Practical heart, p.2
Practical Heart, page 2
“Excessively is just the word for it,” Miles returned with a slight bow. He stationed himself at the foot of the staircase and watched her as, after a little curtsy, she ascended it.
“My dear Miles,” said the Viscount when, a few minutes later, he appeared at the top of the flight with arms outstretched towards his guest. “How very good you are to come, how very considerate, how very welcome to these undeserving eyes!” He descended the stairs as he spoke, then shook Mr. Lawrence’s hand with hearty vigour and beamed upon him largely. “You look exquisite, of course. I daresay every girl in London is scheming to attract you?”
“O,” said Miles, with a self-effacing gesture, “I expect the girls themselves might not be too averse to my attentions, but their Mammas are a good deal wiser. Filthy lucre, you know, my dear fellow; I’ve very little of it.”
“Ah yes,” Valerian returned, with a nod of deep understanding, “you have my sympathies most entirely. Such a foul medium, so base, so vile, so, in short, indispensable. How do we make do without it, I wonder?”
“Quite honestly, my dear Uncle, I seem to manage somewhat better than you. In fact, I was just telling Miss Spencer how gratifying it is to me to look upon your greater poverty.”
“Indeed,” Valerian returned ruefully. “But do not, I pray, call me Uncle! I have told you again and again: anything, sooner than that. It implies such a settled state, so much inexorable kinship, so much, may I say, decrepitude! It is too solid for me, too staid, too sober, too—”
“Avuncular,” Miles supplied obligingly.
“Just so! Too avuncular. Kindly do me the favour of calling me Valerian. It is what most of the world uses.”
“I shall be happy to. And now, my dear Valerian, is there a room in your house which is fit for occupancy? For I must confess I should be most glad to sit down for a moment.”
“Ah—! My poor fellow, what you must be thinking of me! Do come into the drawing room. It is not fit, perhaps, but it is, at least—adequate.”
“Which is to say, there are chairs in it,” Miles commented, sitting down upon one after making a bow to the ladies, who were still there. “These, I take it, are my cousins.”
“Quite,” said Sherbourne, gesturing at them in turn. “Cordelia and Felicity. And this is Miss Spencer—but I suppose you must already have met her.”
“I have, indeed,” said Miles, turning his warm gaze upon that lady. “Well, I must say, you shall have no difficult task in disposing of these beauties on the marriage mart. I expect you will feel quite guilty accepting money for it!”
“That is an event which I anticipate without much apprehension,” Gillian replied. “If, begging your Lordship’s pardon, I may be said to anticipate it at all,” she added.
His Lordship regarded the tops of his own boots with serene dispassion.
“Your daughters have just been informing me that they have no outfits at all with which to greet London society, my Lord. This is a situation which, I trust, you intend to remedy?”
“O yes!” exclaimed Sherbourne. “I am sure—well, confound it all,” he broke off, “as long as we are all here I think we may as well have a conference. Miss Spencer, Miles here is acquainted with our circumstances, and has been kind enough to promise to procure us a number of invitations to the most desirable social functions. He can do it, you know,” he added moodily, “because he has such outrageous good looks. Now I myself have charm, and that is a very convenient thing, but Miles has both charisma and countenance, and that is a great deal better. You have remarked, no doubt, that when he looks at you you feel quite enchanted—as well as enchanting?”
Miss Spencer hesitated.
“Yes, of course you have, my dear, and so have an hundred other people. It is his most valuable asset.”
“Sherbourne, I must protest—”
The Viscount waved Mr. Lawrence’s objections away with an effortless gesture. “Useless, my dear boy, useless. However, Nature’s hand is ever unequal, and it is not for us to question. I point your gifts out merely to reassure Miss Spencer that our entrée to the ton has been taken care of, in spite of the fact that I have not dared to come down to London these five years.”
“Not dared, Papa?” Felicity interrupted, puzzled.
“Ah yes, my dear girl. You would not think it, for I have tried to keep it from you, but your Papa is in a great deal of trouble.”
“Oh, Father, do not say so!” cried Cordelia in dismay.
“But I must say so, I must. I am required to…bound to…obliged—though I loathe it—to say so. Therefore, allow me to continue. Mr. Lawrence, as I was explaining, assures us of some invitations, and of any other aid he may offer. It is not, however, within his power to offer us money—and there, if I may say so, is the rub. Having liquidated nearly all my assets—except my charm, as I pointed out before, and my title, of course—I am in possession of approximately four hundred fifty pounds, no shillings, four pence. This, my dear Miss Spencer, is my entire personal fortune—which I am prepared, if I may so express it, to wager upon my daughters’ expectations.”
“Valerian,” Miles interrupted at this point, “something just occurred to me. Could not you dispose of, say, Catteroyes, or this place? I daresay the money would be of greater use to you than they are.”
“I daresay,” the Viscount agreed. “But to dispose of Catteroyes—well, you cannot be expected to partake of the feeling with which I regard Catteroyes. It has belonged to the Sherbournes for generations, centuries! It speaks to me of the past, it whispers of elegance gone by, time lost, mysteries and secrets buried with my ancestors! Besides,” he continued, a faraway look in his eyes, “it is such a dismal wreck, one would have to be mad to buy it.”
“I see,” said Miles. “And The Haven?”
“Indispensable to our plan!” cried the Viscount, with sudden energy. “An address such as this is not to be regarded lightly! It is yet another of those intangible assets—like title, and charm—with which, my dears, we are going to create an atmosphere, an impression, an illusion of the most comfortable wealth. I propose, you see, that we refurbish but two of our rooms here—the front hall and this chamber. A butler must of course be hired, to satisfy the chance caller, but a cook we shall do without. The remainder of our—if I may say so—wretched fortune will be used to acquire such garments as Miss Spencer tells me are necessary to the girls.”
“And food, my Lord?” ventured that lady. “And transportation?”
“Ah yes,” he agreed, “those also.”
Gillian shook her head unhappily. “I am afraid, my Lord, that you are a deal too sanguine.”
“But not at all,” the Viscount replied, forcing himself to enthusiasm. “All that is wanted is spirit. ‘Screw your courage to the sticking-place,’ my dear ma’am!”
“It does sound rather as if you may starve,” Miles remarked.
“Nonsense! Fustian! An outmoded concept altogether, no longer done in any of the best circles! The only thing we have to fear, if one observes the situation quite reasonably—which, I trust, I do—is Mr. Grouse.”
“Mr. Grouse?” came a chorus of inquiries. “Mr. Grouse,” the Viscount repeated, nodding heavily. “Mr. Thomas H. Grouse.”
Chapter II
As the Viscount lapsed into an heavy silence upon these words, it was left to Felicity to inquire, “If you please, Papa, who is Mr. Grouse?”
Sherbourne seemed to rouse himself a little, and lifted his eyes to meet his daughter’s. “He is, my dear, a merchant, a banker, a man of affairs; what is called, in London, a Cit. He is also my creditor—O, how very much my creditor!—and my especial plague upon this earth. It is his hand, if I may so express it, which extends itself to help me down the last rung of the ladder of ruin. It is his foot, if I may extend the metaphor, which hangs poised in this air, waiting to boot me at last into the inferno of debtors’ prison. It is his money, finally, upon which we have been subsisting the past four years. Were he not so eminently fleshly in appearance, I should call him the very Devil himself; and glad I would be to sell my soul, could such a bargain rid me of the evil shadow of Mr. Thomas H. Grouse!”
“O my!” was all Felicity could think to say.
“O my, indeed, my dear. But you will find, when you have grown a little older, that the world is full of Mr. Thomas H. Grouses. Not for nothing do they call them mushrooms. They spring up between the cracks in pavements; they drape themselves vegetatively upon the walls of stately mansions. Like yellow fog, they creep and seep under the very doorways! Like witches’ familiars, they are everywhere and nowhere. Covens of them are found in coffee-rooms; the city swarms with them, as Egypt did with locusts. And these, my dear, are men of substance! These, I am told, are the vertebra of British stability. These, scions of the gutter, are yet become so militantly respectable—respectable!—that they forbear, on principle, to laugh before breakfast!” The Viscount all but shook with the vehemence of this oratory, and subsided into silence for a moment. An instant later, however, he had recovered his customary composure and smiled bravely. “However, this is neither here nor there,” he said. “What is important is that we keep me from Mr. Grouse, and Mr. Grouse from me, for as long as he is in doubt of our circumstances, I trust he will do nothing rash. That, my daughter, is another quality of these sober, solid-silver gentlemen: They do nothing, nothing at all, without due—and dreary—consideration. So, you see,” he finished, looking round brightly at the company, “so long as we act quickly, and wisely, and well, we shall yet be saved.”
“Your Lordship,” said Miss Gillian Spencer, checking an impulse—the fourth or fifth of that day—to run in terror from the house, “let us begin our work directly.”
“Miss Spencer,” remarked Mr. Lawrence, “you are a woman either of great courage, or of questionable sanity. In either case, I salute you.”
“And so do I,” called the Viscount. “A round of applause for Miss Spencer!”
The drawing room echoed briefly with the sound of clapping. Gillian, feeling that she was abandoning herself entirely to folly, curtsied briefly and sat down again. “Now,” she said briskly, “let us plan our strategy. Mr. Lawrence, when is our first engagement?”
“Oh, not for a se’ennight,” he reassured her. “Lady Mufftow is planning a ball for 30 May, but it is only the 23rd today, I believe.”
“Good,” she approved. “Things could be better, but we shall make shift somehow. Now, the first order of business,” she continued, getting up and walking about the room in a somewhat military fashion, “is to get the girls out. Nothing, clearly, can be done until they have made their debut. A large affair would be desirable, but that is quite out of the question. We shall be obliged to arrange a small party, perhaps even a dinner, unless—Lord Sherbourne, you do not suppose you could prevail upon one of your London acquaintances to lend us his house? If an established hostess could be found who would present the girls, perhaps a relative—”
The Viscount made an odd, rather stifled sound, which he followed by the words, “Really, I don’t think…”
As he appeared to have nothing more to say, Gillian took up where she had left off: “No, no more did I. Well, it was a pleasant thought, in any case. I expect I should divide our responsibilities and assign them; that has a very efficient sound to it, has not it?”
The Viscount indicated his agreement with another strangled noise and watched Gillian as she reflected. “I, of course, shall see to the girls—their clothing, coiffures, conduct, et cetera. Your Lordship, if you will pardon me for ordering you about, I think you had best arrange for the renovation of The Haven—this room and the front hall, as you say. How we shall keep visitors from the rest of the house I do not know, but I expect we shall find a way.” She paused, considering for a moment. “You did inform me, after all, that you know a bit about everything. I assume that the art of decorating is a part of that?”
His Lordship answered with a third little choke, and seemed about to speak at last when Gillian interrupted him. She had been frowning meditatively at the fireplace, and therefore did not notice the extraordinary expression on his countenance.
“Mr. Lawrence,” she said, “you have been so kind in proffering your services already, one hesitates to entreat yet more of you. However—you see how we are constrained—so would you do us the favour of seeing to certain of our domestic exigencies? For example, I have no notion how to go about engaging a butler, or a coach…I should be most obliged to you if you could but advise me.”
“My dear Miss Spencer,” he answered, “say no more. I consider it a great honour to serve under your generalship, and shall be more than happy to attend to whatever small details you see fit to entrust to me.” He ended with a smile and a smart salute.
“Mr. Lawrence, you are a deal too kind; however, I must confess that I am not quite comfortable with the military status you are so good as to confer upon me. It implies a tendency to manage which, I have no doubt, you disapprove of in a female.”
“My dear ma’am, I beg you will not concern yourself with my opinions! They are quite insignificant.”
“Perhaps they are,” she replied, beginning to feel some real, and irrational, annoyance, “but I do not care to appear to disadvantage.”
“Disadvantage! Miss Spencer, I grieve to hear you say so! Why, on the contrary, I think you a model of efficacy, and am all admiration.”
“Dear sir, I hope you will not misunderstand me if I tell you that it has never been my fondest desire to be admired for my efficacy, or my generalship, or for—any practical quality,” she finished inadequately.
“And yet, you are so very capable, I am persuaded such qualities have often been remarked in you!”
“By which you mean, I presume, that I am universally feared as the most managing female between London and Bath?”
“By which I mean, simply, that you are most—irresistible—in your pragmatism.”
“I believe we are wasting time with this trifling, Mr. Lawrence,” Gillian said coldly.
“Now, there you are! I should never have noticed the time we were wasting at all, you see? Gentlemen, I rest my case.”
Gillian was so thoroughly ruffled by now that she did not trust herself even to attempt an answer. It was unlike her to refine so much upon the opinions of others, especially strangers, and equally unusual for her to allow herself to be bested in an argument. She returned, in silence, to her reflections regarding the girls’ come-out, but these were immediately disrupted by the Viscount, who had developed a state that may only be termed a positive fit of inarticulateness.
“I think my Father wishes to say something,” Cordelia observed at last.
“What is it, dear Papa?” Felicity seconded.
Sherbourne continued his chokings for some minutes, but finally overcame them and whispered, “There is one circumstance which I—may I say, forgot?—to mention. The girls’ come-out…”
“Yes?” Gillian prompted, as his voice faded away.
“Is scheduled for tomorrow evening. At ten. Exactly.”
There was a stunned silence.
“Tomorrow evening?” Miss Spencer repeated at last. “Tomorrow evening?” she said, changing the emphasis as though that might change the meaning. She sat down upon a chair. “My Lord, how did this come about?”
“Well, I felt,” he began slowly, “while we were at Catteroyes, you know, that there was not much I could do to—to forward our enterprise, except…well, I began to feel chafed with inactivity, you see, frustrated with the boundaries of time and space, so I…I sent out invitations to my dearest and oldest friends. There are about twenty of them, I should think. Coming tomorrow,” he closed, with unwonted brevity.
“My Lord, this is,” Gillian searched for the words, “the most unkindest cut of all!”
“Do not, I beg, turn my own dear Shakespeare against me! I am miserable, abject, in an agony of contrition, I do assure you! I never thought—it never occurred to me—I had no idea so much preparation would be necessary! Please, can you ever accept my most servile, my most obsequious, my most humble apologies?”
But as Gillian considered this, she remembered, absurdly, that it was her employer who spoke to her thus, and she laughed aloud. “I believe your Shakespeare also said, ‘Things without all remedy should be without regard; what’s done is done,’ did not he? Then let us proceed as before.”
“But quick-march this time,” Miles interjected wickedly. “Double-time, General Spencer, n’est-ce pas?”
“Mr. Lawrence—” she commenced awfully, turning upon him. “But we have not got the time for that now,” she broke off abruptly.
“A thousand pities,” he responded, with a dazzling smile.
The next hour was devoted to the planning of strategies. It was followed by an afternoon of frantic comings and goings, limitless frustrations, and expensive expeditions. Mr. Miles Lawrence made himself very useful, indeed. In fact, it occurred to Miss Spencer to wonder how he came to know so very much about dress-shops, and milliners, and so forth. The Viscount spent most of his time at the furniture makers; Mr. Lawrence disappeared at about four o’clock and was not heard of for several hours; Miss Spencer, finding a hack by a lucky accident, managed to enrage quite a number of shopkeepers by demanding their immediate and complete attention. The girls found their day divided between the chusing of satins and lace and the scrubbing of floors. At about eight in the evening the party reassembled in the drawing room of The Haven to take stock of what had been accomplished, or, as Miles phrased it, to regroup their forces. He also brought with him what he termed “mess,” which consisted of some cold meats and other picnic fare, and which was most welcome. It was after this repast had been disposed of, while they all sat keenly regretting the absence of coffee, that Miss Spencer began to call the company to account.
“My Lord,” she said, “tell us please how you got on with the furnishings.”
