Imprudent Lady

Chapter 17

When Dammler called on Seville the next morning, he was gone, and when he went to see if Miss Mallow also was gone, he found her in conference with Dr. Knighton, receiving instructions for the tending of her mother.

“Seville wrote me you were here,” Knighton said to him. "He was a big help to Miss Mallow last evening. Can you believe, the foolish fellow here at the inn didn’t call me, but had Miss Mallow sending around town for a physician. There is no accounting for such stupidity. I had mentioned I did not wish to be disturbed, but had no notion he would take me so literally. An emergency, of course, was quite a different matter. I have just been telling Miss Mallow her mother must not be moved for one or two days.”

Knighton soon took his leave and Dammler, somewhat calmer but still furious, said, “Your friend has turned tail and run. Did you warn him I was coming after him?”

“Don’t think he would be afraid of you,” she answered in a sneering way. “I had a note from him. You will find him in London, if you are intent on making a fool of yourself and a shambles of my reputation.”

“Your reputation needs no help from me to be made a shambles of.”

“Would you not convince everyone the affair between myself and Mr. Seville was dishonourable by calling him out?”

This aspect of the matter had already occurred to Dammler and he was regretting his rash statement, but having made it, he did not intend to retreat. Nor was he entirely convinced Seville was innocent. “No names need be mentioned. If anyone suspects, it will be a lesson for Seville to be wary in his dealing with you, and to avoid making the sort of offer he made.”

“For your information, Lord Dammler, Seville’s offer was not as you think. He mentions in his note, you see,” she handed it to him, “that though I declined the offer to be his wife, he hopes we will remain friends. And so we shall, too.”

Dammler took the letter, read it, and felt a great fool. Hettie, the blundering idiot, had misunderstood. “It does not excuse his being here last night,” he said, trying to save some small portion of his face.

“As to what passed last night, I should prefer to forget it. I must go to Mama now.”

“Your mother, does she prosper? She will be all right?”

“Yes, but loud, acrimonious discussions in the next room are not good for her.”

“Well I'm sorry, Prudence, but I misunderstood.”

“Yes, misunderstandings are likely to occur when we judge others by our own standards,” she replied bitingly. “Having nothing but lechery in your own mind, you naturally impute it to others.”

“I had no lechery in mind with regard to yourself.”

“I realize I am not your type, and thank God for it.”

He stood uncertainly, hoping to re-ingratiate himself before leaving, and seeing it would be hard going, with Prudence in the boughs. “You go on to Bath then?”

“In a few days.”

“I will be happy to stay and accompany you.”

“How very kind, but I should prefer to go without any disreputable companions and see if I can’t recover from the shame of having received an offer of marriage from an unexceptionable gentleman.”

He swallowed this with difficulty. “I only wanted to help you.”

“I find your help a sad hindrance, however,” she said airily, and succeeded at last in goading him to anger.

“Then I shall remove my hindering presence. I wish you good day, ma’am.”

Prudence nodded her head silently and watched him leave. I never thought to ask him how he came to be here, she remembered after he was gone. And how very badly he behaved, too, accusing me of carrying on with Seville. Behaved like a childish, jealous young hothead. And why should he have been so jealous, if he doesn’t care for me more than he knows? And I was the same- showing my jealousy of Lady Malvern and all his other flirts. Prudence hardly knew which of them had been the bigger fool, but she could not be entirely despondent. He seemed to be realizing slowly that he loved her more than as a mere sister.

With all her helps and hindrances gone, the two days before she might proceed to Bath passed slowly, despite the most solicitous concern on behalf of the management of “The George.” The three cases of food poisoning caused a slight stir in the local press. The event of the eminent Dr. Knighton’s presence made it more newsworthy, and when picked up by a journal in Bath, it was discovered that Lord Dammler, always of prime interest, had also been present, apparently on a visit to another young writer. The other writer was found out, and a brief interview with her added the information that she was on her way to Bath, and that she was working on a new book. When the story was finally published in Bath, it had become a large piece of human interest.

Bath hadn’t presently many great persons visiting it, and even a minor somebody assumed importance. A letter from the Prince of Wales complimenting Prudence and inviting her to Carlton House upon her return to London was soon added to her lustre; and after she had been in Bath a few days, Mr. King called in person to invite her to put her name on the register at the Pump Room, and to attend the local assemblies. Within a week, she was a bona fide celebrity, whose entry into the Pump Room each morning with her mother caused a stir of no small degree. Her books were displayed in the shop windows, and-glory upon glory-a cartoon of her appeared in the window of the lending library. She was portrayed as signing autographs for her books, with crowds clambering all around her.

Prudence was too busy to write it all down for Uncle Clarence, but she laughed to herself to think how happy he would be. Uncle Clarence had one other correspondent besides herself. Her mother, who as often as not elected to remain home from the “do’s” when her chaperonage was not required, was busy with her pen and sent off cuttings from the newspapers vaunting Prudence’s new fame in her letters.

When these reached London, Clarence realized he was missing out on a deal of interesting activity, and posted off in his carriage-again hiring an extra pair of horses to arrive in a style befitting his niece’s renown. He scarcely took time to dash over to see Mrs. Hering and Sir Alfred and tell them of his trip.

“Well, Prudence, so you are the talk of the town, naughty puss,” he beamed in approval when he saw her. He discerned the reflected glory of a letter from Carlton House on her brow, and a cartoon in the shop window in her eye. “You are up to all the rigs. You won’t be recognizing your old uncle next thing we know. Hardly a line for me.”

“Oh, but Mama wrote. There was no point in both of us writing the same thing.”

“Aye, you are too busy. I know just how it is. I am very busy myself. We all are. I painted the Chilterns all done up in style, but had time for only one study of Richmond Hill with so much going on.”

“What was going on in London, Uncle?” she asked eagerly. Her own thoughts often flew to London, where she imagined Dammler to be, though she didn’t actually know it.

“Why, everyone wanted to hear of your success. I have had a dozen callers a day stopping to congratulate me.”

Prudence correctly interpreted this to mean he had been running around telling his friends of her fame, and smiled weakly.

“So, Wilma, you became ill eating oysters,” he chided gently. ‘I never eat an oyster. They are no fit food for human beings. They are well enough for seagulls, but I never serve them at my table. Nasty looking things. But Knighton came to help you. That was well thought of, Prue, sending to London for Knighton.”

“He happened to be at the inn. It was the greatest chance.”

It was well done of Knighton to be on hand, but not quite as wonderful as having him dash down from London, and this was soon transformed into the more acceptable story. “He is very good about making a call. I’ll say that for him. I will have him over to look at my chest when I return to the City.”

“What’s the matter with your chest, Clarence?” his sister asked.

“It is giving me a little trouble,” he answered vaguely, having just that second thought what consequence it would add for McGee to see Knighton’s carriage outside his door. “But the waters might cure me. We will all go to the Pump Room tomorrow. I daresay there is quite a little stir when you walk in. Everyone turning and staring and wanting a book signed.”

“Yes, there is quite a commotion,” Wilma assured him.

“Very unpleasant for you. Very unpleasant indeed,” he smiled his gratification. “We will go early. I want to have a look at your cartoon in the window first. You didn’t describe it to me at all, Wilma. Is it well done? Have they given her a good profile? I know those fellows never tackle a front likeness, with foreshortening. As to hoping for an eyelash…"

“It is very like,” Prudence told him. “I am sitting at my table in the Pump Room, with one person knocking my glass over, and another climbing upon my chair.”

“So that’s how it is, eh? It is well I am here to fend them off,” he smiled.

“It is not really so bad as that. They exaggerate in a cartoon. I am gratified to be asked to sign an autograph.”

“You are good-tempered. It sounds dashed encroaching to me,” he decreed, pleased as punch.

His next overture was, “Where is Dammler? I thought he would be here with you. I don’t see you wearing his ring.”

“Ring?” Prudence asked in alarm. She had expected to have to make excuses for Seville’s absence, but counted on her cartoon in the window to tide her over. That Clarence thought Dammler to be on the verge of offering for her was a nasty shock.

“He came chasing after you to give you a ring, did he not?”

“No, he is not here. He has never been here at all. You read perhaps that he was at the inn at Reading…“ His appearance at “The George” at that ill-fated moment had bothered Prudence considerably. She assumed that it was pure bad luck that had brought him.

“Read it? Why, he told me himself the day you left he would be there at Reading if he had to drive all night.”

“What-he called on you that day?” Prudence asked, wondering if there was so much as a grain of truth in this.

“In a great pelter he was. Jealous of that Spanish fellow you know-Barcelona is it, or Madrid…“ Seville was out of it entirely. His name had not once appeared in the papers.

“How could he know Seville had come to Bath? He could not have heard it at Finefields surely.”

“I didn’t think to ask him how he knew, but he certainly knew of it.”

“Did you tell him?” Prudence asked.

“I don’t know.” Clarence for once in his life admitted to ignorance, there being no glory attached to any other course. “But certainly he knew-got your address from me and said he would catch you if he had to drive all night. He was very put out at your coming here with Seville.”

“I did not come with Seville. He was gone before we arrived.”

“Ho, you are a sly puss, playing them all off, one against the other.”

Prudence couldn’t press her innocence as she had encouraged Clarence to think Seville was her reason for coming, but she desired to hear more of Dammler's visit. “Did Dammler think I came with Seville?” she asked.

“No, I told him you came with your mother and four horses.” The four horses had a ring of truth to it. Certainly Clarence would have mentioned that startling fact. “He was very jealous. ‘I will knock his nose out of joint,' he said. Very angry and jealous, just as he should be.”

This statement had too much of the aroma of Clarence’s own brand of daydreaming to be taken seriously. “Where is he anyway?” he persisted. “He has gone on to get his abbey ready for after the marriage, I collect?”

Clarence had too often wed her to all her acquaintances for her to place the least faith in his word. “There is no marriage, Uncle,” she said.

“You turned him down, did you?” he asked, a little disappointed. “I thought he was a pretty good fellow.”

“He didn’t make me an offer.”

“Ho, prudent as ever. But it is nothing to be ashamed of-a marquis, and a pretty good rhymster from what I hear. Still, there is no saying, with your going to Carlton House, that you couldn’t do better than a poor deformed poet. They could bend the Royal Marriage Act a little if they took it into their heads. It is only to keep actresses and Papists out of the palace. The Duke of Clarence was always sweet on you…"

Prudence looked at her mother and sighed. There was no getting any sense out of Clarence. She’d leave, before he had her married to one of the royal dukes.

She deduced Dammler had indeed been at Grosvenor Square, but what he might have said would never be known. The fact of his having been there at all gave her a point to ponder. He had come to “The George” just to see her then, and if he had been to see Uncle in the afternoon, he must also have driven half the night. And then there was that very satisfying jealous passion. She had expected to see him again soon, but now ten days had passed, and not a sign of him.

The days had passed in an interesting manner. As Prudence was now a celebrity, she was invited everywhere. She had her regular suitors for drives and walks and standing up at the balls-old retired soldiers and widowers and such, but a pleasing number of them. And also-really it was too ridiculous-who should be here but Ronald Springer! For years she had sighed after him, and now when she no longer cared, he seemed to be developing quite a tendre in her direction. A day seldom passed that he did not call on some pretext or other. Now accustomed to such interesting men as Dammler and Seville, Prudence was no longer impressed by his country elegance. There was also just a little something of Ashington in Springer-a dropping of a classical quotation, a too-frequent reference to his Cambridge days, an assurance that he was doing her a favour to call. No, she did not look towards him in any romantic way, but it was rather interesting that he was here, and dangling after her. She remembered with a smile that Dammler never liked him.

With all her going about and partying, Prudence had had to enlarge her wardrobe. She had become one of the models followed by the young fashionable Society of Bath. If she wore a green bonnet with her yellow sarsenet gown to church on Sunday, one or the other of the shops on Milsom Street was sure to have a similar ensemble in the window on Monday. When she pinned a bouquet of posies on her sun parasol one day, she had the satisfaction of seeing a dozen ladies with theirs similarly adorned the next afternoon. Encouraged by these successes, she went a little further. Her gowns, while always remaining within the bounds of propriety, became more sophisticated, décolleté, and Colonel Bereseford told her she had shoulders like the “Venus de Milo.” She undertook to repay some of the social favours conferred on her, and set up a small salon, to which select groups were invited to talk about literature. Twice she was so daring as to attend public functions with no chaperone, but only a male escort. She purposely chose elderly gentlemen for this honour to squash any rumour of her being fast, but Springer had not liked it. Still, it had not slowed down his visits.

A few elderly eyebrows were raised at her daring. The Countess of Cleff, known locally as the Pillar of Propriety, was said to have frowned. Twenty years earlier she had been the supreme arbiter of the ton, but as she aged and conventions relaxed she had become dated. Still, she wielded considerable power, and one did not intentionally offend her. Prudence curtailed her unchaperoned appearances when she heard of the Countess’ displeasure. The “Pillar” had not yet passed judgment on Miss Mallow. She liked to see young notables come to her city, and so long as Miss Mallow could be directed, she might take her up. She watched and waited.

Yes, Bath was a more pleasant change than Prudence had dared to hope, yet she would gladly have been back in her little study, unknown, if only it meant Dammler would come unannounced to her door every few days to entertain her. To think she might have thrown over a chance for even greater familiarity than that bothered her. Ten days had passed, and the silence from her old friend was deafening.

In the morning, Clarence had to view the cartoon and the Pump Room, where his niece was treated with enough curiosity to satisfy him. “I see there is a concert at the Upper Rooms tonight,” he said, reading a poster.

“Yes, but it is only an Italian singer,” Mrs. Mallow pointed out. “You will not want to bother with that.”

“Why, there is no one who can sing a tune like an Italian. Certainly we will go.” He had a new jacket, purchased in honour of his niece’s future attendance at Carlton House, that would be previewed on this occasion. He could hardly wait to put it on. He purchased three tickets before they left to ensure getting a good seat. Wilma decided not to go, but Prudence knew there was no getting out of it.

She went to the concert happily enough. It was better than sitting home with Clarence, and the literary salons would be curtailed if her uncle came. She looked forward to daydreaming her way through the concert in peace.

She was not allowed to do so. No sooner had she taken her seat than she saw a tall, dark-haired man enter on the arm of the Dowager Countess of Cleff and take up a seat across the hall from her. It was Dammler, and if he glanced at the stage at all, it was no more than a glance.

His head was turned in her direction throughout the first half of the performance, until she was fatigued with pretending not to see him.