Читать книгу The Wastrel - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 11

Chapter Four

The Wells heard nothing further from the infamous Paris Mulholland during the few days immediately after Lord Pimblett’s ball. Clara decided he had changed his mind about the portrait and told herself she was glad of it. No matter how her aunt fretted—and dear Aunt Aurora could fuet—Clara couldn’t help feeling it would be a blessing if they never saw the man again. It would be awkward to return the money, yet that might be far preferable to dealing with Lord Mulholland for any length of time.

There was also another reason Clara did not wish to spend more time in such company. What might her guardians say or do at Mulholland House? They were so...so enthusiastic about their passions! She was not ashamed of them exactly, but more than once their unbridled remarks had caused Clara to wish to bury her head in the proverbial sand. A man like Paris Mulholland would have stories to tell for years—and he would tell them, too, in that seductive, utterly captivating voice of his.

Then, a fortnight after the Pimbletts’ ball, they received a note from a Mr. Mycroft, Lord Mulholland’s man of business in the city, detailing the travel arrangements and providing the funds. They were to go to Folkingham in Lincolnshire and disembark at the Greyhound Inn, where they would be met by a coachman from Mulholland House who would drive them to the manor.

There was no doubt, from that moment, that they would go.

Although preparing for the journey to Lincolnshire severely taxed Clara’s patience, she dared not protest. Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron now believed that Lord Paris Mulholland was something of a saint, and they would not listen to any attempt to persuade them otherwise.

Aunt Aurora, who considered her commission to paint Lord Mulholland as the beginning of a new and important phase of her career, simply could not be made to see the troubles this journey entailed. She quite cheerfully entrusted all the arrangements to Clara, with the single exception of the preparation of her painting materials.

Uncle Byron concerned himself with composing a farewell ode to the Thames and outfitting himself with what he considered the proper garb of a country gentleman, which meant tweeds and gaiters. Under no circumstances did he wish to hear that they could not afford new clothes, and Clara finally gave up trying.

The landlady of their shabby and meager lodgings proved to be completely unreasonable. She insisted that if they were going to vacate the rooms, vacate them they must, which meant packing up all their belongings and paying rent for the cellar, where they were graciously allowed to store the few pieces of furniture they owned outright.

There was also the matter of Zeus, the family cat, a large and dignified black feline. Clara wasn’t sure what to do about him, until Aunt Aurora suggested turning him over to the tender mercies of one of her artistic friends, a young woman who kept decidedly odd hours and rarely managed to feed herself, let alone a cat. Clara refused, and finally decided that since Lord Mulholland had invited “the whole household,” he would get the whole household.

Clara’s anxiety over their imminent departure was not assisted by her deep-seated dread that they would all have a terrible time in the country. For one thing, their host, who was said to be completely at the mercy of his whims, might take it into his head not to have his portrait painted at all once they arrived, and they would be left with no lodgings and perhaps having to return the twenty-five pounds, already gone to the purchase of new paints, canvas and Uncle Byron’s clothes.

That was bad enough, but the idea of living in the same house as the handsome and charming Lord Mulholland who could make her knees weak with a look was worse yet. She knew the visit was going to prove a great strain, especially if he exerted himself to seduce her. Not that she thought he could succeed, of course; she knew all the games and stratagems, even if they had not been practiced by such an attractive man. She finally decided she would simply avoid him and hope that Aunt Aurora painted quickly.

At last the day they were to leave for Lincolnshire arrived. Clara greeted it with great trepidation and considerable anxiety, and all too soon found herself wedged inside the coach for the journey north, with her aunt on one side and the basket holding Zeus on her own lap. Her uncle sat across from them with his feet sticking out into the middle of the compartment. He fell into a doze the moment the coach, with several other passengers perched on the top, lurched into motion.

Despite her misgivings, as the coach left the suburbs of London and entered the countryside, Clara found herself pleased and excited to be out of the city. She had forgotten how green and pleasant rural England could be, and how much sweeter smelling. The day was a fine one, and although the road was dusty, it was still better than London.

If only they were not going to the country home of Lord Paris Mulholland!

“Folkingham!” the coachman bellowed as the coach began rattling over the cobblestones of a village street.

Clara woke with a start and a jerk. She had fallen asleep during the last stretch of their journey. Mercifully, this final part of the ride was brief, or Clara doubted that her internal organs would ever be set right again. The jostling also managed to awaken her aunt, whose bonnet was more than slightly askew.

“We’re at Folkingham,” Clara said, grabbing Zeus’s basket with a tighter grip.

“Folkingham?” Aunt Aurora repeated, confused. As she struggled to a more upright position, she looked like a caterpillar making its way out of a cocoon, for she was encumbered by petticoats, a heavy skirt, a cloak and three shawls, having decided there was an unseasonable chill in the air that morning after they had stopped for the night. “Heaven forbid I should have the ague!” she had declared.

She had also wrapped a large scarf round her head, which was topped with a bonnet of her own design generously covered with artificial flowers. It looked more like a centerpiece than a hat. “Folkingham?” she said again.

“Yes, Aunt. We are to meet Lord Mulholland’s carriage here, remember?”

“Oh, indeed. Byron!” Aunt Aurora gave her husband a gentle kick.

“Hail, my nymph!” he muttered sleepily, blinking. He looked not unlike a turtle whose slumber has been disturbed. “Where the devil are we?”

“Folkingham,” Clara reiterated as the coach came to a stop. They felt the conveyance sway as the driver and some of the passengers climbed down. “I daresay this is the yard of the Greyhound Inn.”

She looked out the window at the large, pale orange brick building, and saw a confirming sign of that name. “I wonder if we shall have to wait long for Lord Mulholland’s carriage.”

“It matters not!” Uncle Byron exclaimed. “Such a beautiful day in the heart of a bucolic paradise! It will be a pleasure to wait here!”

He opened the door and stepped forth like a conquering hero surveying his recently acquired domain. Such was his natural grace and bearing that nobody, either from the top of the coach or the stables nearby, made any comment, and for that, Clara was grateful. She put her hand in his outstretched one and stepped down.

Folkingham was a delightful village, small but utterly charming. The large green was surrounded by prosperous-looking houses, and the contented bleating of sheep reached them from the surrounding low hills.

Then Clara noticed several poorly dressed people being handed a small loaf of bread by a couple, neatly and plainly dressed and standing behind a table upon which other loaves were piled. The ragged wanderers gratefully accepted this apparent gift. Munching on their bread, they trudged toward the southern end of town.

Looking their way, to the south and between the houses, Clara saw a tall, all-too-familiar wall. Either it was a workhouse or a prison. She surmised the tattered and threadbare group were on their way to visit the inmates, and those two kind souls were doing their best to relieve some of their poverty.

Clara sighed. Even here, poverty and want reared its ugly head. Perhaps she had been foolish to think it would be otherwise.

“Ah, Arcadian delights abound!” Aunt Aurora cried as she grappled her way down from the carriage, quite oblivious to the straggling walkers. Unfortunately, her appearance seemed to unleash the impertinent snickers of the other passengers.

“The horses’ll eat that hat!” one wag called out.

Her aunt didn’t seem to hear the comment as she happily surveyed the street and green. “How absolutely delightful! How picturesque! How truly rustic!” she enthused.

“Indeed, my Ceres!” Then Uncle Byron realized he had stepped into something he should not have, wrinkled his nose in distaste, scraped his boot on the wheel rim and held out his arm for his wife to take, all his actions accompanied by hoots of laughter from the other passengers of the coach.

Clara flushed to the roots of her hair, straightened her shoulders and tightened her grip on Zeus’s basket as she tried to lift her fast-muddying skirts a little higher. She, wearing a very severe, plain traveling gown of dark brown, and a most demure bonnet, feared no censure from anyone regarding her clothing. She glanced over her shoulder and gave the passengers a black, chastising look. She had been practicing that look for many years now, and had it to such an art that it was far more effective than any mere words could have been. Not surprisingly, the rabble fell silent.

“Come, Clara!” her aunt said, grabbing Clara’s arm and strolling toward the inn.

With Zeus’s basket bumping against her leg, Clara allowed herself to be thus escorted, Uncle Byron following majestically behind.

The inside of the Greyhound Inn was dim, the oak wainscoting dark and the rest of the walls and ceiling smoke stained.

A middle-aged man in spotless blue livery and hat in hand approached them, his gaze fastened on Aunt Aurora’s distinctive bonnet. “Mrs. Wells?” he asked, making a small bow.

“Yes,” Aunt Aurora replied.

“I’m from Mulholland House, Mrs. Wells. I was sent to bring you in the carriage.”

“Just as Lord Mulholland promised!” Aunt Aurora cried triumphantly.

Clara did not point out that if Lord Mulholland had not sent his carriage, they would have had few alternative means of getting to his estate.

“Byron., my own!” Aunt Aurora said to her husband. “See here! This is the driver to take us to Mulholland House.”

Uncle Byron regally nodded his understanding.

“It’s not a long drive,” the driver said deferentially. “Perhaps you’d care to refresh yourself first?”

“A simple drink of spring water, a crust of bread and the delightful air of the countryside will be enough for me,” Uncle Byron announced. “Under yon towering oak on the charming village green would be the perfect spot for an alfresco repast, don’t you agree, my dear?”

Clara had an instant vision of the spectacle of her aunt and uncle lunching on the village green. “It is the middle of the afternoon,” she pointed out. “I think it would be better if we were to get to Mulholland House without further delay.”

The innkeeper’s rosy-cheeked wife appeared. “Ale, sir? Coffee, ladies?” she asked with a pleasant smile.

“Ah, salve, prophetess!” Uncle Byron declared. “Ale, indeed—something smooth and dark. And tea for the ladies.”

“I don’t believe there will be time before we must be on our way,” Clara said firmly. “Thank you all the same.”

“You’re going to Mulholland House?” the innkeeper’s wife inquired cordially. “Ah, a lovely place!”

Before Clara could steer Aunt Aurora outside, her aunt said, “Who are all those poor unfortunates on the other side of the green?” Proving that she had, perhaps, not been as oblivious to the other attributes of Folkingham as Clara had assumed.

“Visiting the House of Correction, ma’am,” the woman replied cheerfully.

Aunt Aurora was horrified. “A jail? Dear me! A jail! Aren’t you afraid to sleep in your bed at night?”

Clara gave her aunt a fierce look. Supposing the woman was — it didn’t do to remind her.

“Oh, no. It’s not that kind of jail, really. Mostly vagrants, disorderlies.” The woman lifted her chin with a touch of pride. “Takes them from all of Kesteven, they does.”

“I suppose the building keeps them warm and dry,” Clara offered doubtfully.

Uncle Byron shielded his eyes with his hand and sighed loudly. “Deprived of the open air, shut up in a dungeon! It is monstrous! It is cruel!”

“Don’t upset yourself, my own!” Aunt Aurora cried, putting her arms around him and laying her forehead on his shoulder.

The driver and innkeeper’s wife exchanged looks over Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron’s heads. “I believe I heard his lordship’s going to wait tea for you,” the driver murmured.

“There, you see!” Clara said with some desperation. “We had best be on our way.”

“Very well, my good man,” Uncle Byron said, suddenly brisk. “You will find our baggage on the coach, clearly marked.”

Clara thought of the trunks her aunt had decorated in her own inimitable way one afternoon and decided the driver would have no trouble deciding which articles of baggage were theirs. Not many traveling bags would have pictures of scenes from the Arabian Nights on them. Nevertheless, Clara thought being outside would be preferable to staying inside the inn, so she said, “I will show you which ones they are. There is also an easel and a large package of canvases.”

The driver nodded and led the way outside. The coachman was seeing to the changing of the horses, and some of the passengers milled about in the yard. Clara ignored their speculative looks as she showed the driver the appropriate baggage, then followed him to Lord Mulholland’s gleaming black landau that was at the far side of the yard. A pair of very fine horses had their noses in feed bags.

The driver glanced at her as he loaded the largest piece of baggage. “Quite a pair, those two, miss.”

“My aunt is an artist and my uncle is a poet,” Clara explained matter-of-factly. “They are both very... emotional.”

The driver chuckled companionably. “Oh, we’ve had lots of emotional people at Mulholland House,” he said. “And some were just plain crazy, if you ask me.”

Clara wondered peevishly which category the driver thought Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron would occupy. Perhaps Lord Mulholland didn’t invite people to his country home only for his own amusement; perhaps he tried to keep his servants laughing, too. She should have refused the invitation, and let Aunt Aurora complain....

“Our dear mistress, the late Lady Mulholland, that was, liked lots o’ different sorts of people,” the driver continued, chuckling. “Her son’s just the same. Why, one time, this Italian count we had a’ stayin’ here — walked about in somethin’ looked like a baby’s nappy most o’ the time. Been to India or some such.” The driver reached down for the canvases. “’Nother time, these singers came. Sounded like a bunch of cats in a bag, we all thought.” He sighed for happy days gone by. “There, all stowed. We can go now.”

At least Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron wouldn’t be the most unusual people to stay at Mulholland House, Clara thought as she nodded absently. Nevertheless, her dread was not lessened by that notion. If anything, the closer she got to Mulholland House, the tenser she became.

She reminded herself that she would simply evade the sleek and seductive Lord Mulholland. The painting would be done soon, and then they would be gone. “I shall fetch my aunt and uncle,” she said.

As she made her way toward the inn, the coach, with its passengers restored, rattled on its way. Clara was not sorry to see it, or its noisy passengers, leave.

Uncle Byron spotted Clara in the doorway and sprang to his feet. “Come, my dear!” he called to his wife. “Our chariot awaits!”