Georgette Heyer - Powder and Patch

“Is-is Sir Maurice coming?” she inquired.

“I told him to be sure to come,” answered her ladyship. “You know him, don’t you?” “Oh, yes!” breathed Jennifer.

“Sah Maurice and Mr. Jettan,” announced the little black page.

“Drat!” said her ladyship. She rose. “Where’s your son?” she demanded, shaking her finger at Sir Maurice.

Sir Maurice kissed her hand.

“Sally, you grow ruder and ruder,” he reproved her.

“Maurice,” she retorted, “you were ever a punctilious ramrod. Philip’s the only one of you I want to see. He says such audacious things,” she explained. “So gratifying to an old woman. Well, Tom?”

Thomas bowed very low. “Well, Sally?”

“That’s not polite,” she said. “You can see I am very well. I declare you are growing thinner!” Thomas drew himself up sheepishly.

“Am I, my dear?”

Her ladyship gave a little crow of delight.

“You’ve been taking exercise!” she exclaimed. “If you continue at this rate-I vow I’ll marry you in a month!”

“I wish you would, my dear,” said Tom seriously.

“Oh, I shall one day, never fear!” She caught sight of Jennifer’s astonished expression and chuckled. “Now, Tom, behave yourself! You are shocking the child!” she whispered. “I? What have I done? She’s shocked at your forwardness!”

Sir Maurice had walked over to Cleone. She held out her hands, and he made as if to kiss them. She snatched them back.

“Oh, no, no!” she cried. “Sir Maurice!” He smiled down at her upturned face.

“In truth, my dear, you’ve so changed from the little Cleone I know that I dare take no liberties.”

Her mouth quivered suddenly; she caught at the lapels of his coat. “No, no, don’t say it, sir! I am the same! Oh I am, I am!”

“What’s Cleone doing?” inquired Lady Malmerstoke. “Kissing Maurice? Now who’s forward?”

Cleone smiled through her tears.

“You are, Aunt Sally. And you are in a very teasing humour!” Sir Maurice pressed her hands gently. He turned to the curtsying Jennifer. “Why, Jenny? This is a surprise! How are you, child?”

“Very well, I thank you, sir,” she answered. “Very happy to be in London.” “The first visit! Where are you staying?”

“With Grandmamma, out at Kensington,” she said. Lady Malmerstoke clutched Tom’s arm.

“Kensington, poor child!” she murmured. “For heaven’s sake everyone sit down! No, Maurice, that chair is too low for me. I’ll take the couch.” She proceeded to do so. As a matter of course, Tom sat down beside her. The others arranged themselves in two pairs, Sir Maurice leading Jennifer to a chair near the fire, and Cleone going to the window seat with the admiring James.

Five minutes later the bell rang for the third time, and Jennifer received the worst shock of the afternoon. The page announced Mr Philip Jettan, and Philip came into the room. Sir Maurice felt Jennifer’s start of surprise, and saw her stare past him as though she saw at least three ghosts.

Philip went to his hostess and dropped on one knee to kiss her hand. He was dressed in puce and old gold. Jennifer thought she had never seen anything so gorgeous, or so astonishing. She did not believe for a moment that it was her old playfellow, Philip. “Madame, I am late!” said Philip. “I ask a thousand pardons!”

“And you are sure you’ll receive them!” chuckled her ladyship. “I’d give them, but that it would fatigue me so. Where’s that ode? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten it!”

“Forgotten it! Never! It is a very beautiful ode, too, in my best style. Le voici,’” He handed her a rolled parchment sheet, tied with mauve ribbons, and with violets cunningly inserted. “You delightful boy!” cried her ladyship, inspecting it “Violets! How did you know they were my favourite flowers?”

“I knew instinctively,” answered Philip solemnly.

“Of course you did! But how charming of you! I declare I daren’t untie it till the violets are dead. Look, Tom, is it not pretty? And isn’t Philip sweet to write me an ode?” “I am looking,” said Tom gloomily. “Ye rascal, how dare you try to steal my lady’s heart away from me?”

“I should be more than human an I did not!” replied Philip promptly. Lady Malmerstoke was showing the dainty roll to Sir Maurice. “An ode to my wig,” she told him. “Written in French.” “An ode to your what?” asked Thomas.

“My wig, Tom, my wig! You were not here when we discussed it. Cleone thought it a prodigious ugly wig, but Philip would have none of it. He said such pretty things about it, and promised me an ode for it! Philip, did I thank you?”

Philip was bowing over Cleone’s hand. He turned.

“With your eyes, madame, eloquently! But I need no thanks; it was an honour and a joy.” “Think of that!” nodded my lady, looking from Tom to Sir Maurice. “Philip, come and be presented to Mistress Jennifer. Or do you know her?”

Philip released Cleone’s hand, and swung round.

“Jennifer! Of course I know her!” He went across the room. “Why, Jenny, where do you spring from? How are you?”

Jennifer gazed up at him with wide eyes. “Philip? Is-is it really-you?” she whispered.

“You didn’t know me? Jenny, how unkind! Surely I haven’t changed as much as that?” “Y-you have,” she averred. “More!”

“I have not, I swear I have not! Father, go away! Let me sit here and talk to Jennifer!” Only too glad to obey, Sir Maurice rose.

“He is very peremptory and autocratic, isn’t he, my dear?” he smiled. Philip sank into the vacated chair.

“I-I feel I ought to call you Mr Jettan!” said Jennifer. “Jenny! If you dare to do such a thing I shall-I shall-” “What will you do?”

“Write a canzonet to your big eyes!” he laughed. Jennifer blushed, and her lips trembled into a smile. “Will you really? I should like that, I think, Mr Jettan.”

“It shall be ready by noon tomorrow,” said Philip at once, “if you will promise not to misname me!”

“But-”

“Jenny, I vow I have not changed so much! ’Tis only my silly clothes!” “That’s-what Clo said when I told her she had changed.”

“Oh!” Philip shot a glance towards the unconscious Cleone. “Did she say that?” “Yes. But I think she has changed, don’t you?”

“De tête en pieds,” said Philip slowly. “What is that?” Jennifer looked rather alarmed. Philip turned back to her.

“That is a foolish habit, Jenny. They say I chatter French all day. Which is very affected.” “French? D’you talk French now? How wonderful!” breathed Jennifer. “Say something else! Please!”

“La lumière de tes beaux yeux me pénètre jusqu’au coeur.” He bowed, smiling. “Oh! What does that mean?”

“It wouldn’t be good for you to know,” answered Philip gravely. “Oh! but I would like to know, I think,” she said naively. “I said that-you have very beautiful eyes.”

“Did you? How-how dreadful of you! And you won’t forget the-the can-can-what you were going to write for me, will you?”

“The canzonet. No, I think it must be a sonnet. And the flower-alas, your flower is out of season!”

“Is it? What is my flower?” “A daisy.”

She considered this.

“I do not like daisies very much. Haven’t I another flower?” “Yes, a snowdrop.”

“Oh, that is pretty!” She clapped her hands, “Is it too late for snowdrops?” “I defy it to be too late!” said Philip. “You shall have them if I have to fly to the ends of the earth for them!”

Jennifer giggled.

“But you couldn’t, could you? Cleone! Cleone!” Cleone came across the room.

“Yes, Jenny? Has Mr Jettan been saying dreadfully flattering things to you?” “N-yes, I think he has! And he says I must still call him Philip. And oh! he is going to write a-a sonnet to my eyes, tied with snowdrops! Mr. J-Philip, what is Cleone’s flower?”

Philip had risen. He put a chair forward for Cleone.

“Can you ask, Jenny? What but a rose?” Cleone sat down. Her lips smiled steadily.” “A rose? Surely it’s a flaunting flower, sir?”

“Ah, mademoiselle, it must be that you have never seen a rose just bursting from the bud!” “Oh, la! I am overcome, sir! And I have not yet thanked you for the bouquet you sent me this morning!”

Philip’s eyes travelled to the violets at her breast. “I did not send violets,” he said mournfully. Cleone’s eyes flashed.

“No. These”-she touched the flowers caressingly-“I have from Sir Deryk Brenderby.” “He is very fortunate, mademoiselle. Would that I were also!”

“I think you are, sir. Mistress Ann Nutley wore your carnations yesterday the whole evening.” Cleone found that she was looking straight into his eyes. Hurriedly she looked away, but a pulse was beating in her throat. For one fleeting instant she had seen the old Philip, grave, honest, a little appealing. If only-if only-

“Mr Jett-I mean Philip! Will you teach me to say something in French?” “Why, of course, chèrie. What would you say?” The pulse stopped its excited beating; the blue eyes lost their wistful softness. Cleone turned to James, who stood at her elbow.

“And he brought it himself, yesterday morning, tied with snowdrops. I don’t know how he got them, for they are over, are they not, Clo? But there they were, with the prettiest verse you can imagine. It said my eyes were twin pools of grey! Isn’t that beautiful?” Cleone jerked one shoulder.

“It is not very original,” she said.

“Don’t you like it?” asked Jennifer reproachfully, Cleone was ashamed of her flash of ill-humour.

“Yes, dear, of course I do. So Mr Jettan brought it to you himself, did he?” “Indeed, yes! And stayed a full hour, talking to papa and to me. What do you think? He has begged me to be sure and dance with him on Wednesday? Is it not kind of him?” “Very,” said Cleone dully.

“I cannot imagine why he should want to,” Jennifer prattled on. “Jamie says he is at Mistress Nutley’s feet. Is she very lovely, Clo?”