The Belle Dames Club

by Melinda Hammond

  ‘Elizabeth Medway? No.’ She giggled. ‘We were never introduced: she was far too virtuous for our company.’

  Lady Gaunt raised her hand to indicate that the reading was about to start. Miss Medway opened a large, leather-bound volume.

  ‘I shall read to you from Mr Thomas Day’s poem, The Dying Negro,’ she began in a soft, well-modulated voice. ‘As some of you will know, the poem was conceived some years ago, when Mr Day learned of a slave who killed himself rather than be sent back to the plantation.’

  ‘Definitely not comic verse.’ muttered Lady Gaunt, settling back in her seat.

  Miss Medway read well and Clarissa listened, enthralled by the unravelling story of the Negro’s abduction from Africa, the horrors of the plantation and his tranquil life in England, which was shattered when he was taken by slavers again. It was only when the reading came to an end that she realized the whole room had lapsed into a silence that continued for some moments after Miss Medway had closed her book. Then there was a burst of applause.

  ‘Oh that was so affecting,’ declared Lady Sarah, who had been standing close by during the recital. ‘One wishes there was something to be done.’

  ‘Give up sugar, to begin with,’ said Sir Robert. ‘If a protest interferes with trade, the government will take notice.’

  Lady Sarah looked aghast, but her duties as hostess claimed her attention and she went off to encourage the next reader to take to the floor. He was a thin young man who shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other while he ran a finger around his snowy neck-cloth.

  ‘It is strange that Miss Medway should read that work because I, too, have chosen the same subject. If I may read to you a few lines from Mr James Grainger.’

  ‘Even older than the previous poem,’ murmured Lady Wyckenham.

  The young man began his reading hesitantly but Miss Medway’s impassioned rendition had prepared the way and his audience gave him their full attention, rewarding his efforts with enthusiastic applause. Clarissa glanced at Lady Gaunt, sitting upright beside her. She was staring into space, one hand on the shoulder of her little page, who was kneeling at her feet. As one in a trance she repeated the lines from the poem, ‘… knock off the chains of heart-debasing slavery.’ Her eyes dropped to the page’s black curly hair. ‘Yes, knock off the chains.’

  Clarissa was about to ask her what she meant when Lady Wyckenham claimed her attention.

  ‘My love, Sir Robert is escorting me into the supper-room, do you wish to come with us?’

  ‘Thank you, Mama-Nell, I will sit here, if you do not object?’

  As Lady Wyckenham went off on Sir Robert’s arm, Emily Sowerby unfurled her fan.

  ‘I do not see Sir Howard here this evening. How I wish we could have been with you at Norwell House, Clarissa, when you tricked him so finely. Dorothea told us all about it. Do you think he has left town, ma’am?’

  She had to repeat the question before she gained Lady Gaunt’s attention and even then that lady could only shrug.

  ‘I have not seen him. Sally told me Sir Toby had invited him tonight.’

  ‘Well, I do hope he is gone,’ said Clarissa. ‘So much more comfortable for Julia if he has retired to the country.’

  Georgiana shuddered. ‘Such an odious little man, and the Norwells have been transformed since your little trick, Dorothea. I saw Julia and her husband in Bond Street today. Barnabus was being most attentive.’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Emily, ‘And Julia was looking radiant. She positively dotes on Barnabus.’

  ‘So it would seem we have done some good,’ remarked Clarissa, relieved. ‘I am so glad they are happy. Let us hope it deters Sir Howard from playing his little tricks on other poor women.’

  ‘It may, for a while,’ replied Lady Gaunt, ‘but I doubt it will be a permanent change.’ She rose. ‘Excuse me, I see Lady Martingale beckoning….’

  Emily and Georgiana moved away soon after and Clarissa was left alone. The crowd was thinning as the guests made their way to the supper-room and Clarissa decided she would go in search of Lady Wyckenham. She realized her fan had slipped from her lap and she was obliged to reach down to recover it from the floor. Her fingers had just clasped the fan when she became aware that a gentleman was standing in front of her. She noted the white silk stockings and buckled shoes and, as she straightened in her seat, her eyes travelled up over the biscuit-coloured knee-breeches to the midnight-blue coat, embroidered waistcoat and blindingly white neck-cloth. She continued to raise her eyes until she was looking at Lord Alresford’s impassive countenance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  With the earl towering over her, memories of their last stormy meeting flooded through Clarissa, heating her cheeks.

  ‘Miss Wyckenham.’

  ‘Good evening, my lord.’

  ‘You are alone, madam. May I escort you to supper?’

  ‘No – I – that is, thank you, my lord, but I am not hungry.’

  ‘If I may?’

  Taking her silence as acquiescence he sat down beside her on the sofa. Clarissa found herself with nothing to say and after a few moments the earl broke the silence.

  ‘You are enjoying the readings, Miss Wyckenham?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. I was much struck by Miss Medway’s recital.’

  ‘Yes. She reads well, but I believe the subject matter made some of the audience uncomfortable.’

  ‘As it should,’ she replied. ‘Slavery is surely an abhorrence to any free man or woman.’

  ‘You think it should be abolished?’

  ‘I do, yet I am at a loss to know how it is to be achieved: if slavery were to vanish overnight there would be such a void to fill: it is bound up with a great deal of our commerce, I think. There would be great opposition.’

  The earl regarded her more closely.

  ‘You have clearly given the matter some thought, ma’am.’

  ‘Not as much as it deserves, but—’ she broke off as Lady Medway and her daughter approached, and felt a pang of regret that her tête-à-tête with Lord Alresford had been interrupted.

  The earl rose as the ladies approached, Lady Medway fluttering her fan towards him by way of a greeting.

  ‘There you are, my lord. Florence was just wondering what had become of you. Miss Wyckenham, good evening to you.’

  ‘How are you enjoying the evening, Miss Wyckenham?’ asked Miss Medway with a sweet, false smile. ‘No doubt the Sheridan was to your taste?’

  Clarissa responded with a wide smile of her own.

  ‘Of course, I always enjoy his work. May I congratulate you on your own performance, Miss Medway?’

  The young lady lowered her eyes and gently smoothed her hands over her gown.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Wyckenham. Mama was concerned it might be a little too … advanced for this evening: it is well known that Lady Sarah and her friends are more inclined to levity than serious discussion.’

  Clarissa continued to smile, but her eyes glittered dangerously.

  ‘Each has its place, Miss Medway. An unvaried diet of serious topics cannot be healthy: so ageing, do you not agree?’

  The earl hurried into the breach.

  ‘I believe Miss Wyckenham shares your sentiments on slavery, Miss Medway.’

  Florence acknowledged this with no more than a lift of an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh? Is that the fashionable view now? I had thought it a little too complicated for most ladies to comprehend fully.’

  ‘Oh, what is complicated?’ asked Lady Wyckenham coming up at that moment.

  The earl bowed to her.

  ‘We were speaking of abolitionism, ma’am.’

  My lady nodded sagely.

  ‘Ah, yes. You are right, then. A very weighty subject.’

  ‘But not one ladies of any rank should ignore,’ added Miss Medway. ‘Yet I daresay there will be precious few at Mr Sharp’s next meeting.’

  ‘One has to be advised of an event before one can attend,’ responded Lady Wyckenham, a gentle rebuke i
n her tone. ‘Where was it announced?’

  ‘Oh I am sure there was some report of it in the newspapers.’ Lady Medway waved her hand in a vague way.

  ‘It takes place on the fifteenth, above the Golden Lion in Eagle Street,’ said Miss Medway. ‘Holborn: not a venue to appeal to the fashionable.’ She laid her hand on the earl’s arm. ‘Forgive me, my lord: we came to find you to go down to supper and I have been rattling on, quite forgetting my hunger, or mama’s. Shall we go?’

  Lord Alresford inclined his head and with a nod towards Clarissa he led his party away.

  ‘Well!’ Lady Wyckenham opened her fan with a snap. ‘Such a display of self-righteousness.’

  ‘Indeed, Mama-Nell, I fear Miss Medway thinks us very frippery creatures.’

  ‘She is mistaken,’ declared my lady. She beckoned to Lady Gaunt who was crossing the room with Emily and Georgiana. ‘My dears, I hope you are free next week, on Thursday evening?’

  The ladies looked at one another.

  ‘There is a masked ball at the Pantheon,’ said Georgiana, ‘but we need not go.’

  ‘And I had thought I would look in at Lady Somerton’s rout,’ added Lady Gaunt. ‘But if you have something more interesting to offer, Helen….’

  ‘Something of a much more improving nature,’ declared Lady Wyckenham, a martial light in her eye. ‘On Thursday night the ladies of the Belles Dames Club will be attending Mr Sharp’s meeting in Eagle Street.’

  ‘Grenville Sharp, the reformer?’ asked Emily.

  ‘The very same,’ affirmed my lady. ‘We will be supporting his call to abolish slavery.’

  There was a stunned silence, the ladies looked at each other, then Lady Gaunt laughed.

  ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘It might be amusing. We must tell Sally.’

  ‘But what should one wear?’ cried Emily.

  Clarissa gave a gurgle of laughter.

  ‘Something incredibly dull, I think!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ‘An abolitionist meeting, in Holborn?’ Lady Sarah laughed. ‘And I thought you could not possibly get up to any mischief tonight!’

  ‘It is not mischief,’ objected Lady Wyckenham. ‘We are to attend a serious lecture.’

  ‘Then, of course, I shall come with you!’ was the prompt reply. ‘I was afraid you would find my little evening very poor fare. The Belles Dames Club has been so adventurous recently that I wanted Toby to go to Newgate and find me a notorious highwayman to read for us tonight, but he would not hear of it.’

  ‘Fie on you, Sally, to think we cannot enjoy a quiet evening of refinement.’

  ‘Well, that’s why I invited Mr Henderson to come and read for us – he has made Mr Cowper’s comic poem John Gilpin all the rage you know, and has promised to perform it for us at the end of the evening. But it was Sir Toby who insisted on inviting the Medways, to lend a little gravitas to the event. Which they do: their dowdy colours make me feel positively gaudy, and I made such efforts to look serious tonight!’

  Clarissa looked at Lady Sarah’s olive-green gown and the snowy fichu around her shoulders. On any other lady the plain muslin with its long sleeves and white ruffles would have looked eminently sensible, but it merely enhanced Sarah’s flaming hair and sparkling eyes. It was easy to understand why staid Sir Toby doted upon his lovely wife.

  The guests seemed in no hurry to settle down for more poetry and Clarissa accompanied Lady Wyckenham around the room, meeting acquaintances and wondering idly if Lord Alresford was enjoying his supper when Mama-Nell’s voice suddenly caught her attention.

  ‘Clarissa, my love, here is Lord Ullenwood come to speak to us.’

  Her head snapped round. The marquis held out his long white fingers and she gave him her hand, which he raised to his lips with practised ease. Clarissa studied more closely this man who was persecuting Mama-Nell. On their first meeting she had thought him much older, but now realized that despite the silver threads lacing through his thick, dark hair he was not yet above forty. His lean, handsome face was definitely attractive but she imagined that the mobile mouth could twist into a sneer as easily as a smile. There was a world-weariness about him, a languid manner that she felt sure was assumed.

  ‘Lord Ullenwood.’ Her tone was cool, for she was prepared to dislike him and it came as something of a shock to realize the man’s charm when he wished to use it; she was drawn to his deep, deep brown eyes.

  ‘Delighted to meet you again, Miss Wyckenham.’

  She put up her chin.

  ‘I have learned a great deal about you since our last meeting, my lord.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Those dark eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Nothing too infamous, I hope.’

  ‘Merely the truth, sir.’

  Lady Wyckenham gave an audible gasp and rushed into speech.

  ‘I-I did not think you a lover of poetry, Lord Ullenwood. You have missed the majority of the readings.’

  He turned towards her.

  ‘Yes, I did not realize it was so late. But no matter. I came here solely to see you, madam.’

  Lady Wyckenham fanned herself vigorously.

  ‘You flatter me, sir.’

  ‘No, I merely wanted to remind you that we have a little matter of – ah – unfinished business to discuss.’

  ‘My, my, Lord Ullenwood, how mysterious you make it sound,’ remarked Clarissa.

  He looked at her.

  ‘And what do you know of the matter, Miss Wyckenham?’

  Clarissa returned his gaze steadily, her own dark eyes challenging.

  ‘I know enough to tell you that my stepmama is not one to be bullied, sir.’

  ‘Cl-Clarissa you mistake,’ muttered Lady Wyckenham.

  ‘Indeed you do, Miss Wyckenham. I have no intention of – ah – bullying anyone. Merely I am anxious to resolve our differences.’ The marquis smiled. ‘As Lady Wyckenham observed, I do not often attend these soirées, but upon occasion I have even been known to read something of my own. When the spirit moves me, I can be persuaded. My own inclination runs towards the sonnets, or … love letters.’

  Lady Wyckenham paled. She gripped Clarissa’s arm.

  ‘You would not!’

  Clarissa felt the breath catch in her throat as she looked from her stepmother to the marquis. Their eyes were locked: Mama-Nell’s imploring, Lord Ullenwood’s implacable.

  ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I would not … tonight.’ He bowed. ‘Come, ma’am. Let us not quarrel. I am here to tell you that I am planning to leave town shortly. We will need to resolve our … little problem before then.’

  With a smile and a bow he walked away and Lady Wyckenham gave a shuddering sigh.

  ‘You heard him, Clarissa. He wants an answer.’

  ‘And that answer must be no, Mama-Nell. We shall wrest the letters from him!’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘I don’t know: I must consult Lady Gaunt. After all she found a solution to Julia Norwell’s problem.’

  ‘But Lord Ullenwood is no Sir Howard. He is a much more dangerous adversary.’

  ‘Then we must be much more clever,’ retorted Clarissa. She patted the small hand still gripping her arm. ‘You must not worry, Mama-Nell. We shall come about, you’ll see.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Having decided to admit the members of the Belles Dames Club into her confidence, Lady Wyckenham was anxious to call a meeting, but it was a full week before they could convene. In the meantime she showed no sign of her anxiety as she went about her daily business. She drove out with Sir Robert, went to the theatre with Clarissa and spent a few hours each day in her attic studio, working on the two plant specimens Sir Robert had given her to paint. At such times she found she could forget for a while the threat hanging over her.

  She saw Lord Ullenwood only once, at a masquerade. The variety of costumes and disguises prevented her from recognizing the Marquis until she was going down the line with him in a country dance.

  ‘I know you,’ he said, following the a
ccepted mode of address. ‘You look enchanting tonight, my lady. What are you – Queen Mab?’ His eyes raked over her green silk with its overdress of gossamer gauze.

  ‘Titania,’ she answered, recovering from the shock of recognition. The marquis was dressed as a pirate, complete with a full-bottomed wig and a leather eye-patch. Very appropriate, she thought bitterly, but as the dance separated them at that moment she had no opportunity to tell him so. He came to find her shortly after, and insisted on escorting her down to supper.

  Clarissa watched her stepmother leaving the room and did not doubt the identity of her piratical companion. Lord Ullenwood’s behaviour roused her indignation but she admitted to herself that there was little to be done until the letters had been retrieved. A voice at her side recalled her attention.

  ‘Do I know you, madam?’

  She looked round to find Sir Robert Ingleton at her side, easily recognizable despite his disguise.

  ‘Well, sir, do you know me?’ she asked, watching him through the slits in her own golden mask.

  He gave her his charming, crooked grin.

  ‘Indeed I do, Miss Wyckenham, but what is this? You are dressed as a goddess, yet your countenance suggests you are about to demand a human sacrifice.’

  She chuckled.

  ‘Was I frowning so direfully, Sir Robert? My thoughts were many miles away. And I am one of the Muses, you see.’ She pointed to the golden lyres embroidered on the skirts of her robe. She cast an admiring glance at his costume. ‘And what are you – Sir Frances Drake? How appropriate.’

  ‘I thought so. But you are evading my question: will you not tell me what caused such a frown to crease your brow?’

  Despite her stepmama’s outright refusal to involve him, Clarissa was tempted to tell him of Lady Wyckenham’s letters – but only for a moment. Instead, she said, ‘I wish it was you taking Mama-Nell down to supper! She has gone off on the arm of Lord Ullenwood.’

  Sir Robert spread his hands.

  ‘Alas, my lady refused me. Having danced twice together she did not want to attract attention.’