Petticoat Rebellion (3 page)

“It is your decision, ma’am,”
she said, loud and clear.

“Of course it is, Miss Fairheart.”

As the last of the parade disappeared behind the house, Lady Penfel turned a severe eye on Miss Fairchild. “I do hope you are not one of those schoolmistressy sort of schoolmistresses, Miss Fairwell. You are much too young to be so stiff-rumped. Algie would not like it. His papa, now, that was a different kettle of fish. I was never allowed to have any fun when he was alive. I was too busy giving him three daughters before I finally had a brace of sons—an heir and a spare. Then my job was over. But now that I have got the girls bounced off and buried Penfel,”
she said with relish, “I can do just as I like. Algie does not mind what I do, so long as I do not wear red shoes or go to the cent-per-centers. Ladies do not wear red shoes.”

Miss Fairchild was only half listening. The other half of her interest was on the raddled face of Lady Penfel. What an intriguing character for a portrait! Like something out of the
Rake’s Progress,
but in lieu of decrepit, penurious, defeated old age, it was imperious old age in a silken gown, with all the fire and spirit of youth still burning brightly.

A hand spotted with liver marks and flashing two large diamond rings clutched her arm. “I believe I threw my hip out with that wiggling,”
she said, laughing. “Give me a hand into the house, will you, dear?”
They began the walk to the door. “So how are you going on? Sifton is taking care of you? Good,”
she said, before any reply could be made.

“We’ll have tea, then we can take the girls down to watch the performers set up their show before dinner. They don’t get to see such sights as that in London, eh?”

“Actually, Miss Slatkin’s Academy is at Maidstone.”
Abbie felt a pronounced compulsion to object to something, and she had already learned that her hostess would not be talked out of any opportunity for impropriety.

“So it is. One forgets things in old age. Not that I am old!”
she added hastily. “How old do you think I am? The truth, now.”

Abbie did some hasty calculations. Three daughters, then two sons. Susan had mentioned Lord Penfel was thirty. “It is difficult to say. In your—er, early sixties, perhaps?”
she said, wanting to flatter the old lady. She looked eighty.

“Ha! I am seventy years old! But young at heart. Still young at heart.”
She inclined her head to Abbie and said, “I color my hair. Don’t tell anyone! Not that it is white, but its red has faded. Just a little tint, for I cannot abide to wear a cap, and I like to look nice for Algie.”

Abbie’s poor opinion of Algie, otherwise known as Lord Penfel, lowered another notch. Bad enough that he refused a serious artist permission to view his precious treasures, but what sort of son encouraged his aged mama to make a spectacle of herself? What sort of gentleman invited a load of circus performers to his estate when schoolgirls were visiting?

Tea was served in the saloon. Lady Penfel was so invigorated by the arrival of the circus that she chattered like a monkey to the girls.

“Which of you is the brewer’s gel?”
she asked.

“That would be Miss Kirby,”
Lady Susan informed her, indicating Annabelle.

“Nettie tells me she hopes to land her for Sylvester. There is a match made in heaven. The brewer’s gel will like to have a sort of handle to her name, and Sylvester likes his ale. But he has not gone to fat yet. Mind you, it won’t be long the way he soaks it up.”

“Nettie is my mama, the duchess,”
Lady Susan
explained to the others.

“Aye, Nettie Carr did pretty well for herself, nabbing a duke, and she was nothing to look at, either. Looked quite like yourself, Susan. Mind you, Charles was downright ugly. No getting around it, he had a face like a bulldog. So fortunate you children favored Nettie in looks, Susan.”

“Charles is my papa, the duke,”
Lady Susan added, ignoring the rest of the speech.

While Lady Penfel gorged herself on macaroons and tea, Lady Susan encouraged the others to try the bread and butter. When the tea was over, Lady Penfel rose and said, “And now we shall take a stroll down to the meadow to watch the performers.”
She winced when she tried to take a step.

“Fetch the dogcart, Sifton,”
she bellowed into the hallway. “This demmed hip is cutting up on me. Dance while you can, girls. Old age creeps up on you swiftly. I don’t regret a single thing I ever did in my life, except perhaps marrying Penfel. What I regret is all the things I didn’t do. You get your bonnet and come with me, Susan. The cart only holds two. The others can walk. They are young and supple. Miss Fairchild will see no harm comes to them.”
She inclined her head to Susan and said in a perfectly audible aside, “She is one of those schoolmistressy gels. Pity, for she ain’t at all bad-looking. Not so pretty as the brewer’s gel, but she has countenance.”

As they went to fetch their bonnets, Kate lifted an eyebrow and said, “How do you like that assessment, Miss Fairchild?”

“At least she got my name right this time.”

She studied her image as she adjusted her bonnet before her mirror. She did not think she looked so very schoolmistressy. Her high-poke bonnet of glazed straw was quite dashing, with a cluster of silk posies on the side. Her coiffure, perhaps, was a trifle quaint. She wore her chestnut hair pulled severely back from her face to appear older than her twenty years. Some of the senior girls were nearly seventeen. One wanted to look as old as possible, and with a clear, unlined face, a healthy complexion, and hazel eyes undimmed by age, it was not easy. Wearing dark colors of a severe cut helped. The suit she wore at the moment was a well-tailored navy serge. But schoolmistressy? None of Miss Slatkin’s other mistresses wore such stylish gowns or carried such expensive reticules, or had such good gloves.

Perhaps it was her height that Lady Penfel found intimidating. Lady Penfel was not much over five feet, whereas Abbie was five feet and a half.

“Come along, Miss Fairchild. You look marvelous, as usual,”
Kate called from the doorway.

Annabelle gave a sweet, childish smile. “At the academy, we all think you are the prettiest mistress, Miss Fairchild,”
she said. “Kate was saying just last week that if you curled your hair and wore nice gowns, you might still find a husband. Weren’t you, Kate?”

Kate lowered her brow at her friend. “What would Miss Fairchild want with a husband?”
she said. “She is an artist. They are unconventional. I expect she has a lover,”
she added daringly. “Eh, Miss Fairchild?”

“Certainly not!”
Abbie said. She picked up a silk foulard, and tucked it into the neck of her suit to lessen its severity. Then she led them out the door, smiling softly to herself. A lover indeed! They would not have said anything so dashing about any of the other mistresses!

Other than having to worry about the young ladies, Abbie thoroughly enjoyed the visit to the meadow. It felt good to stretch her legs in the fresh air and sunshine, with the unbounded view of greenery all around. Lady Susan was her least favorite of the girls, and she remained with Lady Penfel. Using Cuddles as an excuse, this noble pair roamed amid the tents, calling the dog’s name and peering about, ogling the performers who ogled them.

Abbie kept Kate and Annabelle a few yards back
from where the show was being prepared. It was a
lively, noisy scene. Workmen in shirtsleeves were
hammering the stage together. The air was punctuated with hammer blows, loud talking, laughter, and more than a little profanity. In one tent, women were making their toilette with the flap
door wide open. Anyone could look in and see them
in their chemises. Several village youngsters were
doing so.

From the sidelines, Abbie and her charges watched jugglers practicing their art with orange balls, watched a man lead a huge black bear to a trough of water, and played with a white monkey who hopped right onto Kate’s shoulder. It tried to pull a feather off her bonnet, until a young man came and led the animal away.

“There is the handsome one!”
Kate exclaimed, clutching Annabelle’s elbow.

Peering through the moving crowd, Abbie discerned the man who had been driving the wagon. The dark-haired, flashing-eyed man had changed out of his scarlet uniform into skintight buckskins and a white shirt, open at the throat, to show a triangle of tanned chest. She reluctantly admitted that he was indeed a handsome specimen of young manhood, though not the style she favored herself. There was too much of the strutting-cock walk to him. He was too aware of his own charms as he swaggered through the crowd of workers, giving orders, joking and patting the female performers here and there in a very familiar way.

Lady Penfel approached him and spoke to him in her friendly manner for a minute or two, probably asking if he had seen Cuddles. The charmer assumed a whole new expression when with ladies. Abbie watched him bow in deference to the countess and the duke’s daughter. When they walked away, the man spoke to a few of his workmen and began looking about, presumably for the dog.

Kate’s enticing smile soon drew him to the edge of the meadow. Abbie could hardly order the girls not to speak to him when they had just watched Lady Penfel and Susan do so, but she could keep a close watch to see no impropriety occurred.

He was wearing his deferential manner when he approached them, but she sensed from his dashing eyes, which he could not quite control, that he simply wanted an excuse to scrape an acquaintance with the girls.

Experience told O’Leary it was the older lady he must ingratiate. He bowed punctiliously to them all, but directed his words to Abbie.

“Good afternoon, ladies,”
he said. “I am O’Leary, the proprietor of this show. Lady Penfel has lost her dog and has asked me to look about for it. You haven’t seen it?”

“I saw Cuddles over there,”
Kate said, pointing to the far side of the field. “I think someone was preparing food. A dog will always go after food, Mr. O’Leary.”

“I see you are familiar with dogs, Miss—?”

“Fenshaw. And this is my friend, Miss Kirby, and our chaperon, Miss Fairchild.”

His bow was a pattern card of grace. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, ladies.”
Sensing a stiffness in Abbie, he said, “Lady Penfel mentioned the young ladies were accompanied by a schoolmistress. Surely, you are too young to be playing propriety, Miss Fairchild?”

She refused to acknowledge the remark as a compliment. “I believe I am old enough to fulfill my duties.”

A closer look at her glinting eyes and stiff expression decided him against this tack. He turned to Kate. “Where, exactly, did you see the dog, Miss Fenshaw?”

“There! There he is!”
Annabelle cried. She took Kate’s hand and drew her into the meadow, chasing after Cuddles. Mr. O’Leary gave Abbie an uncertain look, and followed the girls. After they had gone a few yards, Abbie lifted her skirts and went grumbling after them.

As she approached the tent where the female performers were arranging their toilettes, she heard a soft, masculine laugh within, followed by a giggle of higher pitch. Without hearing a single word, she had a very good idea what was happening inside that tent. You would think they would close the flap at least. As she passed, a man ducked his head and came out of the tent.

“See you tonight then, love,”
a female called after him.

The man was just waving farewell when he spotted Abbie frowning at him. Her frown was originally caused by the couple’s lechery. When she saw that the man was a gentleman, it deepened to a scowl. It didn’t take some men long to sniff out a lightskirt. The circus was not even set up yet, and already this one was making his assignation for after the show.

He lifted his curled beaver, smiled, and said, “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “Good day,”
in a curt voice, and hurried on.

The man followed close behind her. “Is there some trouble?”
he asked. “You seem—harried.”
His voice was a well-modulated, deep drawl.

She stopped walking and turned to face him. She
already had a general impression of a tall, well-
built man in a blue jacket. On closer inspection,
she noticed that the jacket was of finest Bath cloth,
hugging a pair of broad shoulders. The cravat was
immaculate and intricately arranged. A glint of
gold at his waistcoat hinted at an expensive watch
in his pocket.

When he removed his curled beaver,
his raven hair glinted with iridescence in the sunlight. Something in his general appearance reminded her of O’Leary. He had O’Leary’s flashing
eyes and encroaching manner, but a closer look
showed her his eyes were a deep, huckleberry blue, while a certain stiffness, a sense of condescension, told her his social position was quite different from a circus manager’s.

“There is no trouble, thank you.”

“Then, I suggest you not linger about here. A circus under construction is no fit place for a lady—
especially unchaperoned.”

“Nor is the dancers’
tent a fit place for a gentleman,”
she retorted, and brushed past him.

When she heard him following behind her, she felt a little thrill of triumph. Despite her plain suit and uncurled hair, this dasher was interested enough to follow her! He put his hand on her elbow and drew her to a halt. “I must take exception to that speech, miss! There are plenty of gentlemen loitering about the dancers’
tent.”

As she shook off his hand, she looked over his shoulder to the tent and replied with great condescension, “The ones peeking at the naked women are mostly ragged ‘gentlemen’
ten or twelve years of age.”

“You are right to be annoyed with them. A gentleman of any age ought to see to his toilette before calling on a woman.”
She sniffed but did not deign to reply to this. “You must be a local lady,”
he said. “Do I know you?”

She turned and walked away. He followed. “Apparently, your circle of female acquaintances does not extend so far as Maidstone,”
she said.

A throaty chuckle came over her shoulder.
“Au contraire!
To Maidstone and considerably beyond, though I have not seen you there, or I would remember. So you are from Maidstone. Are you visiting locally?”