The Pink Parasol Read online

  The Pink Parasol

  Sheila Walsh

  Copyright © 2018 The Estate of Sheila Walsh

  This edition first published 2018 by Wyndham Books

  (Wyndham Media Ltd)

  27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX

  First published 1985

  www.wyndhambooks.com/sheila-walsh

  The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Cover artwork images: © Period Images / Apostrophe (Shutterstock)

  Cover design: © Wyndham Media Ltd

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Preview: The Incomparable Miss Brady by Sheila Walsh

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  Chapter One

  Lady Wigmore’s missive was, like the lady herself, unambiguous, leaving its recipient in very little doubt of what was expected of him. It was, therefore, no mere accident of fate that the handsome jade timepiece fashioned in the guise of a lion’s head which graced the mantel-shelf in the Chinese drawing-room was chiming the hour just as Bunting, her ladyship’s butler, admitted Mr Anstruther.

  ‘You are punctual, Marcus. Good. I like punctuality in a man.’

  The disembodied voice of Lady Wigmore boomed forth from the depths of a shabby, capacious armchair placed comfortably before the fire, its back set resolutely against the otherwise exquisite room as though rejecting in advance the least hint of criticism of its right to be there.

  A gleam of genuine amusement flickered momentarily in the eyes of the rather languid young man who crossed the sumptuous carpet ‒ a much prized souvenir of the third viscount’s first expedition to China. Upon reaching his aunt’s side he made her an elegant leg, expressed the hope that he found her well, and murmured the usual assurances that he was hers to command.

  His politenesses were dismissed with a derisive sniff and he was admonished to, ‘Sit down, boy! Sit down. That’s if you can sit in those deucedly tight drawers!’

  ‘Nothing simpler, ma’am,’ murmured her nephew in amiable defence of his biscuit-coloured pantaloons. ‘They are fashioned of knit cloth, d’you see?’

  ‘Knit, is it? They’d have been considered indecent in my day!’ came the unequivocal retort. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Can’t abide folk who hover! Sit there, where I can see you.’ She flapped an impatient hand in the direction of a flimsy-looking bamboo-backed sofa.

  Mr Anstruther complied, disposing himself with ease, secure in the knowledge that the sofa was more comfortable and substantial than it appeared. As always he found himself reflecting that his aunt’s chair, squatting incongruously amid so many priceless treasures like an ancient crow in a linnet’s cage, was no more at odds with its surroundings than its present incumbent.

  Lady Wigmore was impressive. As a young woman her proportions had been Junoesque; now, at seventy, she was awesomely huge. By sheer weight alone she could usually browbeat lesser mortals into doing her bidding, as the members of her household could no doubt testify. Yet for all that she was well-liked, not least by this nephew of hers who, even as a child, had never been cowed by her overwhelming personality. It was this, perhaps, allied to the fact that she had never had children of her own, which accounted for the bond of affection which undoubtedly existed between them.

  Her partiality did not however extend to his boutonnière, a glorious confection which she was now viewing with acute disfavour. Mr Anstruther bore her displeasure with fortitude, a glimmer of amusement still lingering in the deceptively lazy green eyes as he fingered his lapel lovingly.

  ‘Do you not care for it, Aunt Constance?’

  ‘No, Marcus, I do not. Makes you look like a damned cicisbeo! Pink roses. Faugh! Why d’you do it, boy?’

  It was a fair question. In every other respect Mr Anstruther’s appearance could scarce be faulted. His golden-brown hair was arranged in the very latest mode, his coat of blue superfine ‒ supplying proof if proof were needed of Weston’s consummate skill ‒ was moulded to his slim figure like a second skin to display a good pair of shoulders, while the dove-grey waistcoat beneath was the very model of discretion. His collar points were not too high, his cravat was complex, yet neat. In fact, Mr Anstruther looked exactly what he was ‒ a most notable Corinthian.

  Still smiling faintly, he sighed. ‘Why, my dear? I thought the whole world knew why. I am fallen hopelessly in love with Rosanne Devine and have sworn to wear pink roses until she consents to return my regard. My man rides up each morning with fresh ones from my hothouses at Holmbury.’

  ‘Humbug! Sheer humbug!’ Lady Wigmore fixed him with a fierce glare. ‘Y’re a poseur, sir! I trust you don’t think to bamboozle me with such flimflam?’

  ‘Certainly not, dear Aunt. You are by far too acute.’ He crossed one leg over the other, displaying in so doing the shapely calf which was a constant source of gratification to his valet. His eyes took on a faintly malicious twinkle. ‘But it would astonish you to learn how much speculative interest my poor roses evoked at Sally Jersey’s soirée last evening!’

  ‘It wouldn’t, y’know!’ There was a curious rumbling in the vastness of his aunt’s bosom which he took to signify mirth. ‘I am well aware that there are fools aplenty among Lady Jersey’s set ready and willing to swallow your fictions, but they don’t know you as I do!’

  That was true, he mused, considering how much of his youth had been spent in this house. Lulled by his surroundings into happy reminiscence, he recalled how he had once presumed to quiz his aunt upon her marked partiality for the room in which they now sat, which to his then-untutored way of thinking sat so ill with her robust personality. Rather to his surprise, having damned his impudence, she had admitted in a brusque, almost offhand fashion that she found its atmosphere spiritually uplifting. To the fifteen-year-old boy he had been it seemed such a rum explanation that he’d assumed ‒ though he’d sense enough even then not to say so ‒ that she was cutting him a fine old wheedle. But now, seeing the room at its best, bathed in pale winter sunshine, he was able to appreciate exactly what she had meant.

  The Wigmores’ Chinese room had caused something of
a sensation when, rather more than a hundred years before, the present viscount’s father had returned from his first visit to the Orient imbued with a deep and abiding passion for everything Chinese ‒ quite extraordinary in a hitherto undemonstrative man. He came laden with the treasures that were to form the nucleus of this present collection; the wallpaper, which still adorned the walls as fresh as the day it was hung, depicted with exquisite delicacy the strange exotic world whence it came. For the only time in his life the third viscount had enjoyed brief notoriety as one of the prime instigators of a fashion that was to sweep the country, giving rise to a positive plethora of chinoiserie ‒ a fashion that the Prince Regent had recently revived in his pavilion at Brighton. Yet few, if any, of Lord Wigmore’s copyists had succeeded in capturing the essential simplicity of the original, reflected Mr Anstruther.

  ‘How is my uncle?’ The fourth viscount having inherited his father’s passion for exploration, Mr Anstruther had met his uncle but briefly over the years. He nevertheless enquired after him as always with dutiful concern.

  ‘Oh, you know Wigmore!’ said his spouse with cheerful unconcern. ‘When last I heard, he was mounting an expedition to some benighted and hitherto uncharted wilderness. But he ain’t much of a hand at letter-writing.’ Her lord thus satisfactorily disposed of, she turned to more pressing matters. ‘But I didn’t invite you here in order to make polite conversation, nor to be treated to an account of your doings. Fact is, Marcus ‒ I’m in need of your help.’

  It was perhaps fortunate that Bunting chose this precise moment to enter, bearing a tray. Lady Wigmore’s commissions had an uncanny knack of disrupting the even tenor of one’s life and thereby involving one in the most acute discomfort. The disposal of the tray and the pouring of the Madeira afforded Mr Anstruther time in which to collect his thoughts. The ritual accomplished, he felt able to face his aunt, glass in hand, with every assumption of interest.

  ‘I’m to have my godchild staying with me during the coming Season,’ said her ladyship, impatient of the interruption.

  ‘Wasn’t aware that you had one, ma’am,’ said her nephew, warily unhelpful.

  ‘Well, I have. She’s Cecily Merton … Camden’s gel.’

  ‘Lord Camden?’ Mr Anstruther lifted an expressive eyebrow. ‘I suppose you know he’s running with some very loose fish these days? His name is fast becoming a byword at every gambling hall in town. I did hear that he was discreetly advised to steer clear of White’s for the present.’ He regarded the glowing liquid in his glass with deceptive casualness. ‘Could make things a trifle awkward, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Of course it will be awkward … devilish awkward, drat the man! Bad enough having him here at all. Bound to set tongues clacking. Bringing the child out is his responsibility, after all, as I didn’t scruple to tell him. Sent for him last week ‒ told him … living in rooms when there’s that great house in Grosvenor Square standing empty …’

  ‘I bet he loved you for your frankness,’ drawled Mr Anstruther. ‘Shouldn’t think he can afford to open that place up, let alone accomplish his daughter’s debut.’

  ‘So he informed me, without so much as a blush! Just treated me to that infernally charming smile of his and declared that he could hardly be expected to carry the affair off satisfactorily without the support of his wife and that the child would in any case do much better with me. Incorrigible rogue! He knew well enough that I’d already half-promised Lady Camden …’ She met her nephew’s look with a certain wryness. ‘Ah, well ‒ Elinor’s a poor sort of creature … always ailing, y’know … though what with Camden’s profligate ways and a brood of young Mertons ‒ all gels ‒ to rear with little real expectation of establishing them half-way creditably, not to mention her only son, killed at Vittoria, I doubt she’s had much joy of her life!’ Lady Wigmore sniffed. ‘Suspected how it would be, mind, the day I stood godmother to young Cecily. Incredible that the child is now eighteen. Should’ve kept in touch more, I suppose, but they never came to town, and you know I’m not much of a one for travelling …’ Guilt was very much in evidence as she added, ‘Still time to make up for that a bit now, eh?’

  Mr Anstruther was filled with deep foreboding. ‘Do you think that quite wise, Aunt Constance? If you’ll be guided by me, you’d much better not get involved.’

  ‘I ain’t interested in your opinions, lad.’ Lady Wigmore’s chins quivered with indignation. ‘Mercy on us, I had not thought you were grown so cynical and uncaring!’ Another baleful glance directed at his boutonnière spoke volumes. ‘Of course I must do what I can for young Cecily! My only hope is that she’ll take.’ She sighed, and became brisk again. ‘No use being mealy-mouthed about it, Marcus ‒ the child must marry money, and quickly. And that, my boy, is where you come in.’

  Mr Anstruther choked on his Madeira and turned pale. ‘You don’t want me to offer for her?’

  Lady Wigmore chuckled; to his over-sensitive ears it was a fiendish sound. ‘If I thought there was the least possibility of your attending me, I might make a push to secure your interest; Lord knows, you’ve been the ripest plum on the marriage mart these years past! But I hope I know better than to waste time pursuing vain causes!’

  He set his glass down on the little japanned table at his elbow, relief finding expression in a fleeting grin. ‘Jeunes filles have never been my style, you see,’ he pleaded in mitigation.

  ‘So I am led to believe!’ Her ladyship’s voice was dry. And then, as if overcome by curiosity, ‘D’you care for no one, Marcus?’

  There was a moment of silence. ‘I am, I trust, a dutiful and affectionate son to my parents,’ he said politely. ‘And I am prodigiously fond of you, dear Aunt, as you must be aware …’

  ‘Don’t be obtuse with me, boy! You know well enough what I mean.’

  ‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘But I was rather hoping to avoid an inquisition.’

  ‘Which is a polite way of telling me to mind my own business, eh?’

  His eyes kindled. ‘I hope I shall not be obliged to put it so crudely, Aunt Constance. The fact is, I have but recently survived a prolonged and emotionally charged interview with Mama upon a similar theme. She longs to see me married with a brood of little Anstruthers about my feet.’ A faint, but unmistakable shudder ran through him. ‘As if my sister’s three were not enough to satisfy her!’

  ‘Good Lord! Has Hester three, now? Still, you will have to marry one day. Your father won’t live forever, y’know. And you don’t want to end up like Wigmore ‒ with some obscure little pip-squeak for heir.’ Casually she added, ‘Should’ve thought there were any number of eligible females eager to pick up the handkerchief an’ you dropped it?’

  ‘There are,’ he said ‒ and there was an unfamiliar hardness in his voice that warned her to proceed no further.

  ‘Anyhow,’ she said, ‘I ain’t asking you to court Cecily! Just to single her out a little … give us your escort to a function or two … Almack’s, that sort of thing. You’ll know the way of it.’ Again the chuckle. ‘They tell me your approbation carries as much weight as George Brummell’s these days!’ And when he made no immediate reply, but sat smoothing the sofa’s bamboo frame absent-mindedly with a well-shaped thumb, ‘Lord, Marcus ‒ it’s not a lot to ask of you and it could make all the difference in the world to that poor girl’s chances. Oh, and should you chance to number among your circle of acquaintances some young man of wealth and breeding who’s hanging out for a wife, I’d be vastly obliged if you would steer him in Cecily’s direction. After all, whatever may be her short-comings, one cannot quarrel with her breeding, and if she’s taken after her mama, which seems very likely, for girls most often do, she will make the most amenable of wives!’

  And if she had taken after her papa? As a supposition it seemed equally likely to Mr Anstruther’s way of thinking, but he did not venture to air his thoughts, having no wish to prolong further a topic which was fast becoming tedious. He therefore agreed, amid the vaguest pleasantries he could muster w
ith sincerity, that Aunt Constance had but to let him know when Lady Cecily arrived and he would do the necessary. He did not voice a further profound aspiration that the girl would not prove to be too boring, gauche, and provincial, for he could feel no real conviction of its being realised. Instead, as was his invariable practice when faced with anything of a disagreeable nature, he promptly put the matter from his mind.

  Several weeks later, he returned from a pleasant and profitable visit to Newmarket to find a blistering note from Aunt Constance awaiting him. The time had come to redeem his rash promise; indeed, he had already been looked for in vain, it seemed. If, his aunt’s missive had concluded in her most trenchant tones, he could spare a few moments from his pressing round of engagements, she would very much appreciate his attendance at the small introductory soirée she was to give for Lady Cecily Merton that very evening. His plans had been very much otherwise, for he had been curious to discover to what extent his absence had affected Rosanne Devine. If he had not mistaken the matter, she had been much put out by his unexpected departure for Newmarket. A promise was a promise, however, and an hour’s stay at his aunt’s should more than suffice to set his mark of approval upon the unknown godchild.

  But from one cause and another it was late when Mr Anstruther arrived in Portland Place, and to his surprise he was obliged to leave his carriage some distance away and walk through a crush of vehicles to his destination. In the lofty vestibule he surrendered his high-crowned hat and his gold crutch cane to one waiting footman and his cloak to another, before making his way down the half-dozen steps leading to the tessellated marble hall, banked upon all sides for the occasion with a profusion of fragrant spring flowers set among potted palms.

  Here he was met by Bunting, who greeted him with a shade more of enthusiasm than he was wont to permit himself.

  ‘A small soirée, Bunting?’ observed Mr Anstruther, one eyebrow lifting imperceptibly.

  ‘It is most gratifying, sir. The number of acceptances was much greater than her ladyship had anticipated ‒ the Season not being fully underway as yet.’ The butler gave a discreet little cough. ‘May I be permitted to say, sir, that her ladyship will be very happy to know that you are come. We have been looking for you these several days past.’