Free Lady John by Madeleine E. Robins Page B
Authors: Madeleine E. Robins
care what you do? Miss Casserley will probably devote herself to
improving the poor, or to church work, and leave you to your own devices: a
very comfortable way to go on, I can tell you. Come, we’ll go tell your
grandmother and Lord and Lady Whelke the news.”
Menwin stopped dead in his tracks. “Lady Whelke? Sir, my fiancée
does not bear any resemblance to—”
For the first time in twenty-nine years Menwin detected a
hint of fellow-feeling in his grandfather’s eye.
“Good God, no! What sort of unnatural grandparent do you
think I am? The chit’s tall and willowy and not in the least.—well, suffice to
say she don’t share that saccharine manner of her mamma’s. But I warrant you
that once Miss Jane is properly married off, Lady Whelke won’t trouble you at
all. Probably Miss Casserley will be happy to see the last of her mamma as
well.”
“Well, that’s some sort of blessing, I suppose,” Menwin murmured.
“All right, Grandfather. Shall we go and speak to my parents-at-law?”
“That’s the dandy.” Lord Mardries patted his grandson
heartily on the back and led him toward the drawing room. Menwin, close behind,
tried to feel as if all bridges were truly burnt. There was, after all, nothing
to tie him to Brussels or his memories now, was there? He arranged his features
to assume the aspect of a happily engaged man.
Chapter Six
When Olivia learned, the morning after her passage at arms
with Lord Menwin, that the gentleman had decamped, “summoned away on urgent
business,” she was a trifle annoyed but not surprised. Breakfasting with Kit
and Lord Reeve in the dining parlor the next morning, she received the news
impassively, as she did Lord Christopher’s assurance that Menwin had begged him
to beg her pardon.
“Whoever the thought came from, Kit, thank you,” she said
dryly. “I don’t suppose Menwin happened to mention to you why he made me the butt of his sarcasms?”
Kit looked uncomfortable, and owned that Menwin had been
silent upon that score. “Never saw him behave so peculiarly before, Livvy. You
knew him in Brussels: was there cause for a
quarrel between the two of you?”
“So far as I know, none at all. John, when he spoke of him,
spoke with that peculiarly offhand affection—you recall his manner, Kit. ‘That
old fool Matt Polry; ought to give him the name of my tailor.’ That sort of nonsense.
Gentlemen have the strangest notion of how to comport a friendship.”
Lord Kit and Lord Reeve, entertained as they were by this
feminine view of masculine camaraderie, said nothing.
“Dyspepsia,” Reeve suggested at last around a final mouthful
of egg. “Fellow should try some Henley’s Salts.”
There was no answer for that; Lord Reeve departed the
breakfast room and Olivia and Kit finished their meal in bemused silence.
It appeared that the Duchess had spent a good part of the
evening brooding over Menwin’s behavior and, true to her promise, summoned
Olivia to her apartments shortly before noon that morning. Apprehensively
Olivia gathered up her workbag and followed the Duchess’s abigail, Miss
Glessock, through the galleries and down the long hall into the Duchess’s
rose-pink sitting room.
“My dearest child, how good of you to come so quickly,” her
Grace drawled. She herself was still en deshabille ,
large and elegant in a dressing gown of puce satin which agreed poorly with the
pink brocade of the sofa on which she was settled. Her graying hair was down,
partially hidden by a delicate lace cap, and for the first time since her
arrival at Catenhaugh, Olivia was privileged to see her mother-at-law without
the benefit of maquillage or rouge. Much struck by this spectacle, Olivia stood
some moments in the doorway.
“Sit, child, sit,” the Duchess urged. “I feel I have been
remiss: I have let Sue and Bette amuse you, and let you amuse me with your silly tales of John’s outrageousness
in the Army. I mean for the best, you know: I made sure that after
improving the poor, or to church work, and leave you to your own devices: a
very comfortable way to go on, I can tell you. Come, we’ll go tell your
grandmother and Lord and Lady Whelke the news.”
Menwin stopped dead in his tracks. “Lady Whelke? Sir, my fiancée
does not bear any resemblance to—”
For the first time in twenty-nine years Menwin detected a
hint of fellow-feeling in his grandfather’s eye.
“Good God, no! What sort of unnatural grandparent do you
think I am? The chit’s tall and willowy and not in the least.—well, suffice to
say she don’t share that saccharine manner of her mamma’s. But I warrant you
that once Miss Jane is properly married off, Lady Whelke won’t trouble you at
all. Probably Miss Casserley will be happy to see the last of her mamma as
well.”
“Well, that’s some sort of blessing, I suppose,” Menwin murmured.
“All right, Grandfather. Shall we go and speak to my parents-at-law?”
“That’s the dandy.” Lord Mardries patted his grandson
heartily on the back and led him toward the drawing room. Menwin, close behind,
tried to feel as if all bridges were truly burnt. There was, after all, nothing
to tie him to Brussels or his memories now, was there? He arranged his features
to assume the aspect of a happily engaged man.
Chapter Six
When Olivia learned, the morning after her passage at arms
with Lord Menwin, that the gentleman had decamped, “summoned away on urgent
business,” she was a trifle annoyed but not surprised. Breakfasting with Kit
and Lord Reeve in the dining parlor the next morning, she received the news
impassively, as she did Lord Christopher’s assurance that Menwin had begged him
to beg her pardon.
“Whoever the thought came from, Kit, thank you,” she said
dryly. “I don’t suppose Menwin happened to mention to you why he made me the butt of his sarcasms?”
Kit looked uncomfortable, and owned that Menwin had been
silent upon that score. “Never saw him behave so peculiarly before, Livvy. You
knew him in Brussels: was there cause for a
quarrel between the two of you?”
“So far as I know, none at all. John, when he spoke of him,
spoke with that peculiarly offhand affection—you recall his manner, Kit. ‘That
old fool Matt Polry; ought to give him the name of my tailor.’ That sort of nonsense.
Gentlemen have the strangest notion of how to comport a friendship.”
Lord Kit and Lord Reeve, entertained as they were by this
feminine view of masculine camaraderie, said nothing.
“Dyspepsia,” Reeve suggested at last around a final mouthful
of egg. “Fellow should try some Henley’s Salts.”
There was no answer for that; Lord Reeve departed the
breakfast room and Olivia and Kit finished their meal in bemused silence.
It appeared that the Duchess had spent a good part of the
evening brooding over Menwin’s behavior and, true to her promise, summoned
Olivia to her apartments shortly before noon that morning. Apprehensively
Olivia gathered up her workbag and followed the Duchess’s abigail, Miss
Glessock, through the galleries and down the long hall into the Duchess’s
rose-pink sitting room.
“My dearest child, how good of you to come so quickly,” her
Grace drawled. She herself was still en deshabille ,
large and elegant in a dressing gown of puce satin which agreed poorly with the
pink brocade of the sofa on which she was settled. Her graying hair was down,
partially hidden by a delicate lace cap, and for the first time since her
arrival at Catenhaugh, Olivia was privileged to see her mother-at-law without
the benefit of maquillage or rouge. Much struck by this spectacle, Olivia stood
some moments in the doorway.
“Sit, child, sit,” the Duchess urged. “I feel I have been
remiss: I have let Sue and Bette amuse you, and let you amuse me with your silly tales of John’s outrageousness
in the Army. I mean for the best, you know: I made sure that after