by Lynn Morris
Lewin remained silent, his face impassive, as, of course, he was an integral part of the “brutality and waste.” Giles said blithely, “Come, Aldington, the ladies won’t like to weep into their omelets. You bought a new saddle horse at Tattersalls, did you not? Out of Dangerfield himself, I believe?”
With some animation Denys spoke of his new mount, and the talk turned to horses, and then carriages, and the ladies joined in with their preferences for riding.
Mirabella said, “I do like riding, but I much prefer driving my phaeton, it’s such fun for dashing about.”
Giles said, “She’s quite a whip hand, too, and knows it all too well. She’s never let us drive her, has she, Lewin? It’s a good thing I’m so secure in my masculinity that I don’t mind trailing along with a lady driving me. Miss Smythe, do you ride, or drive your own carriage?”
Barbara looked rueful. “I hate to admit it, but I’m afraid of horses. I have a sweet old mare named Brynn that I ride at home sometimes, but I wouldn’t dare ride her in the park, where everyone cuts such a dash. Brynn and I are like two old comfortable married people, just plodding along. And I wouldn’t dare attempt to drive a carriage.”
Rosalind said, “I can sympathize, Miss Smythe. I wasn’t afraid of horses, I just never took the time to learn to ride or drive. But in this past year, during the winter, I was so dismally bored at Ellanthorpe that I learned to do both, and found that I enjoyed riding especially. I attribute my skill to my head groom, who is an excellent teacher, and has a wizard’s way with horses.”
Giles asked, “So you do ride, my lady? I ask, because I think I’ve only seen you in the park in your landau, with your coachman driving.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve come to love to ride. I’ve charged my head groom with finding me a blood mount at Tattersalls,” she said eagerly. “I can hardly wait to astound everyone with my equestrienne skills. Mirabella, I’m determined to outshine you.”
“I’m certain you will, as the rules for sedate trots are so strict in the park, it’s difficult to display my Corinthian expertise,” Mirabella said regretfully.
“Yes, I know, we must observe the rules always,” Lady FitzGeorge said disdainfully. “In Town, at least. But last year I found myself so enamored with riding, and the exercise, that I bought a hunter and organized a fox hunt at home. Of course, to my stepdaughter, it added two black marks against my good name. Riding to hounds, and the fact that I actually left the house and people saw me while I was in mourning. I did have a most fetching black riding habit, however, which consoled me considerably.”
“So you ride to hounds, my lady?” Harry Smythe asked, bright-eyed. “That’s right sporting of you.”
“Not only that, but I learned to shoot as well, I found it most diverting,” she replied, her dark eyes glowing. “I’m so looking forward to grouse season this year, I’m desperately searching for some amiable friends to invite me to their shooting box.”
Mirabella said, “Rosalind, I’m amazed, and impressed. You must come to Littlemoor House with us this August. I may even prevail upon you to teach me to shoot.”
“That would be interesting,” Giles said blithely. “I haven’t known Lady Mirabella to fire a gun, but there was one regrettable instance when I got a slingshot for my birthday. She plonked my dog so hard in the head that he was cross-eyed for a week.”
Mirabella sniffed. “Shame on you for such a dreadful exaggeration, Giles. He wasn’t cross-eyed at all, he completely recovered in a few minutes. Well, perhaps several minutes.”
Rosalind said, “Never mind, I don’t find that story shocking at all. When I was first learning to shoot, I nearly shot my loader’s foot off. And then there was the time that one of my beaters’ hats flew off; I maintained that it was because there was a stiff breeze. The hat was found to have a hole in it, but I said that it was so shabby and worn the hole was likely already there.”
“Perhaps it might not be such a grand idea for Lady FitzGeorge to teach you to shoot, Lady Mirabella,” Lord Trevor said.
“Nonsense, aside from those two insignificant instances, I haven’t come near to shooting anyone since,” Rosalind said slyly.
Mirabella studied Rosalind as they dined. She recalled her again as a quiet, rather submissive girl when she married Lord FitzGeorge. She had certainly changed. Now, Mirabella reflected, she was not sweetly kittenish at all. Rather, her smile looked more like a feral cat’s.
That’s not fair, Rosalind may be more outspoken now, and her behavior may be slightly daring, but she’s not cruel or mean. She’s so beautiful, and yes, alluring, that men are certain to respond to her, even Giles flirts with her. As does Lord Trevor…but he flirts with all the ladies, I’ve come to see. Denys seems to be immune to her charms…he’s so much more comforting to be with, he doesn’t force me to constantly be on guard, or to continually try to fathom what he wants, and what he means.
She recalled the good-natured, easygoing, cheerful young man she’d known at Wetherley Manor. Denys had playfully teased his sister, and was always able to make her smile. He’d taught Mirabella how to skip stones on the lake. They’d had such fun together in the evenings, playing card games and betting with some object in the room; Mirabella won so often that Denys had joked that she owned the drawing room. Once Denys had, whispering, of course, bet his father, and Mirabella had bet the fire screen. Mirabella had won the hand, but declined to collect her winnings.
Mirabella thought, I wonder, I wonder…? Surely that amusing young gentleman is not gone forever. Perhaps I can find him again…
Chapter Fifteen
Lady FitzGeorge’s selection of guests for her dinner party made for a diverse group. They were eleven, for Lady FitzGeorge always favored the maximum of twelve for her parties. There was the brooding, dissolute Lord Byron; bright and vivacious Mirabella and her parents, the solid, plainspoken Lord Camarden and the acidic Lady Camarden; the clergyman’s children Josephine and Lewin; and the gracious and gentle Lady Cowper and her husband, Lord Cowper, who in contrast to his wife had a reputation for dullness, slowness of speech, and little interest in society. Rosalind had also invited Giles, Denys Aldington, and Lord Trevor Brydges.
They gathered in Lady FitzGeorge’s sumptuous drawing room, and Josephine and Lewin were introduced to Lord Byron. Mirabella watched Byron curiously. He was a heartbreakingly handsome man, not tall but sturdily built, with dark pools of eyes, thick curly dark hair, and fine, delicate features. The limp from a clubfoot he’d had since birth added to his tragic air. He greeted Josephine in his usual courtly manner, and immediately engaged Lewin in a discussion of the events in Spain in the Peninsular War.
The butler announced that dinner was served, and the guests filed in according to their rank. As they found their place cards at the table and the footmen seated them, Rosalind said, “Last week Lady Mirabella apologized for having an uneven number of ladies and gentlemen at her breakfast, but I make no such apologies. I find it much more enjoyable to have the gentlemen outnumber the ladies. It so rarely happens that ladies may have the pleasure of conversation with one, or even better, two amiable gentlemen.”
Lord Byron was seated on Rosalind’s right, and he said, “’Tis true, it seems that in Polite Society the ladies far outnumber the gentlemen.”
“Particularly in the groups surrounding you, sir,” Rosalind said.
Mirabella was seated between Lord Byron on her left and Lord Trevor on her right. The footmen began serving the first course of soups and entrees, and Rosalind immediately began the ritual of conversation by engaging Denys Aldington, who sat on her left, across from Byron.
Mirabella turned to Byron and said, “Sir, we have been introduced but once, very briefly last year at Lady Jersey’s. I’d venture that you likely can’t remember me, so I’d like to reintroduce myself, as it were.”
“On the contrary, my lady, I remember you quite well,” he said smoothly. “I’d be remiss indeed to forget such an entrancing young woman.”
“A
lready I see that the rumors of your famous charm have not been exaggerated. Thank you, kind sir, but I beg you, don’t fall into a trance, as I was hoping to have lively conversation with my dinner partners.”
“I shall endeavor to remain conscious, and am at your service. What is your choice of topic for this lively conversation?”
Mirabella had heard that Byron was generally cordial and gentlemanly to ladies in light discourse, but that he was often impatient when they tried to engage him in discussion of serious topics. He possessed a vast intellect, a sharp and cutting mind, and it was said that he soon grew impatient with insipid conversation. She saw that he was baiting her, and she decided to take a chance. “As ladies so often do, I’ll show proper deference to a gentleman, and allow you to choose the topic,” Mirabella said in a slightly mocking tone. “Pray proceed, and I will follow.”
Byron matched her mocking tone. “Somehow I find that to be unlikely. I’ve heard that Lady Mirabella Tirel follows no man, and no little woe may befall those who try to command her.”
“Surely the genius Lord Byron is not choosing silly idle gossip as a topic for dinner conversation,” Mirabella said lightly.
“Generally I find I have no other option when speaking with respectable young ladies. I see, however, that you may be an exception. Very well, as you have been so womanly in allowing me to guide our discourse, I will choose the usual favored topic of gentlemen, and talk about myself. Lady FitzGeorge has told me that you are not one of my most devoted admirers. Now that I’ve seen you might possibly have a bit of wit about you, I’m curious to hear your opinion. In spite of my lofty opinion of myself, I do value a thoughtful critique.” Then he frowned, and contrary to his arrogant air, added uncertainly, “I beg your pardon, madam, for assuming that you’ve read any of my works. Certainly I know that not everyone on this earth has done so.”
“You’re forgiven, for you’re very nearly correct. I must admit that I only read Childe Harold this last week, when I learned that you were one of Lady FitzGeorge’s dinner guests,” Mirabella said artlessly. “But now I’m glad I did. Once I took the time to read it carefully, I found that I enjoyed much of it, and came to appreciate that you are indeed a gifted poet.”
“I think that you’re more insightful than to offer such qualified and vague praise,” he said intently. “I was sincere before, I would like to hear your thoughts.”
Mirabella took a sip of delicious turtle soup. After a few moments she said, “You have a genius for vivid imagery, particularly in the physical scenery. All of the tactile senses are there: sight, sound, touch, smell, even taste. The contrasts you offer between filth and squalor, while still finding exotic beauty in the scene, are poignant and evocative.”
“Thank you,” he said rather automatically. “But?”
Mirabella smiled, thinking that she had never seen Lord Byron smile. “But my severest critique of your work is not one of quality. It is of the world view. Childe Harold is dissolute, downcast, and hopeless; he is afflicted with ‘life-abhorring gloom.’ I understand that there are people who feel such hopelessness, but I will never believe that such a desolate judgment of this world is the true perception of it.”
“Harold is not insistent that all men, or women, follow his path. In fact, again and again he warns the reader to avoid his follies.”
“Yes, but in his heart he believes that his hopelessness is the only reality on this earth,” Mirabella retorted, then quoted:
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,
And taste of all that I forsake:
Oh! may they still of transport dream,
And ne’er, at least like me, awake!
“Obviously he feels that others, who find joy, contentment, and beauty in life, are simply delusional.”
A gleam of admiration flashed in his eyes. “You are clever to use my own words to refute me. Still, I think that you unjustly accuse me of a deranged world view. Again and again I’ve insisted that Childe Harold is in no way autobiographical.”
“I beg your pardon, but I find that argument somewhat specious. You are a Christian, sir, and you must know this. No one but Almighty God can create a new, unique human being.”
An expression of amazement crossed his face, and then he looked darkly amused, though of course he didn’t smile. “And so it must necessarily follow that whatever we create must be a part of us, of our own experience and thought and spirit. Never in life did I think I’d be confounded by a mere girl.”
Wryly Mirabella said, “It seems our conversation, which, I remind you, was chosen by you, has somewhat eroded your famous charm and gallantry.”
He nodded his head in acknowledgment. “Forgive me, my lady, I grievously misspoke. You are far from a mere girl. You are indeed entrancing, and captivating, and if I may be so bold, I say that you’re somewhat formidable. The silly idle gossip is true: woe is upon me for trying to best you.”
“Nonsense, I’d never win an intellectual debate with you. I must tell you that I was obliged to look up almost every classical and mythological reference in Childe Harold. I’m an avid reader, but my study of classical history has been halfhearted at best. It’s a certainty that you could easily confound me with Ovid or Homer.”
“I have no wish to confound you, so let us lay aside classical history. I understand that you are quite an accomplished musician, so let’s talk of music, another of my passions. Tell me about your music.”
Mirabella enthusiastically told him of her love of music, particularly opera. He was knowledgeable, although he admitted he had no musical abilities. They found that they preferred many of the same operas and arias. When he disagreed with Mirabella, he was sharp and concise in his viewpoint, but he was not rude.
After the second course, Lady FitzGeorge “turned the table” and began to speak to Lord Byron. Mirabella turned to Lord Trevor. “Sir, I beg you, may we have some frothy, meaningless conversation, please? I find that discourse with Lord Byron is somewhat taxing.”
“He can be demanding; he continually challenges people to match wits with him. I refuse to play, for I know I could never win his little game, but he tolerates me anyway. And yes, my lady, I’ll be glad to speak of inane trivialities, for I have a particular talent for it. Will this suit? Just today I finally got my uniform for the Four Horse Club, and it’s such a disaster that I fear I won’t be able to show my face next week for our race. The driving coat has fourteen capes instead of fifteen, my waistcoat doesn’t fit, and aside from that tragedy the stripes look to me like a sort of putrid orangy thing instead of yellow. Also, my breeches are too short…”
Mirabella listened with amusement as Lord Trevor lamented his tailoring woes. The Four Horse Club, started by the inveterate carriage racer Lord Sefton, or Lord Dashalong as he was aptly nicknamed, consisted of aristocratic young men who were recognized as experts in the art of driving. They had a strict dress code: the club uniform was a long white driving coat with fifteen “capes,” or short gathered lengths of fabric, beginning at the shoulders, and two tiers of pockets, a single-breasted blue coat with brass buttons, a Kerseymere waistcoat with inch-wide blue and yellow stripes, white corduroy breeches, short boots with long tops, and a white muslin cravat with black spots. It was quite a sight to see the twenty or so young bucks line up on Park Lane in their resplendent costumes, each of them driving a four-wheeled carriage with four horses, for their twenty-mile race to Salt Hill.
Mirabella again reflected on the contrast between Lord Trevor’s physical appearance and his demeanor. His face was roughhewn, with a squared jaw and firm chin and high jutting cheekbones. He had the muscular physique of the athlete that he was, for he was known as a “Corinthian,” a man who dressed with exquisite elegance, and was skilled in all the manly sports of boxing, fencing, sword fighting, singlestick, pistols, horsemanship, driving, and of course hunting and shooting. Yet for all his rough masculinity, which Mirabella saw was often paired with a sort of grimness, Lord Trevor was cheerful and witty, and seemed t
o delight in whatever company or situation he was in. This boyishness appealed to Mirabella. She contrasted it with the somber mien of Denys Aldington. As he conversed with Josephine, she saw that Josephine was smiling, and seemed to be trying to amuse him, but his demeanor remained grave.
Abruptly Lord Trevor paused in his list of tailoring woes and said, “Lady Mirabella, I’m shocked at your behavior. You’ve transgressed a strict rule of dinner discourse. I saw you watching Aldington while I was trying to impress upon you the gravity of my situation. It ain’t fair, I prevailed upon Lady FitzGeorge to seat me next to you, so I did Aldington one in the eye, or so I thought. Now here you are moon-gazing at him.”
“I am not moon-gazing, I never moon-gaze. In truth I was also thinking of you, sir. While I was sympathizing with your plight concerning your club uniform, I was also comparing your jovial demeanor with Mr. Aldington’s continual somberness these days. He has changed much, it seems.”
“Aldington’s a good old stick, but he’s been infected with the Byron fever. I’d find it dashed boring to mope about so for very long. I expect he’ll grow out of it.”
“The Byron fever?” Mirabella repeated with surprise. Suddenly she realized that the effusive quotation he’d recited to her at Almack’s was a word-for-word passage from To Ianthe, the introduction to Childe Harold. Frowning, she asked, “Do you mean this sea change in his deportment is due to Lord Byron’s influence?”
Lord Trevor shrugged. “He’s not the first, nor will he be the last. Surely you’ve observed that many people of our acquaintance, both ladies and gentlemen, are affecting the tragic hero or heroine. Don’t mistake me, Aldington’s an old friend and I’m not accusing him of being weak-minded. I think the concept of a helpless, doomed romantic love has a sort of dark appeal to some.”
“But not to you, I take it,” Mirabella said lightly.
