Danse de la Folie (6 page)

Clarissa regarded her gravely. “I do not wish to trespass on
your time as I have in your home, Lady Catherine.”

Kitty clasped her hands. How to answer?

“I wish you would call me Kitty,” she said tentatively. “
Lady Catherine
is what my grandmother
insisted upon, and I know it is proper, but it makes me feel that I am being
scolded.”

Clarissa’s puzzlement vanished; she recognized in the
substantive change in manner that her hostess had been acting a part, one
perhaps that she thought was expected. “I, too, have a brother,” she ventured. “He
will
forget what is due to visitors
and family, and my sisters are lively. So we are informal among ourselves. If
you would not consider it pushing, do call me Clarissa.”

Kitty’s face transformed. “Well, if that is the case, then,
pray come to my parlor. You may speak when you like, or not, as you please.”

They ascended to Kitty’s private chamber, which was warm and
snug. Kitty moved at once to the little
secretaire
,
with a furtive look. She sat down with a bit of unnecessary bustle, moving her
chair, resettling her skirts, and then restacking a quire of papers, all with
occasional glances Clarissa’s way.

Clarissa perused the small shelf of books. She had read them
all, for none were more recent than twenty years, and the greater number were
improving works. A schoolboy edition of
Rollins’
Ancient History—
battered from much rereading, unlike the leather-bound
Rollins downstairs, which Clarissa suspected had never been opened—rested on
the top shelf, along with tomes of an instructive nature by Wilberforce,
Macaulay, and Hannah More.

Below those, far more well-worn, the works of novelists. She
selected
The Fortunate Foundlings
, which
her grandmother had once said was her mother’s favorite.

For a time there was only the rustle of pages and the
scratch of Kitty’s pen on her foolscap.

Then the scritch-scratch ceased, and when Clarissa looked
up, she discovered her hostess regarding her with a curious demeanor.

“I see you are reading a novel,” Kitty ventured. “I gather
you are not an enemy of novels?”

“I read them with great pleasure.”

Kitty made a deprecating gesture. “I know those are all horridly
old-fashioned. Though
Cecelia
is one
of my favorites.” She said in a rush, “And you know, it is one of the very few
that carried beyond the marriage, and so I—” Kitty resolutely controlled the
impulse to confide her most cherished secret.

But then she dared to raise her eyes, and found only
sympathetic interest in her guest, and so the words came tumbling out. “The
truth is, pray do not—that is, I trust, I
hope
,
you will not be offended, but the truth is, I am minded to help my brother by
commencing author.” And at Clarissa’s look of surprise, “Situated as I am, it
is unlikely I will make a great marriage. Or any marriage at all. But Carlisle
is in desperate need of...” Aware that she was compounding her error by vulgar
reference to money, Kitty twisted her fingers together and mutely regarded her
guest.

“It is a laudable plan,” Clarissa said. “Can one prosper by
the pen?”

“It stands to reason,” Kitty said eagerly. “Does it not? If
everyone in England has heard of Dr. Johnson, and buys his books, would not
that add up to an immense sum? And from what I have heard, novels are more
popular, are they not?”

“People certainly do talk about them at least as much as
they talk about plays or music.”

Kitty went on, “It seems to me that one must write a story
that pleases everyone, so that each household will want their copy. We have
talked about this a great deal. Ned said he would visit the booksellers on my
behalf, if I just get it finished and copied out fair.”

“How do you go about pleasing everyone?” Clarissa asked.

“Why, you have elements to please all. There must be
romantic and tender thoughts for the ladies, and fashion as well. There must be
danger and striving for the gentlemen. Perhaps some great thoughts for those
older, and instruction for those younger, though Ned says that they yawn over
that in school, and what you really want when young is something humorous. But
the young don’t buy their books, do they? Do not their guardians buy them,
always looking out something instructive?”

“Your elder brother. What says he to this laudable plan?”

“Oh, Carlisle says I may do what I wish. He engages only for
a different story than the usual moldering castle and abductions by Greek
banditti. He thinks if I were to write a romance entirely modern, it would do
well through being something new, especially if it might be witty.”

Clarissa could not help but agree.

Kitty had been observing her closely, and tipped her head. “Yes,
I see you think so, too. And I would agree! But how can I write about modern
manners when I am never to go into society? At least with Greek banditti, no
one in England has seen them, so they cannot scoff and point out how I got it
wrong. And,” she finished, waving her quill in triumph, “I am ahead in that I
can have them converse in their own tongue. I never thought I would get any use
out of helping Ned get up his Thucydides during the holidays, for he isn’t
bookish.”

“Except... forgive me, but would banditti converse in the
classical mode of Thucydides?” Clarissa asked.

“Carlisle asked that, too,” Kitty said. “But I said, since
we haven’t any examples of banditti speech, why should they not?” And when her
guest smiled, making a gesture of acceptance, Kitty confided further, “As for
Greek banditti and the like, one must write about
something
. I know what a moldering castle feels like, as I live in
one. That is, a moldering house. I know it’s not a castle, and really, I’d as
lief not live in one if it’s all to be stone, with a noisome donjon and moat. But
that is beside my point.” She determinedly wrenched herself back to her topic, “I
know nothing of what goes on in society, as someone hinted once.” Kitty looked
down, her face red. “So I might just as well add in some exciting chapters
about banditti, because at least I’ve read about them. This is another reason
why I wished to go aboard the cutter, so I could add some chapters about
smugglers from my own witness. Only I thought I might make them over into
pirates.”

Clarissa wondered who would be so mean-spirited as to hint
about ignorance of society and not offer to amend her hostess’s knowledge, but
she forbore questioning, and so the two returned to reading and writing
respectively, in perfect charity with one another.

By the time they were called to a nuncheon, they had reached
that stage of acquaintanceship that can ripen into friendship, as each gave her
opinions on things, instead of supplying the answer that polite company is
supposed to wish to hear.

“I can sympathize with a wish to see the world,” Clarissa
was saying as they sat down to sliced turkey, bread, and butter. “But I must
confess, I would be happiest at home. I am not a romantical being.”

Kitty’s eyes rounded, their color a vivid green in the warm
light of the fireplace. “And yet we found you crossing the Channel in the dead
of winter, with the peace not yet signed!”

Clarissa smothered a laugh. “My Aunt Beaumarchais, as staid
as one may find, would never have invited me to come had she not been convinced
that peace is to reign at last, and she assured my Papa that Holland is quiet.”

“Holland,” Kitty repeated. “I do wish I could travel. I long
for adventure.”

Clarissa could not suppress a smile. “You wish to be
abducted by a set of Greek banditti?”

“If their leader was handsome, and a gentleman, why not?”
Kitty answered, and gestured quickly with her butter knife. “Yes, I know
handsome gently-born banditti must be scarce, but surely sometimes there are
missing heirs, and mysterious political factions, and suchlike. They cannot be
entirely made up, or why should there be so many of them in books?”

Clarissa gave a thoughtful nod, vouchsafing only one
comment, “I should think such a life would be disagreeable, not romantic, but
perhaps I may be mistaken.”

Kitty put down her knife. “Why is it, given the peace not
yet signed, this aunt could not wait for spring to invite you?”

Clarissa hesitated. She was in the habit of keeping her own
counsel. But her hostess had been so kind, and had shared her own thoughts, and
so Clarissa admitted, “It was to get away for a time, for I refused a perfectly
good marriage.”

Kitty’s lips parted, and her eyes took on an intent look
that Clarissa, by now, had little difficulty in interpreting.

“This eligible connection is not a villain! He is regarded
highly in our parish for his sobriety, learning, and filial respect. It is
merely, I have no wish to be wed. I am comfortable enough at home.”

At that moment, the door opened and the butler entered. “Miss
Bouldeston, my lady.”

Clarissa gazed as a vaguely familiar young lady paused on
the threshold, one mittened hand going to the bonnet that charmingly framed her
round face. Honey colored curls escaped from its lacy frame, half hidden by the
pink silk bow with which it was tied. Her rosy cheeks dimpled as she smiled,
and light blue eyes crinkled as she smoothed her hands down her frilly pink
dress.

That was chiefly how Clarissa remembered Miss Bouldeston, by
her preference for all the variations of the color rose. Her gown was like a
doll’s dress, right down to the layered lace flounces of the hem.

Lucretia crossed the room in little steps toward Kitty, her
movements arch and fluttering.

“Dearest Catherine,” she exclaimed in a high, fluting voice.
“This weather, it has cast us all down. I promised myself, as soon as we gain
the merest peep of a blue sky, I would call upon my dearest —”

At that moment, Lucretia seemed to catch sight of Clarissa
in her chair. She gave a little start, her fingertips rising to her rounded
mouth, and her eyes widening in affected surprise. “Can it be? Why, I did not
expect... Miss
Harlowe
? We were
introduced at Almack’s, I believe.”

Clarissa had risen. She bowed as she returned the young lady’s
greeting.

“You must have heard about the accident to her yacht,
Lucretia,” Kitty said. “Ned says the news is all over the countryside.”

Lucretia abandoned the affect of surprise, and turned to
Kitty. “I must say, what a great piece of luck for
you
, Catherine.”

“Me?” Kitty asked, bewildered.

“That your dear brother chanced to rescue instead of some
horrid fisherman a person who travels in the
highest
circles.”

“I would not call it luck,” Kitty said.

“You would not?” Lucretia posed her fingers on either side
of her chin. “Surely you would not wish for Miss Harlowe to find herself
wrecked on the shore, to put it no worse?”

Kitty waved her hands in agitation. “Oh, no, no, no, no. I
did not mean that. I quite meant that—”

“May I sit down?”

Kitty blushed scarlet, hands out. “Oh! Please. Everyone, do
sit down.”

Lucretia sat on the edge of the hassock, toes together, just
peeping under the edge of her hem, her hands hidden in her muff on her knees.
She turned to Clarissa. “I suppose you have been entertaining our dear
Catherine with tales of the doings of our mutual acquaintance in town?”

“Lady Catherine has shown more interest in literature than
in the particulars of current events,” Clarissa said, then caught sight of
Kitty’s stricken look.

A new thought darted into Clarissa’s mind. Though the two
young ladies appeared to know one another well enough to use Christian names,
it seemed that Lucretia might not be aware of Kitty’s novel.

Lucretia certainly did not refer to it, as she said, “Well,
my dear Catherine, I had intended to entertain you with news of our
preparations for moving to Town, but I can see you have far more entertaining
company that my poor self. For you must know, Miss Harlowe,” she added, turning
to Clarissa, “we are neighbors. Riverside Abbey, my home, is just across the
river. We have known the Decourceys
forever.”

Lucretia rose, as did Kitty, who said with better manners
than conviction, “Oh do not rush away, Lucretia. Pray stay, and drink some tea
with us.”

Lucretia bridled, casting her eyes down in a rather affected
semblance of modesty. “I do not wish you and your guest to find me
de trop
, as we say in Town.”

Clarissa was surprised that Miss Bouldeston would find it
necessary to add that little rider after a French expression that had been
trite in her grandmother’s day. “Not at all,” she said politely.

“Then perhaps just half an hour, mind. Mama will expect me
before too long. There is much to be done if we are to be ready to go Tuesday
week. My sister Lucasta is to make her come out this year, you know, Miss
Harlowe. You may imagine the to-do.”

Alice brought in the tea things, her manner stiff and
correct. Kitty served the tea and handed around the fresh-baked macaroons as
Lucretia proceeded to talk exclusively to Clarissa about London. Except for the
appendage “my sweetest” in front of the word Catherine, she seemed to have
nothing to say to her hostess.

Clarissa found herself closely questioned about whom she
might be seeing on her arrival in London. Also, what entertainments Clarissa’s
family considered giving, as Lucretia seem to know, without Clarissa telling
her, that another of her sisters also was to come out.

At the end of her half hour, Lucretia made a little business
of examining the clock on the mantel, but when she did not receive an
invitation to stay, she said airily, “Mama will be looking for me. I must hurry
myself away.”

She was thinking, silly Catherine, trying to keep Miss
Harlowe! Lucretia advanced two steps toward the door, and then turned as if
struck by a new thought.