Cecilia Grant - [Blackshear Family 03]

by A Woman Entangled

  One thing to be said for growing up with an actress mother: a girl learned how to make a memorable curtsy. Kate sank straight down, dropping her eyelids and allowing the slightest inclination of her head, a blushing ingenue whose Ophelia had just stolen the show from Hamlet and the others. She could not hope to be grand enough for this room, with its imposing walls of red and gold climbing up and up to a coffered, decorated ceiling, but she could at least be the more striking in her simplicity.

  She’d chosen her airiest muslin today, an unpatterned ivory whose tissue-light outermost layer followed her through the curtsy with tiny delays and hesitations, like a double handful of swansdown making its way to earth. When she rose, the lady seated on the sofa nearest the hearth—by age and bearing, almost certainly Lady Harringdon—was eyeing her with a faint smile of approval.

  “She’s pretty. What did your man give for her name?” This was a much older lady, in peacock colors with a turban, occupying a chair at the countess’s left and peering at Kate through a quizzing glass. The youngest of the callers—seated on a sofa opposite Lady Harringdon’s with a woman of the right age to be her mother—threw a smile to the new arrival, a certain rueful spark in her eye suggesting that she, too, had heard her person evaluated at a volume not so confidential as the speaker supposed.

  Likely this visitor hadn’t been called pretty. Her chin had a receding tendency and her forehead was overhigh. The smile bespoke an agreeable disposition, however, as well as suggesting the reconciliation to a want of beauty that one so often found in girls whom Nature had not conspicuously blessed.

  Pity. If they’d met at Miss Lowell’s, Kate would have seen to it that the girl made the most of those lively eyes. She’d prescribe the wearing of blue in proximity to the face, to begin. A rearrangement of the hair, allowing curls to fall across the forehead, would bring a better proportion to her features and almost entirely overshadow that shortcoming of chin.

  But this was not her errand here, and her attention must rather go to her aunt.

  “Miss Westbrook is her name,” the countess repeated to the turbaned lady, who frowned and moved her glass from one eye to the other.

  “Westbrook.” She studied Kate fiercely. “Is she one of Richard’s girls?”

  “No, she’s a Miss Westbrook who hasn’t visited here before. Come and sit down, dear.” Lady Harringdon patted the empty place beside her. “Miss Smith was just preparing to give us an amusing account of last Sunday, when Sir George Bigby took her driving in Hyde Park.”

  Miss Smith, the lady of faint chin, leaned a bit forward, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, I cannot promise the story will be amusing—”

  “No, it will. I insist upon it.” Lady Harringdon delivered this edict in apparent earnestness, pointing at Miss Smith with her closed fan. “Miss Westbrook, it’s my pleasure today to make you known to Mrs. Smith and Miss Smith, of South Audley Street, as well as to her ladyship the dowager countess of Harringdon.”

  Kate nearly stumbled as she took her place on the sofa. The lady with the quizzing glass was Papa’s mother, and her own grandmother. Had it not occurred to her, when the young lady in ivory muslin proved not to be a daughter of Richard, that she might be a daughter of Charles?

  Did she even know Charles had children? They hadn’t spoken in many years, but it was the sort of thing Kate had always assumed a mother would want to know.

  For the entirety of Miss Smith’s tale—which, as she’d warned, did not prove amusing, the only twist in the narrative occurring when one of the horses halted to munch on a shrub on the side of the road and then showed a disinclination to move again—she stole sideways glances at the two ladies Harringdon. The countess, she could now see, had a small red-and-white spaniel on her lap and was using her fan to direct a gentle breeze upon the creature as she listened, all gratifying attention, to Miss Smith. She even laughed once or twice, with an unfeigned enjoyment that could be accounted for only by the fact that she’d resolved in advance to find the story amusing.

  The dowager listened, too, the furrows in her brow deepening when Lady Harringdon laughed. “I fear I missed the joke,” she leaned over to murmur, loudly, when Miss Smith’s silence indicated there was no more story to come. “Was it to do with the horses, or with the gentleman himself?”

  “There wasn’t a joke, precisely.” Lady Harringdon sent a kindly smile to Miss Smith, as if to reassure her that her tale had been a success. “Rather there was a general air of mishap attending the outing from start to finish. The humor was cumulative in nature, one might say. And so, Miss Smith.” She plied her fan for a dramatic few beats, causing several of the spaniel’s silky hairs to lift and fall again. “Having now spoken with Sir George at Lady Stapleton’s ball, this drive of which you’ve told us, and, if I recall correctly, a pair of morning calls, what are your impressions of the man? Has he any qualities that particularly recommend him to a young lady’s affections?”

  In among Miss Smith’s tactful answers, and the remarks of everyone else, a few things became clear. First, that Sir George was too old for a lady of Miss Smith’s years: references to his being “worthy,” “wise,” and “distinguished” left little doubt of that. Second, that Mrs. Smith believed it an advantageous match.

  And third, and most pertinent to Kate’s errand here, was the fact that she’d guessed rightly at her aunt’s fondness for matchmaking. Lady Harringdon entered into the matter of Sir George with all the authority of a woman who’d married off six daughters, one of them to a duke, and also with an obvious concern for the happiness of Miss Smith. If Kate was reading the situation correctly, the countess thought the man no great prospect for a young lady and meant to sow doubt among both Smith women as to the merits of the match.

  Whether the dowager had any opinions on the subject, Kate could not say. The elder lady seemed often to not be following the conversation, despite her sedulous use of the quizzing glass. Once or twice she looked as though she was not altogether sure of who these people were, and how they’d come to be in her parlor. Which was no longer her parlor, after all, but Lady Harringdon’s.

  Sorrow stole in among Kate’s thoughts like a blanket of fog. Papa, not having spoken to any of his family in so long, would have no way of knowing his mother had grown so frail. Maybe he wouldn’t care by now. The dowager countess’s confusion over the name Westbrook took on a new poignancy, too. What if the memory of her second son had faded away altogether?

  “What would you say, Miss Westbrook?” Lady Harringdon’s voice broke suddenly into her melancholy reverie.

  Kate marshaled her attention on her aunt, groping for the most recent thread of discussion. This was why she’d come here. She had a clear purpose. Sentiment might lie somewhere behind that purpose, but she must not let sentiment deflect her from her course.

  The countess had turned her head to speak, ending with an inquisitive tilt. She had a long, elegant neck, and one could easily imagine her perfecting this move before her dressing-table mirror in younger days. “Can a young lady be satisfied with a distinguished gentleman who is no capable whip?” her aunt went on. “Or do you demand a fellow whose skill with the ribbons must turn every lady’s head in envy when he takes you for a drive?”

  Now came her chance to impress Lady Harringdon with her good sense; that was to say, with her endorsement of the countess’s opinions. She tilted her head in imitation of her aunt’s posture—she, too, had a neck worth showing off, and a mirror to practice before—and pursed her lips, to look thoughtful. “Speaking only in the abstract, because I would not presume to venture an opinion on any person I haven’t met, I must say I do give some weight to a gentleman’s competence with the reins. Of course his character, his respectability, his conduct in society are all more important signifiers of his worth than whether he can drive four-in-hand.” This for the benefit of Mrs. Smith, whose face had grown increasingly grave as Lady Harringdon had discounted the merits of Sir George.

  She paused for breath, and a
lso to let her listeners know a shift in tone was coming. “I cannot help wondering about a gentleman’s diligence, however; about his capacity for application, when I hear he hasn’t mastered one of these common masculine pursuits. Particularly in the case of an older man, who would have had ample time, one presumes, to practice. Any man, whether he begins with a natural talent or not, can become a competent driver with enough practice. Or so I’ve always believed.” She turned her hands palm up where they lay in her lap, a kind of shrug in miniature. “Again, I intend no reference to the recent example. A single incident of horses straying into the shrubbery tells us nothing, I’m sure. I don’t doubt such mishaps occasionally befall even the most expert and experienced of drivers.”

  Thus did she neatly rake the soil over Lady Harringdon’s sown doubts, and sprinkle a little water as well. Though if she were to hazard a guess, she’d say Miss Smith had already cultivated doubts of her own. The young lady was working to contain a smile, the glint in her eye suggesting she knew exactly what the countess and Miss Westbrook had been about.

  “A girl with her beauty can afford to be particular about men.” The dowager studied Kate through her glass, and apparently meant this observation for Lady Harringdon, though it carried to everyone in the room. “The other sort might not have that luxury.”

  Miss Smith lost the battle with her smile, and had to duck her head and feign an urgent interest in straightening her gloves. Really, there was no reason on earth for a lady with such merry spirits, and such fine eyes, to throw herself away on a stolid old man who didn’t even know how to handle a horse. Someone ought to cut her hair and put her in a smart blue spencer, without delay.

  “You speak well, Miss Westbrook.” The countess, though not equipped with a glass, was considering her with a jewel buyer’s shrewd gaze.

  She bowed her head to accept the compliment. She had expressed her opinion rather artfully, if she did say so herself. Mr. Blackshear in his wig and robes could scarcely have done better. If he came to dinner tomorrow she would tell him all about it.

  He probably wouldn’t come, though. Just when she’d been hopeful of repairing the damage done by their careless tongues the night before, that impertinent Miss Watson had broached the topic of his brother’s marriage, bold as could be. Kate had felt his mortification as though it had been her own. She’d like to assure him that Viola and Sebastian had paid little heed to the conversation and missed overhearing the damning part, but she had a feeling he’d rather she not speak of it at all.

  And she oughtn’t to be frittering away even a moment of her first call in Harringdon House by thinking distracted thoughts of Mr. Blackshear. Here was her aunt, eyeing her in a way that very much suggested she was imagining the impression Kate would make in a ton ballroom. Perhaps reflecting, as well, on how delightful it would be to screen out suitors for a lady who might attract them like bees to a blossom, once she was granted the proper patronage.

  “Well, Miss Smith, and Mrs. Smith.” That quickly, Lady Harringdon’s attention had gone elsewhere. “I think the best thing for Sir George would be a rival or two. Do you know whether he’ll be at Lady Astley’s rout on Tuesday?”

  Lady Astley! Kate’s pulse thrummed at the mention, and a veritable crater of yearning opened up in the middle of her chest. That this name, of all names, should be brought up here, so soon after its appearance in Westbrook dinner table conversation, seemed so fortuitous as to possibly indicate the machinations of fate. Surely she was meant to go to this rout. Indeed perhaps that had been the plan taking shape in Lady Harringdon’s mind, while she scrutinized her, and that explained her suddenly addressing the Smith ladies on this subject.

  A bit was said about Sir George, whose attendance appeared to be in doubt, and a bit about Lady Astley’s excellent table, and her obliging habit of inviting only as many people as would fit comfortably in the Cranbourne House ballroom and the adjacent room where cards were played. But before anything could be said of including Miss Westbrook in the party, a clock chimed, and Mrs. and Miss Smith rose to take their leave.

  The dowager countess made to rise, too, slowly and with visible effort. Kate was on her feet and one step toward her grandmother before she caught herself. That wouldn’t be done, in this house. It wouldn’t be a young lady caller’s place to help the dowager stand.

  And indeed there were men coming in now for the purpose, and Lady Harringdon was touching the dowager’s wrist. “Stay just a moment, your ladyship.” The countess spoke kindly, gesturing toward the door. “Do you see, here is Lord Harringdon come to help you from your chair and to your room.”

  “Lord Harringdon. Very good.” The dowager settled back down into her chair. She appeared a little unsure of who Lord Harringdon was. Even when he came to her chair, he at one side and a footman at the other, nothing passed on the old woman’s face that would suggest she was looking at her son. So maybe Papa wasn’t the only one who had lost the acquaintance of his mother.

  Kate stood and waited, since the Smith ladies were doing so, for the dowager to precede them from the room. Once, the earl’s glance connected with hers and he nodded. She dipped her chin and averted her eyes, suddenly shy of watching him support this unsteady parent who must have carried him about in her arms when he was small.

  “Miss Westbrook, you will stay a bit longer, if you please.” Lady Harringdon’s quiet command recalled her to herself, and to her mission here. “You may be seated.”

  She sat. She and the countess would speak privately now. She must shake off the cobwebs of sentiment and have all her wits at the ready.

  Mrs. and Miss Smith said their good-byes and made their exit through the double doors, Lady Harringdon nodding after them as they went. “Lovely girl,” she said once they’d passed out of hearing. “A temperament beyond anything. It’s a pity she isn’t better looking.”

  For half an instant Kate was taken aback. But really, hadn’t she herself made a similar judgment on Miss Smith’s appearance, and lingered over the faults of her chin and forehead? She couldn’t very well be appalled at her aunt for harboring like opinions and voicing them in private.

  She, too, pointed her chin in the direction the Smiths had gone. “She has remarkably fine eyes.” Three years at Miss Lowell’s had made her fluent in this sort of discourse. The trick was to tread a tightrope, neither indulging in unbecoming criticism of another lady, nor seeming to reproach the other speaker for doing so. “And her manner, as your ladyship observes, is altogether congenial.”

  “Too congenial, if we’re to be frank. She may think she’s being kind to Sir George Bigby, but I’ll wager he takes her good nature for personal encouragement. He’ll be the more disappointed when she finally refuses him.” She snapped her fan shut and let it dangle from her wrist, hoisting up the spaniel to direct her words to its indignant face. “Besides, her kindness teaches him to overestimate his own charms, and now he’ll set his sights too high with the next young lady he courts. Ladies owe it to other ladies to help gentlemen to a more accurate valuation.” She set the spaniel down. “Wouldn’t you say so, Miss Westbrook?”

  “I think I must defer to your ladyship’s wisdom.” A modest smile here, accompanied by a modest casting of her eyes toward the carpet. That the topic had moved so quickly to courtship was a very good sign. “Your success in matrimony, both in your own marriage and in the excellent matches of all your daughters, speaks for itself.”

  “You flatter me now. But you do so with a respectable amount of skill.” Unaffected good humor lit her eyes. “What of you, my dear? How does so beautiful and well-mannered a young lady come to be yet unmarried? Never tell me you haven’t had offers.”

  She hadn’t, in fact. It was a point of pride. She always watched out for any serious tendency in a man’s attentions, and moved swiftly to discourage him before he could say or do such things as he might later have to remember with mortification.

  This, Lady Harringdon didn’t need to know. “I’m conscious of my Westbrook blood
, and what is due to it.” She held her head a little higher and felt her voice resonate under her ribs. “I had rather not marry at all than marry a person unworthy of my antecedents.”

  “A pity your father wasn’t of like mind.” The countess answered without hesitation. “Recall that only half your antecedents can be traced through him. The other half, we needn’t speak of but to acknowledge that they render impossible any match worthy of the Westbrook name. A pity, as I said.” She shook her head, all genteel regret. “You’d have been the diamond of your Season.”

  Kate sat perfectly still. She would not let her composure falter, for all that her aunt’s speech hit her like a pail of cold water dumped over her head.

  She’d been foolish. She’d been too sure of herself. Her overconfident imagination had credited Lady Harringdon with every plan and motive most flattering to herself, when she’d had not a scrap of evidence to support those fancies. Mr. Blackshear had warned her she was building cloud castles, and Mr. Blackshear had been right.

  Deep within her, the very kernel of her pride rebelled. She hadn’t planned so long for this chance only to admit defeat at the first reversal. If her cloud castles wouldn’t support her, she would build the slower, more solid kind, one brick at a time.

  “Without doubt life would be easier if I cared nothing for my better connections. To choose at every juncture the conduct and manners one knows to be right, brings little reward when society’s perception of a lady begins and ends with the fact of her mother’s having come from a family of actors.” She lifted a shoulder, to show how utterly used to the condition she’d grown. “One does at least escape the vice of self-pity, encountering so ready a supply of it from other people—from other ladies, I should say. Gentlemen aren’t so solicitous.”

  Gentlemen find nothing to pity in me. Let that truth ripple out in silence until it washed up against the William Kent walls. If she lagged behind her Westbrook cousins in every other worldly measure, she would cling the more ferociously to the one advantage she possessed. She knew very well, as must Lady Harringdon, that no daughter of this house had ever been called the diamond of her Season.