“Indeed!” said Frederica. “And, pray, are you acquainted with my cousin, the Marquis of Alverstoke?”
“What impudence!” ejaculated the hatchet-faced lady. “Calling yourself a Marquis’s cousin, and jauntering about the town alone! A likely story!”
After a good deal of argument, during which the younger park-keeper supported the hatchet-faced lady, the cowman said (several times) that Marquis or no Marquis any damage done to his cows must be paid for, and the elder park-keeper temporized, a sturdy citizen in a snuff-coloured frock-coat proffered the suggestion that the Marquis should be applied to for corroboration of Miss’s story.
“A very excellent notion!” declared Frederica warmly. “Let us go to his house immediately! It is quite close, in Berkeley Square.”
Left to himself, the elder park-keeper would at this stage have abandoned the affair. If the young lady was willing to seek out the Marquis it seemed to him to prove that she really was his cousin; and although he knew that this did not affect the issue he was very unwilling to proceed further in the matter. Properly speaking, of course, the Marquis — if he was the dog’s owner — was liable for a fine, let alone what Mr Beal’s head cowman might claim from him by way of damages; but when you were dealing with lords you wanted to be careful. The younger park-keeper, who was the recipient of this confidence, became suddenly thoughtful; but the cowman grimly accepted Frederica’s invitation, saying that he would have his rights even if the dog belonged to the Queen — meaning no disrespect to her; and the hatchet-faced lady, her eyes snapping, said that if the park-keepers didn’t know their duty she did, and would bring the affair to the notice of the Ranger. There seemed nothing for it but to go with the young lady. The hatchet-faced lady announced that she too would go, and that if — which she doubted — a Marquis was forthcoming she would give him a piece of her mind.
The door of Alverstoke House was opened by a footman. He was a well-trained young man, but his eyes, when they perceived the cavalcade awaiting admittance, showed a tendency to start from their sockets. Frederica, carrying the situation off with a high hand, said, with a friendly smile: “Good-morning! I do trust his lordship has not yet gone out?”
The footman, Ms eyes starting more than ever, replied, in a bemused voice: “No, miss. That is — ”
“Thank goodness!” interrupted Frederica. “I don’t wonder at it that you should be astonished to see me so — so heavily escorted! I’m surprised at it myself. Be so good as to tell his lordship that his cousin, Miss Merriville, is here, and desires to speak to him!”
She then stepped into the house, inviting her companions, over her shoulder, to follow her; and such was her assurance that the footman stood aside instinctively, offering no other opposition to the invasion of his master’s house by a set of regular rum touches than the stammered information that his lordship was still in his dressing-room.
“Then tell him, if you please, that the matter is of some urgency!” said Frederica.
“Would you — would you care to see his lordship’s secretary, miss?” said the footman feebly.
“Mr Trevor?” said Frederica. “No, thank you. Just convey my message to his lordship!”
The footman had never heard of Miss Merriville, his lordship’s cousin, but her mention of Mr Trevor’s name relieved his mind. He thought she must be his lordship’s cousin, though what she was doing in such queer company, or why she should have brought a couple of park-keepers and an obvious bumpkin to Alverstoke House he could not imagine. Nor did he know what to do with the ill-assorted visitors, for while it was clearly incumbent upon him to conduct Miss Merriville and her female companion to the saloon he could not feel that either his lordship, or the august and far more terrible Mr Wicken, would be pleased to discover that he had also ushered Miss Merriville’s male attendants into this apartment.
He was rescued from this social dilemma by the dignified appearance on the scene of Mr Wicken himself. Thankful for the first time in his life to see his dread mentor, he hurriedly informed him that it was Miss Merriville — my lord’s cousin — wishful to see my lord!
James the footman might not have heard of Miss Merriville, but Wicken was not so ignorant. He, with his lord’s valet, his steward, his housekeeper, and his head groom knew all about the Merrivilles; and what they referred to as his lordship’s latest start had been for days the main topic for discussion in the Room. Nor was Wicken ever rocked from his stately balance. He bowed to Miss Merriville, impassively surveyed her retinue, and moved across the hall to open the door into the library. “His lordship shall be informed, ma’am. If you will be pleased to take a seat in the book-room? And you, ma’am, of course,” he added graciously, bestowing a suitable bow on the hatchet-faced lady, whom he had written down as a governess, or, possibly, a paid companion.
“Yes, and these men had better come in too,” said Frederica.
“Certainly, ma’am — if you wish them to do so,” responded Wicken. “But I venture to think that they will be quite comfortable in the hall.”
With this opinion even the cowman was in the fullest agreement, but Frederica would have none of it. “No, for they too wish to speak to his lordship,” she said. She then invited the hatchet-faced lady to sit down; and Wicken, not by so much as the flicker of an eyelid betraying his emotions, held the door for the rest of the party to enter the room.
James, meanwhile, had gone up the stairs to the Marquis’s dressing-room, and had tapped on the door. It was a very soft, deprecating tap, the Marquis being notoriously ill-disposed towards persons seeking admittance to his room before noon; and he was obliged to tap again, a little more loudly. He was not invited to enter, but the door was opened to him by his lordship’s very superior valet, who appeared to regard his intrusion as a form of sacrilege, demanding to know, in an outraged undervoice, what he wanted.
“It’s urgent, Mr Knapp!” whispered James. “Mr Wicken said I was to tell his lordship!”
These words acted, as he had felt sure they must, as a passport. Knapp allowed him to step into the room, but adjured him, still in an undervoice, not to stir from the door, or to make the least sound, until he was bid. He then trod silently back to the dressing-table, at which my lord was seated, engaged in the important task of arranging his neckcloth.
Only his sisters had ever stigmatized Alverstoke as a dandy. He adopted none of the extremes of fashion which made the younger members of this set ridiculous, and which would certainly have disgusted Mr Brummell, had that remarkable man still been the arbiter of taste in London. Mr Brummell, obliged by sordid circumstances to retire to the Continent, was living in obscurity, but the smarts of his generation had not swerved from the tenets he had laid down. Alverstoke, three years his junior, had encountered him in his flamboyant salad days, and had been swift to discard every one of his colourful waistcoats, his flashing tie-pins, and his multitude of fobs and seals. A man whose raiment attracted attention, had said Mr Brummell, was not a well-dressed man. Clean linen, perfectly cut coats, and the nice arrangement of his neckcloths were the hallmarks of the man of ton, and to these simple rules Alverstoke had thenceforward adhered, achieving, by patience and practice, the reputation of being one of the most elegant men on the town. Disdaining to adopt the absurdities of starched shirt-points so high that they obscured his vision and made it impossible for him to turn his head, and such intricacies as the Mathematical or the Oriental ties, he evolved his own style of neckwear: discreet, yet so exquisite as to arouse envy in the breasts of the younger generation.