by Leah Conolly
“My dear, I only want to remind you who is attending. Many eligible young ladies will be coming, and it is high time you found a wife,” Priscilla persisted. “Why, only this morning I received a note from Lady Felicia Dodsworth. It said that she and the earl will be coming, along with their three daughters. Surely you remember the earl and his wife?”
“I have not the slightest recollection or care for the earl, Mother. As I have tried to tell you countless times, I am not inclined towards courtship or marriage.”
“And, oh yes, Lady Wessel with her two daughters and son will be in attendance,” his mother went on, as if she had not even heard him. “It is a pity the younger of her daughters is so shy, for she could have men flocking to her if she were more outgoing. The older sister makes up for her reticence with good spirits, although she is admittedly not as pretty. Many other young ladies might catch your fancy if you only give them a chance.”
“Mother, please!” Christopher interrupted, his brown eyes flashing. He was tired of her babbling. “I do not want to attend. Lord Clarkson knows I wish him all the best on his birthday, but I have no need to attend every lavish event you put on. I want to be left alone. I cannot bear to sit through another one of your tiresome dinners, surrounded by titled fools and preposterous businessmen. It is all vanity and deceit.”
His mother looked at him in horror. One might think he was holding the head of a decapitated buck in the middle of her parlor, dripping gore all over the rugs. He rolled his eyes. Her dramatics were wearing on his nerves.
“How can you say such a thing?” She went to her husband and grabbed his arm as if for support. Lord Clarkson also rolled his eyes, but he was stuck with the woman of his own volition. He patted her hand half-heartedly.
“They all insist on asking me what I am going to do with my life and think it their duty to give me advice. They say I should start a business venture, as if writing were not a worthy use of my time. Or they tell me I must marry a well-off lady to increase our family wealth. As if we were not wealthy enough already. No,” he shook his head. “If I am to increase my wealth, it will be through my own pursuits. Many peers have become acclaimed writers. Why shouldn’t I?”
His mother huffed at him in exasperation. “How many works have you sold? No one wants to read the high-minded ramblings of a philosopher these days. You should turn your hand to fiction, romance. You would have a much broader readership.”
“Sell my soul to the devil? Never!” Christopher said, slicing the air with his hand. He straightened to his full height, a towering six feet, two inches. “I write what I write because it has meaning and substance. Your romance novels do nothing but numb the brain and turn silly girls into even sillier women.”
“That is why people say you are rude, my dear. You cannot be so blunt,” his mother rose and came to his side. Before she could grab his hand, he backed away from her.
“I don’t care if they think I’m rude. I will not be drawn into their manipulative games,” he retorted. He started to leave the room, tired of her prodding.
“Please, I beg you to reconsider. How will it look if you are not at your own stepfather’s birthday celebration? If you won’t come for my sake, then at least come for his. I know you two have become close over the years. Tell him, Victor,” his mother pleaded, trying to pull her husband into the argument.
“Let the boy alone, Priscilla. If he does not want to attend, you cannot force him,” Victor said, nodding at his stepson. Christopher had always appreciated that Victor had not tried to assert any authority over him. He had never attempted to replace Christopher’s father, and, in his own time, Christopher had willingly accepted Victor into his life. He saw him as an ally against his mother’s railings.
Christopher left the room without another word, retiring to the sanctuary of his study. He sat down at his desk with a sigh. His mother had become very overbearing after his father had passed away. His father, an Italian noble, had always hated England, with its near-constant rain and dull ruling class. He had been a good father to Christopher, however, taking him to his home country many times before his death when Christopher was sixteen. Ever since that day, Christopher had been forced to deal with the brunt of his mother’s idiosyncrasies.
Her overbearing nature drove people to dislike her, fear her, or love her. She was a force of nature. It made him laugh sometimes, watching how she felt the need to order everyone’s lives. It had also become an increasing burden to him over the last few years, and her constant badgering had made him short-tempered. He wondered if she was becoming senile, often repeating stories and introducing him to people he had already met. Or was she just too focused on herself and her own selfish desires to remember?
He looked at his reflection in the mirror hanging to his right. He had inherited his father’s dark complexion and brown eyes, as well as his thirst for knowledge. How his father and mother had been matched was a mystery that Christopher would never understand.
“Christopher?” his mother peeked her head around the door. He sighed and covered his face with his hand.
“What is it, Mother?” he asked, exasperated. She was not going to give up until he agreed to attend the birthday celebration.
She came into the room, mistaking his question for an invitation. He stood, ready to resume the fight.
“I wish you would reconsider. I know that Victor does not seem as though he would be hurt by your not attending, but I know him better than you do. It would crush him. Please, can’t you come, for his sake?” His mother clasped her hands in front of her heart as if she were pleading for her life rather than a silly party.
He sighed. He knew his stepfather better than his mother did. How could a woman be so blind? But she was right about one thing. Victor would want him there, if only as an ally. Victor often found her parties dull, as well. Sometimes the pair of them even hid from their guests, retiring to the private smoking room for a drink and a quiet game of chess.
“Very well. If you think it means that much to him,” he said, finally relenting, if only to be rid of her, so he could have some peace and quiet.
“Oh, thank you, my boy!” she said. She turned and readied to leave, “I know he will be forever grateful to you.” She left the room in a flurry, and Christopher closed his eyes, relishing the quiet. He went back around his desk, staring at the blank page of his new manuscript. He growled in frustration.
“Perhaps I should marry and be done with it, just so Mother will leave me alone,” he whispered to himself. But he was not one to marry for advantage. Nor even for love. He was much too level-headed for that. “No, I shall never marry.” He said, louder this time. His one passion was writing, and that was how it always would be.
***
On the night of the party, Christopher arrived as late as was possible without appearing rude. The birthday celebration was being held at Vauxhall Gardens, a favorite party venue. He detested playing the host, greeting everyone as they filed into the gardens. He had waited until almost everyone arrived, and then made his appearance, hiding among the guests streaming into the venue. He was not able to hide for long. His mother soon spotted him in a lonely corner near a copse of trees. She took his arm and began introducing him to every single one of the guests, even the ones he had met before.
“My dear, you remember Lord and Lady Rushton, don’t you?” she asked, her smile reaching almost to her ears. They had a daughter if he remembered correctly.
“Yes, Mother. You’ve introduced us about twelve times already,” he said, bored out of his mind. He gave them a cold nod.
“Ahh, yes,” she continued, hardly pausing to draw breath, “Well, you know that they were with us last April, in Venice? At the opera?”
Christopher let her babble on. She had told the same story the last time she introduced them, and the time before that. He let his mind wander, thinking about the next step he needed to take on his manuscript. After fifteen minutes of his mother’s prattle, he excused himself, not wait
ing for her reply. He walked towards one of the footmen, motioning for him to bring him a glass of brandy.
He took a sip, but his mother did not leave him alone for long.
“Christopher, it was rude to walk off like that while I was in the middle of my story. I really think you should show more manners.”
But Christopher tuned her out, his eyes falling upon a young woman. Four or five young gentlemen were flocking around her near one of the fountains. She was stunning. Her blue eyes shone with excitement, and, for a moment, their eyes met. She blinked and turned her attention back to the gentleman who had been speaking to her.
“Who is that, Mother?” he asked, interrupting her tirade, and nodding his head at the young woman.
His mother stopped talking and followed his gaze. She looked back at him, no doubt shocked that he had even noticed the girl. “Her? That is Lady Lydia Baker. The little enchantress. No doubt, she is looking for a rich husband. Her family has fallen on hard times.”
He waved off his mother’s comment and decided to leave the party. He had had quite enough of “polite society” for one evening. He excused himself and started to leave, despite his mother’s protestations.
“You have many other people to occupy you, Mother. Besides, they are here to see Lord Clarkson, not me.”
“But my dear, you really should go and talk to Lord Witheby before you leave!”
Christopher did not stop. He wove his way through the plethora of guests, who were aimlessly milling about like so many ants. He could imagine them exchanging bits of useless gossip, antennas stuck out of their heads, poking the air around each other’s faces. The image made him laugh, but as he came around a hedgerow, he bumped into someone.
He growled as if it had been the other person’s fault and not his own. When he looked down, he saw that it was the girl he had pointed out to his mother. She stumbled backward, and he caught hold of her arm, so that she wouldn’t fall.
She raised her eyebrows, looking up into his face as if waiting for an apology. He let go of her arm and walked around her without offering one. He huffed.
“Spoiled brat,” he said under his breath as he strode out of the garden and into the shadows.
Chapter 2
“How rude!” Lydia said, giving a scowl behind her in the direction of the insolent young gentleman now striding away. Patricia, Lydia’s lifelong friend, gave a similar frown of disapproval.
“Indeed,” Patricia agreed.
“Wasn’t that Lady Clarkson’s son, Lord Beaumont?” Lydia asked as they walked back to where the festivities were taking place. Lydia had needed a respite from all the young gentlemen flocking around her. She had suggested that she and her friend, Patricia, take a short stroll around one of the fountains.
“Yes. He often comes into Father’s shop looking for obscure old books. I’ve always found him to be cold and bitter,” Patricia replied.
Lydia nodded, looking down at her feet as they walked back to the party. She disliked such men. They were rude without reason and treated everyone around them as if they were inferior.
“Come, we should rejoin Eleanor,” Lydia replied. They found Eleanor where they had left her in her wheelchair. The hosts of the party were talking to her, no doubt Lady Clarkson regaling her with another story. Despite their hostess’s overbearing manner, Eleanor liked her and listened to the stories with rapture. There was little else for a crippled young woman to do than listen to stories of other people’s ventures. Lydia felt a pang of guilt twist in her chest. It’s my fault, she thought. The same thought had plagued her ever since her sister’s accident.
She remembered coming back with help that fateful day. For a terrible moment, she had been afraid that her sister was dead. But when Eleanor had heard them coming, she turned her head slightly, closing her eyes in relief.
“Did you see Lord Beaumont leaving? He is certainly a strange young man. . .” Lydia heard the other guests whispering, as they neared Lord and Lady Clarkson and her sister.
“Well, good evening, Lady Lydia! I didn’t know you were here.”
Lydia turned to see one of her old friends, Cecelia Dever.
“Hello, Lady Cecelia. How are you?” she asked, smiling. Cecelia linked arms with her and took a conspiratorial tone.
“I am well. But you, how are you? I saw Lord Beaumont bump into you. What did he say?” she asked.
“Nothing. Not even an apology,” Lydia replied but went no further. She detested gossip. “How is your mother? You must both come to tea very soon.”
“She is well, thank you. Yes, we will do that,” Cecelia promised with a smile, before returning to her escort.
Lydia continued, speaking to various friends and acquaintances as they passed. She mixed well with people, comfortable in most circles. She glanced at her sister to check that all was well with her. She was still chattering away with Lord Clarkson. He had become somewhat of a father figure to her. It was one of the reasons why Eleanor had agreed to come with Lydia this evening.
“Ah, Lydia, my dear. There you are,” her aunt came up to her and joined their circle.
“Yes, Aunt. What is it?” Lydia asked.
“Have you been introduced to Lord Melbourne yet?” she asked, a mischievous glint in her eye.
Lydia perked one eyebrow. “Not yet. But there is really no need. His reputation more than precedes him. I would not marry him for all the gold in England.”
“Well, my dear, you must marry someone,” her aunt protested.
“I am well aware of that,” Lydia replied. “Let us talk no more of that tonight. We are here to celebrate Lord Clarkson’s birthday, not find me a husband.”
“A lady of your standing must take every opportunity presented to her,” her aunt said dryly.
Lydia laughed. “Now, Aunt. Stop that! I promise I will find a husband. One day. But I have some time yet. Now I must return to Eleanor’s side. I have left her alone long enough.”
She, Patricia, and her aunt joined Eleanor and Lord Clarkson. Lady Clarkson had taken her leave to regale someone else with her stories.
Lydia curtsied as they neared, “Lord Clarkson, happy birthday. And thank you for inviting us this evening.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine, of course,” he smiled. She liked Lord Clarkson. He was very different from his wife and stepson. What she knew of his stepson, anyway. She hoped she would not meet Lord Beaumont again. She detested arrogant, entitled people, especially noble ones.
“Lord Clarkson says I am looking better every time he sees me,” Eleanor chimed in.
“I have to agree with him there,” Lydia said. “You are growing stronger every day.”
“Perhaps I shall be able to dance at your next birthday. What do you say to that, Lord Clarkson?” Eleanor smiled.
“Well then, I will have to have the first dance with you, of course,” he said.
They chatted for a little while longer and then readied to take their leave. Lydia did not want Eleanor to exhaust herself, and it had already been a long day.
“Thank you again, Sir. It has been a lovely evening. Please say good night to Lady Clarkson for us,” Lydia said. If they waited to say goodbye to her, they would be there for another hour.
“I will,” he took her hand and kissed it and then did the same with Eleanor and her aunt. “Thank you for coming. You have made my birthday celebration one worth attending.”
Eleanor laughed and thanked him. Lydia went behind her sister’s wheelchair and pushed her through the garden at a leisurely pace. The sun had set, and lamps and candles had been lit all over the park. It was enchanting, like a magical fairy forest from one of their books.
“I am glad you decided to come with us, Eleanor. I think it has done you a world of good to get out of the house.”
“I agree. I wish we could come here every night. Then again, I suppose it would lose some of its charm after a while. Still, it has been a wonderful evening.” Eleanor sighed contentedly as they passed through the open
gates. Their carriage was waiting for them right outside. Lydia pushed the wheelchair as close to the door of the carriage as she could. She climbed in first, and then a footman picked Eleanor up and placed her on the seat beside Lydia. Her aunt climbed in last, and the footman closed the door.
“Do you think I will ever be able to walk again? To dance as I told Lord Clarkson?” Eleanor asked, as they drove slowly through the dark streets of London.
Lydia thought for a moment. She did not wish to give her sister false hope, but she also did not want to crush her dream.
“I don’t know. But if this last year has taught me anything, it’s that you are the strongest person I know. If you really put your mind to it and work as hard as you have the last few months, I wouldn’t be surprised if you do open the ball with Lord Clarkson at his next birthday celebration.” She grasped her sister’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
