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"Oh, I suppose we must," her sister-in-law agreed with a sigh. "I only hope the child does not tire her overmuch."
And with the crisis resolved, the ladies returned to their tea and managed to make a tolerable meal, des
pite the disagreeable necessity of having to shoo away diverse servants who persisted in duplicating one another's efforts, bustling in and out for no apparent reason, adding to and subtracting from the meal at their own whims.
It was not long after tea that Maria Latham entered her daughter's room. She was not wont to visit much, preferring to spend most of her time in her sitting room, where she could recline comfortably. Thus she was struck anew by the room's small size and inelegant decor. Gracefully, she dropped into a chair close by the little desk where Isabella sat composing a letter to her Uncle Henry.
As she glanced about her at the threadbare furnishings, Maria lamented, "I do wish your aunt had selected another room for you, my love. These yellow draperies do not suit your complexion."
Isabella swallowed a smile. "I don't know where else she might put me, Mama. Veronica cannot be expected to share her room with Alicia, and certainly one could not squeeze so much as a mouse into the servants' quarters."
"Yes, I'm certain you are right, darling—although I'm afraid I must quarrel with any attempt to put you among the servants. But it is so distressing. I do not know whether it is the colour of the draperies that makes you appear so fatigued. Although, come to think of it, you appeared fatigued at tea as well. But of course, there was Charlotte being so very tiresome. Not to mention this distressing surfeit of servants. They quite exhaust me. It is no wonder Thomas could not afford a proper Season for your cousin, when he requires an army to run even such a modest place as this. At any rate, you must promise me that you will not allow this little girl to treat you as her hobby-horse. Polly tells me that the child made you most untidy. 'Like a big wind had blowed her from one end of London to the other' were her exact words, I believe."
Isabella could not meet her mother's eyes.
"I'm sure Polly was exaggerating, Mama," she managed to reply after what seemed like a monstrous long silence. "Lucy is very affectionate, and I believe she is very lonely—"
"No doubt," her mother replied, apparently engrossed in contemplation of a particularly inept sketch that hung by the door. As she brought her gaze back to her daughter, she went on, softly, "Still, it would not do for your aunt to see you return home tomorrow in the frazzled state Polly so vividly described."
"You are quite right, Mama. But as we are merely going to look at some pictures, Lucy will not have the opportunity to 'frazzle' me."
"Yes, that is so. Well, I believe I shall go to my own room and take a nap. Your aunt's lectures weary one so, and I do not see why she must be so disagreeable at tea. It is not at all recommended for the digestion." She patted her daughter's hand and rose to leave. But a few steps from the door, she stopped and said, as an afterthought, "By the way, Isabella, I do not recollect your mentioning meeting up with Mr. Trevelyan as well as his cousin. But then, perhaps I was not listening as closely as I ought." She frowned once again at the offending sketch. "No matter. I should develop a headache as well as indigestion attempting to keep count of your beaux." And on that enigmatic note, she exited, leaving Isabella staring open-mouthed after her.
Miss Latham’s was not the only equanimity to be ruffled by the morning's adventure. Upon returning to his lodgings, Mr. Trevelyan found himself uncharacteristically out of sorts. It was not the pricks of conscience which disturbed him, however; nor was it the tone of impatience which had crept into his landlady's heretofore respectful inquiry regarding several months' back rent. After all, Freddie could most likely be counted on to advance a small loan. But one could not much longer continue to exist on the good offices of friends and Aunt Clem, and the once extremely remote prospect of debtors' prison now loomed closer by the day. The prison walls cast a long cold shadow which seemed to draw the warmth from Basil's cramped rooms. What else had led him, on this beautiful spring afternoon, to build a fire near which he huddled, nursing a brandy?
His friends' experience had shown him that debtors' prison could be a tolerable place. There at least one was free of the harassments of creditors. Yet though it might be tolerable, he had no wish to avail himself of that species of liberty, and was just now wondering how his normally reliable instincts for survival had led him so far astray.
Patiently, he'd been insinuating himself, little by little, into Miss Latham's good graces. And the hints he'd dropped among his acquaintance had led many to believe that her virtue was teetering on the brink. But this morning he had risked it all—for what? A kiss. And now she would not only cease trusting him, but would more than likely refuse to have anything further to do with him. This could not improve his position with his creditors, who, like his gambling friends, had begun to believe he was on his way to a prosperous match.
As he absently turned the brandy glass in his hands, he realised that he might have mistaken his victim. Her plainness, her naiveté, and her idiotic relations had all led him to believe she was less well protected and would be more easily manipulated than other eligible young ladies. But she would only be led so far; she was still wary of him, still taken with Edward.
He gazed for a long time into the fire, watching the logs crackle and break, to send off bright, hot little sparks before they crumbled into ashes. Though Isabella was not an antidote, she certainly was not beautiful. Next to the sparkling good looks of her young cousins, she was a mouse. But there was something about her innocent, blunt way of reacting to him which was rather appealing.
There was an odd mixture of longing and defiance in the looks which accompanied her earnest scoldings, and these looks somehow tempted him. Today he had succumbed to temptation. The brief embrace showed that she was truly inexperienced, despite that insinuating laugh of hers. But tutoring her might be rather pleasant, for she was—though in the oddest way—attractive. He did not love her, but maybe in time might feel affection for her. And perhaps those attractions might even command his attention—at least now and then—over the interminable dreariness of marriage.
Yet one could hardly contemplate marriage when one's Intended refused to have anything further to do with one. What a fool he'd been. What would it be now? Go to Lord Belcomb, confess to compromising her, offer to repair the damage by marrying her? He paused, the glass halfway to his lips. Could he carry it off?
Not likely. True, her noble relations might agree to any nonsense he suggested. When Maria had run off with her cit, they'd coldly washed their hands of her. They'd do anything to prevent another scandal. After all, a second generation run amok would indicate something depraved in the blood. But Isabella was just as likely to pack up and return to her commercial uncle and bury herself in the country. Marry a scoundrel? On account of one stolen kiss in broad daylight? No. Something else must persuade her, and soon.
According to Freddie, Lord Hartleigh had called more than once for Isabella; and he was seeking a mama for Lucy. So either he was interested in Isabella on her own account or he was courting her on account of the moppet. Not that it made sense, for Edward could marry where he chose. And of course, if he chose Isabella, she'd have him. Then Basil would have to start afresh with another Answer to His Prayers, and that would take time. But time was running out.
In this unusual state of self-doubt, Basil continued until the fire had long died down and Freddie appeared, seeking company for dinner. As he waited for his friend to dress, Lord Tuttlehope helped himself to a glass of brandy and settled himself in the chair Basil had vacated. When Basil re-emerged, Freddie eyed him up and down.
"See Stutts came up to snuff after all," he commented.
"The aunt, Freddie, whose generosity surpasseth understanding," Basil explained. "She has paid the tailor, in hopes that—in appearance, at least—her nephew will not disgrace her."
This led to a discussion of the cut of waistcoats and a review of their acquaintances' merits in this area.
"All in all," Freddie noted, "only one in the same race with you is Hartleigh. But all his valet's got to do is dress him." And thus casually discounting Lord Hartleigh's sartorial achievements, he went on.
"By the way, heard he's taking Miss Latham to look at some pictures tomorrow. Never fancied art myself. Hunting scene's not a bit like the real thing, you know."
Basil, who had been regarding his reflection in the glass with a certain degree of complacency, whirled around. At Lord Tuttlehope's blink, he turned back again, adjusted his neckcloth, and responded blandly, "Indeed? So you've been to see the Belcombs et al. on your own today."
"Well, yes. That is...well, you were engaged." Discomfited, Freddie blinked at his brandy glass several times.
"And were you rewarded, my friend? Did you catch a glimpse of the fair goddess?"
"What? Oh. Well, that is..."
Basil was amused to see his companion's face turn red as a beet root. He turned from the mirror and gave Freddie's shoulder a comforting pat.
"Try to restrain your lyric tongue, my lad. At least to me. It will be better spent on the young lady." He poured himself another glass of brandy. "But I gather you heard something useful?"
"Didn't stay long. Ladyship was in a pet. Just saw Belcomb on the way to his club. Said she'd rung a peal over him. Asked me why his niece couldn't see Hartleigh if she liked. Free country."
And in this clipped fashion, with the help of patient questioning, Freddie told his friend what he wished to know.
"Deverell?" Lord Belcomb repeated, trying to put the name to a face he hadn't seen in over a quarter of a century. Absent-minded, like his sister, Basil thought; yet quite different. Where Mrs. Latham was languid, he was bluff and hearty. And where he was the bumbling sort who knew a great deal less than he thought he did, Mrs. Latham seemed to understand rather more than she let on. Basil had more than once felt her considering gaze upon him, and looked up only to find her staring off at nothing in particular. Yes, of course all considered her perfectly harmless—perfectly useless, in fact—but somehow Basil's instincts warned him otherwise. And even now, as he pumped the viscount for information, he had the dim sensation of having strayed too far.
"Ah yes," Lord Belcomb recalled. "Young Harry. The fair-haired one. Fine lad. Pity he died so young. Or rather, not dead after all, eh?" He signaled for more brandy. Charlotte had been in one of her takings this evening, and he—as was his custom on such occasions—had beat a hasty retreat to his club. He'd not been exactly delighted to see Mr. Trevelyan, for that young man was one of the subjects on which Charlotte dwelt at unmerciful length; as though it were the viscount's business to bring the man up to scratch.
