Georgette Heyer: Powder and Patch

“I believe someone told me. What of it?” “You said nothing of it to me.”

The grey eyes lifted.

“Is he a friend of yours? I did not know.”

“A friend!” Philip set his glass down with a snap. “Hardly, sir!” “Now what’s to do?” asked his father. “Why the scorn?” “Sir, if you could but hear the gossip about him!”

“I have no doubt I should be vastly entertained,” said Sir Maurice. “What’s the tale?” “The fellow is for ever embroiling himself in some low quarrel. This time it is Lady Marchand. Faugh!”

“Lady Marchand? Not Dolly Marchand?” “I believe so. Why, sir, do you know her?”

“I-er-knew her mother. Tell me, is she as charming?” “As I know neither her mother, nor Lady Marchand-” Sir Maurice sighed.

“No. Of course not. Go on.”

“It’s a damned sordid tale, sir, and I’ll spare you the details. Lord Marchand and Bancroft fought out at Ipswich.; Bancroft wounded him in the lung, and ’tis said he’ll not recover.” “Clumsy,” remarked Sir Maurice. “So Bancroft retires?”

“The Prince of Wales is furious, as well he might be. And Bancroft brings himself and his morals here.”

A faint smile hovered on Sir Maurice’s lips.

“And Mr. Jettan is righteously indignant. From which I gather that Mistress Cleone is prepared to welcome this slayer of hearts. You’d best have bought a wig, Philip.” In spite of himself, Philip laughed.

“Sir, you are incorrigible!”

“Faute de mieux. And whence, if I may ask, did you glean all this-sordid information, oh my righteous son?”

“From Tom, of course. He could talk of nothing else.”

“Alack! The saint is still upon his pedestal. In fact, the story was forced upon you. Philip, you enrage me.” He looked up and met his son’s amused glance. “Yes, child, I am enraged. Pass the wine.”

Philip pushed the decanter towards him. His rather stern eyes were twinkling. “I’ll swear no one ever before possessed so outrageous a sire,” he said. “I’ve heard of some who disinherited their sons for disreputable behaviour, but it seems you are like to disinherit me for irreproachable conduct.”

“It’s a piquante situation,” agreed Sir Maurice. “But I shan’t disinherit you.” “No?”

“Where’s the use? With no money you could not hope to-ah-follow in my footsteps. I’ve a mind to turn you out of the house, though.”

“Half a mind,” corrected Philip. “The other half, sir, rejoices in my unblemished reputation.” “Does it?” Sir Maurice was mildly interested. “Faith, I did not know that.” “Sir, were I to break away and become as flighty as you wish, no one would be more aghast than yourself.”

“You infer, my son, that I desire you to follow not in my footsteps, but in-let us say, Bancroft’s. Nothing could more thoroughly disgust me.”

“Ah!” Philip leant forward eagerly. “You admit that?” Sir Maurice sipped his wine.

“Certainly. I abhor clumsiness in an affaire.” He watched Philip draw back. “An affaire of the heart should be daintily conducted. A Jettan should bear in mind that for him there can be only one love; the others,” he waved his hand, “should be treated with the delicacy that they deserve. Above all, they should end lightly. I would have no woman the worse for you, child, but I would have you know women and the world. I would have you experience the pleasures and the displeasures of Polite Society; I would have you taste the joys of Hazard, and the exhilaration of your sword against another’s; I would have you take pains in the selection of a cravat, or the designing of a vest; I would have you learn the way to turn a neat compliment and a pretty phrase; above all, I would have you know yourself, your fellow men, and the world.” He paused, studying his son. Then he smiled. “Well? What have you to say to my peroration?”

Philip answered simply, and in admiration,

“Why, sir, that I am spellbound by your fluency. In truth, Father, you have a remarkably beautiful voice.”

“Bah!” snapped Sir Maurice.

On a particularly sunny morning, some five or six days after Mr Jettan’s return from London town, the main street of Little Fittledean was made brighter still by the passage of an Apparition.

The Apparition wore a coat of palest apricot cloth, with a flowered vest of fine brocade, and startling white small-clothes. Red-heeled shoes were on his feet, and his stockings were adorned by sprawling golden clocks. He carried an amber-clouded cane and a jewelled snuff-box, while ever and anon he raised a cobwebby handkerchief to his aristocratic nose. He minced down the street towards the market place, followed by the awestricken glances of an amazed population. The inhabitants of the village had never seen anything so wonderful or so remarkable as this gorgeous gentleman. They watched the high red heels

click along the road, and admired the beautiful set of the Apparition’s coat. A group of children stopped playing to stare, open-mouthed. The Apparition heeded them not. It may have been that he was oblivious of their existence. Not even when a piping treble, requested “John” to “look’ee now at them shoes!” did he show that he realised the presence of anyone but himself in the village. He minced on, very languid, and suitably bored. Further down the street a gentleman had reined in his horse to speak to a curtseying dame, who plucked shyly at her apron, smiling up at him. Presently he, too, became aware of the sound of clicking heels. Even as the buxom dame gazed past him with wide eyes, he looked up and saw the Apparition.

I would not have you think that the Apparition noticed him. On he went, swinging his cane and yawning.

Sir Maurice turned in his saddle the better to see those pearly small-clothes. His horse cocked both ears inquiringly and blew down his nostrils.

“Well, I’m damned!” said Sir Maurice beneath his breath. “Puppy!”

Mr Bancroft proceeded leisurely towards the market place. He was very, very bored, and he had walked over from Great Fittledean in search of possible amusement. He almost despaired of finding it, but Fate favoured him.

Crossing the market place, a basket on her arm and a very becoming hat tied over her curls, was Mistress Cleone. She was tripping along quite unconcernedly, her cheeks just tinged with colour, and her big eyes bluer than ever. Mr Bancroft lost a little of his languor. It might almost be said that his eye brightened.

Cleone was coming towards him, and it was markedly evident that Mr Bancroft made no attempt to step aside. On the contrary, he appeared to be engrossed in the contemplation of a cat right away on his left. Cleone was peeping inside her basket; she did not perceive Mr Bancroft until she had walked into him. Then she gave a startled cry, fell back, and stared. Mr Bancroft was profuse in his apologies. He swept off his hat and made her a low bow, sinking back and back on his bent left leg.

“Oh!” gasped Cleone, becomingly fluttered. “Gracious! Is it you, Mr Bancroft?” Mr Bancroft said that it was. He was very modest about it, and he dubbed himself a clod-hopping oaf so to have discommoded Cleone.

Cleone dimpled, curtseyed, and prepared to go on her way. This, however, Mr Bancroft would not allow. He insisted on taking her basket, which, he protested, was monstrous heavy for her fair hands to support.

Cleone looked up at him provocatively. “Sir, I fear I am a stranger to you!”

“A stranger! Why, madam, is it likely that once I had seen I could ever forget your sweet face?” cried Mr Bancroft. “Those blue eyes, madam, left a deep imprint on my soul; those soft lips-”