She was an excellent shot, the marquess remembered, and killed anything furred or feathered with a deadly aim. Perhaps that was why this drawing-room, albeit a drawing-room in a hunting-box, did not show any feminine frills or china. Trophies of the countess’s hunting prowess stared glassily down from the walls. All the animals she had killed looked as if they had died in a fit of boredom. There were also various bad oil paintings of slaughtered game. There was one painting of the countess herself over the fireplace. She was dressed in a filmy blue gown, her hair powdered. The artist had done his best to romanticize his subject, painting broken columns in the background, a Greek temple, and an approaching thunderstorm. But he had painted the expression in her eyes perfectly so that the painted countess surveyed the gathering in much the same way as the real-life one was doing – with a hard, autocratic, judgemental stare.
‘Didn’t think a little bit of snow would drive you off the road, Frenton,’ she said. ‘May I introduce …?’
‘I already know the Jordan family,’ said the marquess. Penelope struck an Attitude. It was meant to represent The Broken Heart. She put one hand on her bosom, stretched the other hand out and cast her eyes up to the ceiling.
‘Got indigestion, Miss Jordan?’ demanded the countess. ‘Rhubarb pills, that’s the thing. Shouldn’t have, though. Got a splendid chef, Frenton. That venison we had for dinner was hung till the maggots were crawling out of it. Sit down, Frenton. How’s hunting?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the marquess. ‘Don’t hunt.’
‘But your papa kept the best pack in the county!’
‘One of his many extravagances,’ murmured the marquess. He looked around pointedly. ‘The lodge-keeper told me the stage-coach had descended on you.’
‘Yes, and a confounded nuisance it was, too.’
‘Hah,’ said Sir Henry in a voice he hoped was laden with sarcasm. ‘Ha! Ho!’
‘And where are the passengers?’ asked the marquess.
‘In the kitchens where they belong.’
‘Is the coach The Quicksilver?’
‘Yes,’ said the countess. ‘Why?’
‘They took refuge with me for a few days.’
‘There you are,’ said the earl. ‘Just proves what I’m always saying. This stage-coach business has got to stop. Not only does it allow the common people freedom to move hither and thither about the countryside, but come a little bit of bad weather, and they think they have the right to thrust their noses inside the door of every noble mansion.’
‘You are behind the times,’ said the marquess. ‘It is not only commoners who use the stage-coach.’
‘Go along with you,’ said the countess. ‘This lot’s got a Methody among ’em.’
‘I escaped that pleasure,’ said the marquess. ‘I entertained them as guests.’
‘With no concern whatsoever for my daughter’s feelings,’ barked Sir Henry. ‘Told you so.’
‘You don’t need to do that sort of thing any more, Frenton,’ said Lord Frederick.
‘What sort of thing?’
‘Well, let a lot of commoners put their thick boots under your dining-table, don’t you see. I mean, it was different when we thought the French Terror would spread over here, but they ain’t going to rise up and hang us from the lamp-posts, so we don’t need to be pleasant to ’em any more. And a damned good thing, too. Beg pardon, ladies.’
‘How refreshingly unsophisticated you all are,’ said the marquess. He raised his quizzing-glass, studied the cut of Lord Frederick’s coat, and sadly shook his head. ‘Now I am not so high in the instep, and by having these stage-coach people in my company, I found a treasure.’
‘Going too far. Too far,’ roared Sir Henry.
The marquess treated him to an icy stare. ‘By which I mean I discovered two of the best voices in the country.’
The countess regarded him suspiciously. ‘Mean that opera caterwauling?’
‘Anything you like,’ said the marquess. ‘They have an enormous repertoire.’
‘Have ’em up,’ said Lord Frederick. ‘Bit of fun. Bit of a lark, hey?’
Lady Jordan stepped into the breach. ‘I do not think you would enjoy these persons’ company at all.’
The countess, who had been about to refuse to send for the passengers, turned contrary and glared at Lady Jordan. ‘I’ll have ’em here if I want.’
Belinda and the passengers were eating a late supper in the servants’ hall. They all knew the Jordans were staying as guests. Belinda was glad that they were confined belowstairs.
It was therefore with a sinking heart that she heard the summons from the butler that they were all, except the coachman and guard, to go up to the drawing-room.
She smoothed down the creases in her gown as she stood up. She wished there were some way she could change into evening dress, but the butler was waiting impatiently and so, keeping very close to Hannah, she mounted the stairs.
When she reached the drawing-room, she half-turned to flee. There was the Marquess of Frenton, there the Jordans. They must have come together, thought Belinda. He must mean to marry her if he has started taking her about with him on visits.
Penelope was wearing a white silk slip of a gown with a silver gauze overdress fastened with gold clasps. A heavy gold-and-garnet necklace emphasized the whiteness of her throat and her glossy brown curls were bound by a gold filet. Her gown was looped over her arm as she stood up, revealing a surprisingly thick leg and shapeless ankle. A thin ray of sunlight shone into the gloom of Belinda’s mind as she saw that leg. Also, Belinda had taken off her pelisse before leaving the kitchen and knew that her muslin morning gown was ruffed and vandyked with the finest lace, and for almost the first time she took comfort in the armour of expensive fashion.
The marquess made the introductions. ‘Yes, yes,’ said the countess impatiently. ‘Which are the singers?’ The Judds edged forward, holding hands.
‘Then sing!’ commanded the countess, waving her hand imperiously towards a spinet in the corner. Hannah went with them and pretended to be helping them by lighting the candles that stood on top. ‘Sing something John Bullish and patriotic,’ she hissed.
She returned and took a seat in the corner next to the poor relation, who turned out to be a Miss Forbes, a fourth cousin of the countess.
‘I do hope they don’t put Lady Twitterton in a taking,’ whispered Miss Forbes. ‘When she was but a gel, she threw a vase of flowers at an Italian opera singer’s head.’
And indeed, it did look as if the countess was regretting her invitation. ‘One song and that’s that,’ she muttered in an aside to her son.
This time it was Mrs Judd who played the accompaniment. Mr Judd stood with one hand in his waistcoat pocket and the other resting on the edge of the spinet. He threw back his head, stuck out his chest, and began to sing:
‘Come, cheer up, my lads! ’Tis to glory we steer,
To add something more to this wonderful year;
To honour we call you, not press you like slaves,
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?’
The Judds looked considerably taken aback, but then delighted as the Earl and Countess of Twitterton and their son began to roar out the chorus. Hannah saw the stark disapproval on the Jordan family’s faces and gleefully prepared to join in.