No Place for a Lady

by Joan Smith

  “No, I was busy looking at the pictures,” he riposted.

  “If it is not my pelisse, and you are not due at work, then what—? You owe them money!” I exclaimed.

  Alger gazed at me in disbelief, then a small smile lifted his lips. “What a refreshing lack of vanity,” he murmured. “Most ladies would have judged—correctly in this case—that I did not wish to share you with other gentlemen.”

  “But then other ladies, one assumes, are unaware of your doings with Mr. Sharkey. I daresay your eagerness to keep me to yourself recommends a rapid return to Wild Street. We are certainly not likely to be pestered by the ton there.”

  “You want to meet the ton,” he said. “And I more or less promised I would enlarge your circle of acquaintances if you remained in London.”

  “You need not worry about that. I have definitely decided to sell the house and return to Radstock at the earliest possible date.”

  “Mrs. Hennessey will be happy to hear it,” he taunted. “But before you go, I must try once more to tempt you. I would not want you to base your idea of London do’s on that appalling exhibition.” I waited hoping to hear a mention of Lady Bonham’s rout or some such thing. “Are you free this evening?”

  “After being out this afternoon, I cannot desert Miss Thackery again this evening,” I replied, hoping he would not take me at my word.

  “I hope Miss Thackery will join us at Covent Garden.”

  The name conjured up visions of London high life. It seemed a shame to leave without seeing something of the real London. Miss Thackery would enjoy it, too.

  “I have tickets for a performance at Covent Garden. A revival of Sheridan’s The Rivals. I think we can all do with a little comedy after recent events.” He waited while I pretended to vacillate. “No bribe, no reward—just an evening at the theater.”

  “I daresay Miss Thackery would enjoy it. Very well. We shall go if she agrees.”

  I did not foresee any difficulty there. As it was still early, we went for a drive out the Chelsea Road before returning to Wild Street. We did not meet any more of Alger’s friends. I still had a lingering notion that he had been embarrassed by my provincial toilette and determined to do better that evening.

  Just one other point bothered me, and I inquired why all his friends called him Algie, when his name was Alger.

  “It is a nickname, as people named Smith are often called Smitty, and as I have heard Miss Thackery call you Cathy. Your name, I collect, is Catherine?”

  “Yes.”

  “The privilege of calling you so, of course, is limited to your friends,” he said soberly, but with a laughing look in his eyes. “Would it be impertinent of me to call you Catherine? Not actually encroaching on familiarity, you see, but as a sort of bridge to friendship?”

  He was looking at me as he spoke—and drove right over a clump of sod that had been dropped by a farm wagon. “Algie! Look out!” I exclaimed, without thinking. I also clutched at his arm, as the curricle had very high seats, with little in the way of protection.

  “I shall take that as permission,” he said.

  “We hardly know each other well enough to be on a first-name basis,” I said stiffly. I pulled my fingers away when I noticed I was still holding on to him.

  “I see it as a question of which comes first—the chicken or the egg. Using a first name hastens intimacy along, and as you plan to leave soon, we must either become friends rapidly, or not at all. A friend is a precious thing to lose, Miss Catherine. Did you notice the clever way I phrased that—just a little encroaching, but with the “Miss’ to lend it a touch of propriety.”

  “You don’t know the meaning of the word. Furthermore, Miss Catherine is completely inaccurate. I am not a younger sister.”

  “You are quite right. I should have omitted the ‘Miss’ entirely. That will teach me to try to straddle the fence.”

  I was in a good mood with the pending trip to Covent Garden and did not argue when he continued to call me Catherine, although I made a point to continue calling him Mr. Alger.

  After a few miles he turned the curricle around and returned to Wild Street. Mr. Alger left as soon as he took me home. As his friends had been joshing him about skipping away from work, I felt he was probably going to Whitehall. Within an hour, a lovely corsage of orchids arrived for me.

  “I look forward to the pleasure of your company this evening,” it said. The card was initialed, not signed. In fact, the initials were illegible, but there was no doubt in my mind who had sent it. The footman who delivered it was a splendid-looking creature in green and gold livery. I assumed Alger had borrowed him from Lord Dolman.

  Miss Thackery and I spent the latter part of the afternoon planning and arranging our toilettes. We had not come prepared for such high living, but with a few borrowings from Aunt Thal’s wardrobe we felt we would not disgrace Mr. Alger. I found a veritable peacock of a silk shawl, all embroidered with flowers and sprinkled with sequins and with a long fringe to boot. Miss Thackery thought it had a slight aroma of the lightskirt, but we knew we were years out of fashion and decided it would do. It would lend the necessary touch of style to my pomona green gown. Miss Thackery was to arrange my curls high with a pair of my late aunt’s pearl combs. Miss Thackery found an elegant ecru shawl that she felt enhanced her own dark gown.

  I kept an ear out for Alger’s return. When he came in at six-thirty, I went into the hallway to thank him for the corsage. He blinked in astonishment and looked completely bewildered.

  “But I did not send you a corsage,” he said, and seemed a little embarrassed that he had not. “For the theater, you know, I did not think it necessary.”

  “Who could have sent it?” I asked. “You are the only gentleman I know in London.”

  He frowned, but soon came up with the answer. “Sir Giles! I knew that scoundrel was rolling his eyes at you! You see now that I had reason for hustling you away from my friends. Do you have the card?”

  I had tucked it into my receipt book and showed it to him. We puzzled over the initials a moment. “That last letter looks like an s,” he said. “Not Sir Giles, but Harley Soames.”

  “Oh, the tall one,” I said. He was also the more handsome.

  “I see you have been assessing them as potential escorts!”

  “A lady always does so, Mr. Alger.”

  He gave me a conning look from the corner of his eyes. “I wonder how I stacked up? I am as tall as Soames. And considerably taller than Sir Giles. How the devil did he discover where you live? He must have followed us all the way out the Chelsea Road. I made sure no one would—” He came to a guilty stop.

  “No one would see you squiring a provincial? You have been caught out in your sin, Mr. Alger. Your reputation is ruined.”

  “Kind of you to be concerned, but I have no reputation worth speaking of.”

  “I should let Mr. Soames know I will not be going out with him. The footman did not wait for a reply. He has very elegant servants, does he not? All that gold lace. Do you have his address?”

  “Yes, but—footman? Soames doesn’t have any footmen. He hires a set of rooms at Albany. He makes do with a factotum who serves as his butler and valet and general dogsbody.”

  “It must have been Sir Giles who sent the corsage.”

  “Ah, yes, the short Sir Giles.” Mr. Alger shrugged. “It is demmed presumptuous of him to assume you will be at liberty. Let him come—and leave without you.”

  “It seems an ill-bred thing to do, but really I cannot think of any other course, as he did not even include his address. Although the orchids are very nice,” I added forgivingly. “Two of them. Quite extravagant.”

  “You like orchids? I shall bear it in mind, Catherine.”

  He managed to put some accent on my name that lent it an air that went beyond familiarity to encroach on intimacy. Or perhaps it was his smile that did the trick. He used his nice smile, which looked warm and open.

  When he came to call that evening, he carr
ied a corsage of orchids—three orchids. Miss Thackery wore the smaller corsage. We were all dressed and just about to leave when the door knocker sounded. Alger opened the door, and there on the step stood old Colonel Stone.

  His lined and serred cheeks folded into a smile. “You are all dressed and waiting. Splendid! I knew I might count on you. And you are wearing my corsage. Most obliging, Miss Irving. I have hired a private parlor at the Clarendon.” And oysters, no doubt. His rheumy old eyes struggled for a glimpse of my bosom, using the corsage as an excuse.

  “I am afraid I am busy this evening, Colonel,” I said, trying to quell the laughter that wanted to bubble out.

  “Eh? What do you mean?”

  “Miss Irving is going out with me this evening, Colonel,” Alger said firmly.

  The colonel measured his competitor’s broad shoulders and grumbled into his collar. “Is Renie here?” he asked.

  She had heard the rumpus and came peering over the stair railing, “Colonel! Are we going out this evening? I swear you forgot to mention it to me. Lucky I am free. I turned down an invitation to dinner just a moment ago.” I knew perfectly well she had not had any callers. “You really should let me know beforehand. You can wait for me up here. I shan’t be long.”

  The colonel looked at the stairs and replied, “I shall await down here, Renie. Do hurry. I am famished.”

  It was a comical beginning to an evening that was to hold further excitement before I got back to Wild Street.

  Chapter Ten

  We were wafted to Covent Garden in the unaccustomed splendor of velvet squabs and silver appointments, with a crest on the carriage door to tantalize the hearts of less favored mortals. In other words, Mr. Alger borrowed Lord Dolman’s rig for the evening. “Don’t I wish Hennessey could see us now!” Miss Thackery said sotto voce to me.

  I had thought the Theater Royal at Bath was grand, but it could not hold a candle to Covent Garden. Covent Garden had burned down a few years previously—and had been rebuilt as magnificently as a cathedral. The imposing marble facade gave way inside to more opulence. It was constructed on classical lines with porphyry columns, plaster statues, and plush sofas in the long gallery. The boxes were similarly grandiose. I felt like a queen when we were shown to our box on the grand tier.

  Around and below us, a sea of turbans, feathers, jewels, fans, and opera glasses waved gently. We arrived early on purpose to ogle the audience. Mr. Alger was busy pointing out Lord and Lady Castlereagh, a royal duke or two, and other celebrities. With my embroidered shawl and my three orchids—and Mr. Alger—who made as fine an appearance as any of the gentlemen, I felt I was finally a part of fabled London. If this was how life could be, then I must revise my notion of running home to Radstock.

  Mr. Alger saw I was ravished with delight. He leaned over and whispered, “I have asked for wine to be brought to our box during the first intermission. I expect a few friends will drop in. During the second, we shall go on the strut in the lobby.”

  “Splendid, Mr. ... Algie,” I said, and smiled to show my pleasure.

  A hush fell over the audience. A man in formal clothes appeared onstage to announce the play, and at that precise moment, a page boy came into our box. I looked to see what other treat Alger had arranged.

  “Here, this is Lord North’s box,” the page said, glaring at us as if we were a bunch of heathens. “Yez’ll have to clear out.”

  “My good man!” Mr. Alger exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “There must be some mistake. I have tickets for this box.” He handed them to the page boy, who condescended to glance at them.

  “For last week, sir,” he said. “Lord North is just on his way in with a party of six. Yez’ll have to vacate the premises.”

  “That is impossible!” Alger exclaimed, snatching back the tickets. As he studied them, a frown grew on his face. “You are right. Ladies! There seems to be some misunderstanding.” His face was as red as a rose when he turned to make his apologies to us. “There must be some box empty,” he said to the page. “As you see, I am escorting two ladies.”

  “Ye’d ought to have checked your tickets then, mister. Come along. I’ll see if I can find yez a corner to squat.”

  As we were hustled out of our magnificent box, the commotion drew attention to us. It seemed half the audience turned to stare at our shame. We watched from the hallway as a party of six were shown in. One of the gentlemen actually nodded and smiled at Alger, having no notion we had been occupying his box.

  There was a whispered colloquy between Alger and the page boy. Money exchanged hands. A moment later Alger turned to us and said, “There is an empty box. Not quite as good as the one we were just put out of, I fear. I do not know how to apologize, ladies.”

  “It is no matter,” Miss Thackery said. She felt sorry for him in his moment of shame. I felt the same way myself. “We do not have to sit on the grand tier, with princes and dukes. It is not what we are accustomed to, I assure you.”

  The page boy took us to what must surely have been the worst box in the house. It was on the lowest level, rammed right against the wall. We got a draft on our backs and an angled view of part of the stage. The seats were not luxuriously padded; they were of hard wood, and crowded on top of one another.

  “I will darken both of Sharkey’s eyes and draw his cork when we get home,” Alger growled. “I paid him three guineas for that ticket.”

  “Algie, you flat!” I exclaimed. “You cannot afford such extravagance. Good gracious, I hope you did not do that only to impress us.”

  “Not us—you!” he said, his glance just slanting off Miss Thackery to make sure she was not eavesdropping. I was touched at his effort and felt very badly for him. I determined on the spot that I would express myself delighted with the evening, no matter what further horrors it held.

  The play, at least, was excellent. The wine ordered for our box at the first intermission no doubt went to Lord North’s party. “I told the page boy to reroute it here,” Algie said apologetically. We waited, but neither the wine nor any friends came. We sat alone in our dark little corner, watching the festivities in other boxes. Algie suggested we go out, but Miss Thackery did not like to think of the wine coming and our not being there to receive it.

  “The play is marvelous,” I said a couple of times, to try to cheer him up. “And the theater is lovely! I have never seen anything like it, Algie. We are enjoying ourselves very much. Truly we are.”

  In the darkness he squeezed my fingers. “You are very kind, Catherine, but we both know this expensive evening has been a disaster. The only pleasure will be finding a blunt instrument and lowering it with considerable force about Sharkey’s head and shoulders when we get home.”

  “Perhaps it was an honest mistake on his part. Let us go into the lobby at the next intermission, as planned. Perhaps we shall meet your friends there.”

  We were all ready for a little exercise by the time the second intermission came around. I noticed Algie limited our exercise to one end of the lobby—and not the end where the grander members of the audience stood in clusters, talking animatedly about the performance. Later, he found us a seat on one of the plush benches and went to bring us wine. I saw him chatting to some of those members of the ton and wondered why he was so reluctant to let us meet them. We had been sitting all evening. I, for one, would have preferred to walk about and mingle.

  When he returned with the wine, he came alone. If his aim was to isolate us, however, he was outwitted by one gentleman. A rather handsome man followed Algie with his eyes, and when Algie came toward us, the man followed. He was soon bowing and smiling.

  “Lord Algernon,” he said. “I don’t believe I have the pleasure of your friends’ acquaintance.”

  Miss Thackery’s wineglass trembled in her hand, spilling a few drops on her good gown. We exchanged a startled look. Lord Algernon!

  Algie ignored the strange salutation. “Ladies, allow me to present Lord Evans,” he said. “Evans, may I present Miss Irving a
nd her companion, Miss Thackery.”

  “Charmed,” Lord Evans said, with a gracious bow. “I expect you are Lord Algernon’s neighbors. From Suffolk, are you?”

  “Wiltshire, actually,” Miss Thackery replied. I was quite beyond speech. “Near Bath.”

  “Ah, that would explain how you met. Lady Dolman was at Bath last winter. How is your mama’s gout, Lord Algernon?”

  “Much improved, thank you,” Algie said in wooden accents. “And how is Lady Evans?”

  “Oh, Mama is enjoying her usual vapors and swoons. She has put herself in the hands of a new quack who does not believe in either purging or bloodletting. No doubt he will be the finish of her. He has put her on a foolish regime of walking and eating a deal of fruit and vegetables. The fellow ought to be committed.”

  A little crowd soon spotted Evans and Lord Algernon and came along to pay their respects. Some of them had seen us being unceremoniously ejected from our box and laughed or consoled, according to their natures. I hardly heard a word anyone said, except that more than one of them called Algie Lord Algernon, and the name Dolman recurred, in close proximity, to “your papa.” Once the cat was out of the bag, Algie relaxed somewhat—and even appeared to enjoy my confusion. That laughing light was back in his eyes.

  “I shall explain everything later,” he said in a low voice.

  “You may be very sure of that, sir!” I hissed back.

  This was why he had been in such an almighty rush to escape Lord Evans at the exhibition. The others, Mrs. MacIntyre and her daughter, Sir Giles and Soames, were on a comfortable first-name basis. Algie he could explain away as a nickname, but Lord Evans was more formal; he used the mysterious title. Lord Algernon had not wanted us to know he was Lord Dolman’s son. I could not fathom why, nor why he did not live at his papa’s comfortable house on Berkeley Square. He did not appear to be estranged from his papa, for more than one of the crowd made some joking reference to Dolman keeping the son’s nose to the grindstone.

  It was a complete mystery, but I had to wait until the play was over before getting any satisfaction, for the crowd hung on until the bell announced the last act of the play. I had not seen or read The Rivals, and have to this day very little idea of how Lydia Languish and Anthony Absolute sorted out their various misunderstandings, but the smiles at the play’s end told me it was accomplished.