High Spirits at Harroweby Read online

  “Then you must promise to ride out with me tomorrow and at least see Hyde Park.” Waverly again surprised himself. It wasn’t often that he saddled himself with young chits during his customarily solitary exercise. Still, as he recalled her aunt’s formidable countenance, he would perhaps count the outing as yet another act of charity. Before Selinda could reply, however, the twosome had reached the end of the dance line and were forced to weave intricately between some five or six other pairs until they found themselves together once again.

  “I am sorry, sir, but I do not ride. That is,” she corrected, “Aunt does not think it a proper occupation for young ladies. In any case, tomorrow is Sunday and I am certain Aunt Prudence will want my company at morning services.”

  Waverly made an effort to contain his surprise and barely managed to ask calmly, “Morning church services? After a ball?”

  “Oh, yes, Aunt would hardly have sanctioned tonight’s entertainment had she thought it would interfere in any way with my spiritual well-being. Her son, my cousin Rupert, is in orders, you know, and very generously advises us all in religious matters.”

  Waverly thought he might have heard the shadow of sarcasm in Selinda’s voice, but when he encountered her wide eyes and innocent smile he was almost sure he had been mistaken. Perhaps it was just as well that his invitation had been declined, however. He was no rakehell like his cousin, Bastion, but he cherished a firm conviction that virtue as much as vice should be embraced with moderation. Morning church services? After a late night? The idea very nearly made his head spin. But he was curious.

  “However will you face the morning, Lady Selinda?” he asked. “Balls, as you know, go on until dawn.”

  “Do they indeed?” Her brow furrowed delicately in the most fetching way, Waverly thought. “That must be why Aunt Prudence instructed the servants to remove all the spirits at eleven and set out only tea after that. I’m afraid there will be no champagne or punch to be found anywhere in another half-hour.”

  Waverly suppressed a smile. If Aunt Prudence (an apt name if ever there were one) was hoping to launch her little niece with this sort of entertainment, only the staunchest of suitors would stay on. Once the supplemental flasks in their walking sticks gave out, even these gentlemen would take flight.

  “I’m sure the good clergy of London will appreciate your aunt’s efforts and pray that she will be a leader among the ton,” Waverly told her smoothly as the music came to a close. As he bowed over her hand, though, he was not at all certain he wanted to give it up.

  “Would you do me the honor of taking a stroll about the room? Surely your next partner can spare you,” he told her, deftly taking a peek at the dance card that hung from her wrist. “What good fortune. I see it is just your cousin. Surely a man of the cloth cannot, in charity, begrudge the pleasures of his fellow creatures.”

  Selinda weighed the consequences of such a disregard of decorum for perhaps the amount of time it took her to bat her pretty eyelashes at his Lordship. “The honor would be mine,” she told him with a dimpled smile.

  “Some champagne?” he asked as he steered her from the main ballroom.

  “I’ve never tasted champagne before,” she told him in a confidential tone. “Aunt always insists on orgeat for me. Is champagne good?”

  “My dear child, permit me to make you known to Monsieur le Champagne, a very welcome refugee from the excesses of our French neighbors,” he told her in tones that bespoke an exceedingly solemn subject indeed. Deftly, he removed two glasses from the tray of a passing servant. “I promise you, it is very much superior to that cloying syrup with which they so often torture the palates of young ladies. To your health, Lady Selinda.”

  Selinda took a small sip, opened her eyes very wide, and smiled. “Very much better indeed, Lord Waverly.”

  “Of course,” he went on, “the vintage tonight really is quite excellent. My compliments.”

  “Oh,” Selinda shrugged as she continued to drink her champagne, “that is due more to Aunt Prudence’s pinchpenny ways than any sort of developed taste on her part, I assure you. Papa happened to have invested in several cases that were laid down at Darrowdean, our country estate. Though Aunt Prudence does not drink herself, I believe she thought it an excellent notion to provide fine champagne tonight and scrimp on the rest of the refreshments. They are shockingly inadequate as you have no doubt noticed. I know for a fact that it is just whitefish—and very little at that—in the lobster patties.”

  Waverly looked at her in amazement. Indeed, he did not know when he had come across such forthrightness in a debutante—or any woman for that matter.

  “Well, that makes no odds, you know. I doubt any attended tonight for the refreshments.”

  “Still,” she went on in a matter-of-fact tone, “it rankles. I had hoped to make a better showing, but...”

  “Pray, don’t tease yourself, madam. You make a very fine showing indeed.” As Lady Selinda acknowledged that compliment with a fluttering of her fan. Lord Waverly searched for another topic of conversation. He knew he really ought to return her to her party, but was strangely loath to do so. “You lost your parents quite recently, I believe.”

  “Yes, it has only been two years,” she told him, the lovely sparkle prompted by the champagne slowly fading from her eyes. “We have just come out of mourning quite recently.”

  “My condolences,” he murmured, cursing himself for allowing the conversation to take such a turn. Selinda stared reflectively into space for a time.

  “I imagine it’s time you returned me to my aunt,” she smiled after a moment.

  “I’m so terribly sorry to have brought up such a melancholy memory,” he told her remorsefully. “I assure you I am not often such a flat.”

  “Oh, it isn’t that, Lord Waverly,” she reassured him. “Indeed, I appreciate your concern. It seems that so very few ever acknowledge another’s loss. They prattle on and pretend that nothing has happened. It’s only,” she went on, “that I happened just now to remark my cousin’s expression. He seems not to be of so charitable a bent as you imagined. I do believe that if I had been a glass of new milk, I should have been much in danger of curdling just now.”

  As Waverly escorted her back to her party, he shuddered inwardly. Here was assembled a rogue’s gallery! Indeed, the group resembled as grim-faced a set as Hogarth ever invented in his caricatures of villainy personified: the aunt, framed by an appalling conglomeration of lavender and puce silk, was as bloated and pale as a cellar spider. The companion hovering at her side was a sallow, emaciated stick wrapped in gray lace. Cousin Rupert loomed hugely in the background, bulging repulsively in his too tight pantaloons. All of them were frowning.

  How in Heaven’s name, Waverly wondered, had this sweet young thing found her way into the cold bosom of this altogether unsightly and ungracious set? Any suitor would have to be more than a little hearty to brave their disparaging glances. Indeed, the threesome barely condescended to nod their heads in acknowledgment of him as he handed his partner into her chair.

  “Lady Selinda,” the whey-faced Miss Snypish began with a nasal whine, “your aunt desires that you remain here with us during the next few sets. You will overtire yourself and you are so very delicate.”

  Selinda looked rebelliously at her aunt. She was not, nor had she ever been, in the least delicate. “But my card is full!” she protested in an undertone. “It would be the grossest bad manners to disappoint these gentlemen particularly at my own ball!”

  “Never thought nothing of disappointing me,” her cousin muttered with venomous bad grace.

  Gads, what an unattractive young man. Waverly shuddered with a mental grimace. It was all he could do to refrain from raising his quizzing glass to examine this specimen further. Then, he noticed the deep blush of embarrassment rising in Selinda’s cheeks. The kindest thing he could do at this point, he decided, would be to bow his respects and retreat as quietly as possible.

  * * * *

  Lady Sybil
had observed the scene with no small amount of indignation. Just who were these awful people and how did they come to exert such control over Selinda? From their looks they were certainly not Harrowebys, unless the stock had taken a violent downswing. Harrowebys might not always have been the most virtuous of families, but they had invariably been an attractive one.

  It seemed, the ghost reflected, that her task might not be so much to keep the child out of the clutches of such rakes as Bastion, but to put her in the path of such worthies as Lord Waverly without interference. Considering the way Selinda’s guardians hovered about her, it seemed this self-commission would be a challenge indeed.

  Lady Sybil settled herself above a potted palm where she could observe goings-on about the room. Lady Selinda’s eyes flashed and she fanned herself with a vigor born of sheer vexation. The Marquess of Bastion sidled toward her party with an ambitious ogle. From a distance, Lord Waverly observed the whole with a look of puzzled but keen interest. At least, Lady Sybil decided, the stage was set for a fine theatrical: but would it be tragedy, comedy, or farce?

  Chapter Three

  The last guest departed Harroweby House at the unfashionable hour of just five minutes past midnight, and an extremely disgruntled crowd it had been for more reasons than just the sudden scandalous dearth of champagne and punch. Because balls customarily ran well into the small hours of the morning, the guests had quite naturally made no other plans and had accepted no other invitations. Thus they were most displeased to find themselves out on the street in the shank of the evening with no place to go. Moreover, not only had several mamas seen their budding daughters wrenched from what they judged to be very promising flirtations, but their overextended papas were now ruing the expense of new gowns, fans, and slippers worn to so little purpose.

  All in all, the guests vowed both privately and publicly that there never was such a miscarriage of manners as at Harroweby House that night. It was quite a pity about Lady Selinda, who seemed a sprightly thing, but her noxious family was not to be borne.

  Selinda watched the ball disintegrate about her with a set polite smile on her face, which concealed a heart bursting with humiliation and longing for revenge. Although she had neither sanctioned nor questioned her aunt’s directive for curtailing the “strong waters” that evening, Selinda had naively thought that some guests would linger on. Indeed, a few of the more forbearing variety had, but prompted by Aunt Prudence’s cavernous yawns and constant, ill-bred consultation of her son’s timepiece, the gathering had become smaller and smaller with each advancement of the minute hand. Then, after the most steadfast of Selinda’s suitors had secured her aunt’s grudging permission to call, even they had faded into the night along with the rest.

  While Selinda remained unwavering in her apparent tranquility, the invisible Lady Sybil indulged her own raging frustration, pacing about several feet off the floor and making the almost-deserted ballroom quite icy with her displeasure.

  “Egads, Mater,” the offensive Rupert shuddered, his corpulent person quivering unpleasantly, “I’m almost frozen in this drafty vault of a ballroom.”

  “Poor suffering Rupert!” his mother exclaimed, chafing his ample face vigorously between her two hands until it was quite mottled. “What you don’t put up with on your selfish cousin’s behalf. She must have a ball, so have a ball she does. And that is not enough, but she must insult my poor Rupert as well. Well, I hope you have enjoyed this little party, Selinda, for I vow it shall be the last. I am sure I must take to my bed for the next fortnight, at the very least. And poor Rupert, too. I declare, you’ve gone quite flushed, Rupert, my love.”

  “But I feel quite pale, Mater,” he frowned pettishly, improving his looks not one whit. “I feel p’raps I have an ague coming on. Indeed, I don’t believe I shall make services in the morning.”

  “No more do I, pet,” his mother concurred mournfully, “and it grieves me sorely. Here, have a macaroon, my love. You need some sustenance. Miss Snypish, you shall accompany Lady Selinda to church in the morning. I think the early service will do best, for I shall be wanting you most of the day.”

  Miss Snypish nodded briefly, her eyes narrow with satisfaction and her mouth set in an unbecoming thin line. “I shall see that her Ladyship rises at a goodly hour, madam.”

  “And see, Selinda, that you give good thought to your spiritual faults, such as selfishness and pride,” Rupert added, chewing his macaroon vigorously. As he did so, Selinda endeavored valiantly to evade the crumbs that erupted from his mouth. It was all she could do to withstand the understandable temptation to pull her skirts above her head for protection.

  “I shall select some pertinent verses for you to meditate on tomorrow,” he continued when he had swallowed. “It grieves me—more than you will ever know—to be critical of you, dearest cousin, but I daresay I give a good deal more thought to your spiritual well-being than you do yourself.”

  Selinda sighed and bowed her head, but Lady Sybil noted with some satisfaction that the young lady’s fists were tightly clenched.

  “Now give heed to Rupert, Selinda,” Aunt Prudence admonished sternly, wagging her finger at the girl in a singularly annoying manner. “Your frivolous nature may chafe, but you may be sure he has your soul’s good at heart.”

  Selinda looked up serenely enough, though after a long pause, and replied with a disarming smile, “Indeed, good aunt and cousin, I am sure you both give my soul far more attention than your own. Pray give me leave to retire to my chamber then that I might reflect on this sinful nature with which I am burdened.”

  “Well,” her aunt sniffed, “I hope you will not forget us in your prayers. Now give your cousin a kiss goodnight for all his kindness.”

  At this, Rupert stepped forward with a good deal more alacrity than would have been thought possible for one of his girth; he would, indeed, have planted a kiss directly on Selinda’s lips had she not quickly turned her head and presented him with her cheek instead. In spite of this diversionary tactic, his sticky mouth remained moistly in place a great deal longer than was necessary while his plump hands pressed with presumptuous urgency at her slim waist. Selinda pulled herself away as quickly as she could, resisting the overwhelming urge to wipe her cheek with her handkerchief then and there. Steeling herself, however, she bid them all a terse good night, her expression as unreadable as ever, but her cheeks blazing.

  Lady Sybil followed Selinda from the room and watched as the girl’s countenance became increasingly wrathful with each stair she mounted. Once she had gained her own chamber and carefully shut the door behind her, Selinda wrenched off her gown, trampling it in a heap on the floor. Then in a great flurry, she pulled the pins and bows from her hair, angrily shook out her curls, and threw herself forcefully onto the bed. There, at last, she furiously pounded her fists into the pillows until the feathers flew. When her first frenzy had passed, she lay still for a moment trying to catch her breath. “Count,” she whispered to herself in measured tones. “One, two, three, four, five...”

  She closed her eyes resolutely and concentrated on taking deep breaths. Selinda had very nearly regained her composure when the supercilious visage of her cousin Rupert rose up in her mind. “If only I could stick an apple in that sticky mouth to complete the piggish picture!’’ she whispered in vicious tones. Suppressing a frustrated oath, the girl rolled instead onto her back and kicked her kid slippers across the length of the room. Then she beat an angry rhythm into the mattress with her feet as she pulled a pillow over her face and released a muffled groan.

  Lady Sybil, who had floated silently up to the canopy, was more than a little afraid that her descendent might be carried off in a fit of apoplexy that very night, and little wonder. However, it was a relief that Selinda had finally evidenced (to an alarming degree, admittedly) some of the frustration her ghostly observer had felt on her behalf all evening.

  When Selinda had finally lain calmly for several silent minutes, the door from the adjoining closet opened softly
and a pale, wide-eyed face appeared gingerly around the corner.

  “Is the fit over yet?” a small whisper came.

  “Yes, Lucy,” Selinda sighed wearily, sitting up on the edge of the bed. “You may enter without fear of flying gowns, shoes, or tempers.”

  At that, a small figure in a long white nightrail crept into the room and climbed up on the bed beside Selinda. “Was it terrible bad tonight?”

  “Bad enough, little sister,” Selinda grimaced in distaste. Then she sighed. “Some parts were quite lovely, though.”

  “Did you dance with a mysterious, handsome man?”

  “I danced with several men, pet, handsome and homely, but none of them terribly mysterious, I’m afraid. The dancing part was lovely. But then! Then, Aunt Prudence and Rupert all but pushed the guests out the door with their wretched manners. Oh, Lucy,” she whispered in hushed tones, “it was awful! I fear I shall never be received anywhere after this, I shall never have an offer, and I shall be forced to marry Rupert!”

  “Do not say that, Selinda!” Lucy reproached her sister sternly. “You are not meant for the likes of that oafish pig!”

  “Lucy!” she hissed urgently. “Have a care! If one of those snakes should hear you, they would send you away to boarding school for certain and I know I could not bear it here without my brave little sister!”

  “Have faith,” Lucy whispered confidently, as she snuggled in as best she could beneath the thin, threadbare coverlet. “We shall not ever be parted except by some good fortune. Mama and Papa may be up in heaven and fiends from Hell in their stead, but we shall be looked after, Selinda. I know it indeed.”