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Authors: M. C. Beaton
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inside of m’stomach.”
“Evans!” bleated Lady Eleanor desperately. “Go and
command
the butler to bring out the
best
claret, champagne, and port. I don’t know what he can be thinking of.”
She waited anxiously until the footmen started circulating with the stronger drink. Soon a happy buzz of conversation filled the marquee and she sighed with relief.
“It was all Evans’s fault, of course,” said Lady Eleanor with restored complacency, “and so I shall tell everyone.”
“Nonsense!” said Philip, helping himself to wine. “Do that and I shall counter it with the truth. I don’t think you really appreciate Evans. I am looking for a secretary myself, you know.”
Lady Eleanor blenched. She was able to bully her meek husband on most matters. But Mr. Rider was devoted to his secretary, and she shuddered to think of his reaction should his main prop be taken from him. He might even refuse to fund her social engagements! “You shall not take Evans from me. Besides he wouldn’t go. Only last night Mr. Rider said he was going to pay him more money. Didn’t you, dear?” She nudged her husband in the ribs and he roused himself and said, “Yes, yes,” although he hadn’t heard a word.
And so a much gratified Evans was informed that further to their discussion of the night before, his salary would be raised immediately and with the cunning of the timid, Mr. Evans did not show any surprise that Lady Eleanor should be talking so long and so vehemently about a nonexistent discussion of his salary.
He had, in fact, nearly lost his job earlier that day despite the championship of Mr. Rider when Lady Eleanor had discovered that once again Lady Amelia’s name was featured on her guest list, and it took all Evans’s tact and nimble ability to lie to explain to her that the Countess Lieven had expressed
a particular wish
to see Lady Amelia at the function. For all her overbearing ways, Lady Eleanor was naive and it never crossed her mind for a moment that the quiet and trustworthy Mr. Evans could be lying, and that an arrogant social leader like the Countess Lieven who declared “It is not fashionable where I am not,” would ever consider showing an interest in Lady Amelia. Mr. Evans had, in fact, simply used the same guest list as the one for the
musicale
.
The guests were becoming increasingly noisy since they had been drinking wine steadily, in the way a hard-drinking society will if it has been deprived of its favorite beverage for over an hour.
Lord Philip raised his quizzing glass and stared across the tent at Amelia who demurely lowered her eyes. She was wearing a morning dress of scarlet taffeta cut low enough to show the world that she was possessed of an excellent pair of shoulders. Then to his irritation, he found his eyes drawn to the quiet companion by Lady Amelia’s side. What a quiz of a dress! It was a brown silk and he could swear it was actually patched neatly on one of the sleeves. Constance’s face was white, almost translucent, like alabaster, and her large eyes briefly held such an expression of pain and bewilderment that Lord Philip dropped his own eyes and fortified himself from the bottle at his elbow, feeling strangely uneasy.
He was unaware that Mrs. Besant had been watching him like a hawk.
“Things are beginning to happen,” thought that malicious widow gleefully. She turned her avid gaze on Constance who was now toying with her food.
That dress was one of the girl’s old ones, thought Mrs. Besant happily. But was she cold? She kept pulling her shawl up round her bare shoulders in an oddly protective way.
The sound of fiddles came from the other marquee across the lawn as Neil Gow and his famous musicians, hired specially for the day, began to tune up. One by one the guests began to rise to their feet. Lady Amelia got up and said something to Constance in a sharp voice. The girl dutifully rose and left the tent one pace behind her mistress, but not before Mrs. Besant’s
“Evans!” bleated Lady Eleanor desperately. “Go and
command
the butler to bring out the
best
claret, champagne, and port. I don’t know what he can be thinking of.”
She waited anxiously until the footmen started circulating with the stronger drink. Soon a happy buzz of conversation filled the marquee and she sighed with relief.
“It was all Evans’s fault, of course,” said Lady Eleanor with restored complacency, “and so I shall tell everyone.”
“Nonsense!” said Philip, helping himself to wine. “Do that and I shall counter it with the truth. I don’t think you really appreciate Evans. I am looking for a secretary myself, you know.”
Lady Eleanor blenched. She was able to bully her meek husband on most matters. But Mr. Rider was devoted to his secretary, and she shuddered to think of his reaction should his main prop be taken from him. He might even refuse to fund her social engagements! “You shall not take Evans from me. Besides he wouldn’t go. Only last night Mr. Rider said he was going to pay him more money. Didn’t you, dear?” She nudged her husband in the ribs and he roused himself and said, “Yes, yes,” although he hadn’t heard a word.
And so a much gratified Evans was informed that further to their discussion of the night before, his salary would be raised immediately and with the cunning of the timid, Mr. Evans did not show any surprise that Lady Eleanor should be talking so long and so vehemently about a nonexistent discussion of his salary.
He had, in fact, nearly lost his job earlier that day despite the championship of Mr. Rider when Lady Eleanor had discovered that once again Lady Amelia’s name was featured on her guest list, and it took all Evans’s tact and nimble ability to lie to explain to her that the Countess Lieven had expressed
a particular wish
to see Lady Amelia at the function. For all her overbearing ways, Lady Eleanor was naive and it never crossed her mind for a moment that the quiet and trustworthy Mr. Evans could be lying, and that an arrogant social leader like the Countess Lieven who declared “It is not fashionable where I am not,” would ever consider showing an interest in Lady Amelia. Mr. Evans had, in fact, simply used the same guest list as the one for the
musicale
.
The guests were becoming increasingly noisy since they had been drinking wine steadily, in the way a hard-drinking society will if it has been deprived of its favorite beverage for over an hour.
Lord Philip raised his quizzing glass and stared across the tent at Amelia who demurely lowered her eyes. She was wearing a morning dress of scarlet taffeta cut low enough to show the world that she was possessed of an excellent pair of shoulders. Then to his irritation, he found his eyes drawn to the quiet companion by Lady Amelia’s side. What a quiz of a dress! It was a brown silk and he could swear it was actually patched neatly on one of the sleeves. Constance’s face was white, almost translucent, like alabaster, and her large eyes briefly held such an expression of pain and bewilderment that Lord Philip dropped his own eyes and fortified himself from the bottle at his elbow, feeling strangely uneasy.
He was unaware that Mrs. Besant had been watching him like a hawk.
“Things are beginning to happen,” thought that malicious widow gleefully. She turned her avid gaze on Constance who was now toying with her food.
That dress was one of the girl’s old ones, thought Mrs. Besant happily. But was she cold? She kept pulling her shawl up round her bare shoulders in an oddly protective way.
The sound of fiddles came from the other marquee across the lawn as Neil Gow and his famous musicians, hired specially for the day, began to tune up. One by one the guests began to rise to their feet. Lady Amelia got up and said something to Constance in a sharp voice. The girl dutifully rose and left the tent one pace behind her mistress, but not before Mrs. Besant’s
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