by Celia Rees
‘Not necessarily. I’m accompanying Lady Bingham. If I need someone, I’ll use whoever she brings with her. Now get my clothes, there’s a good girl.’
Lydia stared at her mistress, her green eyes shiny with hurt and an anger she had to suppress. ‘You’re ashamed, that’s it, isn’t it?’ She looked away, finally. ‘Ashamed to have a maid who is just a country girl.’
‘Nothing could be further from my mind! Why on earth would I think that?’ Sovay smiled and put her hand out to Lydia. ‘I’m a country girl myself.’ She had not asked Lydia to accompany her, in case something happened to put her in danger, but she did not like to see her upset like this, or to be misunderstood by her. When the time came, she would find a way of putting her off. ‘If it means that much to you, of course you can come with me. I will welcome the company.’
Somewhat mollified, Lydia brought Sovay her day gown and began hanging the new clothes.
The bell downstairs sounded. As if summoned by some black art, Lady Bingham’s servant had come by to leave her card. Wallace reappeared. Sovay took the card from him. Lady Bingham would be calling on her at three o’clock that afternoon.
Lady Bingham was determined to introduce Sovay into London Society, beginning with a visit to Lady Kilderry and then an evening party at Lady Sarah Jersey’s residence at 38 Berkeley Square.
The former was not so onerous. Once the ladies had patted her hand, grown momentarily tearful at the memory of her mother and enquired after the health of ‘poor, dear Harriet’, they more or less ignored her and carried on with their own concerns, gossiping about people Sovay neither knew, nor cared about. Often their voices fell to murmured exchanges, whispered confidences and delighted exclamations that excluded her entirely. All Sovay had to do was remember to nod and smile when called upon to do so. The other young women present offered nothing and seemed entirely uninteresting, sitting with eyes downcast, paying close attention to their mamas, so they would know how to behave when they were married ladies. Her mind roamed away from the inconsequential chit-chat around her and she wondered what she was doing here.
There was still no news of her father and brother. She had not seen Virgil Barrett since Fender’s Field and he had sent no word despite his promise. And then there was the Captain. She knew that she should not be experiencing any concern about him. If anyone here even suspected an acquaintance, she would find herself outside the door of polite society. But who knew what would have happened to her without his help? She was beholden to him, and did not like to think of him getting into difficulties on account of her. The life he led was dangerous enough. He could look after himself, she was sure of that, but she would have liked some news of him. She could not go herself to find news of him, but perhaps she could send Gabriel. She dismissed the idea. He was much recovered, more or less his old self, but he would ask too many questions and she did not want him to know about her escapades in Covent Garden. Besides, she could not imagine him at Ma Pierce’s. She smiled to think of it. There was always Oldfield. If Toby had been in touch . . .
‘I’m glad you find our gathering amusing.’ Suddenly Lady Bingham was beside her, making her start. ‘Lady Kilderry thinks you most charming, if a little shy. She would like you to come to her again next Thursday, so put it in your diary. Now, we must be going if we are to be ready for this evening.’
Between tea party and soirée, Sovay found time to write a note to Mr Oldfield to ask if Toby had been to see him. After she had folded, addressed, sealed the letter and sent Wallace’s boy to the nearest receiving house, she felt very much better.
Her lift of mood did not last. The evening party was somewhat more of an ordeal than her visit to Lady Kilderry. Since Lady Bingham had discovered that Sovay had no current attachment, she was introduced to a succession of young men, fops and fools to a man. They paid her extravagant attention, indulging in frivolous banter and elaborate flirtation until Sovay’s face ached from the constant smiling and her brain sickened from so much confection. No one seemed capable of serious conversation. Such a thing would probably be frowned upon anyway, as exceeding the bounds of etiquette.
This did not mean that the underlying purpose of these occasions was not serious. Far from it. Every look, every word and gesture was regarded. Everybody was watching everybody else. Lady Bingham glided through it all, like a pike through the reeds. Sovay was not the only young lady in whom her mentor took an interest. She began to wonder if the lady took a commission. What difference was there between her and Mother Pierce? It was all about money, just like the street and the brothel. Girls on the look out for rich husbands, wealthy older women on the look out for attractive young lovers. Men keen to oblige for the promise of a fortune, through marriage or patronage. Later in the evening, the disappointed among the gentlemen, or those not concerned with the marriage market, would begin to make their excuses and slip away. Sovay knew where they were going. This was the time when business picked up at Mother Pierce’s and Rosie Marples’, on the streets of Covent Garden. It was the whores who got the blame, who faced prison or transportation, but who was really to answer for it? Where would the whores be without their clients?
‘Why the sour expression?’ a voice said close to her. ‘Anyone would think that you were not enjoying yourself.’
Sovay looked up to find Virgil Barrett smiling down at her. She strove hard to hide her surprise. For some reason, she hadn’t expected to see him at one of these gatherings. He looked so fine that she hardly recognised him with his powdered hair and beautiful burgundy brocade jacket. His velvet breeches were a matching colour and his pale green silk waistcoat was embellished with tiny flower motifs, the front edges very prettily done with gold purl embroidery, gleaming sequins and floral ribbon.
‘I can play the man of fashion as well as any here.’ He smiled at her scrutiny. ‘Or perhaps you are surprised to see that I move in such circles?’ He looked around at the assembled company. ‘They regard me as something of an oddity. An American cousin. Many here believe that our independence is just a passing phase.’ His mouth twisted in irony. ‘That we will soon see the error of our ways and return to the bosom of the mother country and our father, the King. A belief that I encourage. There are many here who interest me.’
Sovay followed his gaze. Marriage broking was not the only business being carried on here. Around the margins of the room little knots of men stood in quiet conversation, a word here, a word there and patronage was withheld or granted, fortunes made or lost.
It was a game of high stakes and Virgil pointed out the major players. Members of Parliament, members of the Government.
‘Your friend Dysart is talking to Mr Burke. Mr Pitt himself is expected later, so I believe. There is much to concern them at the moment.’
‘I was expecting word from you,’ Sovay’s look was accusing. ‘After Fender’s Field. Where did you go?’
‘I was called away on urgent business. Let us take a turn around the room, shall we?’
‘You are quite a man of mystery,’ Sovay smiled, ‘with your sudden comings and goings.’
‘That is because of my occupation.’ He smiled at her. ‘Now I see you don’t know whether to believe or trust me.’
‘Why should I?’ Sovay shrugged. ‘Whenever people might have need of you, that’s when you choose to disappear.’
‘I’m stung by that, Miss Sovay,’ Barrett strove to look hurt. ‘Perhaps you will be less angry if I tell you that my business was in Dover.’ He continued in a light tone, as if they were exchanging nothing more than banter or gossip. ‘No need to say anything. Dysart is watching us. It would not be good for him to know that we are anything more than casually acquainted. Concern for your father and brother was one of my reasons for going. Whatever you may think, I have been working hard on your behalf.’ Sovay’s spirits lightened at the prospect of real news after so long and she wanted to question him further, but he gave her a look of warning. ‘You will know more, very shortly. I may have a surprise for you,
but you must have patience. It is too dangerous to speak here.’
Just then, they were called into supper. They were seated at opposite ends of the table, so there was no further opportunity to speak with him. At the end of the meal, Sovay retired with the ladies and by the time the gentlemen joined them, Virgil had disappeared again.
‘We seem to have lost your admirer.’
Sovay willed herself not to start at Dysart’s voice in her ear.
‘Admirer?’ She turned to face him.
‘The American. Barrett.’
‘I’d hardly call him an admirer,’ Sovay answered.
‘He is one of many.’
‘How gallant of you to say so, Sir Robert, but as it is our first acquaintance, I fear that it is too early to include him in their company.’
‘Indeed,’ Dysart smiled, but the look he gave her said, I know better!
He looked away from her, his opaque eyes resting on this or that person in the company. When he looked back, he was laughing as if at some inner jest that only he could hear. There can be no escape from me, he seemed to be saying, I know everything about everybody here.
‘If you will excuse me.’ Sovay moved away from him. With all she now knew, she found his presence disturbing. She did not want to give herself away to him and was beset with the uncomfortable feeling that he could look into people’s minds. ‘Lady Bingham beckons. She does not like to stay too late.’
‘A moment more.’ He nodded towards the lady who immediately turned away. ‘She will not mind waiting. You see? She has already found someone else. I’m so glad you have made her acquaintance. She has grown very fond of you in this short time. There can be no excuse for you not to come to Thursley now. Indeed, I would be very disappointed if you do not. I am very particular about who I invite to Thursley. Let us walk, shall we? Do you know the Secretary at War?’ A gentleman bowed to her, she bowed back. ‘The war goes well – for us,’ Dysart said as they moved on. ‘But in consequence Paris grows ever more dangerous for any Englishmen mad enough to be caught there.’ She looked at him, gauging his reasons for telling her this. ‘The French grow every day more ruthless. They send friend and foe alike to Mme Guillotine, no matter how aged or infirm.’ He shook his head. ‘They are inhuman in their fixity of purpose. Even their erstwhile friends, the Americans, are suspect now. Tell me, Miss Middleton, what do you think?’
He looked at her, inviting a response and any trace of pleasantry in his flinty grey eyes had been replaced by thoroughgoing menace. The hint was oblique, he had not spoken it straight out, but there was a warning in the positioning of one subject against another. Come to Thursley, he seemed to be saying, or it will be worse for your father and brother and do not look for help from Virgil Barrett.
‘About what?’
‘About the war with France. That is what we were discussing, is it not?’
‘Politics do not interest me and my knowledge is slight, so I have no opinion upon it, Sir Robert.’ She looked back at him. He knew she was lying but she did not care. She was tired of being played upon and jerked about like a puppet. She would have liked to tell him that there was no need to threaten her. She would be at Thursley, and not because she was afraid of what he would do to her, or her family. ‘I’m very much looking forward to my visit,’ she said, changing the conversation back to the original topic. ‘Your house sounds most impressive. I will be there.’ She met his gaze, unflinching. ‘Never fear.’
‘There is none to equal it in England.’ Lady Bingham had come to join them and had overheard Sovay’s last remarks ‘Is that not so, Sir Robert? You will see a wonder, my dear.’
‘Modesty prevents me from agreeing, my dear lady.’ He bowed to the newcomer. ‘Miss Middleton must judge for herself. Now if you will excuse me,’ he added and with one last bow he was gone from them.
On the carriage ride home, Lady Bingham talked of little else except Thursley. Everything was to be marvelled at, from the height of the tower (three hundred feet) to the amount it had cost (four hundred thousand pounds and still not finished). Sovay wearied of hearing about the exact dimensions of the place: the entrance door that was thirty feet tall, the length from north to south equalled Westminster Abbey.
‘It has an oratory, galleries, libraries, cloisters and cabinets,’ Lady Bingham counted rooms off on her fingers. ‘I don’t think I’ve explored it all, and every room crammed with the most fabulous riches from all over the world.’
Lady Bingham looked expectantly at Sovay, waiting for her comment.
‘I’ve never desired to live in a cathedral, or anywhere so grand or large,’ Sovay said at last. ‘I’m sure it is full of wonders, but Thursley does not sound such a comfortable place to me.’
They continued the rest of the journey in silence, each looking out of their separate window. Lady Bingham noted the crowds had thinned with the approach of evening. The town looked so much better with fewer people about, she thought, and was just going to remark as much to Sovay, but the girl had that sullen look about her. Sulky little thing, not much of a companion, that was certain. Lady Bingham wouldn’t be sorry when this was over and the girl was delivered to Thursley. What happened after that was none of her concern.
CHAPTER 19
By the time they arrived back at Sovay’s door, any pretence of cordiality between them had nearly broken. Sovay did not mean to be discourteous but she found Lady Bingham’s company exhausting. On the surface, everything was relentlessly trivial but beneath Sovay sensed deep waters. Even ordinary conversation felt as though they were engaged in an elaborate cotillion to which she had to guess the steps and putting a foot wrong would spell disaster.
Sovay stripped off her gloves and removed her wisp of a headdress, ready to hand them to Mrs Crombie, her mind still on Lady Bingham.
‘Oh, Miss Sovay!’
The housekeeper stayed by her, gloves and headdress crushed in her hand. She was hovering somewhere between tears and mirth, excess emotion fairly vibrating through her. It was so unlike her that Sovay felt immediate alarm.
‘Mrs Crombie, what is it? Whatever is the matter?’
‘In your father’s study. He arrived not an hour since. So thin . . . Like a skeleton . . .’
Sovay failed to hear the rest of her words. She ran down the hallway, threw open the doors of her father’s study and hurled herself into the arms of her brother.
He seemed all bone and skin, she could feel his ribs through his coat, but he was strong enough to lift her off her feet and whirl her round as he always did when he was back from school. When he finally released her, they looked at each other both too filled with emotion to speak. Sovay was so glad to see him that she could not find words for it. Anyway, she could not think of what to say. His appearance surprised her greatly. He was rake thin, his clothes were hanging off him, but what he was wearing was even more shocking. He wore the dress of a French patriot: a long riding coat over a plain white shirt open at the collar. He wore the pantaleons of the sans-culottes and black boots turned down. His hair was cropped short into a gold cap of curls, like those of a young Greek god, or Roman hero.
‘At least I left off my tricolour and bonnet rouge,’ he said, smiling at her reaction.
‘Good that you did.’ Sovay shuddered at what could have happened, recalling the man she’d seen beaten in the street.
‘You must forgive me appearing as a citoyen. I did not think it would trouble you so. I left Paris in a hurry in what I stood up in.’
‘Why did you go there? I’ve been so worried . . .’ Sovay felt tears threatening again.
‘Shush.’ Hugh took her in his arms again, much as he used to comfort his little sister when she had fallen over and grazed her knee. Finally, he held her away from him and looked at her. ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, you are here now. But why on earth did you not tell anyone?’
She looked at him, her large eyes magnified by tears. Hugh could never decide between blue or grey. Storm clouds or
summer’s day?
‘I went because I wanted to be part of the greatest event to happen in our time, perhaps any time,’ he answered. ‘I had to be there. I had to see for myself. I acted partly on impulse. I could not tell father, he would have tried to dissuade me and I did not want to quarrel with him. I never dreamt that he would come after me.’ He sighed. ‘That is my only regret.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘He is in hiding. In a village outside Paris. He is safe there.’
‘For how long?’ Sovay remembered Dysart’s veiled warning. She could hardly contain her agitation or her anger with Hugh. He was standing there, safe and sound, while who knew what was happening to her father. Her relief at seeing him was over. She turned on her brother, accusing. ‘How could you have left him there?’
‘It is difficult for him to travel,’ Hugh’s shoulders slumped, and Sovay was immediately sorry for her anger. ‘The English are interdit and liable to immediate arrest as spies or enemies of the Republic. I have papers, thanks to M Fernand, and can pass as a citoyen but Father might as well have the Union flag emblazoned on his forehead. He got to Paris with Henry Fitzwilliam, who is a familiar presence there. The French want to ferment rebellion in Ireland, so he should have been safe with him, but the situation grows ever more volatile. Circumstances change day by day, sometimes hour by hour. What is safe one day will get you guillotined the next. We thought it better for him to be out of Paris. We were set to leave together, across country to a port in Normandy, from there by a smuggler’s vessel to the south coast. But . . .’ He hesitated, aware of the effect his words might have on his sister. ‘He is not well, Sovay.’
‘What is the matter?’
‘Congestion round the heart is what the doctor we found for him diagnosed. He ordered absolute rest as the only cure and I fear that difficult travel, beset about by constant danger, then a long sea journey might have been too much for him.’
