Finally, Simpson ceased his unnecessary eulogising, and Duchamps-Avery remembered his manners sufficiently to twist in his seat and engage the shyest of the Simpson girls.
“Tell me, Miss Nancy, how does this enchanting corner of Norfolk fare regarding summer diversions?”He threw her another of his beguiling smiles, and to Lyndon’s alarm, he experienced a prickling of resentment that it wasn’t in his direction.“Parties, dances, and such?You and your dear sister strike me as precisely the sort of charming ladies a young swell like me should be escorting to them.”
More gratuitous pleasantness ensued as Miss Nancy and the other one cooed and sighed and waxed lyrical about local knitting societies and an operation to rescue a litter of abandoned kittens.Lyndon tore at a third helping of seed cake, deciding it was too dry after all, even though his cook was the best in the county, and it wasn’t dry at all, just…
“A summer dance here in Goule village?This Saturday?How marvellous!Of course, Lord Lyndon and I would be delighted to accompany you both.In fact, nothing would give his lordship more pleasure.We were only saying at supper yesterday that we really should make more of these lovely, long, warm evenings.Weren’t we, Fitz?”
Fitz?Fitz?Supper?The damned cheek!A swift current of wrath swirled inside Lyndon’s head as four sets of eyes turned expectantly towards him.One set gleefully twinkled like bloody stars.Fitz?Never mind taking a pop at Duchamps-Avery with blunted toy arrows.Once their dear guests departed, the pup was going to find himself blasted to hell and back with his father’s old musket.Lyndon didn’t do summer dances—nor winter ones, when it came to that—and he most definitely didn’t accompany unmarried provincial squire’s daughters anywhere.
“Well, Fitz?”the bloody Duchamps-Avery boy repeated, his stupidly pretty eyes still lit up like Vauxhall pleasure gardens.Eyes used to getting their own way.“Shall we escort these fine ladies to the dance and show them how it’s done?”
Mr Simpson’s sombre mien instantly rearranged itself into the sort of self-satisfied expression only seen on the faces of fathers of daughters anticipating not one but two wedding breakfasts.
“Ugh,” Lyndon managed.
“Sorry, Fitz, old chap.”Duchamps-Avery aimed the full force of that impossible smile in Lyndon’s direction.“Didn’t quite catch that.”
Lyndon’s jaw tightened.Every morsel of his being projected his displeasure.How was this boy so utterly oblivious?
“Yes,” he barked, making the ladies start.“Yes,” he repeated in a more moderate tone.“The summer dance.”
Chapter Nine
My dearest Willoughby.You’d think we were preparing to walk the plank, not attend a country dance.Fitzsimmons is mooching about the place as if I’ve stolen his favourite battallion.
PS Thank you for the verse.I take issue with “She is lovely as the hawthorn tree.And with a glance could shatter me.”I adore you, Willoughby, with every fibre of my being, I really do.But have you smelled hawthorn?It’s reminiscent of a decomposing corpse.Surely Lavinia’s parfum is an improvement on that!
Papa.Our social whirl continues apace with a village dance.
BELOW STAIRS, EXCITEMENTfor the forthcoming fête was palpable.And in striking contrast to the all-pervasive, funereal whiff upstairs, where Lord Lyndon stalked the corridors with a face like a cat licking piss from a nettle.When not baking, steaming, broiling, and doing whatever else was required to produce such excellent dinners, Lucy and Cook could be found trimming their Sunday-best outfits with gaudy ribbons and practicing the quadrille with two brooms as makeshift partners.
Tucked into the comfiest kitchen chair with his boots propped on a pair of firedogs, Rollo was a more than willing seamstress.
“So, everybody in Goule attends this dance, yes?”With a length of lemon-yellow satin draped across his lap, he made short work of banding a straw hat.
“And all the folks from the cottages up on Beccles Ridge too.Proper grand affair it is, seeing as the Fitzsimmons foot the bill.They have done since my da was a boy.”
“By ‘the Fitzsimmons’, do you mean Lord Lyndon?”
“Since he took up living here full time these last two years, yes.His father before him—” She pulled a face.“He wasn’t much for looking after the village, the old duke—no one liked him very much.And Her Grace was even worse.But he always coughed up for that.”
In comparison, his son sounded generous to a fault.“So, the Fitzsimmons are always in attendance?”
Cook shook her head.“The old Duke and Duchess, never, even if they were summering at Goule.And his lordship hasn’t been seen at the dance since he were a lad.”She lifted her head from her stitching to give Rollo a toothy smile.“I wasn’t sure you were up to the job when I met you, sir, begging your pardon.But you’ve started putting the sunshine back in him.You’ve got a way about you, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“I have done nothing, Cook.It’s all down to Mr Simpson’s visit.”
The woman shook her head.“He’s been more like his old self all this past week since you’ve been joining him after dinner.He likes the company.”
Rollo chuckled, recalling yesterday evening’s hour after dinner.For the first quarter, Lord Lyndon pretended Rollo wasn’t there.For the second, he poked at the fire whilst grumbling about the smoke his efforts produced, and for the remaining half hour, greeted every single one of Rollo’s attempts at civilised discourse with a pained noise and a look of intense annoyance.He also watched very carefully when Rollo removed his coat (thanks to the roaring fire) and loosened his cravat, though Rollo kept those fascinating details to himself.
“I’m afraid you have been misinformed, Cook.We spar continually.I assure you he loathes me like young fruit facing a late frost.”
His audience was unimpressed.“All I’m saying is, he’s got much more of a spring in his step.He’s beset by the blue devils if he spends too much time on his own or with Mr Elliot.”
That name had cropped up at dinner with the Simpsons.“Who is this Mr Elliot?Mr Simpson asked after his welfare.”
“An old friend of his.”Cook and Lucy exchanged a look, and Cook crossed herself.“His lordship looks out for him.”
