teased.

  “Why certainly,” Lady Bradwell agreed.

  “In that case, I shan’t stay about to hear my fate.” Rowena took Jane’s elbow and the two left the older women to their talk.

  “Have you met my cousin Margaret?” Rowena asked.

  “Renna, I haven’t seen you in I don’t know how many years. I’d no idea you had a Cousin Margaret. Is she here?”

  “Yes, I left her talking with Lady Bradwell’s prodigal son — damnation, will I never learn to guard my tongue? Pray forget that you heard me say that. Meg arrived a few days ago, chased from her home, if you can believe anything so gothic, by her Mamma, who wanted her to marry a man twice her age.”

  “Does romance simply run in your family, Renna?” Jane grinned. “At least you always had your Mamma and Papa to play chaperone on your adventures.”

  “On the contrary, I played their chaperone. Mamma could be relied upon to be arguing with Portuguese housekeepers who spoke no English, and Papa might be found trading stories with the soldiers. Any soldiers, at that! He would as readily have spoken with Bonaparte’s fellows as with our own. And probably did, too, which is why he was such a famous diplomat.” She smiled reminiscently for a moment. “But look, there’s my cousin. Margaret, dear” — she hailed Meg, who was obviously in search of her. “Meg, this is Mr. Ambercot’s sister Jane, who was my playmate when Mamma and Papa and I lived in Cambridgeshire.”

  “Miss Cherwood, I hope we shall be friends, for if you are not my friend, then I suppose my sister will try to make you hers, and I wouldn’t wish such a fate on you.” Miss Ambercot extended her hand and smiled in a friendly manner. “And there’s Lully again. I have the most lowering suspicion —” Jane began.

  “Yes?” Rowena prodded.

  “Nothing. Impolitic. Do you like Devon, Miss Margaret?” Miss Ambercot asked hastily.

  “Of course she does,” Ulysses Ambercot answered. “Miss Cherwood” — this was obviously addressed to Margaret — “might I beg your company for a turn around the room? I shall explain, if you wish, exactly what about Devonshire it is that you like.”

  “Mayn’t I form my own opinions, sir?” Margaret asked breathlessly.

  “All the better, of course,” he agreed solemnly, and led her off.

  “I have a suspicion that Lully is going to be smitten by your cousin,” Jane said.

  “I have very much the same suspicion,” Rowena agreed. “Well, you shall talk with her another time, then. Is that you or me your mamma is beckoning to?”

  “Me, I fear. Either my flounces are torn or my hair is coming down, or perhaps she just wants me to fetch her some claret cup. Shall I see you later?”

  “I hope so.” Miss Ambercot began to pick her way through the groups of people, toward the fireplace. Rowena settled herself in a chair nearby, content for a few minutes to watch the product of her hard work: the party’s smooth process.

  “I collect that you know the Ambercots very well,” a voice behind her commented drily.

  “I beg your pardon?” She turned to face Lyndon Bradwell.

  “What was that ridiculous thing you called Mr. Ambercot?”

  “Lully? Short for Ulysses, which Eliza could not pronounce as a baby. He and Jane and I were playmates as children. He used,” she continued reminiscently, “to tie me up with the sash of my own gown, and I would escape and come after him in some dreadful retribution....”

  “What sort of retribution?” Bradwell asked, piqued.

  “O very ungentlemanly sorts, I assure you, since I hadn’t the strength to thrash him as I would have liked to do. I recall inquiring in a very loud voice in Auntie Anne’s drawing room one afternoon whatever Lully had done with the monstrous fine snake he had brought to the house. That put the household into some uproar, I can promise you. I should rather have tied him up in turn, you know, but as I had little hope of that, I was forced upon my wits.”

  “I imagine,” Mr. Bradwell agreed, evidently much amused by the pictures his mother’s companion painted for him. Rowena wondered privately when she had so far recovered from her dislike of the man as to have been able to recount this absurd story, and found herself baffled by the question.

  “Can you tell me,” she continued rather hurriedly, “if that lady with your brother can possibly be Eliza Ambercot?”

  “Frankly I cannot, since the acquaintance between their family and mine dates from about the time I left for Spain. I did meet Miss Jane and her brother at Jack’s betrothal party, of course, but Miss Eliza was still in the nursery at the time. I suspect it may be she; she rather resembles your Lully.”

  “Hardly mine. And the last time I saw Lizzie Ambercot, she was five years old, throwing a tantrum over a sweetmeat.”

  “I can well imagine it,” he agreed, observing the girl more closely. “Well, if Jack likes to have her hand on him — although I know well that he does not, and cannot sufficiently convey this to her — he is welcome to her. Far better him than I.”

  “Poor Eliza,” Miss Cherwood said, with little sympathy.

  “Poor Eliza indeed. I wish you could imbue her with a little of your own reluctance to move about in the company, Miss C
herwood. I haven’t a doubt it would become her better.”

  “Are you bamming me, sir?” Rowena regarded her companion suspiciously.

  “Not in the least, ma’am. Why should you think so?”

  “When you make a silly statement such as that, for all the world as if I were entirely given over to old lace, dowager’s cap, and lavender ribbons! Just because I am sensible of my responsibilities....”

  “Highly sensible,” he said, with the curl to his lips that had so infuriated her when they met. Rowena rose as if to leave. “No, ma’am, I am sorry. Don’t let me drive you from your seat. I was only referring to the words that I heard you speak to Miss Margaret earlier. I assure you, my mother considers you with as much — more, in fact — pleasure and friendliness than she does my sisters.”

  “I beg your pardon if I seem too sensitive, Mr. Bradwell, but you see, I am still a little unused to this business of being in a position, and sometimes I do not know just what to make of it.”

  “Don’t fret yourself with it too much, Miss Cherwood. Consider yourself one of our family, as Mamma and Jack already do.”

  “And you?”

  “When I know you better, I assume I shall do as well,” he said easily. It was not a very satisfying answer. “Damnation. Jack’s cast Eliza Ambercot off at last and she’s directed herself here. I hate to be uncivil, Miss Cherwood, but I think I find myself in need of a stiff brandy. At once.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Bradwell. I’ll make your apologies,” Rowena countered. He shot her a puzzled look, then smiled and took his leave. Miss Cherwood, left alone again, smoothed her skirt and prepared herself for the onslaught of Miss Eliza Ambercot and her dainty manner.

  Chapter Four

  Regrettably, Eliza Ambercot fully justified her brother’s unkindly aspersions. After claiming Miss Cherwood as a cherished acquaintance, with many ill-pronounced phrases in French to back this claim, she proceeded to give Rowena a complete histoire of the family since their last meeting. As the tale was mostly comprised of a listing of every beau with whom Eliza had danced at the Bath assemblies, with animadversions upon “Poor Jane’s misfortunate engagement,” and “Lully’s shocking luck at cards,” it is not wonderful that Miss Cherwood shortly was overwhelmed with a desire to escape. Eliza was finishing her monologue with a flowery prayer that Miss Cherwood would be as desirous as she of regaining their former intimacy, when she espied Lyndon Bradwell across the room and rather hurriedly took her leave. As this saved Rowena from making the admission that the only intimacy she could recall was when she had helped Ulysses to lock Eliza in the milking shed one afternoon, she was more than happy to let the girl go.

  Ulysses, deprived of Margaret’s smiles for a moment, returned to Rowena’s side, murmuring an adjuration that she was not to take anything his sister said too seriously.

  “Good God, Lully, but how could I? O, that poor little thing, has she no idea of what a guy she makes of herself?”

  “None,” Mr. Ambercot assured her.

  “And I ought not to say such things to you, I collect.”

  “Nonsense, Renna, when you’ve known Lizzie since she was in leading strings! And I’m the first to admit that the chit’s an aggravation to man and child alike. What all did she tell you?”

  “It was mostly a compendium of Captain Shaw and Mr. Treaton and Lieutenant Beale, and the gowns she wore to the Bath assemblies. O dear, I see” — Rowena bit her tongue but Ulysses had caught her drift immediately.

  “Cornered Bradwell, hasn’t she. Well, he put up a gallant fight, I’ll say that for him. And she’s talked the ears off everyone else at the party, I don’t see why he oughtn’t to do his job.”

  A little uncomfortable in this line of conversation, Rowena stumbled upon another topic, equally unacceptable but of far greater interest to her: “What is this Eliza told me of Jane’s engagement?”

  Mr. Ambercot had the grace to assume a more sober mien. “It was awkward enough, I can tell you. Jane was engaged to Jack Bradwell three years ago; I should have thought they’d suit each other down to the ground, too, but not three weeks before the ceremony, Jane cried off. Seems Jack was flirting with some female or other at one of Mamma’s parties in Town; rather a warm little thing, too; Mamma should have known better! — and Jane reproached him for it, and he told her not to be such a fool, and well, there it was. Mamma was sending in a ‘regretfully announce’ to the Gazette. I am of the opinion,” he added pontifically, “that they are both about in their heads, and will never find anyone they can like as well as each other.”

  “I never fail to be amazed at the ways in which people contrive to be miserable,” Rowena agreed wryly. She might, indeed, have continued, but Ulysses noticed that Margaret was talking with his mother now, and felt a sudden filial urge overpower him. Rowena graciously accepted his awkward apology and watched him thread through the crowd toward her cousin. She wondered, as she watched, whether Margaret might not solve her own problem by marrying Lully — if not so old or mean-tempered a suitor as the unlamented Lord Slyppe, Mr. Ambercot was very nearly as wealthy, which was certain to assure his eligibility in the eyes of Margaret’s mother.

  It was not much longer until Lady Bradwell reluctantly agreed that she was fatigued, and permitted Rowena to help her to her room and ring for her maid. Although the party continued for some time after the departure of the hostess, by the time Rowena reappeared in the hall, Lord Bradwell and his brother were sending the last of the guests out to their carriages. Feeling that domestic matters could safely be left to the staff, Rowena collected her shawl and a rather sleepy Margaret from the drawing room, and retired for the night.

  o0o

  In the morning Miss Cherwood thought to be the only person so early at breakfast, perhaps the only one at all. She had seen both Lord Bradwell and his brother retire to the library to fortify themselves with brandy, and suspected that they had returned there when the last guest was gone, to drink deeply to the evening’s success. She was surprised, therefore, to find Lyn Bradwell seated in the breakfast room, desultorily picking at a plate of eggs and bacon, and reading the London papers. He looked up when she entered, smiled and rose from his seat, folding the paper.

  “There’s no need to do that on my account,” she said as she inspected the array of chafing dishes on the sideboard.

  “Surely you cannot like to eat your breakfast confronted by the back pages of the Times?” Bradwell protested.

  “I assure you, I am quite used to do so. My father was not a fit conversationalist if deprived of his morning paper, and my mother was not a fit conversationalist if awakened at any time before noon. I early became adept at amusing myself between the kippers and the jam.”

  “I admire you for it, but I had almost done with the papers anyway. How do you do this morning?”

  Helping herself to beef, egg, and a few waferish slices of toast, Rowena settled herself and poured her tea. “May I offer you some hot? I am very well, and pleased to see the house in such good order after last evening.”

  “You’ve been inspecting already?” Bradwell raised a quizzing eyebrow.

  “Certainly. It only takes a minute or so to look through the public rooms, and to ask Mrs. Coffee how everything went on. And to tell truth, I am surprised to see anyone else about this morning.”

  “You take my family for very shabby stock, Miss Cherwood.”

  “Not in the least, but you will at least admit that I was not very far wrong, was I? I know Meggy was quite done up when I left her in her room, between the party itself and the excitements of the last few days. And that your mamma should spend the next few days abed to recover herself is certainly not odd. But you know my views on that subject.”

  “If you mean her folly in giving the party at all, I imagine our ideas march very closely. You blame me for it, I collect?”

  “Not at all, sir, unless you wrote your mamma a letter I did not read to her which commanded that —”

  “That the fatted calf be slaug
htered, Miss Cherwood? The image is yours, you know.”

  “I apologize for a stupid remark, Mr. Bradwell, and would consider it highly obliging in you if you would forget I ever made it. To continue my first line of thought: To be quite frank, I suspected, after seeing you and Lord Bradwell retire to the library last night, that neither of you would wish to arise early this morning. Certainly not if you had been making depredations of a heavy sort.”

  “Very mild depredations, Miss Cherwood. Mine, at least. I collect that Jack was a trifle rattled to see Jane Ambercot — not to mention having that beastly little schoolroom chit hanging on his elbow half the night.”

  “Entirely dreadful, isn’t she,” Miss Cherwood agreed sympathetically, recalling that Lord Bradwell’s was not the only elbow to which Miss Eliza had attached herself. “Well, in any case, that explains why I didn’t expect to breakfast with company this morning.”

  Bradwell speared a bite of bacon and egg and consumed it with every indication of relish. “But more seriously, Miss Cherwood, how do you think Mamma will go on now? Has the party truly set her back?”

  “She is better — O lord, far better than when I first came to Broak. But she’s so tiresomely headstrong! I will read my letters and I won’t wear my spectacles, and I shall sit in the sunlight. I had as lief argue with an obstinate five year-old. The doctor says that if she will only take proper care of herself she will mend very quickly. And honestly, the progress she has made — it’s beyond anything.”

  “Should I try to scold her? I feel rather foolish doing so; she turns it against one, you know. Yesterday, when I suggested that she lie down for a spell, she told me she had no intentions of taking orders from a man she knew in his diapers!”

  “O yes, I know about that —” Rowena began, but Bradwell had risen to his feet again as Margaret entered the room. After seating her, he helped her choose her breakfast, serving her with more eggs, toast, bacon, and tea than she could ever have hoped to consume in one sitting. Margaret thanked him prettily, altogether unaware of this preferential treatment, and Rowena, sitting forgotten across the table, watched with amusement, sparing a pitying thought for the absent Ulysses Ambercot.