Waking rather later than her usual time, Lady Pendleton rang for her tea and letters. There was the usual stack of invitations—inevitable, it seemed, since the arrival of her young Americans. With a sleepy smile she looked them over, till remembering, all in a rush, the events of the past evening.
“Ooh, la, la,” she muttered to herself, “ooh, la, la! I wonder if anythin’ happened afterward? I must find out.”
Celeste answered her ring with a pretty bob. “Oui, madame?”
“Celeste, have you seen either of the young ladies yet this mornin’?”
“No, my lady—yes, my lady. Miss Serena has gone out for a str-roll. Mam’selle Antonia sleeps still.”
“Oh!” Lady Pendleton cogitated a moment. “Very well, then—fetch Bentley, will you? And bring me my pink negligee.”
Bentley, showing no sign whatever of having gone through the ardors of a state dinner the night before—ending only several hours since—made his appearance shortly.
“My lady?”
“Bentley! Did you see Miss Serena when she went out for her walk?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“How did she look?”
“Look, my lady?”
“Yes: was she excited-lookin’—how?”
“Not particularly, my lady. She seemed quite tired, my lady. Mentioned that she had not slept particularly well.”
“The green cloak, my lady. A dark bonnet.”
“Oh! That’s bad. How provokin’!”
Bentley stood patiently by, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Were you at the door last evenin’, when Lord Blandford left?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“What time?”
“A few minutes before eleven, my lady. I remarked it was very early.”
“La! And Mr. Lytton-Smythe?”
“Shortly before him, my lady.”
“Worse! Very well, Bentley, you may go. Ah, Bentley—when Miss Antonia awakens, send her to me.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Lady Pendleton, lost in thought, remained abed a few minutes longer, her fingers drumming upon her cheek. Suddenly, with a sharp cry, she turned the coverlet back, and leaped, for all the world like a girl of twenty, out of bed.
Antonia woke with a start. She had fallen asleep with the candle still lit beside her—its waxy remains were spread over the little table at her bedside. Rubbing her eyes, it was some moments before the reality of the previous evening came home to her.
It was like a dream! But no, surely it was not? Antonia glanced at the little French clock, in the shape of a shepherdess, upon the dressing table. Eleven o’clock! And she had but three hours to dress, to pack her trunk, and write her letters to Serena and Lady Pendleton! The letter to her father could wait, of course—till after she was blissfully become Lady Blandford!
With a rush, she flung herself out of bed, and without ringing for a maid, commenced laying out her clothes. Having completed this, she folded them into a bundle, wrapped in the silver paper the maid had laid in a drawer against her leaving. Finding a small trunk pushed back into a closet, she pushed them in—so helter-skelter that it would have made any self-respecting servant swoon—and shoved the whole beneath the bed, taking care that the coverlet fell down sufficiently low to hide it. Washing quickly, pulling on a frock, and doing up her own hair as best she could, she ran down the stairs for a hurried breakfast.
“Good mornin’, dear!” Lady Pendleton greeted her, when Antonia, breakfast finished, had answered her summons.
Antonia had not had much time to brace herself against her relation’s inquisitiveness. She smiled, a little breathlessly, and returned the greeting.
“Lovely morning, is it not, dear? I hope you slept well?”
“Oh—oh yes, Aunt Winifred! Quite well, thank you.”
“Did you enjoy the evenin’? Good! But you look a little odd my dear—are you positive you are quite well?”
“Odd? Oh, yes! I am perfectly well.”
Lady Pendleton expressed her satisfaction at hearing this, and, pretending to study the card before her, kept a sideways watch upon the younger lady.
“I was thinkin’, my dear, that I ought perhaps to have Lord Blandford to dinner—he seems quite ardent about you. It would perhaps be the thing.”
Antonia started slightly, but recovering herself at once, smiled brightly. “Why, Auntie—how kind of you! Perhaps sometime next week—”
“Well, I was thinkin’ more of this evenin’, Antonia dear. There is that rout at Devonshire House, but it shan’t commence till quite late. Would not it be a good idea to have him straightaway? You like him, do you not?”
“Oh, yes, but—”
“Then I shall send a card to him at once, my dear. It would be most fittin’, I think. No point in puttin’ it off—if you like him, don’t you know!”
Antonia endeavored to raise some objection, but seeing that Lady Pendleton was set upon her idea, and realizing that Blandford would certainly think of some reply which would not give away their plan, she relented. Her consent was given so unenthusiastically, however, that her ladyship looked almost hopeful as she said, “Why, there is nothin’ wrong between you, is there, dear? You had no argument last evenin’?”
“Oh, no! Nothing like that! I like him a great deal—of course, no more than some other men . . .”
Lady Pendleton was not to be put off by such protestations, however. She knew well enough the slightly fevered look of her young guest to see that Antonia was thoroughly smitten by the man. Well, never mind! She had rather hoped somethin’ would have been done last evenin’, for it appeared that Blandford had certainly been discomfited by the hint she had put into his ear that his beloved was not rich enough to keep a flea in cravats—sayin’ (she thought, quite cleverly) that Serena had paid her cousin’s way to Europe, such was the devotion of the rich cousin for the poor one. He appeared to bluster, as if someone had told him his buttons were not done, had grown perfectly crimson, and strode away. But he had done nothing—nothing that would convince Antonia of his ungentlemanliness, in any case. It occurred to her ladyship, however, that if her original plan had not worked out according to her ideas, if Blandford had not promptly commenced wooing Serena instead, that there were other ways to skin a goose. Thus, having hopped out of her bed, as if lit from beneath by inspiration, had she put into effect a new plan of action.
Although she had appeared to solicit Antonia’s agreement to the idea of having Blandford to dine, she had already sent him a card, not ten minutes ago. James had gone with orders to bring back a reply from Grosevenor Square, which, if she was not much mistaken, would be a brusque refusal. That ought to surprise Antonia into her senses; but if it did not, then she was sure to be snubbed by him rather soon in any case. On the other hand (for Lady Pendleton, a seasoned general’s wife for nearly forty years, nearly always had another hand upon which to rely), if he did not refuse, it would be a sign that he was after Serena, as they had all predicted. He would come, and cook his own goose—to keep the metaphor intact—soon enough. All told, her ladyship thought her plan quite inspired.
She cocked her head a little to one side and clucked at the young lady. “Well, my dear! That’s all I wanted you for. Bye the bye, have you plans for today? I ought to do some callin’, if you would like to come.”
“I am invited to ride in Hyde Park, Auntie—with—with Lord Blandford.”
“Ah! Ridin’! How very nice. Do you want a mount, dear?”
“Lord Blandford is to loan me his filly, Auntie.”
“Oh!” Lady Pendleton blinked after the retreating figure of her young guest. Such a pity! And of course he would not be there! Or, if he was—but she doubted it. Poor lamb! Then perhaps after all her scheme was unnecessary.
Her ladyship sat down with a sigh to compose some other notes, wondering how, after all this was taken care of, she could contrive to set Antonia’s heart upon the proper course. And there was still poor Mr. Lytton-Smythe to see to! She could not let Serena, with her kind heart and rather weak head, be molly-coddled into an alliance with St. John. “How provokin’!” she muttered to herself.
Just then, there was a tap upon the door. “My lady,” said James, bowing, “I have been to Grosvenor Square, to the Marquis of Blandford, as you ordered.”
“Yes, James, where is the reply?”
“There is none, my lady. The Marquis, according to his valet, left early this morning for Scotland. He shall not be at home for a fortnight at least.”
“Scotland, James? Are you quite sure?”
The footman bowed. “That is what I was told, my lady.”
How astonishin’, thought Lady Pendleton. Where shall it all end! To Scotland—poor Antonia! He has run off again! But at least he is out of the way—she’ll be better off without him, I dare say!
But suddenly an idea came over her. Tottling rapidly, she climbed the stairs to Antonia’s room, and knocked firmly. There was a prolonged pause, before the voice said, “Come in!” Had she heard shufflin’ about? Antonia’s head, rather feverish and untidy, looked up from the writing table.
“Lord Blandford shan’t dine with us tonight dear, I am sorry to tell you.”
The girl looked actually relieved! Lady Pendleton tried to get a glimpse of the letter Antonia was writing, but it was hidden by her arm.
“Oh, well—perhaps next week!” said the young lady quite cheerfully.
“What time did you say he was to ride with you, my dear?”
“Two o’clock, Auntie.”
“Ah! Well take care you wrap up well, pet—such a chill in the air! And tell him I am sorry he cannot join us.”
“I shall, Auntie.”
Lady Pendleton walked out into the hall, feeling a curious uneasiness. If only Roland had been there to advise her! But then, he never had been! Always off in some campaign or other—still, it was a pity . . . Lady Pendleton toddled down the hall, pausing absentmindedly before Serena’s bedchamber. The door was slightly ajar, and, thinking perhaps the young lady had come in from her walk, her ladyship pushed it open. No one was in the room, but she advanced nonetheless, muttering to herself.
“I wish there was someone besides me who had a brain!” she exclaimed. “So provokin’, all these people trottin’ about, and no one to help. Dear, oh, dear—and whatever shall I do? I know the child is up to no good! Cheerful little devil! Not a trace of regret in her face that he could not come to dinner! I wonder if she knows about Scotland? But then, of course, she wouldn’t have made that plan to ride—”
Lady Pendleton stood quite still, struck by her idea. Unless, of course, she was to go with him! She stood perfectly still, only striking at her round little chin with her small paw, dumbfounded by the notion. “Two o’clock!” she exclaimed aloud. “I lay ten to one that’s it! Serena, where on earth have you got to?”
The clock struck one, a single dull sound issuing from the diminutive grandfather clock upon the chest. Lady Pendleton gave it an impatient glance. But her eye caught upon a sheet of folded paper lying beside it, and, with the same instinct which had made her keep silent about Blandford’s journey to Scotland when she had spoken to Antonia just now, she moved toward it.
Lady Pendleton was not encumbered with any of the false notions of propriety which fetter the actions of some ladies. Wed for two-score years to a general admired for his daring quite as much as for his strategic genius, she had “picked up a trick or two,” as he would have put it, and lost half a dozen inhibitions. One of these was to pause at reading other people’s mail, if she thought it might help win the war. Of course, she had no reason to suspect that such an innocent-looking piece of parchment could give her any clue—but then, unlike the General, she was blessed with that divine, and totally unreasonable sense, called instinct. She strode toward it, therefore, without a second thought, and picked it up. She was almost instantly gratified.
“Ooh, la, la!” cooed she. “Ooh, la, la! So he has taken that tack, after all! Eleven o’clock! Dear me, and now it’s one! Her old green cloak cannot have put him off! I wonder . . .”