Chapter 28
Isobel was not the only one experiencing this strange feeling of lethargy. After the ball at Carlton House, Christian had found it difficult to put his mind and his energies toward anything. The truth of the matter was that he was finding it difficult to well nigh impossible to think about anything else except Isobel. Everything else in life seemed of little consequence compared to her and her happiness.
Was it simply because she had rejected his advances that he could think of nothing but the trembling of her slender body as he had held her or the brief moment when her lips had parted beneath his so invitingly? Surely he had not become as big a coxcomb as that? Even though he could not recall it, there must have been other women who had rebuffed him and he had not become obsessed with them.
He thought about her constantly and looked for her everywhere he went, picturing her in every tall, graceful young woman he saw in Bond Street. Naturally, the first thing he had done the day after the ball was to call in Manchester Street even though he felt relatively certain that he would not be received. The duc had looked askance at him when the de Montargis were poor exiles, he would undoubtedly refuse to speak to him at all, now that the de Montargis were on the verge of returning to their former exalted status. It had been no use. Every time he had called, both Isobel and her father had been out and, judging from the regretful expression on the stolid face of the servant who answered the door, they truly had not been at home. If he had not been so distressed, Christian might have wondered at the servant’s seeming change of heart as she encouraged him to try again, but he was oblivious to it.
He rode in the park regularly and though he had observed the Marchioness of Verwood’s barouche taking part in the slow procession of vehicles parading through the park, he had also noticed that the only other person who accompanied the marchioness was her sister.
Throwing his pride to the winds, Christian even took to haunting Saint Martin’s Street in the mornings in the hopes of catching Isobel as she went to her lessons at Signor Bartoli’s, but to no avail. The horrible premonition that she was preparing to depart, or had already departed for Prance, took possession of him and finally, driven by desperation, he accosted Lady Verwood in the park.
Dispensing with pleasantries, he plunged right to the point. “Mademoiselle de Montargis is ...”
“Gone to France, my lord.” Seeing the haunted look in Christian’s eyes, Emily also dispensed with pleasantries and gave him her answer as briefly and quickly as possible. “She and her father left with the rest of the court.” Emily watched as the grim expression on his face became even more bleak and she could have hugged herself with delight. So he did care after all. And, if she did not miss her mark, her friend Isobel’s distress at leaving had almost as much to do with leaving Lord Christian Hatherleigh as it had to do with parting from her singing teacher. Emily smiled sympathetically at the unhappy man in front of her. “However, I shall be delighted to furnish you with Isobel’s direction. I shall send my footman around with it as soon as I return home.” A sly twinkle crept into her eyes as she watched a dull flush creep over his lean, tanned cheeks.
“Thank you.” Without further comment, Christian left her as abruptly as he had appeared.
She had gone to Paris without a word to him. Could he have been mistaken in thinking that he meant something to her? Had he been wrong about the response he had felt in her body when he had kissed her, or the warmth in her eyes whenever she spoke to him? Surely she would not have been so angry at him for coming to the wrong conclusions about Auguste’s identity if he had not meant something to her. If she did not feel anything for him, she would simply have been indifferent to his interference in her life, and she had not been indifferent when she had broken away from his embrace at Carlton House—upset, yes; furious, certainly; but indifferent, no.
Lord Christian rode slowly back to Mount Street, his mind numb. He was completely bereft of energy or interest in anything except Isobel. Never in his life had he felt himself to be at such a loss as to what to do with himself. Wordlessly he handed Ajax over to the stable boys, failing, in his abstraction to give his usual final pat to the horse. He even failed to acknowledge Digby’s “You are home early, sir” as the batman took his curly brimmed beaver and his York tan riding gloves.
He entered the library, poked halfheartedly at the glowing coals, then strode over to stare blindly out the window at the street below. When he had first returned to London, Isobel and her quest to become the next Catalani had captured his interest. He had allowed their friendship and his attempts to further her career to keep his mind from facing the inevitable question of what he was going to do with his life now that Napoleon was beaten. He had discussed this topic with Isobel, but had not really given it serious thought. For a moment, the pleasure of her company and the anticipation of seeing her, talking with her, helping her, had made him feel alive and useful.
Now she was gone and he was faced with not only the ache of losing her, but with a vast empty future. He had fought to end the war and now, at last, it had ended. Where was he to look now for purpose and meaning in his life?
The question remained with him during the ensuing weeks as he numbly followed the routine of a London gentleman—boxing at Jackson’s, shooting at Manton’s, and trying to distract himself with deep play at Brooks’s until one afternoon at Tattersall’s as he idly strolled from one stall to the next a voice boomed in his ear. “Hatherleigh. Do not tell me you are seeking a replacement for the noble Ajax?”
Christian turned around to see the handsome face of Charles Stewart smiling at him. Delighted to see a fellow cavalry officer, Christian was about to launch into reminiscences about the Peninsula when he remembered that the last time he had seen Stewart it had been in Wellington’s headquarters in Torres Vedras where the commander in chief had been giving Stewart a severe dressing-down for his letters criticizing the campaign that had been appearing in the Morning Chronicle. Not even Wellington’s friendship with Stewart’s brother. Lord Castlereagh, had saved the hapless commander from his superior’s wrath. Glad to have caught himself just in time before he brought up an unfortunate memory, Christian responded, “So you still remember Ajax. I am happy to report that he is in prime twig, eating his head off, and in danger of becoming thoroughly bored with his peaceful existence. And you, what are you doing?”
“Taking the opportunity to feast my eyes on fine English cattle before I leave again for the Continent.”
“The Continent? That sounds intriguing, and certainly more enlivening than London.” Christian did not bother to hide his interest.
“Yes, Robert has asked me to help him in Vienna sorting out all those fellows who are wanting to divide up the spoils now that Bonaparte is safely out of the way.”
“You and your brother have your work cut out for you. Dealing with all the various ministers and potentates vying for power, each one more jealous of his influence than the next, is likely to be far more dangerous than leading a cavalry charge. Still, I envy you for you, at least, will be doing something.”
“These situations are always so fraught with intrigue that one is never really assured of accomplishing anything.”
The conversation then drifted to the horses on view for sale, but the encounter had given Christian the idea of offering his services to Stewart and his brother. Surely they could put him to some use in Vienna and it would take his mind off other things, such as Isobel de Montargis.
The ache of her absence had not lessened over time; in fact, it had increased, and he found himself thinking of her several times a day, wondering how she was adjusting to Paris, whether she had begun to enjoy court life or if she had simply resigned herself to it, if she was continuing with her singing. He had gotten so desperate that he had even sat down to write her several times, but found himself at a loss as to what to say. He wanted to apologize for angering her, but he was always stopped by the memory of the look in her eyes as she had broken away from him that night at
Carlton House. It had been a look of desperation, perhaps even of fear, and the question remained with him; was she afraid of him or of her feelings for him. He had tortured himself endlessly with this question until he could stand it no longer and decided that the only thing to do was to forget her. He had forgotten women before, he would do it again. He could not understand what had happened to him, the man who would never allow a woman to upset his equanimity. It was all this peace that was responsible for it. When he had been at war he had never had this problem. Now he had time on his hands and nothing particular to do except think.
Having decided on a course of action, and feeling that a great weight had been lifted from his chest, Christian strolled over to Brooks’s to watch the dedicated gamesters trying to break the faro bank. He even played a few hands of whist before returning home to compose a letter to Stewart, asking for the opportunity to join him in Vienna.
That done, there was nothing left to do but wait for an answer and review all the information he could lay his hands on concerning the present political situation.
The more Christian read, the more intrigued he was and he came to the conclusion that the one field in which he was experienced, war, was merely the result of failed diplomacy, or diplomacy gone wrong, and that diplomacy was often a written codification of all that had been decided physically on some battlefield somewhere. During the war he had studied the strategies of Napoleon and his commanders enough to be able to predict their moves with as much accuracy as anyone else; understanding what was going on now among the Allied Powers at the Congress of Vienna was not so very different.
His patience was eventually rewarded some weeks later when he received a travel-stained letter from Charles Stewart, promising him that he would be put to use if he could make his way to Vienna.
Laying down the letter, Christian felt as though he had just swallowed a reviving tonic. For the first time in weeks, his head felt clear, his energy returned, and he looked forward once again to what the next day would bring. “Digby!” he bellowed uncharacteristically, carried away by his newfound exuberance.
“Sir?” Digby materialized immediately. He too had been intrigued by the letter from abroad and, after having delivered it, had lingered close by in the hope that he would learn something.
“Pack our bags; we are headed for the Continent.”
“Paris? Very good sir.” Digby permitted himself a hopeful smile.
“Paris? Why Paris? No, my man, we are headed for Vienna. The Allied Powers have left Paris; the Congress is being held in Vienna.”
“Very good, sir.” The hopeful note vanished from Digby’s voice and demeanor, but his master was too busy rereading the letter to notice his servant’s expression.
The batman closed the library door quietly behind him. Drat! He had been hoping that the letter had come from Mademoiselle Isobel and that it would signal the end of his master’s moping about. Digby had heard through the same sources that had revealed information about Mademoiselle Isobel’s lessons with Signor Bartoli that the Mademoiselle had returned to Paris with her father who, according to these sources, was a great favorite of the restored King of France. Digby had been sorry to learn this for, though he wished Mademoiselle Isobel all the best and though he was happy to hear that she had been returned to her rightful position, he had secretly hoped that she would find her future happiness with Lord Christian Hatherleigh instead of at the French court. But her departure did at least explain his master’s curious lack of interest in anything and everything.
With the arrival of the letter. Lord Christian seemed to have reverted to his usual self. Digby was rarely, if ever, wrong about things where his master’s welfare was concerned, but he was forced to admit to himself as he set about making arrangements for their departure, that perhaps he had been mistaken in thinking that the lovely, young Frenchwoman was crucial to his master’s happiness, and that realization saddened him.
Chapter 29
Signor Spontini, summoned by a note from Isobel, proved to be as effusive as Signor Bartoli was reticent. He was honored to be invited to the palace to give Mademoiselle her singing lessons, delighted to make her acquaintance, enchanted by her exquisite beauty, and charmed by her voice.
At first, Isobel was inclined to dismiss him as nothing more than a sycophantic opportunist who owed his success to his way with women, for it was widely rumored that it was Josephine who had procured his directorship at the Italian opera. However, she soon discovered the real warmth under his effusiveness, for once they began to work together, this effusiveness dwindled into a more temperate, more accurate appreciation of her qualities as a musician. She began to understand that much of his gallant air was a nervous habit adopted over the years for dealing with potential patrons who had it in their power to make or break his career. Indeed, all the while that he had been showering her with compliments, she had been aware of his eyes steadily fixed on her and later she realized that he had been observing her closely, trying to form an opinion about her.
When they began to discuss music and her hopes for their lessons, he realized that she was in earnest and he grew more frank with her. “You must understand, mademoiselle, that many fine ladies are convinced that they sing very well and they expect me to agree with them. Naturally, I do not wish to offend them, but I am a musician, after all, and I cannot lie about my art. It can be difficult if these ladies are related to powerful men, and, at the moment, there has been a change from one group of powerful men to another which leaves me in a most delicate situation as I owed my position to a man who has now lost his power completely. For me, music is more important than politics, but”—he shrugged eloquently—“everything is political, and a man must eat, nonetheless. I do you the honor of saying in all honesty that if you are pleased with what I teach you, it would help me greatly if you could mention that to your friends at court. However”—he smiled slyly—“if you had not included in your note the letter from Giulio Bartoli praising you as one who sang like the nightingale and possessed the soul of an artista I might have discovered a thousand reasons why I was too busy to take you on as a pupil. But Giulio is a hard man, and if he says you could be the next Angelica Catalani, then you could be the next Angelica Catalan!i Now, mademoiselle, to work.”
Working with Signor Spontini became the bright spot of Isobel’s days, all of which seemed to be consumed by dressing and undressing for one elaborate court function after the next. One reception succeeded another with such dizzying speed that the days seemed to run into one another, with each one being like the last except for the change in costume. And changing costume meant that she was subjected to hours with the dressmaker choosing patterns and materials—a discomfort that she had largely avoided when she had been too poor to afford more than a few serviceable walking dresses and one dinner dress. Isobel pored over designs and trimmings until her head ached and she longed for the cool woods at Barford Court or the peaceful music room at Warminster House.
Her one other joy, besides the lessons with Signor Spontini, was her visits with Auguste. Disregarding his sister’s dire predictions, Auguste, still an officer under Ney, had called at the Tuileries in hopes of reuniting with his father now that he was able to reassure the duc that the de Montargis lands in Burgundy had been restored and he had made arrangements for the tenants in the Hotel de Montargis to leave by Assumption Day.
His father had refused to see him, informing the servant who had brought up Auguste’s card that, “There is no such person as Auguste de Montargis.”
Isobel, however, refused to join her father in his denial of her brother’s existence. “You may stand by your stubborn arid ill-judged pride. Papa, but I shall not, and I tell you now that I will see my brother. He has done nothing wrong, and whatever he did was for us. The Comte de Neuilly returned to France with Auguste and his family does not call him a traitor.” Isobel spoke firmly enough, but she was trembling all over at her own temerity in standing up so boldly to her father.
T
he duc gripped the arms of his chair, half rising out of it in his anger. “You will do as I say, Isobel. I am your father and I am still head of this family, such as it is.”
“I know, Papa, but I am old enough now to make my own decisions and I say I wish to see Auguste.” Her voice quavered slightly, but her chin was held high and her shoulders thrust back. At that particular moment she looked so like her fearsome grandmother that the duc caught his breath. The girl had the proud blood of her ancestors in her veins, there was no denying that. “You dare to disobey me? No proper young woman would even think of questioning her father’s wishes.”
“Have care, Papa, that I do not become so distraught over your refusal to let me see my brother that I do something desperate or, worse yet, improper. I am of age, you know.”
The duc knew when he was defeated. His daughter had grown too independent, too strong for him to do anything about it now. If her mother had lived, Isobel might have been influenced by her gentle, ladylike example, but he rather doubted it. Isobel had always been strong-willed. “Very well, but do not think you can coax me into seeing him, for I will not.”
“Very well, Papa. Thank you, Papa.” Marveling at her own audacity, Isobel hurried to her own bedchamber before her shaking knees gave out under her.
Once the Duc de Montargis had lost this battle, he never mentioned the episode again. In fact, he was rather relieved that his daughter had found someone to escort her for he was mostly preoccupied with affairs of state and quite unable to introduce her to the capital of her native land. He would have been less relieved if he had known the liberal nature of the salons to which she was introduced by her brother. Madame de Stael, Benjamin Constant and their friends were all ready to welcome Auguste’s sister even if she were the daughter of the reactionary Duc de Montargis. Soon Isobel’s own spirit and charm made her a general favorite in the society that had accepted her for her brother’s sake.
My Lady Nightingale Page 21
