Crossed Quills (21 page)

 “You would not if you heard Kitty and Millicent giggling about Mr Darlington’s poems when he is gone.”

 “Truly?” His round face brightened, then fell again. “But I daresay she laughs at me, too, though I know you are too kind to tell me so.”

 “If she did, I would not tell you, to be sure, but she does not, and I would not lie to you. Only this morning she was talking of your discovery of a place selling rare poultry and her regret that she could not buy any this year as she is not at home to tend them. She hopes to try next Spring.”

 “I shall send her some,” Mr Chubb said eagerly, “or better still, bring her the chicks myself, to be sure they are well cared for on the road.” Again despondency overcame him. “But by next Spring she will be long married, to someone else.”

 Pippa wished she was able to assure him that he had an excellent chance of winning Kitty’s hand. She thought the two extremely well suited, and she liked Gilbert Chubb very well now that he had overcome his bashfulness with her. But Kitty showed no disposition to favour him—or anyone else, for that matter. She had already turned down two suitors. As far as Pippa could see, her sister’s heart was whole.

 Kitty apparently knew none of the doubts and fears which kept Pippa awake at night, nor the rush of lightheaded joy she felt whenever Wynn Selworth came into a room—the joy which must be hidden, the lightheadedness which must be overcome before she was able to concentrate on ideas and words. How Kitty would stare if she knew her intellectual sister quivered inside when her hand accidentally brushed Wynn Selworth’s, went weak at the knees when she placed her hand on his arm, melted from top to toe at his smile.

 Somehow she had hidden her love from Kitty, and from Lord Selworth. If he knew, he would surely relinquish his mentor rather than risk encouraging by his constant presence the passion to which he was indifferent.

 Sometimes Pippa wondered whether Mama or Bina had guessed. If so, unable to encourage her to hope, they were too kind to add to her heartache by pointing out the unlikelihood of his ever returning her feelings.

 Mr Chubb had a better chance with Kitty, Pippa thought. “Kitty’s affections are as yet unengaged,” she said, “and you and she have a good deal in common. You must not give up.”

 “I shan’t,” he promised.

* * * *

 By the fourth day of searching the newspapers in vain, Pippa was ready to give up. It seemed the Lords had nothing quite suitable on their agenda this session. Lord Selworth would just have to wait and hope that Lord Eldon might relent.

 She persevered, however, and the very next day was rewarded by finding precisely what she was looking for.

 “Climbing boys?” said Lord Selworth dubiously.

 “The children chimney sweeps send up chimneys. There is a society trying to abolish the practice, and they are to present a petition to Parliament. It is perfect, Lord Selworth! The petition will arouse interest, but it is not a matter which will make the Government fear you are striking at the very roots of society.”

 “I don’t know much about climbing boys.”

 “They are shockingly badly treated, and quite unnecessarily, for a machine has been invented—a sort of elongated brush—which does the job just as thoroughly. The sweeps prefer to use little boys because it is easier and less labour for themselves. All they need do is stick pins in the child’s feet, or light a straw fire, to force them to climb.”

 “Good lord! Do they really?” exclaimed the viscount, shocked.

 “You see? Few people know what happens, because naturally they leave the house when the sweep comes to do his messy business.”

 “Yes, but bad as it is, even you can’t make a whole speech out of pins and a small fire.”

 “Of course not,” Pippa agreed. “We need to find out more, only I am not sure how. The master sweeps certainly will not tell us anything useful.”

 “I’ll go and talk to the society who are getting up the petition,” Lord Selworth proposed. “They must know the worst or they wouldn’t be up in arms.”

 “Oh yes, why did I not think of that?”

 “Are you sure you didn’t?” he asked suspiciously. “You are not just trying to cheer me up by allowing me a small contribution to your plan?”

 “Heavens no. I honestly never considered consulting the society, perhaps because I have always had to work from published reports. I shall go with you.”

 “No.”

 “Why not?” Pippa demanded indignantly. “Because it is your idea?”

 “Don’t be a widgeon. For the same reason you have always worked from published reports, only more so. If I go and make enquiries with a view to airing the matter in Parliament, and you go with me, you might as well stand on the rooftops and proclaim yourself Prometheus. Well, nearly.”

 “Oh. I daresay it would be rash,” she conceded.

 “You could go on your own account,” Lord Selworth offered, “as a philanthropist considering signing the petition but wanting to know more first. They might tell you things they hesitated to tell me.”

 “I cannot think what, but thank you for allowing me a part in the venture!”

 He gave her a straight look. “If I had forbidden your approaching them, would you have heeded the prohibition?”

 “Not unless I saw good reason for it,” Pippa said promptly, “and no good reason to go against it.”

 “Not a compliant female,” he said, his tone reproachful, with a sigh and a shake of the head.

 Pippa was glad to see a twinkle in his eye. If she had had the least chance of winning his affections, proving herself far from submissive was likely to dish it. As it was, she said pertly, “No compliant female could possibly have directed your efforts these past two months. I should like to call upon the Society for the Abolition of Climbing Boys, or whatever they call themselves, but I do not know their direction.”

 “They cannot circulate a petition without coming out into the open. I’ll find ‘em. And I’ll let you know when I do.”

 “Noble of you!” Pippa exclaimed, and he laughed.

 When she danced with him that evening, he had not yet tracked down the society, but when they met next day he passed her a slip of paper with their direction.

 “I have something else for you,” he said. “Come for a drive in the Park.”

 “You said we should not be seen together,” Pippa demurred.

 “Not too often, I said. I drove Millicent yesterday, Bina the day before, and your mama the day before that—there’s no getting near your sister. Be compliant for once: go put on your bonnet.”

 Pippa complied, her curiosity aroused. What did he have to give her that he chose not to give openly, in company? Not a betrothal ring, alas. In such an unlikely event he must have spoken first to Mama, and Mama would certainly have informed her of such a momentous occurrence.

 Instead, she informed Mrs Lisle that she was going out with Lord Selworth, and went upstairs to fetch bonnet and gloves.

 The viscount’s curricle was waiting at the door. He handed Pippa up, took the reins from his groom, and joined her. The groom scrambled up to his perch behind as the horses, a stalwart pair of blacks to match the carriage, set off along Charles Street.

 Pippa with difficulty restrained herself from asking about her mysterious gift. Conscious of the groom’s ears close behind, she made an innocuous remark about the weather. This led—the servant’s presence soon forgotten—to a discussion of the prospects for a good harvest, leading to the relief of hunger across the country, and its effects on politics.

 The afternoon was warm for May, with a thin haze of cloud obscuring the sky but letting the sun shine through. In the narrow streets, the heat reflected uncomfortably from cobbles and brick walls, but they soon reached the Chesterfield Gate and entered Hyde Park.

 The grass was bright with buttercups, daisies and dandelions, reminding Pippa of the wide variety of wild flowers now blooming in the country. The woods would be carpeted with bluebells, the hillsides with cowslips, the water-meadows with lady’s smock. Much as she enjoyed them when at home, she reflected, she did not miss them as Kitty did. To her, the fascination of politics made up for spending Spring in Town.

 Pulling up just inside the gates, Lord Selworth told the groom to wait nearby for their return. Then he headed south, but he turned off towards the Serpentine before they reached Rotten Row.

 Though there were a good many people about, it was too early for the crowds of fashionable carriages, riders and pedestrians who would flock to the Park later for the daily Grand Promenade. When the curricle pulled up in the shade of a tall elm, they were quite private.

 Lord Selworth reached under the seat and pulled out a rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “Here,” he said, thrusting it into Pippa’s hands, and at once looking away with an air of unconcern, apparently watching a pair of riders cantering across the grass.

 Books? The size and weight were right, though several layers of paper obscured details of the shape. Pippa struggled with the knotted string, in vain. In vain she felt in her reticule for scissors. “Have you a pocket knife, Lord Selworth?”

 “What? Oh, sorry.” For some reason he flushed as he handed her his pen-knife.

 Comprehension dawning, Pippa abandoned any attempt to save useful lengths of string. She sliced through it, unfolded the paper, and found three calf-bound, gold-lettered volumes. “
The Masked Marauder
! Oh, splendid!”

 “I thought you might like a copy of your own,” said Lord Selworth, looking pleased at her pleasure.

 “Thank you, Mr Valentine Dred. I shall treasure it. I did not know it was out already.”

 “In the bookshops tomorrow, the libraries the day after. The publisher says a great many copies were sold beforehand,” he said modestly. “You had best keep yours well hidden, as I have inscribed each volume to you.”

 “Assuming it is similar to your previous works, I should in any case hide it away. It is not at all proper for Kitty or Millicent to read.”

 Almost reluctantly, Pippa opened the first volume to the title page, wishing his inscription might say: “To darling Pippa, with all my love, Wynn.” Naturally it did not. But nor was it a formal “To Miss Lisle, from your obedient servant, Selworth.”

 
For my dear Prometheus,
she read,
this, with humble gratitude and devoted admiration, Valentine.

 Pippa laughed. “I shall keep them very well hidden,” she promised. Devoted admiration? For Prometheus, of course.

* * * *

 Whatever Pippa’s views on the propriety of Kitty and Millicent reading
The Masked Marauder
, within the week all Society was talking about it. Demure damsels whispered and giggled behind their fans; mature matrons told each other, “My dear, I positively blushed when...;” Corinthians and Tulips alike vowed to each other they had laughed till they cried; serious gentlemen condemned the book as trivial, indecent nonsense, but it was to be noted that not one had failed to peruse all three volumes.

 And all Society asked with a single voice, “Who wrote it? Who is Valentine Dred?”

Chapter 15

 “Who is Valentine Dred?” asked Millicent, as she and Kitty strolled down Piccadilly, their abigail a pace behind.

 It was certainly a rhetorical question, for not only did she not expect an answer, she failed to pause to allow her friend to provide one had she been able.

 “No one talks of anything else, I vow,” she continued without taking breath. “It is becoming a shocking bore. Who do you think he can be, Kitty? At least, Valentine is generally a man’s name, is it not? But as it is only a pen-name—everyone seems to agree it is a pen-name—it could just as well be a woman. Do you think it might be Lady Caroline Lamb? She wrote
Glenarvon
last year, after all.”

 “I have not read
Glenarvon
,” Kitty deftly inserted into the stream, practice having made her expert, “nor met Lady Caroline, but I have heard that she has no sense of humour.”

 “Then it cannot be her, for everyone is laughing over
The Masked Marauder
. I wish Bina and your Mama had not forbidden us to read it,” Millicent mourned. “The Pendrell girls have read it. Vanessa says it is very shocking, to be sure, but funny and thrilling, too. The hero is quite the most dashing gentleman you can conceive, and the heroine’s plight most pitiable.”

 “I do not believe I should care to be married to too dashing a gentleman. Suppose he were to make a habit of dashing off whenever one needed him?”

 “You are laughing at me again,” Millicent said resignedly. “It is true that in real life a dashing husband may not be altogether comfortable, but it is only a book after all. I think it very hard that we may not read it when the whole world talks of nothing else.”

 “Not having read it does not stop you talking of it, Millie dear,” said Kitty, laughing aloud. “We have heard so much about it, we scarcely need to read it ourselves. Here is the haberdasher’s I told you about. Let us hope they can match your ribbon.”

 Millicent dropped the subject of
The Masked Marauder
for quite half an hour. Unfortunately, they then happened to encounter two young gentlemen of their acquaintance who had just been to Hatchard’s to purchase a copy—without luck, as the entire stock was sold out.

 On parting from the disconsolate pair, Kitty said to Millicent, “I never thought to see Mr Carlin or Sir Anthony looking to purchase a whole book! The perusal of a single page in a newspaper is a great labour to them.”

 “Oh, but a novel is quite different. Only think, Kitty, what a great labour it must be to write a whole book! My wrist positively aches at the very thought, I declare. Yet Pippa is always scribbling away with never a complaint of fatigue. I wonder what it is she writes, that she always hides it when one enters the room.” Her mouth dropped open as a notion struck her momentarily dumb. “Kitty, do you suppose Pippa is Valentine Dred?”

 “Good gracious, no!” cried Kitty in horror.

 “Well then, what is it she writes so busily? I am sure it cannot be letters, for there are pages and pages and it would cost a fortune to post them all. You must know, Kitty. You are her sister. If it is not a book, what is it?”