Chapter 32

 

It was well into the evening, and guests had begun to arrive for Lord and Lady Garsington’s soirée musicale. The family was in disarray, not only because Sophia had sobbed constantly since she arrived, but because Sigismund had disappeared. He had gone out earlier without saying where he was going, and had yet to return. His parents and sisters could only console themselves that he had not taken a carriage or saddle horse, and was therefore still in Brighton. There was hope yet that at the appointed hour the Garsington ensemble would be complete.

The arriving guests were agog to see how Sybil went on today, after treating them to such a pantomime the night before. Brighton opinion had now generally settled into apportioning equal blame between Sybil and Oliver, deeming them to richly deserve each other. The trouble was that Sybil was simply not the sort of young woman with whom one could sympathize, for she seemed to go out of her way to make an exhibition of herself. She hadn’t seemed in the least concerned by what had happened at the ball, when her loud remarks about succumbing to complete temptation had been followed by a gleeful gallop through a boisterous country dance. Then she had drunk several glasses of champagne in quick succession before her exasperated father and brother seized her. It was a sad but true fact that Ralph Strickland’s eastern tincture was only the partial cause of all this embarrassing behavior, because Sybil Garsington was quite simply an awful young woman, and tonight she was still unabashed. She took Oliver’s submission for granted, and spoke of him as if he would arrive at any moment.

Sophia was just as awful, and wore a lime-green taffeta gown that dazzled most horribly against Sybil’s shocking vermilion satin. The sisters looked very alike, sounded alike, and shared a propensity for indiscretion. Sophia frequently sank into a chair or sofa, flapping her fan for a glass of lemonade, and sighing tearfully that Ralph was the very tragedy of her life, which meant, of course, that her marital difficulties were soon common knowledge.

The omnipresent Mr. Mellish—first, as ever, with the best tidbits of gossip—swore he had seen Ralph Strickland in Brighton that very day, driving toward Lewes with Oliver March. And, of course, with a little help from that same Mr. Mellish, everyone was soon hazarding an educated guess as to why those two gentlemen were en route for that particular destination!

It was as well that neither Sophia nor Sybil heard these gleeful whispers. Sybil stayed close to her sister, and from time to time could be heard above the babble of conversation. “Cooee, Mama! Papa! Thofia ith in a decline again!” At which Lord Garsington’s suppressed winces and Lady Garsington’s fixed smiles were absolute models of silent fortitude. Not that they were due any sympathy either, because at the same time that whispers concerning their daughters were circulating in one direction, Garsington mère et père were being exceedingly busy in the other direction with scurrilous comments about the denizens of Radcliffe House and the Holcrofts. And they pressed on throughout with their dreadful evening, keeping their fingers crossed that their daughters would not disgrace themselves too much, and their son would remember his duty and come home to his hautbois!

While all this was going on, Greville left Radcliffe House to make his way to Mahomed’s Baths for his denouement with Oliver and Ralph. Neither Chloe nor his aunt had been able to dissuade him, for when he saw Megan lying so pale and still in the bed, his anger and thirst for revenge was too much to contain. His boots crunched through the ice-crusted snow, and his breath was white as he walked briskly down the Steine. He thought himself alone in his purpose, having strictly forbidden Rupert and Sir Jocelyn to come with him, but unbeknownst to him, they were following at a discreet distance. They had also defied Chloe and Evangeline, for they determined not to let Greville tackle the tricky likes of Oliver March and Ralph Strickland single-handed. Sir Jocelyn carried a bundle of things tied in a blanket, the exact nature of which he refused to divulge to Rupert.

The plain three-story baths building stood directly on the beach in sight of the old battery. Its pedimented main entrance was at street level, and at the windows there were green roller blinds that were always half lowered for the sake of propriety, although steam and condensation usually made peering in impossible anyway. A line of fly-by-nights was drawn up nearby, their crews stamping their feet and holding their hands out to a lighted brazier.

At the side of the building, below a painted name board that in daylight was visible all along the shore, there was a two-story wrought-iron balcony that projected above the beach, from where it was possible to lean over and touch the masts and rigging of fishing boats that had been hauled close in by the capstans on the cliff. In the darkness, the sea was audible if not visible, and as Greville crossed the road from the corner by the Star and Garter, the only people around were the fly-by-night men. He was briefly illuminated by the lighted lamp above the baths entrance, and then he went into the candlelit black-and-white tiled vestibule, where the walls were painted a deep masculine green and the herb-scented air was warm and humid.

A dark staircase led up to the next floor, and the only items of furniture were two Windsor chairs, a table upon which lay the open booking ledger and an array of colognes, and some fine shelves piled high with beautifully laundered white towels. The murmur of male voices drifted from upstairs, together with the splash of water and hiss of steam. Sheikh Deen Mohamed himself happened to be coming down the staircase, and recognized Greville immediately.

He paused at the bottom to put his hands together and bow. The jeweled brooch in his turban glittered as he straightened in concern “Why, Sir Greville sahib, I trust your call does not signify a deterioration in Miss Mortimer?” His accent was a peculiar mixture of his native Patna, and the Donegal of his Irish wife.

“No, there has not been any change,” Greville reassured him quickly.

“Nor should there be, for the laudanum should be most sedative. You should not fear for her, Sir Greville sahib, because she will soon recover.”

“I have faith in your judgment, sir,” Greville replied, removing his top hat and gloves.

“Then, may I ask why you are here? I hope you have not made a booking that has been overlooked?”

“I’m not expected, nor on this occasion do I wish to partake of your excellent facilities.”

The sheikh was puzzled. “No? Then, how may I be of assistance?”

“I believe Mr. March and Mr. Strickland are here?”

“Oh, yes, indeed.”

Greville glanced up the staircase. “What point have they reached in their treatment?”

“They have had vapor baths and now await in their tents for their shampooing. I am just about to take some fresh towels up to them.”

“Are you indeed? What perfect timing. And which tents might they be in? The ones at the far end, I hope?”

“That happens to be so, Sir Greville sahib, for they particularly requested the rough flannels.”

“This gets better by the moment,” Greville declared, and began to unbutton his greatcoat. “I must insist that you allow me to shampoo them both.”

“You, sahib?” The sheikh was a little taken aback, and clearly wondered if the reason for Sir Greville Seton’s unmarried state lay in his sexual preferences!

Greville smiled. “Oh, it’s nothing like that, I assure you, for no beings on this earth could be less to my liking than those two.”

The sheikh’s expression changed again, this time to apprehension. “I trust you do not mean to cause trouble. Sir Greville sahib?”

“Not anything that will reflect upon your establishment.”

“Do I have your word, sahib?”

“You do.” Greville spread his hands. “Would I be less than truthful with you?”

The sheikh bowed. “Oh, undoubtedly. Sir Greville sahib, but on this occasion I will trust you.”

The door opened and closed softly behind them as Rupert and Sir Jocelyn came in. Greville turned quickly, and sighed with annoyance. “I thought I made myself clear—” he began, but Sir Jocelyn interrupted quickly.

“We didn’t want to be left out, dear boy; after all we too have bones to pick with March and Strickland,” he said, placing his blanket bundle on the floor.

“Three against two is hardly cricket,” Greville pointed out, looking curiously at the bundle.

Rupert grinned. “It will be two against two, because Sir Jocelyn is only here to umpire the proceedings.”

Greville gave in. “Oh, all right, I don’t suppose I have any real choice in the matter.”

“None whatsoever, dear fellow,” Rupert agreed, and then rubbed his hands together eagerly. “What’s the plan?”

“I haven’t got one,” Greville admitted. “My only thought was to get here and get my hands on those two reptiles.”

Sir Jocelyn gave a chuckle. “Very laudable, I’m sure, but not the answer if we wish to be able to face our womenfolk again. So, sirs, allow me to make a few suggestions.” He turned to the sheikh and pointed at the cologne bottles on the table. “Which of those smells most like civet cat?” he inquired.

The sheikh was offended. “Civet cat? I stock only the finest—!”

Sir Jocelyn wagged a reproving finger at him. “Come, now, sir. As I recall, you once dowsed me from that small yellow bottle, and I stank for two days.”

“Well, I suppose that one may be a little strong,” the sheikh conceded reluctantly.

“It’s foul, and therefore ideal,” Sir Jocelyn said, and pocketed the bottle. Then he looked at Greville and Rupert again. “Thrashing March and Strickland to within an inch of their miserable lives will make you both feel good in the meantime, but our dear ladies will not like it at all. The fair sex is of an inherently tender disposition, abhorring brutish behavior, and indeed that is why we adore them. But they do like to be able to giggle at their vanquished foes.”

“Giggle?” Greville repeated in puzzlement.

Sir Jocelyn nodded. “March suffered considerable humiliation last night, but tonight you can make him a complete laughing stock. And Strickland too. Public ridicule is an excellent weapon. So, after giving them both the most bracing shampooing they’ve ever had, and sprinkling them with essence of skunk, or whatever is in this bottle, I suggest you resort to these.” He pushed the bundle with his foot.

Greville bent to untie the blanket, and to his astonishment found that Sir Jocelyn had raided Evangeline’s theater wardrobe for Malvolio’s awful yellow stockings, Feste’s jingling jester’s hat, a pair of hose, party-colored in pink and silver and cut off at the knees, and the fearsome Henry VIII codpiece.

Sir Jocelyn chuckled again. “Just imagine the effect these will have on the Garsingtons’ soirée musicale.”

Greville began to grin. “I think your plan is excellent, Sir Jocelyn. What do you say, Rupert?”

Rupert’s eyes shone wickedly. “I say it is a splendid notion.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Sir Jocelyn tied the bundle again and lifted it from the floor, then he turned to the sheikh. “ ‘Lead on, Macduff!’ ” he said.

The sheikh raised an eyebrow. “I know my Shakespeare, Sir Jocelyn,” he corrected. “The actual quotation is ‘Lay on, Macduff’.”

“Is it, be damned? I didn’t realize that,” replied Sir Jocelyn. “Well, whatever, just do it.”

The sheikh bowed, look some towels from the shelves, and led them upstairs.

Oliver and Ralph were relaxed and unguarded, and did not sense their imminent fate. After enjoying vapor baths, they were now languishing naked in their flannel tents, which were not anything like those that might be found at an army encampment, but were bags that were tied at the throat and had inward-facing ‘sleeves’ into which the masseur slipped his arms in order to apply oriental unguents. The room was very steamy indeed, with half a dozen tents, only two of which were occupied. While encased to the throat in flannel, Oliver and Ralph were very vulnerable indeed, and as bad luck would have it, their conversation had just turned to Sybil and Sophia, about whom they guffawed with laughter.

The door of the adjacent room burst open behind them, and Sigismund Garsington strode in with a towel tied around his plump middle. He was brandishing a pistol in either hand, and there was a wild expression on his round pink face. “So you find my sisters amusing, eh?” he bellowed, and leveled the pistols at the two men, whose laughter broke off in two squeaks of terror. But they couldn’t escape, for they were too well tied in.

At that moment the sheikh ushered the others in as well, and Sigismund rounded upon them, barrels at the ready. The sheikh dropped the towels with shock and scuttled out, but Sir Jocelyn was equal to the moment, and stepped forward with an affable smile.

“Don’t be hasty, there’s a good chap, sir,” he said to Sigismund.

“Hasty? Hasty?” cried Sigismund. “I am about to blast these two to kingdom come!”

Oliver and Ralph squeaked again, and their flannel tents trembled visibly.

Sir Jocelyn glanced at them. “They have offended you, sir?” he inquired of Sigismund.

“I heard them poking fun at my sisters.”

“Ah. Well, sir, it may interest you to know that we have come here to, er, acquaint these same fellows with the extent of our disapproval.”

“You have?” The pistols were lowered, but Oliver and Ralph still looked fit to expire of fright.

Sir Jocelyn came to put a tactful arm around Sigismund’s pudgy shoulders. “Yes, we have,” he said urbanely, “but our notion of suitable punishment differs a little from yours. Allow me to explain.” He whispered what he had said to Greville and Rupert in the vestibule, and the held up the blanket bundle.

Sigismund’s rage began to disappear, and his face lit up with a broad grin. “By gad, I like it!” he declared.

Sir Jocelyn cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “I haven’t quite finished, sir. You see, we thought we would impose our victims upon the soirée musicale, so you and your family can really be avenged.” He held his breath, wondering what the reaction would be. To his huge relief, Sigismund gave a grunt of approval.

“I see nothing wrong in that! I’ve been wriggling like a damned worm on a hook for years now because I’m expected to play that damned hautbois.”

“You have?” Sir Jocelyn said in surprise, for he had always believed Sigismund to be a dedicated musician.

“Yes. That’s why I came here this evening. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but I’m glad I did because they’ll be chasing around like headless chickens wondering where I am.”

“I had no idea,” Sir Jocelyn murmured.

“To be honest, I’ve always wanted to play Sybil’s harp, but the old pater and mater won’t have it. They think I’ll look like a prize daisy.”

Sir Jocelyn choked back his laughter.

Sigismund smiled again. “So it will serve them right if we, er, brighten things up a little, eh? Right, I’ll take my dear brother-in-law, and leave you three to toss a coin for March!”

Greville insisted upon the right to deal with Oliver, and soon he and Sigismund went to work. Never had there been two less gentle masseurs, and never had there been two more cowardly victims. Oliver and Ralph squealed and yelled as the rough flannel showed no mercy to their recently steamed bodies. The squeals became howls when Sir Jocelyn poured the odoriferous cologne in around their necks, and the rubbing began all over again.

The craven pair were permitted out of the tents after five minutes, but if they thought they would be permitted to don their own clothes again, they were in error. Soon Oliver was togged in Feste’s bell-bedecked hat, Malvolio’s yellow stockings, with a towel to hide his modesty, and Ralph, made similarly decent, wore the knee-length hose and Henry VIII codpiece. They both looked utterly ridiculous, and Sigismund delightedly likened their aroma to that of a Newgate privy. Then, when he had dressed again, they all went downstairs.

The sheikh’s eyes widened as he saw the strange procession, and two of his assistants sniggered from a doorway as Oliver and Ralph were herded out into the icy night. Some fly-by-nights were engaged, and the prisoners conveyed to Garsington House, each with a pistol to his head to deter him from any notion of escape.

Astonished footmen did not dare to refuse entry, and Oliver’s bells jingled foolishly as he shuffled unwillingly across the gleaming entrance hall toward the double doors of the music room, from beyond which issued the twanging of Sybil’s harp as she sang “Where the bee thuckth, there thuck I.”

Her racket broke off as Sigismund flung the doors open and strode in. “Ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for a very different kind of entertainment!” he announced, and everyone turned with gasps as Greville and Rupert pushed Oliver and Ralph into the glittering room.

“Dance, my good morris men,” Greville breathed, and prodded Oliver warningly in the back. Oliver hastily began to leap about, and Ralph followed suit.

Lord and Lady Garsington gaped, Sybil looked as if she needed to hold on to the harp for support, and Sophia slipped from her chair in a dead faint. The rest of the room fell about, helpless with laughter.