The marquess sighed. The objections seemed insurmountable. Again he looked across the room to see her gazing absently over the crowd while Tony chattered on. Then some remark of Tony’s made her smile her generous open smile with a hint of mischief in it and Nicholas knew that whatever it took, nothing was going to stop him from convincing her of the rightness of it all. It was going to be difficult, perhaps the most difficult thing he had ever attempted. The marquess sighed.
At that sigh, the Marchioness of Everleigh looked up. In truth, her son had been behaving most strangely this evening. She had never seen him so impatient to attend one of these affairs, and from the moment he had arrived, he had appeared tense with anticipation, his eyes eagerly scanning the room. After procuring her chair, he had disappeared so quickly she had had no idea where he had gone. Then, in what seemed no time at all, he had materialized at her side, his face white and set, his eyes dark with some emotion she could not fathom.
Alerted to her son’s perturbation, the marchioness watched him covertly as she chatted with friends and well-wishers eager to welcome her back after so many years of absence from London’s fashionable haunts. Soon she noticed that the marquess’s eyes, when not staring blankly into space, seemed to focus in one direction. Following his gaze, she noted them fixing again on the woman who had first caught his interest when they entered the ballroom. Observing more closely, the marchioness was delighted to discover that the mysterious female was none other than Lady Caroline Waverly, of whom her daughter had spoken so often and so warmly. A speculative gleam appeared in the marchioness’s eye and a casual remark of Clary’s came to mind. The marchioness had thought nothing of it at the time, but as Nicholas had driven off to escort the young lady now conversing with Tony Mandeville to Parliament, Clary had observed quietly, “Now, there is a woman to match wits with our Nicholas in political and other matters.” A secretive smile had hovered over her daughter’s lips as she said it. Now, scrutinizing the gathering frown on her son’s brow as the young lady shared a laugh with her companion, the marchioness began to appreciate the significance of Clary’s expression. Her daughter had always been a sensitive and observant child, particularly where her favorite brother was concerned. Perhaps she had tumbled to something that neither her mother nor her brother, or even the young lady herself, was aware of. The marchioness could have hugged herself in delight when, as Lady Caroline was again led to the floor, Nicholas turned abruptly to his mother remarking, “You are looking fagged to death. Mama. It is time I took you home.”
“Very well, Nicholas,” the marchioness agreed meekly, though she wasn’t feeling the least bit tired. In truth, she had not felt so well or so hopeful since her husband and eldest son had died. But she allowed him to escort her to the carriage without a murmur. Even after she had been tenderly helped into bed by her devoted Miss Trimble, the marchioness lay awake wondering, hoping that at last her son had found someone worthy of him.
Chapter 28
The Marchioness of Everleigh was not the only one to lie awake far into the night after the Countess of Nayland’s rout. Lavinia, thoroughly put out at the success her dowdy little cousin from the country seemed to be achieving, and losing interest in the entire thing once Nicholas had left, pleaded a headache in order to leave at the earliest possible moment. She was rewarded for this by the onset of the genuine article the minute the cousins set foot in the carriage, but her pettish complaints—the terrible crush, the boredom of the same old routine with the same dull beaux, the jolting of the carriage—went unnoticed by her companion, who had far more serious concerns on her mind.
Caro could hardly wait to get to the safety and privacy of her own rooms. Barely bidding Lavinia goodnight, she hurried upstairs, tore off her clothes, and tumbled into bed, not even ringing for Susan.
However, she was not allowed to push aside her devoted servant this easily. No sooner had her head touched the pillow than the little maid came bustling in with a cup of hot milk for her mistress. Not having heard her bell when the ladies returned, Susan knew something was amiss. It was not unusual for Lady Caroline to dispense with her ministrations in the evening, for frequently Caro, unlike any other mistress she had ever heard of, remonstrated her as she left for a long affair, “Now no waiting up for me. I know we shall be out late and I am quite capable of putting myself to bed.” But this particular night, she had yielded to Susan’s protests and promised to ring for her, whatever the hour, in order to share what the maid was certain would be a triumph.
In truth, Caro was so upset that she had entirely forgotten this promise and was astounded to see Susan standing by her bed bearing a cup of steaming liquid. If Lady Caroline had forgotten or ignored her promise, the maid had reasoned, then something undoubtedly was most definitely wrong, and a cup of hot milk, while not a panacea for the ills of the world, could at least ensure one a better night’s rest.
“Oh, thank you, Susan.” Caro sat up wearily, a frown wrinkling her brow. She remained thus for some time sipping the comforting hot liquid in silence and staring into space.
Now Susan knew there was something disturbing her mistress. Though Caro occasionally forgot something, she never failed to apologize when she became aware of her oversight. Susan’s appearance was mute testimony to their agreement to discuss the countess’s rout, but still Caro said nothing, merely swinging her bare feet and frowning harder.
“Shall I brush your hair, ma’am? You might find it soothing. Was it a sad crush?”
Caro came to with a start. “What? Oh, I beg your pardon.” At last, she looked at the maid, smiling apologetically. “I am sorry, Susan. Yes, it was ever so crowded. I am told that everyone who is anyone was there.” Seeing her maid’s expression of eager anticipation, Caro hadn’t the heart to dismiss her. “Yes,” she smiled slowly with a touch of her old impish gleam in her eyes. “I do believe you would have been proud of me. I danced any number of dances and I even spoke at length with Lord Castlereagh himself. I cannot say I was an overnight sensation, but I do believe you could say I conducted myself creditably.”
“Oh, miss, I am that glad.” Susan breathed, ready to hear more, but the look of unhappy abstraction had returned.
“I shall try to marshal my thoughts so I can relate them to you tomorrow, but right now I am rather tired,” her mistress apologized.
Susan was forced to be content with this, but she departed convinced more than ever that something was troubling Caro. If it’s the countess, I’ll, why I’ll . . Susan gave up for lack of suitable punishment, but somehow she didn’t think it was Lavinia who, according to Jim the footman, had come in looking a veritable thundercloud. From the start, Caro had had her cousin’s measure and now, having lived in the beauty’s household, she was never particularly surprised or upset by her selfishness, but merely ignored it as best she could and proceeded on her own way. Besides, Lady Caroline would have been irritated rather than upset at her cousin.
No, this was something far more serious. Susan had never seen Lady Caroline like this and she was resolved to get to the bottom of it. Mulling it over on her way to the kitchen and later in her room under the eaves, she finally concluded that Lady Caroline must be in love. Yes, that’s it! Nothing else has ever discomposed her before, not when the river at Waverly flooded out the newly planted rye, not when the fox got into the chickens, not even when Cook broke her leg and the household was at sixes and sevens. It must be a sort of problem she has never encountered before, and since there’s hardly a one she hasn’t dealt with, it must be love.
Alone at last in her own room, tossing and turning until the bedclothes were a perfect tangle, Caro was thinking much the same thing. Don’t be such a ninny, Caro. Why, there isn’t a situation or a person that you’ve let get the better of you, not Colonel Folliot-Smythe, not Lavinia. Why should you go all to pieces just because a man kisses you? After all, men do things like that all the time to women and they don’t come apart. But that was just it. Deep down inside, Caro didn’t want to think
that the tide of emotion that had swept over her was in the common way of things. Surely the breathless giddy feeling that had threatened to overwhelm her was not just some physical response? Surely it was because Nicholas was someone with whom she had shared a particular understanding and companionship? And surely he must have felt a little of what she had felt, hadn’t he?
Caro shook herself. It was all such a lowering experience. She didn’t want to feel that way about anyone, to long to have them go on holding her and caressing her. She didn’t want to wonder if they felt the same way. She particularly didn’t want to listen to the little voice in her head that warned her that he must have been that way with scores of women. After all, the first time she had encountered Nicholas Daventry, he had been embroiled in a somewhat similar scene and, as she forced herself to review the evening and the way Sally Jersey and the other ladies of the ton had smiled at the marquess, Caro was compelled to accept the depressing conclusion that it was highly improbable that Nicholas was affected the way she was, if at all. Very likely he had forgotten all about it. And you would do well to do so yourself, silly goose, Caro admonished herself fiercely as she thumped the pillow for the twentieth time into what she hoped would be a shape more conducive to sleep.
Thus resolved, she at last fell into a fitful slumber from which she awoke feeling, if not refreshed, at least fixed in her determination to put the entire incident behind her. With this in mind, she arose as early as possible without discommoding anyone, fortified herself with a strong cup of tea, and buried herself in the morning paper with the grim intention of reading it cover to cover and jotting down her own thoughts and concerns before heading off for a vigorous ride in the park. With the fresh air and exercise to clear her head of treacherously intrusive memories of the previous evening, she could plunge into a day of vigorous activities, all selected to improve her mind, strengthen her character, and prove to herself that she was a woman of intelligence and decision who did not need to rely on the delicious feelings aroused by a pair of strong arms holding one close, or by a pair of bright blue eyes gazing intently down at one as — if reading and understanding one’s very soul.
“Oh, bother,” Caro sighed aloud, as the print of the Times swam before her eyes. This was going to be a more difficult task than she had imagined. She frowned, gulped a restoring draft of tea, and applied herself more firmly to the “Introductory Article to a Series of Essays on the Changes in the National Affairs and Character and on the Measures Caused or Required by Them,” but halfway through it, she again drifted back to the previous evening and the curious effect that Nicholas’s kiss had had on her. It was as though somehow, despite her best efforts, something had been missing from her previous life. Until she had felt the warmth of his hands on her skin, she had not been aware of the lack of it. Now, having, if only for a moment, experienced that closeness, she only wanted more.
Somehow Caro managed to get through the day. She applied herself diligently to her reading, poring over Mr. James Sowerby’s newly printed treatises on Midland Flora and, accompanied by Helena, attended a concert that evening held at Mansion House to benefit the Royal Institution for the education of poor children in North Street, and to encourage the establishment of a female school. For a moment, given the illustriousness of the performers who had contributed their services gratis for this cause, Caro worried lest she encounter the marquess and his sister there, but her fears proved to be unfounded and she was able to enjoy the concertante for violin and violoncello and the flute concerto with a reasonable degree of equanimity.
However, the uncertainty of Caro’s mental state had not escaped the sympathetic eye of her companion who, unaccustomed to such listless conversation from her normally vivacious friend, was curious as to precisely what had occurred at the Countess of Nayland’s rout. Helena resolved to keep a closer watch on things. In truth, Caro had so much encouraged her dear Miss Gray to take advantage of all the intellectual and cultural delights the metropolis had to offer that Helena now wondered, somewhat guiltily, if she had been neglecting her duties.
To be sure, Caro had engaged her services more to satisfy society’s dictates for respectability than because she actually needed the older woman, but now, sneaking a glance at Caro’s somber expression, Helena worried over the cause of her friend’s unusual silence and searched her mind for some way to help her. She vowed to pay more attention to Caro in the days to come.
This was not an easy task, as Caro threw herself into an unceasing round of activity. The ton saw her at this exhibition and that musicale, at ridottos, balls, and riding in the park. In truth, it appeared she was never at home to accept the quantities of floral tributes that arrived from various partners won over by her friendly ways and engaging conversation. Nor was she ever around when the Marquess of Everleigh called, which he appeared to do with great regularity, never leaving a note or staying to speak with any other members of the household. In fact, Helena would not have known he called at all had she not been crossing in the upstairs hall one day when Wigmore’s stately tones floated up the stairs. “No, my lord. Lady Caroline is not at home. You have just missed her again, sir. She drove off not five minutes ago. I shall tell her you called.”
“No, thank you, Wigmore. I shall try again. One of these days I shall catch up with her,” was the weary reply.
Something in the marquess’s tone made Helena think that this was not the first time such a scene had occurred, but how was she to know? Certainly Wigmore was not one to gossip, nor was Helena, but she made it a point to be within earshot at the same time the next day, and the next, enough to convince her that the marquess had important business with her friend, and that Caro had equally compelling reasons for being elsewhere.
She smiled to herself as Wigmore closed the door on the marquess. So, at last someone had recognized the woman that lurked within the serious bluestocking. Furthermore, judging by the transformation Caro had allowed Violette and Susan to work on her, Caro was not entirely oblivious to the marquess. And Helena was certain that it was the marquess for whose benefit it had all come about. Covertly observing Caro in gatherings as she chatted with Tony Mandeville or danced with Captain Allen, Helena remarked that no matter how charmingly she conversed or how often she smiled, the smile never quite reached her eyes. Upon entering a ballroom or a theater, Caro would look anxiously and hopefully over the crowd as though seeking someone in particular. Then, apparently not finding this person, she would sigh, the tension would go out of her, and she would move in among the crowd, but the vivacity was gone. The energy that had set her apart from the rest of the ton was no longer there and Helena was at a loss as to how it was ever to be recovered. It was significant that on all of these occasions, the Marquess of Everleigh had not been in attendance. Helena wished that, somehow, she could do something to throw these two together, as they were so obviously missing the other’s company.
Chapter 29
But before the situation could deteriorate much further, the opportunity for which Helena had been praying presented itself. Though not an advocate of the radical nature of Mr. Cobbett’s or Mr. Hunt’s schemes for improving the condition of the less fortunate of the British populace, Caro, nevertheless, admired the reforms they were trying to bring about and the zeal and determination with which they went about their task. More than once she had lamented to Helena the constrained existence of the gently born woman, which kept her from attending political meetings where these famous agitators might be heard, or from becoming a member of the Hampden Club. Mr. Hunt’s famous speech at Spa Fields had only made her all the more eager to hear the famous orator and she was occasionally heard to mourn the fact that the repressive measures recently enacted by Parliament were likely to prevent her from doing so.
Knowing the intrepid and sometimes obstinate nature of her companion, Helena pricked up her ears one morning as Caro, casually perusing the paper remarked, “Oh, and here is notice that Mr. Hunt is again to address the crowds at Spa Fields.” She made
no further mention of the event, but Helena, having later made careful note of the day and time, was on the alert. Certain as she was that Caro meant to attend, she was not quite sure precisely how she planned to effect her escape and ensure her safety in such a mob. However, having often witnessed the resourcefulness of the mistress of Waverly Court, Helena was prepared for anything.
Thus on the morning of the proposed gathering, when the young maid sent in search of Caro returned with the answer that she was nowhere to be found, Helena was prompted to mutter under her breath, “Which is to say, we now know exactly where she is to be found.”
That settled, Caro’s companion lost no time in dashing off a note to the Marquess of Everleigh requesting his presence immediately. Such an action was, perhaps, a trifle irregular, but Helena had seen enough of the marquess to know that he had little regard for the petty niceties considered necessary to proper conduct in the fashionable world. Then too, as someone immersed in the political events of the moment, he was the person best qualified to understand the gravity of the situation and to know how best to deal with it.
He came with gratifying speed, and there was such a look of concern in his eyes as he strode into the drawing room, having taken the stairs two at a time, that Helena knew she had not been mistaken either in invoking his aid or in his interest in Caro.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, my lord. I do beg your pardon for intruding, but I am . . .”she began.
The Bluestocking's Dilemma Page 24
