Georgette Heyer - Powder and Patch

“How could I hope to remember anyone but your fair self?” he protested. “Could I be sensible of another’s presence when you were there?”

Cleone giggled. She found Mr Bancroft’s compliments very entertaining and novel. “You are quite ridiculous, sir. And this is my home.”

“Alas” sighed Mr Bancroft. “I would it were a mile away.” He opened the gate and held it for her, bowing. “May I pay my respects to Madam Charteris?” he begged. “If you please, sir,” said Cleone, eyes cast down.

They found madam in the hall, speaking to one of the servants. When she saw the resplendent Mr Bancroft she gasped, and fell back a pace.

Bancroft stepped forward, hat in hand.

“I dare not hope for recognition, madam,” he bowed. “Henry Bancroft begs you will allow him to kiss your hand.”

Madam Charteris extended it weakly.

“Henry Bancroft? Gracious heaven, is it indeed you?”

Bancroft kissed the tips of her fingers, holding them lightly to his mouth with two fingers and a thumb.

“I met Mistress Cleone in the market place,” he told her. “Conceive my surprise, madam, my joyful ecstasy!”

“Indeed!” stammered madam. “In the market place-to be sure.”

“Mr Bancroft was so kind as to relieve me of my basket,” explained her daughter. “He pretends that he had not forgot me, mamma! But he cannot deceive me.” “He never sought to deceive you, Mistress Cleone. He spoke sooth when he said your image had remained with him throughout.”

“Take him into the garden, Cleone,” begged madam. “He will wish to see your papa.” It had not occurred to Mr Bancroft, but he swallowed it with a good grace. “Will you conduct me thither, Mistress Cleone?” He bowed, one arm extended. Cleone laid the tips of her fingers on the arm.

“Certainly, sir. We shall find papa among the roses.” They walked to the door. “The roses!” sighed Mr Bancroft. “A fit setting for your beauty, dear Cleone.” Cleone gave a little gurgle of laughter.

“’Tis papa’s beauty they frame, sir, not mine,” she replied.

Twenty minutes later Sir Maurice walked into the rose garden to find Bancroft and Cleone seated in an arbour engaged in close converse, while Mr Charteris nipped off the dead flowers nearby.

Mr Charteris welcomed his visitor with a wave of his large scissors.

“Good day, Sir Maurice! What a very pleasant, warm day it is, to be sure! Did you ride over to see us?”

Sir Maurice drew him apart.

“I met that-that rainbow in the village. What a plague is it? What does he do here?” Mr Charteris’ chubby countenance was wreathed in a great, sly smile, suspiciously like a grin.

“Have you ever seen aught to equal it?” he chuckled. “’Tis young Bancroft-in seclusion.” “I guessed as much. In seclusion, is he? Puppy!”

Mr Charteris held up his hands.

“Oh, but Sir Maurice! A mighty soft-spoken youth-a polished gentleman, I assure you.” “Polished coxcomb!” snapped Sir Maurice. “Confound his impudence!” He turned and walked towards the arbour.

Cleone rose and came forward. “Why, Sir Maurice! I did not see you!” Sir Maurice raised both her hands to his lips.

“You were otherwise engaged, my dear. Will you present your cavalier?” Cleone frowned upon him.

“Sir Maurice-! This is Mr Bancroft, sir. Mr Bancroft, Sir Maurice Jettan.” Mr Bancroft’s hat swept the ground. His powdered head was bent. “I am delighted to renew my acquaintance with you, sir.” Sir Maurice inclined his head.

“I hear you intend to honour Fittledean for some-weeks?” he said. An inward laugh seemed to shake him. “You must meet my son, Philip.”

“Nothing could give me more pleasure,” Bancroft assured him. “I shall hope to do so at once. I am transported to meet such old friends, and to find that one”-he bowed to Cleone-“had not forgot me.”

“H’m!” said Sir Maurice cryptically. Suddenly he smiled upon the younger man. “I have ridden over to beg Mr Charteris to honour me at dinner on Wednesday-” “Delighted, delighted!” nodded Charteris, who had joined them.

“-with madam and Cleone. You’ll come, my dear? I have already spoken to your mamma.” Cleone slipped her hand in his arm.

“Why, it’s very kind of you, Sir Maurice. Thank you very much.” He patted the little hand. Then he again transferred his attention to Mr Bancroft. “I trust you too will honour us, sir?”

“It is prodigious amiable of you, sir. I hasten to accept. On Wednesday, I think you said? With all the pleasure on earth!”

“Cleone, my dear, give me your arm as far as that rose bush. You shall choose me a buttonhole, if you will. No, no, Charteris, with her own fair fingers!” He bore Cleone away to the other end of the garden, leaving Mr Bancroft disconsolate. When they were out of hearing Sir Maurice looked down into the roguish blue eyes. “My dear, you are a minx.” Cleone dimpled charmingly.

“I don’t know why you should say so, sir.”

“Of course not,” agreed Sir Maurice. “Now what is the game? It’s to make Philip jealous, eh?”

“Sir! How can you?”

“My love, I know all about you, for I am an old man. Make Philip jealous by all means.” “I’m sure I never-”

“Of course not. But I think, with you, that it would be a very good plan. The boy is too stolid and cocksure,”

“Cock-Oh, indeed!”

“So if you shake Philip up from his toes to his head-you’ll earn a father’s blessing.” Cleone controlled a trembling lip.

“Sir-you are-a very naughty-conspirator.”

“We’ll leave it at that,” said Sir Maurice. “Now choose me a rose, little witch. Gad, if I were ten years younger I’d make Philip jealous myself!”

Cleone tiptoed, her hands on his shoulders. “You are very, very wicked,” she told him gravely. Sir Maurice kissed her.

“So are you, minx, and I want you for my daughter. We are so well suited.” Cleone blushed fiery red and hid her face in his coat.

Sir Maurice rode home wrapped in thought. Now and again he chuckled softly to himself, but when later he met his son he was as solemn as ever.

Philip came into the library, riding-whip in hand. He had been on the fields all the morning, and Sir Maurice eyed his boots with disfavour. Philip sank into a chair. “Two of the big meadows are cut, sir. We should finish by next week.” He glanced anxiously out of the window. “I hope the rain holds off.”

“Oh, it will,” replied his father placidly.

“I am not so sure. Last summer the hay was black. Did you-er-did you ride into the village?”

“I did.”

“And-did you go to-Sharley House?” “Ay.”

“Are they-did they accept?” Philip played with his whip, feigning unconcern. “They did. I met that fellow Bancroft.”

“Oh!” said Philip. “Where?”

“In the rose garden,” yawned Sir Maurice. The whip fell to the ground.

“What? In the rose garden? Whose rose garden?” “At Sharley House, of course.”

“Where-was-What was he doing there?” “He was sitting in the arbour, talking to Cleone.”

“Confound him!” growled Philip, as if his worst fears were realised. “What’s he like?” Sir Maurice glanced across at him.

“He is about your height-perhaps a little taller. He-ah-seems to have a soft tongue and an engaging manner.”

“Oh, has he?” Philip’s voice was startlingly grim. “He and Cleone were renewing their old friendship.” “Oh, were they? What old friendship? He was never our friend!”

“No, I suppose not,” said Sir Maurice innocently. “He is some six or seven years older than you, is he not?”

“Five!” said Philip emphatically.

“Only five? Of course, he looks and seems older, but he has seen more of the world, which accounts for it.”

To this Philip vouchsafed no answer at all, but he looked at his father with some suspicion. Sir Maurice allowed two or three minutes to elapse before he spoke again. “By the way, Philip, Bancroft dines with us on Wednesday.” Up sprang Philip in great annoyance.

“What’s that, sir? Dines here, and on Wednesday? Surely you did not invite the fellow?” “But I did,” answered Sir Maurice blandly. “Why not?”

“Why not? What do we want with him?”

“It remains to be seen.” Sir Maurice hid a smile. “Bancroft is most desirous of meeting you.” Philip made a sound betwixt a grunt and a snort.

“More like he wishes to pursue his acquaintance with Cl-Mistress Cleone,” he retorted. “Well, she’s a pretty piece,” said his father.

Philip glared at him.

“If I find him annoying Cleone with his damned officious attentions, I’ll-I’ll-” “Oh, I do not think she is annoyed,” replied Sir Maurice.

At that Philip stalked out of the room, leaving his father a prey to indecent mirth.

At half-past five on Wednesday Mr Henry Bancroft was ushered into the withdrawing-room at the Pride. He was, as he had intended he should be, the last to arrive. Sir Maurice stood in front of the empty grate, talking to Mr Charteris; madam sat on a couch, her daughter beside her, and Philip nearby. They all looked up as Mr Bancroft was announced, and Philip rose, for the first time in his life acutely conscious of an ill-fitting coat and un-powdered hair. Mr Bancroft was a dream of lilac and rose. He might have been dressed for a ball, thought Cleone. Diamonds and rubies flashed from his buckles, and from his cravat; a diamond clasp was above the riband that tied his wig. He minced forward daintily and bowed, one be-ringed hand over his heart.

Sir Maurice came forward, very stately in black with touches of purple. “Ah, Mr Bancroft! I need not present you to the ladies, I know.” He paused to allow Bancroft

to throw a languishing glance towards the couch. “I think you and my son are not altogether unknown to one another?”

Bancroft turned on his heel to face Philip. He bowed again, slightly flourishing his handkerchief.