Rules for Being a Mistress Page 19

  “Maybe it was hiding from you,” said Miss Vaughn, laughing.

  “Music room?” Serena inquired. “But I thought you lived in a farmhouse with battlements, Miss Vaughn?”

  “’Tis a farmhouse with battlements and a music room.”

  “That is how it is in these Irish houses,” Lady Matlock said knowledgeably. “The Irish are such a happy, carefree race. There is singing and dancing from the humblest to the highest. Give us a song in Irish, Miss Vaughn! Nothing from the playhouse. Something really authentic.”

  Cosima was startled. “You want me to sing to you in the Irish language, my lady?”

  “You do know your own language, I trust,” Lady Matlock said severely.

  “I’m afraid only peasants in the Irish countryside speak Irish these days, Lady Matlock,” said Benedict. “It is no longer taught in schools.”

  “In the Penal Days,” said Miss Vaughn, “there were people burned alive by the English only for the crime of speaking Irish. Sure Cromwell thought we were criticizing his funny haircut! I’ll sing to you in Irish, Lady Matlock.”

  She played a plaintive, bittersweet melody on the Broadwood. She sang, her soft voice lingering in the air like perfume.

  “Rop tú mo baile

  a Choimdin cride:

  ní ní nech aile

  acht Rí secht nime.”

  “How strange,” Serena murmured. “How primitive and pagan!”

  “Is it a rebel song, Miss Vaughn?” asked Lady Rose.

  “It’s a hymn,” said Cosima, laughing. “We sing it in chapel.”

  Mr. Fitzwilliam was scandalized. “In Irish? I had no idea the Church of Ireland was in such disarray. I shall write a letter to the Archbishop of Dublin at once,” he added importantly.

  “Miss Vaughn,” Lady Dalrymple sniffed, “is a Papist, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

  Mr. Fitzwilliam wrinkled his nose as if he had encountered a very bad smell. “Good heavens,” he said. “I had no idea.”

  “There’s a Catholic chapel in Bath, on Orchard Street,” said Lord Ludham. “Did you know that, Miss Vaughn?”

  “I did, yes,” Cosima said mildly.

  “I came upon it by mistake. Used to be a theater, you know, before the new one was built in Beaufort Square.”

  “That I didn’t know,” said Miss Vaughn.

  “I paid my shilling at the door and went in, expecting quite a different performance!”

  “I hope you got your shilling back, at least,” said Serena. “With so many Irish in service nowadays, I’m afraid Bath is becoming quite a hotbed of Papism. Personally, I don’t care to employ them. We had some, years ago. They were always going to funerals.” She rose from the card table as her butler entered the room. “I see dinner is served. Shall we go in?”

  A thin, dry, graying woman appeared in the dining room, but Serena waved her away. “No, Peacham, we don’t need you to make us an even number for dinner. We have Mr. Fitzwilliam to complete us.”

  “I am very happy to complete you, my lady,” said the gallant clergyman.

  “Your place is there, sir,” his hostess answered coldly. “Next to Miss Carteret.”

  “You are a younger son, are you not?” Lady Dalrymple asked him.

  “I am,” he admitted. “But my brother, the Earl of Matlock, has many livings in his gift, and, what’s more, I am assured of a bishopric, whenever one in Derbyshire should become available.”

  “Ah!” said the viscountess, blinking rapidly.

  “I wonder we don’t have suppers at all our card parties,” Lady Matlock said, draining her soup like a castaway. “The company is so much more select at a small dinner party.”

  At her end of the table, Miss Vaughn looked intently at her soup. Long, thin, white worms appeared to be floating in it. She thought Lady Serena must be playing a mean trick on her. “What is it?” she quietly asked the footman waiting on her.

  “Vermicelli, miss,” said the footman, confirming her worst fears.

  “Is there something wrong, Miss Vaughn?” Serena inquired crossly.

  Benedict, who was seated at Serena’s right, said quickly, “Don’t look so worried, Miss Vaughn. Those are noodles, not worms.”

  “Worms!” exclaimed Rose, dropping her spoon.

  “Worms!” cried Miss Carteret.

  “They only look like worms,” Benedict said helpfully. “Hence the name: vermicelli, from the Latin, meaning ‘little worms.’”

  “I don’t want to eat anything that looks like worms!” declared Lord Ludham decisively. “Take it away, Morris.”

  Morris took it away.

  The duck fared no better with Miss Vaughn.

  Watching Mr. Fitzwilliam devour his portion with an expression of shock, she presently inquired, “Does the Church of England not observe the Lenten fast?”

  “Hmmm?” he said absently. “Oh, yes, of course.” Reluctantly, he pushed his plate away. His stomach growled in protest. “The Lenten fast. Thank you, Miss Vaughn. I almost forgot.”

  “Take it all away, Morris,” urged Ludham. “It is overcooked, anyway. Serena, you should dismiss your cook at once! Worm soup, and now overcooked duck in the middle of the Lenten fast! Has the world gone mad?” He flung down his napkin in disgust.

  Serena was livid with rage, but could only watch helplessly as a small fortune in fowl was removed from her table. She did not want anyone to think she was not a devout Christian.

  “I am not finished,” said Benedict coldly when the footman came for his plate. He was still angry with Miss Vaughn for playing that vulgar song, and he certainly was not going to forego his dinner because she was observing some silly fast. He was not religious at all, and he was not going to pretend.

  No one else had thought to rebel against Miss Vaughn. They were all obliged to sit quietly while the baronet enjoyed his duck. “There,” he said at last, setting aside his knife. “Now you may take it, Morris. And, by the way, it was not overcooked. It was perfectly, scrumptiously, rare.”

  They all groaned involuntarily, except for Miss Vaughn, who sniffed angrily.

  Still smarting, despite the relative success of a dish of asparagus, Lady Serena withdrew with the ladies at the first opportunity, leaving the gentlemen to their port. While they dined, the servants had transformed the card room back into a drawing-room. Coffee was served, along with a tower of beautiful little cakes iced in pink and blue, which no one dared to eat because of Miss Vaughn. Tight-lipped, Serena ordered Peacham to take them out of sight. The thin, gray woman complied with alacrity.

  “Are we allowed to have tea at least?” Lady Rose sulked.

  “Who is that lady?” Cosima asked her hostess curiously. “She looks so sad.”

  “What lady? Oh, Peacham!” Serena laughed. “That is my paid companion: a dear, sweet thing. I don’t know what I’d do without her.” Despite this accolade, however, Peacham’s sudden reappearance seemed to annoy her ladyship. “What is it now?” she snapped. “Well? Stop quivering and come out with it!”

  Peacham came out with it. “It’s the nurserymaid, ma’am. Lady Amelia put a frog in her best bonnet, and, well, that was that. She is gone! Lady Caroline won’t stop crying, and Lady Imogen won’t go to bed. And I can’t find Lady Elizabeth anywhere!” she wailed.

  Serena was embarrassed. “For heaven’s sake, Peacham!” she said crossly. “You must manage the children, or you must find somewhere else to live.”

  Peacham departed in tears. Lady Dalrymple opened her mouth, but Serena was too quick for her. “What an interesting dress, Miss Vaughn.”

  “Do you like it?” Cosima said doubtfully. “Would you believe it was half-price?”

  “Yes, I would,” said Serena.

  Millicent Carteret sniffed derisively. “I have all my clothes made especially for me,” she said. She had to. She was far too plump to fit into any of the floor models on display in the shops, which were always made up using the least possible amount of material. “I can afford it,” she added. “I am an heiress.”


  “You’re lucky,” Cosima said. “Everything’s so exorbitant in the shops, it’s no wonder most ladies can’t afford nice underwear. They spend all their money on silks and velvets for the world to see, but, underneath, it’s all tatty, itchy, ugly brown homespun.”

  Lady Serena, Lady Dalrymple, and Miss Carteret all began to itch violently under their clothes. Rose scratched herself surreptitiously.

  “Personally,” said Miss Vaughn serenely, “I never skimp on underwear. I always have the very finest next to my skin, and the cost be damned.”

  Lady Dalrymple quickly changed the subject. “Dear Serena! I didn’t realize that your sister’s children were with you in Bath. Poor Lady Redfyle,” she added perfunctorily. “She died so young. Childbed fever, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Cosima.

  Serena glared at her. “Caroline was delicate. The doctor warned her, but she was determined to give her husband a son or else die trying. She died trying.”

  “Very noble, I’m sure,” said Lady Dalrymple. “But, my dear, however do you manage four children?”

  “It is a burden,” said Serena. “But what else can one do? They are my sister’s children. I could not leave them with their father. What do men know of raising daughters?”

  “I suppose Lord Redfylde comes often to visit them,” Lady Dalrymple said eagerly.

  “Oh!” said Millicent. “I hear he’s very handsome! But I have never seen him.”

  “He is handsome,” said Rose. “I have danced with him. He is like a tall, proud Viking warrior. His hair is silver, and his eyes are a piercing pale blue. His physique is incredible, too, for he boxes every day in Gentleman Jackson’s saloon. All the girls were wild for him in London. I daresay he is engaged by now.”

  “Lord Redfylde is a most attentive father,” replied Lady Serena coldly.

  Peacham returned as she had departed, in tears. “I believe, my lady,” she cried, “that we must have the doctor. Lady Caroline’s face is very red, and my nerves cannot take it!”

  “For heaven’s sake, Peacham! You interrupted.”

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” said Peacham wearily.

  “Lady Caroline is a baby,” said Serena. “Babies have red faces. It is a fact of life.”

  “She won’t go to sleep, my lady,” Peacham moaned.

  “Give her some gin,” Lady Dalrymple advised haughtily. “She’ll go to sleep.”

  “Why don’t I have a go at the baby?” said Cosima, jumping up. “I love babies. I practically raised Allie, my sister. It’s no trouble!”

  Serena gave a shrug and Miss Vaughn went off with Peacham.

  “Do you think,” Lady Rose asked quietly, “we could have the cakes back now?”

  When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies a few minutes later, Miss Vaughn was still upstairs, playing nursemaid, as Millicent so contemptuously put it.

  Ludham was shocked. “You mean Caroline’s children are all here? What? Under this roof? Serena! When did they arrive?”

  Serena looked aloof. “Arrive? They came with me from London, Felix.”

  His blue eyes widened. “You mean they’ve been here all this time? They are living here? Why have I never seen them?”

  “They are perfectly content in the nursery, Felix. Peacham looks after them.”

  “I would like to see them,” he said angrily. “They are my cousin’s children after all. Did you ever think of that?” He strode for the door. “Where is the nursery?”

  “In the vicinity of the attic, one supposes,” said Serena.

  After obtaining more specific directions to the nursery from a passing servant, Ludham ascended to find Miss Vaughn soothing Lady Caroline’s gums with a piece of ice wrapped in a handkerchief. Three more little ladies were in the immediate vicinity watching the operation doubtfully. The eldest, Lady Amelia, was dark-haired and violet-eyed like her aunt. Peacham had a firm grip on the other two girls, two fair-haired little angels in rose-colored muslin.

  “Hullo,” said Ludham, strolling forth. “I am your uncle, Lord Ludham.”

  “No, you’re not,” said Lady Amelia, a plump, haughty girl of some nine years. “You’re my mother’s first cousin. That makes you my second cousin, not my uncle.”

  Ludham was taken aback by her perspicacity. “Cheeky madam!”

  Lady Amelia glared at him.

  “How is little Caroline, Miss Vaughn?”

  “She’s cutting her teeth, my lord,” said Cosima, showing him the baby’s mouth, into which he peered knowledgeably so as not to disappoint her. “That’s why she’s so fussy, poor darling. Don’t you think Lady Serena would like to see it; the tooth? Miss Peacham says no.”

  “Yes, of course,” cried Ludham. “Bring her down; show her off! Come, children.”

  Lady Amelia stared in amazement. “You mean…go out there? We’re not allowed to leave the nursery. Aunt Serena says we are too noisy and we make a mess.”

  “Not allowed to leave the nursery!” Ludham scowled. “We’ll see about that!” He grabbed Lady Amelia by the hand, and they all marched downstairs.

  Confronted by her cruelty, Lady Serena spluttered. “Peacham must have misunderstood my instructions! Of course, they are not confined to the nursery. They are not prisoners.”

  She glared at Lady Amelia.

  “Have a look in little Caroline’s mouth,” Ludham encouraged her. “She has cut her first tooth, the clever girl!”

  Serena looked at the child in Miss Vaughn’s arms. “How sweet.”

  “I’ve a sister about Lady Amelia’s age,” said Cosima. “She’s a day pupil at Miss Bulstrode’s Seminary for Young Ladies, right here in Bath.”

  “Day pupil!” To Lady Amelia Redfylde, this sounded like the glamorous life.

  “I don’t see why Amelia can’t go to school with Miss Vaughn’s sister,” said Ludham. “You can’t keep them locked in the attic all day, Serena! They need fresh air, and sunshine, and exercise. And just because they are girls doesn’t mean they can’t be educated.”

  “I must speak to Lord Redfylde,” Serena said coldly. “His lordship is very particular about his daughters appearing in public.”

  “Of course,” said Ludham.

  Peacham came into the room wringing her hands.

  “Yes, Peacham?” Serena cried impatiently. “What is it now?”

  “There is a message for Miss Vaughn, my lady,” Peacham said. “Miss Vaughn, you are needed at home. Your mother has had a bad fall on the stairs!”

  Lord Ludham could only watch enviously as Sir Benedict left with the distraught young lady. Neither a husband or a relative, Ludham could do nothing for her, but Sir Benedict was her cousin. He got to place her cloak around her shoulders and order up a carriage to take her home and reassure her that everything would be all right.

  Dr. Grantham was with Lady Agatha when Cosima and Benedict arrived. He came out of her ladyship’s room and met them on the landing of the stairs. “I warned you this might happen, Miss Vaughn,” he said, almost gloating.

  Cosima’s eyes were squeezed shut. “How bad is it?”

  “It might have been much worse,” Dr. Grantham said, as if disappointed. “As it is, she has broken her wrist.”

  “Oh!” She made as if to dart into her mother’s bedroom, but the doctor caught her arm.

  “Now perhaps you will listen to me, Miss Vaughn!” he said, giving her a shake. “Lady Agatha should be in a hospital. At the very least, your mother ought to be locked in her room at night, to prevent accidents such as these.”

  Cosima pulled away from him angrily. “I am not going to lock my mother in her room like a prisoner! And she doesn’t want to go to your hospital.”

  Dr. Grantham turned to Sir Benedict and sighed. “You see how irrational this young lady is on the subject? Lady Agatha became quite dizzy on the stairs and fainted. She might very well have been killed. She ought to be locked up at night for her own safety. Sir Benedict, I implore you. Reason with this headstrong, foolish chi
ld. Put your foot down.”

  Cosima glared at Benedict, as though daring him to put his foot down.

  “Perhaps, Miss Vaughn, you might consider—”

  “I am not,” she shouted, “putting my mother in some damned hospital, and that’s final! I am not locking her in her room! And I’m not going to keep her in a state of oblivion with laudanum and God-knows-what!”

  “I was going to suggest,” Benedict said mildly, “that you move her ladyship’s bedroom downstairs. That way, she at least need not negotiate the stairs.”

  “Oh,” she said, embarrassed that she had interrupted him so fiercely.

  “That would be most improper,” said the doctor. “A lady’s bedroom, on the ground floor? I never heard of such a thing. Even in cases of ill health, the proprieties must be observed, Sir Benedict. In any case, her ladyship ought not to be moved just yet.”

  “I don’t think the man was suggesting we do it now,” Cosima said irritably.

  She went in to see her mother. Lady Agatha was in bed. Nora was covering her ladyship’s pitted face with cold cream. Lady Agatha’s white hair, badly thinned from years of dyeing, barely covered her spotted head. She held out her right hand to her daughter. Her left wrist was immobilized by a splint.

  “Oh, Mother!” said Cosima, kneeling next to the bed. “What were you doing out of bed? Where did you think you were going?”

  “I lost another tooth,” Lady Agatha sobbed. Opening her mouth, she showed her daughter the small, black wound in her gum. “I didn’t want to tell you, my dear. I wanted you to go to your party and enjoy yourself. You deserve your night out. I’m so sorry I spoiled it.”

  Cosima was awash in guilt. “I shouldn’t have left you. I don’t even play cards!”

  “There is nothing you could have done if you had been here,” said Lady Agatha.

  “Where were you, Nora?” Cosima demanded of the servant.

  “It is not Nora’s fault,” Lady Agatha said quickly. “She was with me all night. She fell asleep, right in that chair. I woke up overheated. It was very silly, I know, but I went downstairs for my fan, and the next thing I knew, the doctor was here.”