The Stanbroke Girls

by Fiona Hill

  “Two chocolates,” agreed Emilia pleasantly, stirring the contents of the bowl with a delicate hand. The invitations rustled. She arranged a few of her own on top. “Twenty invitations this time, Jemmy,” she remarked brightly. “Only imagine, five lovely events! What fun, eh?”

  “Are you two planning to go on with this for a very, very long time?” the earl inquired acidly. “If so there are some papers in the library I was going over—”

  “No no. We are quite ready now,” Emilia broke in hastily. “My lord, will you do the honours?”

  Lord Weld covered his eyes with his left hand and plunged his right into the bowl. He drew out a pasteboard card and scanned it expertly. “Dinner, Lord Yarmouth. Wednesday at nine.”

  “Yarmouth! How do you come to know that reprobate?” demanded Emilia. “He’s the wickedest man in London, or so I hear.”

  Lord Marchmont merely winked at her and gave a smug smile. Warrington had come up with a second card.

  “Pic-nic, Lady Hassall. Hampstead Heath, it says. Oh! That’s tomorrow.”

  “That will be agreeable. I hope the weather holds,” murmured Emilia. “Miss Pye is sure to come; she is Cynthia Hassall’s dearest friend.”

  “Oh my, what a treat,” came from Marchmont.

  “Third card, Lord Trevor. Yes, another from Trevor. This one’s a ball. Goodness, a ball! They are giving those girls a push, aren’t they?”

  “When is it?” inquired Emilia. She was thinking what a good thing it was the Trevors’ ball had come up, but she was also wondering frantically how it could have happened that not one of her own invitations had surfaced yet. It must certainly be the next one, she assured herself.

  “Next week, Thursday,” Weld informed her, while Marchmont said unkindly, “It takes money to make money, my boy. What’s a couple of balls, compared to the chance of a couple of wealthy suitors?”

  “Do stop, Jemmy,” begged his sister. “You make it sound like some sort of…of industry.”

  “And so it is,” said he. “Marriage-making. Small investments, ladies and gents, possible high profits. Very genteel among the trades. Favoured by all the Quality.”

  “Please, Jemmy, you are about to be invited to my party,” said Emilia. But he was not.

  “Fourth card, recital by Mr. Braham and supper—oh my, very high style your friends keep,” remarked Lord Weld.

  “You mean—how can it be? Weld, why haven’t you chosen my card yet?” asked Lady Emilia, suddenly suspecting him of cheating somehow (though it was true he covered his eyes pretty thoroughly).

  Lord Weld looked at her. “Luck of the draw,” he shrugged.

  “Well, mind you pick it this time,” she warned. “This is the last one!”

  “Madam, I hope you do not imagine I could waver an inch from impartiality!” said he, shocked. “I am awfully sorry if things are not going your way, but—”

  “Live by the sword, die by the sword,” said Marchmont firmly to his sister. “Go ahead, old man—give them a good stir.”

  Lord Weld stirred vigorously as he finished reading: “Fourth card, recital and supper, Lady Mufftow, Friday week. Fifth card—” he went on, reaching in deeply. “Fifth card…is…”

  “It’s got to be mine!”

  “Fifth card is…” he repeated, hand still in the bowl.

  “Weld, pick a card!” ordered Marchmont, catching the suspense. “And it hasn’t got to be yours at all, Emilia. Remember, there were twenty to begin with.”

  “Yes, but twelve of them were—”

  “Yours!” shouted Lord Weld of a sudden. “It is yours, Lady Emilia. Isn’t it simply marvellous how these things come right in the end?”

  The suspense had nearly overcome her, but now that it was done Emilia realized things could not have turned out better. “Marvellous,” she agreed aloud, with a brilliant smile at her brother. “I just know you are going to enjoy that pic-nic tomorrow. Miss Pye was telling me the other day what a wonderful chat you and she had about her dear Mamma. She said you showed a great deal of insight! I was quite, quite pleased.” She stood and walked—strutted would be more accurate—to the door, where she bade the gentlemen adieu.

  “What is it called when you kill your sister?” asked Marchmont. “Fratricide? That doesn’t sound right.”

  “Murder,” suggested Weld.

  “Murder,” echoed the earl, standing. “Mmmmurder,” he pronounced, savouring it. He made his way to the door rather dreamily. “Murder. Yes. Murrrrderrr. I like the sound of that, Weld. Murder.”

  5

  Sir Jeffery de Guere was feeling in excellent twig. His new blue frock-coat suited him; the cool April evening suited him; the note he had just received from a certain Mrs. Butler suited him. He would dine at his club, he decided, as he climbed into his phaeton, then pay a visit to that new gaming-hell near Pall Mall…and perhaps, if his pocket was a little plumper when he left there than it was just now, perhaps Mrs. Butler would not be averse to seeing him when he left there. He was aware, as he started the horses, of a distinct sensation of well-being.

  His path to the club took him, as luck would have it, through Cavendish Square. There was a good deal of traffic in that neighbourhood, he noticed, and could not help but observe further, as he gained the Square itself, that the traffic was centred at the house of the Earl of Marchmont: his cousin’s house, in fact. This interested Jeffery. In his mood of bonhomie he could almost think of his kinsman with fondness, he discovered; and in a flood of cousinly emotion, he determined to stop in at number twenty-one Cavendish Square and give these relatives of his the advantage of his company. The fact of his purse being rather low at the moment, while the prices at his club were rather high, also weighed with him a little, it is true.

  Mr. Searle, the butler, received him with surprise. “I was not aware, sir,” he began, and stopped. He knew very well that Sir Jeffery had not been invited, and he could guess that he was not welcome either. What ought he to do? He decided to treat the call as if there had been no party in progress. “Shall I send your card up to Lord Marchmont, Sir Jeffery?”

  “That will not be necessary,” said the young visitor pleasantly. He removed his light cape with something of a flourish and looked about himself. “I daresay with this sort of a crowd one guest more or less will hardly matter.” He handed the cape and his hat and stick to the second parlour-maid and made as if to go upstairs. “You might tell the staff to lay an extra place.”

  “If you don’t mind, sir,” commenced Searle, but his attention was immediately diverted by the arrival of the Charles Stickneys. Sir Jeffery made use of the momentary diversion.

  “But I do mind,” he said quietly, and slipped up the staircase. Discovering the manoeuvre an instant afterwards, Searle sent a footman up to Lord Marchmont with the news of his cousin’s presence, but he knew it was too late to be of any use.

  “Damn him to hell,” Lady Emilia muttered from between tight lips as she caught a first glimpse of Jeffery. She had been standing by Marchmont greeting her guests, and her brother heard the malediction with a little ripple of surprise.

  “Dearest Emilia, you must not abuse those nasty words,” he began, bowing and smiling to Lord Mufftow, but then he too caught sight of de Guere, and revised his opinion. “On the other hand, what are nasty words for if not to be employed judiciously?” he murmured. He went forward hastily and grasped Jeffery rather roughly by the hand. “Well, well, old fellow! What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Happy to see me, are you?” said the genial cousin with a grin. “Emmy, you are a picture of springtime. You’d have made Thomas Gainsborough weep, indeed, you would.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any hope of persuading you to leave quietly,” she greeted him in return.

  “I like a girl whose head can’t be turned by flattery,” said he equably.

  “I don’t want you to be here. You are not invited,” said she.

  “But I am here. And I’d hate to leave! Don’t make me,” begge
d he charmingly.

  “I cannot make you leave,” was the sharp reply. “Not without a scene, as you perfectly well know.”

  “Then it’s settled!” he cried, looking about the room as if taking possession of it. His dark hair gleamed beautifully. “I’ll stay.”

  Emilia looked grimly to her brother. “Jemmy, say a few words like a good boy, will you?”

  Lord Marchmont obliged. “De Guere, if you cause the least little trouble tonight, if I hear of you vexing a single lady, or embarrassing one, I shall make you regret it, on my word. Do you understand?”

  “My dear coz,” replied the other, looking him straight in the eyes, “I’m afraid it is you who does not understand. I do not vex the ladies! Oh, no! Quite, quite, quite the contrary. Ladies simply adore me,” he explained, adding, “I see you’ve one or two delicious little bundles here tonight whom I’ve never seen before. I look forward to making their acquaintance.” He bowed briefly to Emilia again and began to move off.

  “Sir Jeffery,” her ladyship hissed, clutching at his sleeve to prevent his departure, “Lucilla Partridge is coming tonight.” She spoke in an intense undertone. “You are not to go near her, do you hear me? I will not have it, scene or no scene.”

  “My dear, you are asking a gourmet not to go near spoiled meat,” said he rather fastidiously. “The request is entirely superfluous.”

  “A gourmet!” she sputtered to his back as it disappeared into the growing crowd. “A gourmand, he should say. Or rather, a vulture. Spoiled meat is just his dish. And anyhow, what a thing to call a woman! And who spoiled her?” she demanded in conclusion, beside herself with rage.

  Lord Marchmont attempted to calm her as Lord and Lady Trevor were announced, followed immediately by Lord Halcot, the Stanbroke girls, and Amy Lewis. The handsome drawing-room at number twenty-one was now alive with the high hum of early-evening conversation. Clusters of guests tied themselves into elegant knots, as if by design, then slowly untangled and trailed away in beautiful, slow, ever-shifting patterns. A hundred candles lit their faces and caused their elegant silks and satins to glisten. As chance would have it—as fate, perhaps, would have it—one particularly high blaze of candlelight in a far corner of the room attracted the attention of Lady Isabella Stanbroke as she swept towards her hostess. That particular blaze revealed below it the gleaming hair and striking features of (has the reader anticipated Fate?) Sir Jeffery de Guere. In that moment poor Isabella’s heart was lost.

  The ordinary courtesies were passed between arriving guests and hospitable hosts. Lady Elizabeth looked into Lord Marchmont’s eyes and let her steady gaze rest there just a trifle longer, it may be, than was strictly necessary—but then, this was only her second opportunity of seeing the handsome earl, so perhaps it was natural she should look a little carefully. Lord Marchmont, for his part, had had no better opportunity of observing Lady Elizabeth than she had had of him, and so his equal return of her briefly arrested glance was, no doubt, only natural as well. It was really nothing out of the common. Bells did not ring, nor flames flare. As a matter of fact, barely two seconds later Lord Marchmont was discussing carriage-springs with the lady’s father, while the lady herself exchanged words with Emilia regarding the health of the King. What greater evidence could one desire? Here was no hero, nor any heroine to meet him. I daresay everyone is satisfied on the point.

  Lady Isabella on the other hand was fairly atremble. “Who can he be?” she breathed in a low voice to Amy, whose hand she clutched in a damp grasp, while the two of them wandered into the crowd.

  “Who can who be?”

  “But that…man!”

  “My dearest, what do you mean?”

  “Oh Amy, can it be you have not observed him? The tall, handsome gentleman in the corner, in the blue frock-coat. He is staring at us,” she insisted, of course striving mightily as she indicated the person in question to appear to be doing anything else in the world.

  “The one with the long chin?” asked the other.

  “How can you say it is long?” cried Isabella, though quietly. “Have you no heart at all? Oh, my dear, I am positively faint.”

  “Shall we go out for some air?” asked the innocent Amy. “Or, I am certain Lady Emilia will let you lie down in her room, since you feel unwell.”

  “Unwell? I don’t remember when I have felt so vigorous. I could not leave the room for a moment. Amy,” she repeated, “have you no heart?”

  To Isabella’s great sorrow and frustration, she was given no opportunity of meeting the marvel she so admired until well after dinner. That repast was announced within minutes of her arrival, and she found with despair that Lady Emilia meant her to sit between Sir John Firebrace and the distressingly jolly Mr. Charles Stickney, quite at the opposite end of the table to where the mysterious gentleman was placed. She could see that he too regretted the distance between them; indeed, she observed him trying to take a seat closer to her than had been given him, but Lord Marchmont prevented the move. Isabella did have time as they gathered round the table, however, to inquire of her hostess in a hasty whisper the identity of the young man.

  “Dear Lord, I hope you don’t mean Jeffery,” came the heartfelt reply. “If you mean the fellow next to Lady Mufftow—”

  “Yes!”

  “Forget him, I pray. There is a very particular reason why you must. He is—”

  “Is he married?”

  “No, but he is—”

  “Then it is all right,” sighed Bella.

  “Scarcely! I shall tell you in the drawing-room. Remind me,” said Lady Emilia, moving off to attend to other duties, but making a careful mental note to be sure to speak to Isabella after dinner. It would not do to let the poor girl suppose Jeffery was a suitable object for her affection. Unfortunately, her brief words of warning had had the contrary effect to the one she desired: Isabella, assured that the man was single, spent the greater part of dinner vowing to herself that no other difficulty could stand between her and this adorable Jeffery. (And what a sweet, solid sound that name had, now she thought of it! Jeffery!) Perhaps he is ill, she said to herself, and this is the reason Emilia warns me against him. Perhaps he is consumptive and has only a few years to live. No matter! I shall love him none the less; our love will be a bright, hot fire till the very last moment—and then I shall expire of a broken heart.

  But perhaps he is poor! she next considered. Well, that is of no moment. If Emilia thinks I should be stopped by such a circumstance, she knows me very little indeed (of course Emilia did know her very little indeed, having met her only once before, but this fact did not impede Lady Isabella’s indignation).

  Having dispensed with this, the dim thought occurred to her (but only very dimly indeed) that the paragon might be untitled. Perhaps he was even—oh, unspeakable possibility!—illegitimate. Lady Isabella paused in the midst of chewing a salmon croquette and struggled with the idea. After a moment she swallowed. It was no matter: she would stand by him still.

  Had she thought of every possible objection? She believed she had. She stole a glance at Jeffery (she had by now stolen quite a packet of them in fact) and felt her determination redouble. She had always known her destiny would find her one day. It had certainly declared itself clearly now: young Jeffery was looking back. When the ladies withdrew from the table, Isabella experienced a positive pang of grief at having to leave the neighbourhood of her beloved. She dragged listlessly into the drawing-room with the others, nor did life recover meaning until Lady Emilia sat down beside her and addressed the subject of Jeffery.

  “De Guere is his full name,” she said, with her beautiful, generous smile, “Sir Jeffery de Guere, and he is—though I say it myself, and he is a cousin of mine—the greatest beast in nature. I am glad you asked me about him, for I should not like to think of you wasting a minute on him.”

  A minute! My life! thought the loyal Isabella, but she said aloud only, “How exactly is he a beast? He does not look a beast.”

  “Oh, my dear
!” Lady Emilia took her small hands with her own, strong ivory ones. “He was not even invited here tonight. He simply came. Can you imagine the impudence?”

  Destiny! thought Bella.

  “And then—well, you are a deal too young for the particulars, but you must take it from me he is a dreadful, odious rake. That may sound dashing to you,” Emilia went on, for a vague intimation of the truth was beginning to come to her, “but all it means in fact is that he has caused a very great deal of pain and unhappiness to people who deserved it very little. And he is a gamester, too,” she added in an afterthought. “And not even a good one.”

  Isabella took this all in in silence. She made no response now save a nod of her pretty head. Lady Elizabeth had seated herself at the pianoforte and was playing a delicate, serious air by Handel: the lovely music made Bella’s head feel even lighter than it already did, and she regarded Emilia as through a mist of solemn joy. She felt as if God had been good to her: here she had been prepared for illness and poverty and low rank, when after all Jeffery’s only sins (and he was Sir Jeffery) were a little carelessness in love and at cards. These were light burdens, indeed. She said over the name to herself: Lady Isabella de Guere. It sounded very well.

  “Are you all right?” Emilia asked at length, for the girl beside her looked strange indeed. “Miss Lewis,” she called, “come and sit with us, will you not? I think your friend may be ill.”

  Amy Lewis joined them, pleased at all events to be released from the conversation of Miss Amabel Pye. She had been extremely glad to find the Misses Lemon were not among the company: it had been beginning to seem as if one could not go anywhere without meeting them, for they had been at the Opera the previous evening, and at the Lindsey’s the night before that. She sat down now on Bella’s other side and looked at her anxiously. “You do not feel faint again, I hope?”

  “Was she faint earlier?” asked Emilia, concerned.

  “Oh no,” said Isabella.

  “Yes, a little,” said Amy.