In a moment the innkeeper’s supple back bent double again; he threw out his fat hands and stammered a hundred apologies.
“Lady Sunderland did not look for your ladyship until to-morrow,” he sputtered, hurrying on ahead, while Lady Clancarty followed, with her chin still scornfully elevated, her two weary and dishevelled women behind her. “The countess will be rejoiced—we are all rejoiced, your ladyship; the storm was so heavy, the roads so fearful, we scarcely dared to hope that your carriage would reach Newmarket to-night,” continued the host, all smiles again, rubbing his hands and flourishing before her ladyship.
But Lady Betty walked on in silence, scarce glancing at him as he opened a door and, with many flourishes and bows, announced her at the threshold and stood aside, still bowing, to let her pass into a large, well-lighted room, where a bright fire burned upon the hearth, great logs ablaze upon the high, polished brass andirons. The dark wood floor was polished too, reflecting the blaze, and in a great chair by the fire sat a woman past middle age, yet showing little of her years, and dressed in the extreme affectation of a youthful fashion, a petticoat of white brocade, which was short in front to show her feet in white and gold pantoffles, and a bodice and overdress of peachblow satin; a face that had been handsome and was now much rouged, the eyes brightened by dark rings beneath them, while her hair—or her periwig—was frizzed full at the sides after a fashion much in vogue in the time of Charles the Second. Her throat was covered with jewels, and her hands and arms; on either side of her stood two young men of fashion, beaux of Newmarket, in gay velvet coats and ruffles of lace, and long curled and scented French periwigs, white satin breeches and silk stockings, and slippers with high red heels, then much in favor at Versailles.
It was a group that amused Lady Clancarty,—the great lady and her two youthful admirers, for Betty knew her mother well. They in their turn stared a little at the traveller’s unexpected advent, and for a moment no one spoke. There was a strange contrast between the painted and bejewelled countess and her daughter: Lady Clancarty wore a long, dark riding-coat with capes, her full skirts trailing below the coat, and her hat—a large one with plumes—set over her brows. The cool damp night air had brought the freshness of a rose to her cheeks and her eyes sparkled as she viewed the party by the fire, and made her mother a courtesy.
“I have been in the deluge, madam,” she said gayly. “Faith! I had expected to be drowned, but lo! our ark landed here, and here am I—a dove with an olive branch, in fact—for I come with kind messages from Althorpe for your ladyship.”
“My dear Betty,” said Lady Sunderland, recovering from her amazement, “I am delighted; come and kiss me, my love, and here—my Lord Savile and Mr. Benham, this is my daughter, Lady Elizabeth Spencer.”
The young men bowed profoundly, Lord Savile’s bold eyes on Lady Betty’s face, for he saw it flush with sudden indignation.
“My mother’s memory plays her false,” she said coldly, scarcely acknowledging their greetings; “I am the Countess of Clancarty.”
Lady Sunderland laughed angrily but pretended to be merry.
“The child is foolish about a trifle,” she said, winking behind her fan at young Savile. “We can afford to humor her whims, my lord; we will call her Lady Clancarty.”