by Diana Brown
"Well," said Lady Bladen icily, "had I known she was to attend this evening, I should certainly never have agreed to accompany you."
"Oh, mother, don't fret so," Margaret placated. "After all, Darius has been mourning Philomena for more than a year. Surely you don't want him to mourn her forever. Is he to be denied all enjoyment of life?"
"I just wish he would have his enjoyment with someone less . . . less flamboyant, that is all. Why doesn't he remarry? He is much sought after. Why, Lady Babcock spoke to me of her niece, a nice young girl, just out and a handsome fortune, good lineage too, unlike this . . . this adventuress. I'm sure he could have his pick, but instead he dallies with this woman."
"I don't think he wants to remarry, mother; not yet, at least. I doubt anyone will replace Philomena."
"I know, I know. But this—this whatever it is—is beginning to cause talk. I don't like it. She may be rich, but she's nobody. I shall never forgive him if she forces him into marriage. She got the fortune of that doddering old Brentwood, and look at the way she flaunts it."
"She's a beauty, mother, you must admit it. And frankly, Darius is not hurting himself at all politically by being a friend of hers. She has great influence, you know."
"The Whigs' favourite hostess—and a good deal more, I've no doubt," Lady Bladen derided.
I saw the notorious lady had pointed us out to Darius and they rose and left the box, bound, no doubt for ours. I thought for one moment that Lady Bladen would bar her admittance or cut her, but Margaret laid a hand on her mother's arm with a warning glance, so that when the door of the box opened to admit the offending countess, Lady Bladen was composed if not entirely calm.
"Mother, I had no idea you planned to be here this evening," Darius began cheerfully.
"Of that I have no doubt."
If he noticed the hostility in his mother's reply he gave no sign, continuing with equanimity, "Well, I am delighted that you are here, for it gives me the opportunity to present to you the Countess of Brentwood. She tells me that you have not met before."
"I knew Lord Brentwood well—before he remarried."
The vision of beauty before us seemed quite unperturbed by Lady Bladen's cool reception. She spoke in low, charming tones of the singer and her performance but Lady Bladen cut her short. Never before had I seen her behave with such discourtesy.
"We know, we know; we arrived when the performance began. She is loud and her high notes are shrill. I doubt that we shall stay until the end. In fact, we were getting ready to leave."
That our departure was closely allied to the countess's arrival was lost on no one. She seemed, however, quite unmoved by Lady Bladen's animosity, turning to greet Margaret and her husband before directing a questioning glance in my direction.
"And are you enjoying London?" she asked, for Darius, who performed the introduction, explained that it was my first visit. I don't know what I replied. All I could think about was how beautiful she was and how close she stood to Darius. This, then, was the woman of whom Lady Bladen had spoken, the woman on whom Darius was "frittering his time."
They left our box as the second act began, but the evening was spoiled. I wished wholeheartedly that either we or she had chosen another night to attend Covent Garden. Apart from my own feelings, to which I could give no name but which disturbed me beyond measure, Lady Bladen was obviously upset. I whispered to her that if she wished to leave immediately I should not mind, and before Madame Pasta had begun her main aria of the evening, she rose abruptly and we all followed her from the box.
As we were about to descend the staircase, Darius came up and took his mother's arm. "You are right, as usual, mother. Madame Pasta is quite overrated. I'll come back with you. We still have time for a game of piquet if I have any takers."
A look passed between them, questioning on the one side, reassuring on the other. His mother smiled.
"I would greatly enjoy a game of piquet with you, Darius."
Not a word was said then, or later within my hearing, of the fascinating countess, but I could not forget her. Had Darius fallen in love again, I wondered, though Margaret had said no one would ever replace Philomena. No one could deny that she was an exciting woman. She had, too, the additional attraction of being influential in political circles. A combination of beauty, wealth and influence must indeed be devastating for a rising politician.
Darius's star was indeed ascending on the political scene. He had become a regular habitué of Holland House in Kensington, the cradle of Whiggery as father called it, for it was there, under the auspices of Lord and Lady Holland, that the brightest luminaries of the Whig party gathered together to rub shoulders with the country's foremost painters, poets, scientists and writers. The brilliance of an evening in such company I had not expected to be mine. I was thrilled beyond measure, therefore, to discover I had been included in an invitation to Lady Bladen to accompany Darius there. Yet it was Darius who posed an objection.
"Your father, I fear, would not approve, though I wish that you could go, for I believe you would enjoy it and learn a great deal. You have such a keen mind."
"But Darius, please, must father be told of it?"
"He was quite firm when he spoke to me of social engagements, and I fear an evening at Holland House is very definitely that, with the added detriment of being an evening in Whig company."
My face fell.
"I would really want you to go, Alexandra. I think you know that. But your father spoke to me most particularly on this matter—for, I suspect, this very reason."
It was Lady Bladen, convinced that I had seen nothing of London society during my stay, who put an end to all discussion.
"I shall personally take the responsibility of explaining to Mr. Cox-Neville, should he raise some objection, that I insisted that Alex go with us. It is not, after all, a ball or a rout but simply an evening of good food and good conversation, from both of which she will benefit. There is unlikely to be a published guest list in the newspaper—something I can understand he would not want. It has been for that reason that I have refused so many other invitations for Alex, refusals I did not wish to give. No, Darius, Alexandra must certainly accompany us, and I wish to buy her a new dress for the occasion."
On the matter of the dress, however, I remained obdurate; a new dress in my wardrobe when I returned to Wiltshire would surely give rise to comment. I had refused all previous offers of Lady Bladen to replenish my outdated wardrobe; this one too I refused, politely but firmly. Instead I retrimmed the green taffeta I had worn to the Linbury election ball with Mechlin lace purchased from Basnetts in the Strand, and fashioned and embroidered a pelerine to wear around my shoulders from silk from Spitalfields. The result, while by no means spectacular, was passably pleasing. It would have to suffice.
Despite my anxiety to visit Holland House, when the evening of our visit arrived, I was distinctly apprehensive. I dressed my hair four times, taking it down and brushing it out, completely unsatisfied until Lady Bladen's maid came and, undoing my latest attempt, plaited my hair at the back in a nine-strand Polish braid, coiled this in a crown around my head and pulled numerous tire-bouchons, loose curls, down at the side. The result was far too sophisticated and made me feel very uncomfortable, though she was obviously pleased with it and I dared not disappoint her by suggesting a change. Her glance at my dress convinced me she saw through all my refurbishment, but I consoled myself with the thought of it being far more difficult to impress a lady's maid than her mistress and, if Lady Bladen noticed anything it was the dressing of my hair, which, I believe, pleased her as little as it did me.
Apart from dubiousness over my appearance, my apprehension was caused in part by the reputation of Lady Holland, which long preceded my introduction to her—irritable, quick-tempered, a woman of fierce hatreds and equally fierce affections, she was renowned for ruling both household and visitors with a tyrannical hand. I wished with all my heart to make a good im
pression upon her, for Holland House was the centre, to which Darius had gravitated and into which he had been accepted. For that reason if for no other, I wanted acceptance in that world of politics and literature, wit and beauty; yet I had never felt less comfortable.
They were all there: Lords Grey and Russell; poets Samuel Rogers and Henry Luttrell and Thomas Moore; Sir Samuel Romilly with Lord and Lady Landsdowne; Sydney Smith, clergyman and inimitable wit; and the perennial John Allen, who had come as physician to Lord Holland and stayed to become a constant, indeed an indispensable member of the household.
The evening began well, for Lady Holland, far from ignoring me as I had expected, insisted on personally conducting me on a tour of her rather odd collection of relics. As I followed her to examine the Byzantine candlesticks of Mary of Scotland, the gold-enamel snuffbox of Governor Howell, who had survived the horrors of the Black Hole of Calcutta, the ring containing his portrait which Charles II had given to his mistress the Duchess of Portsmouth, I tried to concentrate on her courtesy to me and forget that it was said she saved her most acrid humour for pretty, fashionable women. Her Buonapartist sympathies were proclaimed; she proudly displayed Napoleon's Legion of Honour, yet more peculiar was the lock of his hair and a sock "that poor dear man," as she called him, had been wearing on the day he died. Remembering the repugnance I had felt when Paul had forced me to take the part of Napoleon in our childhood games, these sympathies were alien to me, yet they were held by many. With an end to our wars with France and the rise of domestic difficulties, I had heard more than one Englishman express admiration for the French emperor, a strange turn of events for one such as myself, who preferred a clear delineation between good and evil.
Yet here was England's archenemy enshrined in Holland House!
It was quite evident that Sydney Smith was a favourite with Lady Holland. She ordered him about imperiously.
"Ring the bell for the footman, Sydney," she commanded.
"Yes, indeed," he responded blandly. "And then would you like me to sweep the floor?"
But she was already bidding Rogers to hush. "Your poetry is bad enough—do, I beg you, be sparing of your prose," a rebuke he received with a vinegary smile.
I was sure that Sydney Smith observed my discomfort, for he came over to me and began to talk of his own first days at Holland House, of how awe inspiring he had found everything. Yet to see him so completely at his ease made it difficult to believe. He inspired my confidence, though, for I found myself telling him all about Paul, of his going into the church and how much he detested the idea, how he would prefer law but father would not allow it. Mr. Smith understood perfectly, for he himself had wanted a career in law but his father had given him the choice of being a college tutor or a parson or going as supercargo to China and never darkening his doorstep again.
"I took the church as the lesser of evils, and all in all I do not dislike it, though it is no place for a young man of ambition such as I was then. Now, however, I see it offers a chance to make changes where they are most needed. I can well understand your brother. I wish you would ask him to come to see me if he ever gets to the wilds of Foston in Yorkshire, where I have my parish. It is, I regret to say, two hundred miles from that Great Parallelogram of Piccadilly, Regent Street, Hyde Park and Oxford Street that encloses more intellect and human ability, to say nothing of wealth and beauty, than the world has ever collected in such a space before."
"You are a kind and understanding gentleman, sir. I shall most certainly tell Paul of our talk."
"And you, Miss Cox-Neville, are a very nice young lady."
"Nice?"
"Nice. You don't care to be nice?" he questioned.
" 'Nice' conjures up visions of prudishness."
"Far from it. Let me describe a nice person—one who inspires confidence, makes you talk and talk without fear of malicious misrepresentation, makes you feel you are reposing upon a nature which God has made kind and created for the benefit and happiness of society. A nice person has the effect upon the mind which soft air and fine climate has upon the body.
"A nice person, Miss Cox-Neville, never knocks over the wine or melted butter, does not tread upon the dog's foot or molest the cat, eats soup without noise, laughs in the right place and has a watchful, attentive and very pretty eye. Do you still object to being called nice?"
His eyes twinkled in his large, pleasant countenance.
"If you so see me, then how could I possibly object." I smiled back at him and knew we were friends.
At that point the evening showed every sign of passing well had not the announcement of dinner been preceded by the arrival of the Countess of Brentwood. If she noticed the coldness of Lady Bladen or the critical scrutiny of Lady Holland, she gave no more sign of it than she had before. Perhaps she had no need of those ladies' approval, for it was quite plain that she was a particular favourite of every gentleman present; it was equally plain that of those gentlemen, Darius was her particular favourite. One glimpse of her gown of black crepe over a black sarsenet slip, ornamented with deep pleats around the border of black velvet, the sleeves and low neckline lined with pearls, made me reexamine my own futile efforts at renovating my green taffeta. I knew once again that I was gauche and outmoded, that my hair was dressed in quite the worst way to show me to any advantage, and that the Countess of Brentwood was without a doubt the most beautiful woman present. As we were introduced, she gave no sign of remembering having met me before; indeed there was no reason I should have stayed in her memory.
We dined from Sevres porcelain in a room hung with Genoese silk, velvet brocade and Boucher tapestries representing Greek gods. The panelled ceiling was ornamented with gold and white pendants, the Earl's coronet on the cornice alternating the famous H of the Earls of Holland. Venetian mirrors in gilt frames and marble busts of English men of history and literature surrounded the room. In my uneasy frame of mind, I found it rather intimidating, nor did I draw great comfort from my dinner companions, Thomas Moore and Samuel Rogers, both of whom, after an initial glance and indistinguishable murmur, talked over my head to one another. Moore, a dapper Irishman much given to toadying, was telling of a visit from Jackson, the eminent boxer, who had called on him that morning to ascertain the source of the line, "Men are but children of a larger growth."
"Dr. Johnson, undoubtedly Dr. Johnson," Rogers stated.
"No, no, I am quite sure it is not. In fact I told him I was sure it was Shakespeare, but though I've searched all day I've not yet found it."
"I believe if you will examine Dryden's All for Love you will find it."
Moore glanced at me with as much annoyance as surprise. "I dislike to disagree with such a charming young lady, but. . ."
"But I read it there only recently. It occurs in the third or the fourth act."
"Ah, dear Miss—Miss—"
"Cox-Neville."
"Yes, to be sure, Miss Cobb-Nevitt, how pleasing to be so young and so sure of oneself."
There was an appreciative titter at his wit, and I resolved to say no more. I might perhaps have passed through the remainder of the meal without creating any further notice had I not reached for my wineglass at the very moment the footman was about to serve my turtle soup. My hand brushed against the bowl, sending a few drops in the direction of the sleeve of Rogers's immaculate blue velvet evening coat.
"Don't worry, please think nothing of it, Miss—Miss Cod-Levitt," he insisted, rising immediately and causing immense consternation by making wild stabs at his sleeve with his serviette, bringing forth two servants armed with cloths to undo the damage.
Lady Brentwood smiled across at Rogers. "If you are trying to signal to me, Samuel, I wish you would be a tiny bit more discreet."
Rogers glanced furiously at me before replying, "I'm a plain man, madam. I should never dare to do such a thing, particularly finding myself in such a dishevelled condition."
"God bless my soul, Rogers, I can't for th
e life of me think what your appearance has to do with it," Smith said blandly.
"To return the compliment, sir, may I say you're the most profligate parson of my acquaintance," Rogers growled, his attention distracted from his coat.
"It does not surprise me to hear your opinion, for the whole of my life has been passed like a razor—in hot water or in a scrape."
In the general diversion that followed, I smiled gratefully at Mr. Smith, and he very slowly and very solemnly winked at me while going on to describe Granby, a novel by Lister that he had reviewed for the Edinburgh Review.
"Excellent in every respect, except for the fact that one of the characters struck the hero. Nobody should ever suffer his hero to have a black eye or to be pulled by the nose. The Iliad would never have come down to these times if Agamemnon had given Achilles a box on the ear. Don't you agree, Miss Cox-Neville?"
"Indeed, to be a hero is to be greater than other men. To fall prey to a lesser character does ungild a lily."
"My sentiments exactly."
"I understood you to tell me you made a practice of never reading a book before reviewing it," Moore accus-ed. "You said it prejudiced you so."
"Ah, Tom, your memory is too good."
Discussion turned to publishers. Moore had had some dissension with Longmans, and Smith mentioned a new house that had recently opened near St. Paul's churchyard.
"Hillaby, Alistair Hillaby is the name, and a very amiable gentleman he seems to be, too," he concluded.
