Page 30 of The Work of Art

“As if he were a starving man!”

“While Lord Darly and Mr. Goodrich were as gentlemanlike and elegant in their manners as—”

“I suppose you think yourself an expert on Lord Darly and Mr. Goodrich? Merely because you sat between them at one silly dinner?”

A blazing row commenced directly. Philly did her best to stay out of it. Elizabeth had been jealous that her younger sister had been placed between the two eligible gentlemen, but Philly didn’t think it was so wrong for Mrs. Vale to have arranged it so. Elizabeth had been on the marriage mart for years, after all, and had shown no promise whatsoever. It wasn’t unreasonable to think that her younger sister might fare better if given an opportunity.

“And you had to make a show of yourself at cards, as well!” Elizabeth accused Abigail as the argument continued. “Pretending you didn’t know when to pass or when to miss just so Mr. Goodrich would help you.”

“I never did!”

Philly noticed her dogs were panting. She shielded her eyes with her hand and squinted up at the sky. “It must be nearly two o’clock. We’d better start back before it gets any later.”

Sara exhaled with relief.

“Two o’clock! Why didn’t you say so, Phyllida?” Elizabeth hurried back up the path with Abigail close behind her. “I’m to call on Lady Eustace at three.”

At a far brisker pace, they made their way home. Their arrival was anticipated by Evans, the butler, who opened the door for them before they’d finished ascending the front steps of the townhouse. His face—usually a mask of bland subservience—betrayed a high color, and perspiration dotted his brow.

“Miss Townsend, Miss Abigail, Miss Satterthwaite,” he intoned as they filed in. “Mrs. Vale insists you join her in the drawing room at once.”

“Whatever is the matter, Evans?” Elizabeth untied her bonnet strings. “You look as if you’ve seen the specter of doom.”

Evans winced. “I beg you, Miss Townsend, please moderate your tone. Your father has a distinguished visitor in the library. You must all go to Mrs. Vale. She was most insistent that you not linger in the hall.” He turned to Philly. “Your dogs, Miss Satterthwaite. They’re to go directly to the garden.”

“Of course.” Philly didn’t like to cause the old retainer any more anxiety. “I shall take them—”

“No, miss, you must go to the drawing room. I can’t begin to convey to you the urgency of the situation.” His eyes darted to the closed doors of Uncle Edgar’s library. “Sara can tend to your dogs.”

“Fetch William, Sara,” Philly said as the maid came to assist her. “He knows how to look after them.”

“Yes, miss.”

She eased Fox into Sara’s arms, feeling the little terrier’s entire body stiffen with outrage. He tolerated the young maid but didn’t like her.

Evans looked thoroughly pained. “Miss Satterthwaite, time is of the essence.”

Philly waited until Sara had control of all the larger dogs, then started up the stairs after her two cousins.

They found Mrs. Vale partially reclined on a gilded settee in the drawing room. Her eyes were red and her skin was tinged the same gray color as her severe bombazine gown. When she saw them enter, she rose to her feet. The simple action caused her sallow face to momentarily turn green. For several seconds, it looked as if she might cast up her accounts on the drawing room carpet. She fumbled about her person, at last producing an engraved silver vinaigrette, which she waved at some distance below her nose. The results were instantaneous.

“Where in heaven’s name have you been?” she demanded in an urgent undertone. “This is unpardonable.”

“We’ve only been to the park, Aunt.” Elizabeth sank into a chair. “Phyllida insisted upon going for her walk, and you said Abigail and I must attend her.”

Mrs. Vale’s bloodshot gaze fell on what Philly was wearing. Her cheeks flushed with anger. “Miss Satterthwaite, this is not to be borne! Is this how you dress the moment I’m not available to advise you? Have you learned nothing at all from my instruction? Oh, you’ll be the death of me.” She rang the bell. A footman appeared almost instantaneously. “Send for Clarice. I need her upstairs quickly. Quickly, I say!”

Abigail’s eyes widened. “Whatever is the matter, Aunt?”

“The matter, you ask? Why, the Duke of Moreland has come, girl. He’s even now in the library with your father.”

The blood drained from Philly’s face.

“He may well send for you, Miss Satterthwaite, and you were nowhere to be found. And now you’ve returned hardly fit to be seen. Oh, that I should have such a task before me. My head is splitting.” She took Philly firmly by the elbow and propelled her out of the room. “We haven’t a moment to spare. Elizabeth. Abigail. Don’t dawdle. Go to your bedrooms and change. I’ll send Clarice when she’s finished with Miss Satterthwaite.”

Philly could scarcely formulate a thought as she was hurried up the stairs to her attic bedroom and stripped down to her chemise. Mrs. Vale rifled through her wardrobe before choosing a gown of fine white muslin with a low neckline that Philly thought more suitable to a ball or an assembly.

“Virginal. Just what’s required. Here, Clarice!” Mrs. Vale snapped her fingers, pointing to a pile of wraps and shawls. “The celestial blue shawl, I think.”