Petticoat Rebellion (2 page)

“In 1135, Henry II,”
Kate said,

“No, no! You are forgetting King Stephen, the nephew of Henry I. From 1135 to 1154. It was Stephen who adopted Arabic numerals.”

“I hate Arabic numerals,”
Kate said.

“No, you hate Roman numerals,”
Lady Susan told her.

“Them, too. Why do they have to use letters?”

“I always prefer English numbers myself,”
Annabelle said.

Lady Susan, with a thought to her brother Sylvester, only smiled her dismay, then said to Kate, “I don’t know why you have so much difficulty with Roman numerals. It is really very simple.”
She was soon diverted from the kings of England to explaining how the Roman numerical system worked.

By the time they reached Penfel Hall, they had finished the lemonade and enjoyed, or at least endured, a lecture on Roman numerals, the value of learning Latin and Greek, and a diatribe on the desecration of Roman antiquities, along with a description of a Roman museum her papa, the duke, was setting up at Wycliffe. “Lord Sylvester is overseeing it,”
she said to Annabelle. “He is vastly interested in Roman antiquities, you must know.”

“I didn’t know he was in Rome,”
Annabelle said. She had about as much interest in Roman antiquities as she had in algebra, but considerable interest in Lord Sylvester, as she had never seen this noble stripling. She listened in confusion as Lady Susan explained that there were Roman antiquities aplenty in England, especially at Wycliffe, and refrained from inquiring how they had got there, for Lady Susan was sometimes quite sharp with her when she asked the wrong questions.

After a longish drive, Kate jumped in her seat. “There is Penfel, at last!”
she cried, pointing to the left. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Quite like a miniature Elmgrove,”
Lady Susan said, with a condescending glance at the Hall and just a slight emphasis on the “miniature.”
“James Gibbs, the same architect who restored our left wing, built Penfel in the seventeen hundreds. He was greatly influenced by Kent, of course.”

“Kent is very pretty,”
Annabelle said.

“I am referring to William Kent, the architect,  landscape artist, and furniture designer, Belle. He was very good, although he was from Yorkshire. The style is pure Palladian.”

She continued to give a resume of the characteristics of the Palladian style. No one listened. Kate and Annabelle could have cared less. Abbie was quite as familiar as Lady Susan with the characteristics of Palladio, and could see for herself the classical symmetry of the house, the columned front, the pediment and cupola, the curving colonnades that finished in a large, sweeping wing on either side. The stone had weathered to the golden warmth of honey.

“Kent’s park was reworked by Capability Brown,”
Lady Susan continued. “The winding water you see is dammed by a ruled dyke. There are extensive views in all directions. The eighteenth century insisted on an unbounded view.”

Annabelle frowned. She could see very well that the view was bounded by the horizon, but she did not risk Lady Susan’s wrath by mentioning it.

The carriage drew up in front of the pedimented doorway, and the ladies were assisted from the carriage by the one footman Miss Slatkin had provided to accompany her charges. The great oaken door was thrown open, and they were duly admitted into a square central hall that rose two stories, terminating in a ceiling window that allowed sunlight to fall on the marble floor below, and the marble statues set into niches. A series of doors around the square gave glimpses of the stately rooms beyond. Each doorway had a pilaster and pediment; some featured marble figures as large as life, reclining on the sides of the pediments. They appeared to represent culture. One held a book, one a flute, another a lute, one a globe, and one an astrolabe.

All this finery was brought to earth by a gentleman’s curled beaver tossed rakishly on the head of a Roman statue of an athlete, with a chiffon scarf tied around its ankle.

“Good day, Sifton,”
Lady Susan said to the butler. She had visited the Hall five years before, and never forgot a name or a face connected in any way with the nobility.

“Your ladyship,”
he replied, bending at the waist.

Sifton led them to a door that would have allowed a haywain to pass without disturbing its cargo, and announced, “Lady Susan and her guests, your ladyship.”

The room was so overwhelming, with molded cornices, two marble fireplaces, splendid portraits in gilded frames, masses of flowers, bronze busts on tables, and a great deal of heavy, carved furnishings, that one was inclined to overlook the déclassé-looking dame on the sofa. The most remarkable thing about Lady Penfel, in Abbie’s view, was that she resembled an aging lightskirt. She wore her hair
a la mouton.
The frizz of tight curls about her hagged, rouged face was an unlikely bronze hue. Her stylish crepe gown was that hard-to-wear shade of blue called ultramarine, that looked best on ruddy-faced sailors.

Lady Susan strode forward and placed a kiss on the lined cheek. She introduced Miss Fairchild and her school friends.

After a few words of greeting and inquiry for various members of Susan’s family, Lady Penfel said, “Don’t let me detain you, ladies. I’m sure Miss Fairfield has plans for you. Sifton will show you to your rooms and give you anything you need. Hot water, a nice cup of tea ...”

Her voice trailed off as she lifted the copy of
The Ladies Magazine
she held on her lap and stuck her nose into it. Lady Susan led the group away.

“What a quiz!”
Kate said, stifling a snicker.

“Her ladyship must be feeling poorly,”
Lady Susan explained. “No doubt that is why she mispronounced your name, Miss Fairchild.”

“That’s odd,”
Annabelle said. “My Aunt Esther has been dying forever, and she remembers everything.”

“Your Aunt Esther, if I recall, is not a countess,”
Susan replied.

“No, she has no head for numbers at all.”

Kate poked Abbie in the ribs. “I wonder how a duchess behaves when she is poorly,”
she said in a low tone. “She probably forgets her own name. I noticed Lady Penfel didn’t forget to use her rouge pot.”

“Personal remarks are never in good taste, Miss Fenwick,”
Abbie replied as severely as she could, then spoiled the lesson by smiling.

“Aren’t we going to have any luncheon?”
Annabelle asked. “I am so hung—Oh, sorry, Lady Susan. I am feeling
so
peckish, I could eat a cow.”

Abbie did not chastise her. She was hungry herself. What a strange visit it was going to be. But of one thing she felt confident. Without Lord Penfel to forbid it, she could easily convince that silly lady to show her the da Vinci cartoons.

Sifton had the guests shown to the west wing, where they occupied four stately chambers, two on one side of the corridor, two across from them. Lady Susan’s and Annabelle’s rooms looked out on the front of the estate, Abbie’s and Kate’s on the rear. Abbie was gratified to see she was being treated as a real lady—a guest, rather than a sort of higher class of servant. Her room was charming, with dainty French furnishings and green damask hangings. The paintings in a room were always of particular interest to her, and she noticed that the Penfel love of art was not confined to the gallery. Her room held exquisite Flemish flower paintings. She would have preferred pictures of people, but she knew enough about art to appreciate what she saw.

She strolled to one of a pair of tall windows and gazed out, hugging to herself how fortunate she was to be here. All views were unbounded, as befit an estate designed in the eighteenth century. Abbie’s view was of the walled home garden below, with espaliered fruit trees forming intricate designs against the golden stone. Neat rows of vegetables extended the length of the enclosure. Two gardeners worked over the rows.

Beyond the walls was a meadow, with a forest forming a backdrop in the distance. Abbie wondered at the unwonted activity going forth in the meadow. It looked as if tents were being erected. Surely gypsies were not setting up camp this close to Penfel! With the three young ladies on the estate, this seemed dangerous. Yet she disliked to tell Lady Penfel her duty. Abbie decided to have a word with Sifton, and ran down the elegantly curved staircase, with the brass handrail worn smooth by generations of trailing fingers.

Sifton had apparently heard her light footfalls, for his tall, stately figure appeared like a genie from a small room near the door.

“May I help you—madam?”
he inquired. The brief hesitation was due to deciding what title to confer on Miss Fairchild. The “madam”
was not a slur on her age, but a compliment to her obviously genteel background. Not a mere governess, as he had feared, but a superior sort of impoverished lady.

“I believe gypsies are setting up camp on the estate, Sifton,”
she said. “Is her ladyship aware of it?”

“It is not gypsies, madam. Her ladyship is aware of the campers. His lordship wrote her a note requesting her to make the folks welcome.”

“But who are they?”

His distaste was evident. “It is O’Leary’s Circus, madam. A traveling horse show with acrobats, music, dancing animals, and so on. Her ladyship was not aware of it when she invited Lady Susan and her friends.”

“Oh, dear! How long are they staying?”

“A week.”

“Then, they will be here for our entire visit. I wonder what I ought to do.”

“Perhaps inform Miss Slatkin—and meanwhile, we shall keep a tight watch on the young ladies.”
His sympathetic eye reinforced the suggestion that he would aid her in this difficult task.

As they spoke, an echo of drumbeats came wafting through the grand hall.
“That will be the performers arriving now,”
he said. “I believe they march through town to incite interest for the show. Her ladyship has been eagerly awaiting them.”
He bowed and left.

Abbie stood a moment with her head whirling. She must notify Miss Slatkin at once! The visit would be terminated. She would not get to see the da Vinci cartoons. Severely as she felt the loss, she could not face a week of trying to control the girls—Kate in particular—with a bunch of rowdy circus folks less than a mile away. But could the girls return to school? The staff were all away on holiday. Miss Slatkin had spoken of painting the bedchambers. Oh, dear!

As she stood, thinking, Lady Penfel came bustling into the hall. “What fun!”
she cried, and hastened to the front door, her bronze head bobbing in excitement. Over her shoulder she called to Abbie, “Call the girls, Miss Fairly. They will not want to miss this.”

It was not necessary to call them. Kate and Annabelle had heard the drum and had come running, with Lady Susan following at a more sedate gait. Her haughty face was in contrast to the other girls’
excitement.

“What luck!”
Kate exclaimed. “I feared we would be dull as ditch water in the country, but a circus! That is something like!”

It was hard to deny them a look at the parade when their hostess stood at the doorway, urging them out. Truth to tell, Abbie felt a surge of excitement herself at the insistent beat of the drum. A brown mongrel of no identifiable breed appeared at her skirt tails, barking furiously. They went in a troupe across the sun-dappled lawn to a lane leading to the meadow where the tents were already under construction. Servants ran out to join them as the motley parade passed, accompanied by the ragtag and bobtail of village youngsters.

A covered wagon led the way, with “O’Leary’s Traveling Circus”
painted on the canvas side in glaring red, enlivened with details of the show. “Dancing girls, tumblers, elephants, performing horses, monkeys.”
In the driver’s seat sat a handsome young fellow with a bold smile and flashing eyes. His outfit resembled the scarlet regimentals of an army officer, liberally trimmed with brass buttons and gold braid. In place of a shako, he wore a red-peaked cap trimmed in gilt. He lifted his cap to the ladies, revealing a head of glossy black hair, and called a greeting as he passed.

Abbie noticed with a sinking heart that Kate waved back frantically, Annabelle stared in fascination, and even Lady Susan evinced some interest, which was unusual for her. But the most excited of them all was Lady Penfel.

“What fun!”
she cried. “I wish Algie were here. How he would love it. Oh, look, Cuddles! A mama elephant and her baby.”

Abbie looked to see if Lady Penfel was addressing her stately butler in this familiar fashion, and realized it was to the mutt that she spoke. Cuddles barked his agreement and went running after the parade, tail wagging in delight.

Lady Penfel turned to Sifton and asked, “Where is Algie? I wonder why he is not here for this show.”

“His lordship is at Lewes, your ladyship.”

“So he is. I had forgotten. Wretched how things slip out of your mind when you are old. He went to offer for Lady Eleanor. Surely, she will not have him, do you think?”
Before Sifton could reply, she turned her attention back to the parade. A flat-bottomed carriage came into view. On its floor three young ladies in immodest outfits of vaguely Egyptian style undulated to raucous music provided by the marching band.

“How do they do it?”
Lady Penfel asked. “Only look how they swing their rumps. Their bones must be made of rubber.”
She tried to imitate them, gave a wince of pain, and grabbed at her back.

The dancing girls were followed by donkeys decked out in bells and ribbons and hats, and by tumblers and jugglers in motley suits. These bold fellows leered at the female servants and called out, urging them to attend the grand opening that night.

Lady Penfel turned to Abbie. “I have free tickets for us all. Algie sent them,”
she said, with the air of conferring a great treat.

“Oh, I am not at all sure Miss Slatkin would—”

“Deuce take Miss Slatkin. The ladies are under
my
care!”
In the twinkling of a bedpost, the foolish-looking woman turned into a grande dame. “I would not dream of depriving them of such a rare treat. Where else will they see dancing dogs and such sights? Marvelous. I can hardly wait.”

Abbie stood, disliking what she was hearing, but forbidden by both etiquette and orders from disagreeing with her hostess. Miss Slatkin had made perfectly clear she was to defer to Lady Penfel’s decisions, but Miss Slatkin was not personally acquainted with the dowager. Until that moment, Abbie had not realized the full difficulty of her position. She had no real authority over the girls, but if they came to grief, she would certainly be held responsible.