“I do. I have lived in the country for some long time, and I have never been happier then when I quit it. I only wish that I might someday travel the world as you have done.”
“What a wonderful sentiment. I have never met a young lady who thought like that. I am confident that you will one day have your wish. But, in the meanwhile, perhaps I may be so bold as to claim your first two dances at the next ball, Madame? Will you be at Mademoiselle Lery’s little gathering next week? I am certain society is on tenterhooks to see what offering of Madame Finette’s you will wear next.” He smiled to indicate that he was only teasing her.
Maggie laughed at that. “Indeed, I daresay it shall be a most diverting evening. I believe that Madame Recamier and the celebrated Mademoiselle de Lamartine shall be in attendance. Can you imagine? And the melancholy Comte de Vigny, too, of course – if he can spare the time.”
The Mademoiselle Lery was known as a daring leader of fashion in Paris, and her ‘little gathering’ was anticipated as one of the most celebrated social events of the summer, with a guest list boasting the most lauded faces presently in Paris. Maggie had been astonished to find that the baroness de Gramont warranted an invitation. She suspected that Marie-Josette might have had something to do with that.
“Well, I am very pleased that you mean to attend. You will brighten the conversation with your lively discourse.”
Maggie was touched by his words: especially because they seemed to have been delivered with a most characteristic earnestness and no hidden purpose.
“Oh, do stop, Sir Lucian! Now it is you who is much too kind,” she chided good-naturedly.
“Ah, very well, but only because it would be cruel to put you to the blush. Did you say Vigny? The young poet?” asked Sir Lucian curiously.
“The very same. Do you know him?”
“I have heard him read one of his compositions. He has a very modern turn of mind, I believe. I find I have little patience for poetry that is purposely austere,” the gentleman said.
“Then we are of like mind in that, also. Poetry must ever be beautiful and joyful. Or even melancholy. But never grim,” Maggie agreed. “It is unfortunate that the fashion does tend towards very distressing verse of late.”
“It is why I now prefer to spend my time in museums rather than poetry readings.”
“I must shamefully own that I have yet to explore a museum since I arrived here,” Maggie admitted. “One does so get caught up in things that it is difficult to find the time.”
The baronet shook his head. “That is not to borne! One must always find the time to visit our finest repositories of knowledge. The situation ought to be remedied as soon as possible. Perhaps you would permit me to escort you to the Jardin du Roi and the National Museum of Natural History? There is a fascinating botanical exhibition of roses, though it tomorrow will be the last day. The exhibition is a fine example of the genius of modern botany. I have always had a great interest in the natural sciences, so I visit the museum whenever I am in Paris. It would make for a very fine outing while the weather holds warm, don’t you think? And there are other amusements to be had at the jardin, of course – the walks are lovely and there are many beautiful and medicinal plants. There is even a labyrinth.”
“A labyrinth? I certainly cannot refuse that. Well, then the matter is settled. We shall go.” They exchanged smiles.
A labyrinth was terribly romantic, Maggie thought. As was a whole garden full of roses! If Hart had offered to escort her to such a place, her soul would have been singing with hope and romance. Sir Lucian’s offer, which would surely have thrilled any number of his ardent admirers, merely pleased her as a very fine way to pass an afternoon.
She wondered idly if she might have loved him in a different world where she never set eyes on the Marquess of Hartley. Perhaps Hart had forever ruined her for all men.
She was comforted, however, that Sir Lucian seemed no more besotted than Maggie did – his offer had held not a hint of nerves, of hesitation, or courtship.
It made matters a lot easier.
The jardin would be an excellent way to keep from brooding over the infuriating Lord Hartley. She was certain that if she spent much more of her time agonising over his behaviour, she would end up in Bedlam. It would be extremely pleasant to wander the gardens with the handsome baronet on a bright summer’s day.
She wondered what the Maggie of a few months ago would have made of her, gallivanting about town with famous composers and kissing Hart in the library. And who would ever have thought the timid Miss Dacre would ever venture the montaignes russe?
“Only, you must promise not to laugh if I say something silly – for you are a scholar, it seems, but I know nothing of botany,” Maggie was saying with a twinkle, just as Duby returned, announcing another caller.
“Lord Hartley is desirous of speaking with you, Madame,” he said, as Maggie curiously examined the card. It did indeed belong to Hart, as the modest script announced in black ink. She had never seen his card before, she thought in surprise.
“How peculiar. I wonder what it should be about.” Maggie contemplated sending him away, before remembering Cecile’s suggestion that she let him see her in the company of Sir Lucian.
“Thank you, Duby. I shall see his lordship. Do direct him to this parlour.”
The marquess paused a moment in the doorway when he saw that Maggie already had company. For a moment, his eyes flashed fire, just as they had done that night at the library, before he gave a stiff bow.
“Good day, Madame, Blake,” he said.
Maggie and the composer rose to their feet.
“Lord Hartley, what an unexpected surprise. I trust all is well with your aunt?”
Hart affected surprise. “Unexpected? But did I not say I should call on you in the morning? My aunt is as well as she ever is, thank you. She means to spend the day at her harp, I am told.” His eyes flicked to the composer, and Maggie knew he was once more preparing to be disagreeable. If she denied any knowledge of his intention to call, it would only look all the more peculiar to Sir Lucian.
The strange jealousy was a side of Hartley she had never seen before – in her experience, he had always been full of camaraderie.
She reached for her fan and flicked it open for something to do with her hands. “Of course. It seems I had forgotten. My apologies. Would you care for some refreshments perhaps?”
“Thank you, no. ”
Maggie wondered a moment what she ought to say next before she remembered that she was meant to be a skilled and celebrated hostess. She would certainly not let one man ruin that, no matter how much his touch made her tremble with delight.
“Sir Lucian and I were just discussing the charm of the Jardin du Roi, Lord Hartley,” Maggie said, reasoning to herself that not even Hart could find something snide to say about roses.
“The gardens?” If anything, he sounded incredulous.
“Indeed,” said the composer. “There is currently a charming rose exhibition on and tomorrow is the last day. Perhaps you have had occasion to see it? I have some interest in botany, you see.”
Hartley raised an eyebrow. “Botany? I own that I know very little of that field. You are a man of many talents, Blake. And here I thought your interest rested solely with quartets and operas.”
The composer smiled self-deprecatingly. “Alas, no – I only dabble in botany. When one is a baronet, regrettably one cannot truly be anything else besides – though I do my best. But the exhibition should be quite fascinating.”
“The roses will be positively beautiful, I’m certain! And I am very curious about the orangerie,” said Maggie, relieved that the conversation was flowing more smoothly now.
“Oragnerie? I had no notion you were interested in gardens too, Madame. Do you mean to visit this exhibition?”
There was a mocking smile in Hart’s eyes, though he presented the very picture of social ease to anyone who did not know him well. It grated on Maggie’s already strained nerv
es.
“Sir Lucian was so good as to offer to accompany me. I think you will find I have many interests of which you were unaware, Lord Hartley.”
“Yes, I expect you are very right. Embroidery is your other passion, as I recall? But I am being rude to Blake!” Hartley exclaimed with such abashed good breeding that Maggie instantly recognised it for a sham. “You see, my good fellow, I have known Madame for a number of years, though only passingly.”
Unlike Maggie, Sir Lucian took Hartley at his word. Maggie supposed that this showed him to have a much better character that she or Hart could ever lay claim to.
“Indeed? I had no notion you had met previously,” the composer said politely.
Hart’s eyes met Maggie’s a moment with a devilish sparkle, and she wondered what mischief he meant to work next. Why was the man so difficult?
“Yes, I was a friend of the late baron. We met on the Tour, you know. He had an interest in botany too, did he not, Madame? And such social finesse! If I recall correctly, the baron was a particular friend of Madame la Duchesse d’Abrantès.”
Maggie just barely stopped herself from gaping. He was taunting her. And he seemed very much to be enjoying the narrative he was spinning. She wasn’t going to let him have his head on this score. “Not at all. It was chemistry in which my Georges had had an interest. As to Madame d’Abrantès, that is true. She was certainly very good to send a letter when she learned of my tragic news, though I believe she was travelling at the time: a very kindly soul.”
“Chemistry! Are you certain? I could have sworn… ah, well. I expect you would know better.” They eyes locked and Maggie wondered if Sir Lucian could feel the tension rising in the room “Was your husband interested in music?” the baronet asked politely.
Hart raised an eyebrow, watching Maggie.
“I am afraid he only played the violin, and badly. In fact, I shall own that it was the most ghastly thing I ever had the misfortune of hearing. He had little aptitude for music. I am afraid that nor do I, for that matter. Though I have always wished that I had more talent at the piano. My father never saw much reason for me to improve. I am certain your musical training began early, Sir Lucian? ”
“Almost before I could walk. My own father had had a great interest in music – and he instilled that love in me from an early age. I recall that he and mama would sing together in the afternoons.”
“How lovely,” said Maggie, picturing what it would be like to live in such a world. “Did your father compose?”
“Only a little – though I expect that, were he still alive, the new sonata form would have caught his fancy. There is an inexplicable power in music, I have always found. It can quite transform one. It is a very evanescent magic: one can never again relive the splendour and the wonder of a single, perfect musical moment once it is gone.”
“Bravo!” Maggie exclaimed. “You make music sound to be the most frighteningly sublime force on earth – when I have always thought that honour belonged to love.”
“And do you think love so terrible then?” Hart asked quietly. “Akin to a towering mountain or a stormy sky?”
Maggie met his gaze, thinking of the years she had loved him, quietly unseen. “Without the least doubt. Nothing has such power over the soul. Except perhaps music!”
“Ah, then I see what you are about. Blake, it seems the baroness wishes you to play at her salon. She has gathered quite a fashionable following and will host her first salon on Wednesday, I am given to understand. Set to be one of the most modish in Paris. The place will positively swarm with poets, painters and musicians.”
Maggie wasn’t about to be outdone. “You put me to the blush, Lord Hartley. But you are correct: it is a splendid idea, and I should like nothing more. If you think you can stand such a shabby gathering, Sir Lucian, then you simply must attend. Perhaps you will even play for us? Next Wednesday, around five of the clock.”
Blake gave a short bow. “I should be delighted. No society could ever be considered shabby with you in attendance. Why, I shall even compose an opera for you, if only you will allow it. Though not by next Wednesday, I fear. La femme qui rit – for you are the liveliest lady I have ever had occasion to meet.”
Hart seemed to stifle a snort at that, disguised as a cough. Maggie raised her eyebrows at him.
“Oh dear. I hope you are not coming down with a chill, Lord Hartley.”
“No, no. Ah, pardon me. Certainly, I hope not. Dreadful things, colds. But I fear you shall have to stand in line, Blake. Was there not a painter who wished to render your face in oils, Madame?”
“I am very certain you are mistaken.”
“Impossible. I remember it clear as day. It was as Penelope, patient and true, was it not?”
“Now you are mocking me, Lord Hartley, for it can only be Monsieur Jerome you are referring to. That isn’t very fair. I know you don’t much care for such things, but I thought he was very charming, if somewhat full of youthful exuberance. Artists are generally a fairly exuberant lot. ”
“No doubt he shall also attend your salon – he approaches your company with an almost worshipful dedication,” the marquess said dryly. “You’d better be prepared for that, Blake. Exuberance does not begin to suffice in describing it.”
The composer seemed more amused than alarmed by the thought of such company.
“Ah, yes. I have even heard some talk of a monkey in attendance at one of your partiess, Madame.”
“A monkey!” Maggie couldn’t help the peal of delighted laughter that escaped her at that. “Oh, no, I’m afraid that you mistake me! That was Madame d’Abrantès! A very grand party to mark the completion of the landscaping of her gardens. The celebrated Monsieur Thouin himself had been hired to oversee the gargantuan task. A young gentleman thought it would be droll to bring along a monkey he’d just purchased, to introduce to the guests.”
“It was quite the spectacle,” Hart remarked.
“It was. It flew into a debutante’s hair, and knocked over a set of some very lovely painted china as the unfortunate lady fainted dead away. Then, it had the audacity to clamber up the tallest tree in the garden and refuse to be called down. The butler had to fetch a ladder and coax it with sugar cubes.”
“Then you have no monkeys at your own gatherings?” the composer teased.
“Alas – I warned you they are quite shabby,” Maggie twinkled. “It would be impossible to out-do Madame d’Abrantes.”
“I am given to understand there was a French count once who owned a pet wolf,” Hart said, looking very much amused.
“Perhaps!” laughed Sir Lucian. “Though I expect the gentleman was not so uncouth as to bring it to parties.”
They spoke for a little longer about the marvels and oddities so unique to Paris, and Maggie was surprised to find that Hartley behaved himself for the rest of the visit. He was most agreeable, conversing with the composer about fine ground for riding out, and the latest on dits from London. Despite his disclaimer of ignorance, he even engaged the gentleman in a discussion of botany. Maggie had not known that the marquess knew anything about the natural sciences, and yet he seemed well able to hold his own in conversation.
When the clock in the hallway struck noon, Sir Lucian rose to leave, explaining that he had another engagement with his man of business, which was regrettably unmissable. He comforted himself with the thought of their visit to the exhibition the following morning.
“I must say, Blake, I quite envy you the outing,” the marquess said. “You make it sound so interesting, I own I should pay the gardens a visit soon myself – perhaps I shall escort my aunt.”
“A splendid idea. Only, you shall miss the exhibition itself if you tarry: tomorrow is the last day, if you recall,” said Sir Lucian “If you wish to see it, then you must go tomorrow. Why, I believe it would be possible to make a day of it. Perhaps you would care to join myself and Madame de Gramont?”
Maggie didn’t think that was a good idea at all. In fact, it struck her a
s very dangerous – but there was no way for her to voice this sentiment.
“A splendid idea indeed. I should be delighted. What a capital fellow you are. ”
“Ah, excellent. I shall bring my carriage around at ten tomorrow, Madame?” the composer said.
“Oh, no – I quite insist that I should drive,” Hartley said. “After all, you are being so gracious inviting my aunt and me along.”
When Sir Blake left the parlour, Maggie wasted no time in turning on her tormentor. He did not look the least bit ashamed of his ploy.
“Pray, what do you think you are playing at, Hartley?”
“Playing? I can’t imagine what you mean. I have merely made a new acquaintance, and undeniably a meritorious one. I thought you wished me to be polite? That is quite a capital fellow you have found to set you cap at, my dear. I own it was very good of him to invite me. I shouldn’t have done the same in his place.”
She straightened her shoulders, face proud and eyes flashing. “Certainly not! But Sir Lucian is a man of breeding, and you ought to be ashamed. Besides which, you know perfectly well that you manipulated him into inviting you!”
“I did no such thing. You wound me. He was positively pleased to have the approval of your dear old friend. Furthermore, much as I am enjoying this little masquerade of yours, you are not, in fact, a widow. Certainly, you cannot go without a chaperone.”
Maggie huffed at that. “Hardly. I am a widow in the eyes of society – your opinion is of no consequence. Even you must have noticed by now, Lord Hartley, that it is the eyes of society to which one must conform. If I wish to amuse myself, I have every right. As much as you and my brother do every time you make a dash for the village. I have told you, I shall languish no longer.”
“Languish!” Hart said, his cheeks colouring faintly at her accusation. “And we did no such thing – we merely went to London, as gentlemen do.”
“Fiddle. Furthermore, you are no connexion to me: I may go where I please. Do you mean to threaten me with ruin, with all your talk of propriety?”
Hartley, however, refused to indulge his own considerable temper. “I think that you are being needlessly theatrical. I am given to understand that society already awaits the day the mysterious Madame la Baronne publishes her scandalous memoirs. There is little I can do to add to that. I hardly think threatening you with scandal will do any good. I can only hope that I may keep you from the worst of it. How long do you mean to play at baroness? Masquerades do grow tiresome when allowed to continue overlong, I find. Now, I had better go. I have an appointment. Good day.”
Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley Page 10
