by Anne O'Brien
When Eleanor awoke again the next morning, with light creeping through the heavy swags, he had gone and the place where his head had rested was cold. She felt an instant chill of regret. He might comfort her, he might watch over her as she slept, but he had felt no desire to repeat the experience of two years before in the gardens of Faringdon House. An experience which she would not remember! Even after two years she flushed as the memories pushed their insidious tendrils into her thoughts, just as the wisteria invaded the balustraded terrace at Burford Hall. She could not imagine how she could have been so unmaidenly. A chaste kiss, perhaps, but she had allowed Hal far more intimacies. The flush deepened to flaming rose as she recalled the episode in the summer house with a ridiculous mix of horror and intense delight. He had handled her with such care, mindful of her innocence. Loved her, cherished her, left her in no doubt of his tender feelings towards her, except that they had apparently not been sufficiently strong to outlive the night! Perhaps he had been disgusted by her lack of skill, her lamentable lack of knowledge, the still unformed curves of a young girl. He had certainly discovered no desire to develop their relationship further! She had not seen him again until he had bowed before her in the withdrawing-room at Burford Hall. No matter the soft words and beguiling images he had painted of their future together, his promises had been empty indeed, proof that no man could be trusted!
Turning back the bed covers with a little huff of disgust at her wayward thoughts, she noticed, and remembered—and understood, with a sinking heart. Her ring. She had removed it in despair, leaving it on the table in the parlour, but now it was back on her finger. She twisted it so that the morning sun glinted on the edges and the tiny jewels. Hal must have restored it while she slept. She could not but admire his loyalty to his brother’s name, even when she herself had despaired and denied the legality of her own marriage. But she also understood very clearly and knew that it would be wise of her not to forget. For the ring was a symbol of her union with Thomas, and Henry had replaced it where he considered it belonged. That simple action should tell her more plainly than any words that Henry saw her as his brother’s widow, and nothing more in his life.
Chapter Seven
The gathering of the Faringdon family in the morning room of the house in Park Lane on the following afternoon, when Henry and Eleanor had arrived back in London, could not be described to be in a spirit of optimism or even qualified hope. They brooded over their lack of progress.
The visit to the village of Whitchurch had achieved nothing to their advantage, Henry reported. The Reverend Broughton might not be the most likeable of characters, with a shadow thrown over his morals and behaviour as a clergyman, but there was no reason to disbelieve him in the matter of the marriage of Thomas and Octavia. He had confirmed the events of marriage and birth. The documents appeared to be genuine. Sir Edward Baxendale was well known with a good reputation, and the existence of a sister with a recently deceased husband and a young baby was common knowledge. Eleanor said nothing, merely a silent witness to their failure to unearth any incriminating evidence.
The only outcome of the visit, in Mrs Stamford’s unexpressed opinion, was a certain intangible tension in her daughter. As now, she thought, glancing across at her. Eleanor might have been alone in the room, with eyes unfocused as if her thoughts were far away, turning the ring on her finger round and round with terrible monotony. And there was a distinct unease between Eleanor and Lord Henry, for which Mrs Stamford was not sorry. Too much intimacy would certainly be unwise. But Mrs Stamford was wise enough to remain silent about the night they had been forced to spend in the Red Lion in Whitchurch. Given the circumstances, and her memory of the previous occasion of confrontation when she had quite clearly lost the battle of wills, she did not feel up to taking on Lord Henry on such a personal matter. Even if she was the Marchioness’s mama.
London, likewise, had provided no scandal. Kingstone knew nothing of any interest about the parties. As far as Nicholas knew, Sir Edward was an exemplary character with no interest in gambling, horses or loose women.
Mrs Stamford frowned at his comment.
‘For whatever reason, Baxendale does not appear to have arrived at point non plus. He has no interest in the turf. He does not own a racehorse. He is not known at Tattersall’s. He does not frequent gambling dens. He does not keep a mistress. Nor does he visit opera dancers!’ Nicholas deliberately expanded on the subject, his lips curled with mischief as Mrs Stamford stiffened and sniffed her disapproval. ‘Sir Edward is a veritable pillar of society.’
‘So I must accept the situation.’ Eleanor had earlier returned from an emotional visit to her son in the nursery and, after holding him in her arms, watching his sturdy limbs as he pulled himself upright against his crib, she could not deny her duty to the child. ‘I must take the offer of an annuity from Sir Edward—and thank him for his generosity!—and find somewhere for myself and Tom to live. Perhaps we should return to our house in Leavening, Mama.’
‘No. It is too soon—’ Henry immediately turned his head, intent on halting such a scheme, but Mrs Stamford interrupted, very much of the same mind.
‘No, Eleanor. We should not. I went to see Lady Beatrice yesterday. Perhaps you had forgotten my errand in that direction. I swore her to secrecy, of course. I found her a most well-informed lady—not as flighty as her daughter. We had quite a detailed conversation and exchange of views.’
Henry avoided Nicholas’s eye.
‘I think you should not be in too much of a hurry to accept Sir Edward’s offer, Eleanor. For once I am in total agreement with Lord Henry.’ She smiled thinly at him. ‘It is true that Lady Beatrice remembers a fair girl with whom Thomas was much taken. And she thought there was a brother with her on some of the social occasions. But she is not sure, and is not convinced that the name Baxendale rings true. She claimed to know no Baxendales. But she had to admit that she is better at faces than names—after all, it was four years ago.’
She looked round the circle of faces.
‘I do not know if that helps us or not.’ Nicholas rubbed his chin. ‘I suppose that it is the only hint of doubt we have in an otherwise cast-iron case.’ He looked to Henry. ‘What do you suggest, Hal? Arrange a meeting between Sir Edward and Aunt Beatrice? Now that is an occasion which I would not want to miss.’
Henry frowned at him for a moment, considering the possibilities. Then: ‘Very well. This is what we will do. We will entertain. A small party—we have sufficient rooms here. Very select—mostly family. Cards, music, refreshments—you know the sort of thing. Eleanor will be hostess.’ He looked towards her, brows arched, not totally convinced that she would comply.
‘Yes. Of course, if that is what you wish.’
‘I do.’ He smiled at her, an unusually tender smile, which was not lost on the audience. ‘Don’t despair, Nell. We still have all to win—but we will not wave the flag of surrender quite yet. And a family party will be quite the thing, in spite of Thomas’s death. You need have no concern about that.’
She returned the smile, although a little sad, unable to resist such comfort. ‘Thank you, Hal. I shall never forget your kindness, whatever the outcome.’ As she looked down at the sapphires on her hand, they both knew that her thoughts were far from that room in Park Lane.
‘And we will invite the Baxendales.’ Nicholas picked up on Hal’s suggestion to deflect attention from the pair, aware of Mrs Stamford beside him, rustling in displeasure at the unexpected intimacy. He would give a pony to know exactly what had happened between them in Whitchurch. He must make certain to ask Hal. ‘We will stress that it is a family occasion. They will hardly be able to refuse since they are intending to fill their own niche in the Faringdon family tree. It will make for an interesting evening!’
‘And I must be certain to invite Aunt Beatrice?’ Eleanor asked, quickly appreciating the plan.
‘Exactly!’ Henry rose to his feet and strode towards the door. ‘We will try every means we have to flush th
e bird from the covert. Even if it means spending an evening in Lady Beatrice’s overbearing company!’
‘Will you escort me to the theatre? Tonight, my lord?’
Eleanor confronted Lord Henry in the breakfast parlour two days later and made her request without preamble or explanation, even before she had closed the door behind her. She had positively erupted into the room in a flurry of muslin skirts.
‘Well, I…’ His lordship looked up from his perusal of the Morning Post, suitably taken aback.
‘I realise that you might have other plans—and I would not normally ask that you put yourself out, particularly at such short notice—but I find that it is vitally important.’ The words tripped off her tongue, indicative of strong emotion. She came to stand before him, determined to have his attention. Lord Henry promptly put down the paper to watch her warily, aware of the high colour slashed along her cheekbones. Now what was afoot?
Since their return from Whitchurch the strain between them had lessened a little, submerged under a cool sensible acceptance of the need to unite in their resistance to the Baxendales’ claims. Although they were successful in keeping a distance, awareness of each other remained, a tangible thing. And so Henry was wary of Eleanor’s request.
‘Why?’ He hoped the suspicion did not sound in his voice.
‘We have not been invited—I have not been invited—to the Carstairs’s Drum this evening, when we know that all the world and his wife will be present. I would not even have known of it, if it had not been for Beatrice asking if she would see us there.’ Eleanor flung away from him to pace to the window, and back again. ‘How long has Marianne Carstairs been closely acquainted with this family? For ever, I shouldn’t wonder. She certainly counted your mama as one of her closest friends. And,’ she interrupted, brows drawn together in an uncompromising line, as Henry opened his mouth to reply, ‘don’t tell me that they are being considerate for my state of mourning. I have been out and about so often recently that no one in town would be under any illusion about my present circumstances.’ Eleanor sat herself in one of the straight-backed chairs with a flounce of indignation. ‘It is a deliberate snub. I will not stand for it from a family I considered friends. So I wish to go to the theatre.’
‘Perhaps the invitation has been mislaid?’ Henry tried for a mild reply, to calm the seething lady before him.
Her stare of withering disbelief was answer enough.
‘No. Of course, you are right.’ Henry mentally postponed his evening, which had promised a leisurely hand of cards at Brooks’s and a convivial drink with old friends. He managed not to sigh. ‘So, what do you wish?’
‘I wish to be seen at Drury Lane. I will not sit and hide at home when every other person of consequence in London is making merry!’
‘Shakespeare?’ His lordship mentally winced.
‘By no means.’ Eleanor was forced to smile at his reluctance. ‘The Bard is distinctly out of fashion since you left these shores. Mr Elliston, who has taken on the management of Drury Lane, has decided that a more popular entertainment is more the thing—and will bring in more money to his pockets! So it is likely to be The Beggar’s Opera rather than King Lear. Not as erudite, but more economically attractive, you understand.’
‘Then I will escort you,’ Henry agreed, amused at Eleanor’s quick assessment.
‘I can even promise you any number of opera dancers who will doubtless cast out lures to you. Your evening might not be wasted!’
He ignored her caustic comments, appreciative of her disordered spirits. ‘And to escort so attractive a lady as yourself. It will be my greatest pleasure. How can I refuse?’
‘How indeed.’ Her brows rose.
‘Ah—are we to be chaperoned to this seductive event?’
‘Of course. It is not my intention to be seen alone with you at such a performance—to replace one scandal with another. My mother will accompany us. We shall all enjoy every minute of it!’
Thus a private box was procured at Drury Lane.
Eleanor made an appearance, spectacular in a new gown, guaranteed to catch every eye. The Italian silk and lace shimmered in the candlelight, its intense violet hue iridescent and sumptuous. A jewelled aigrette held a discreet spray of egret feathers in her hair. A rope of amethysts wound its shining path around her slender throat. She had even made judicious use of cosmetics to disguise the ravages of strain and sleeplessness. A little Olympian Dew to bring a sparkle to her eyes, the veriest hint of Liquid Bloom of Roses to enhance the soft colour in her cheeks. Her appearance at the theatre, Henry realised, was to be a deliberate challenge, a throwing down of the family gauntlet to all those who would dare to question the Marchioness’s presence in London society. She looked magnificent, as had been her intention.
Henry dared make no comment, resorting instead to discretion, knowing that any compliment would have received a short reply. There was fire and temper in her eyes this night. So he merely bowed as he handed her and her watchful mama into the town carriage, quelling the desire with stern intent, desire that had run hot through his blood when faced with the glory of her appearance and her enforced proximity.
It was a tension-filled evening: more than one lorgnette levelled in their direction; more than one cold shoulder turned as Lord Henry ushered the two ladies with consummate ease through the crowded lobby; more than one half-heard whisper. But Mrs Stamford, well rehearsed by her daughter in her role for the evening, acted her part with undisturbed composure and dignity, set to ignore any unpleasantness as if it were beneath her notice. Eleanor was at her superb best. She bowed, smiled, conversed, sipped champagne—not everyone was at the Carstairs’s Drum!—gave her full attention to the performance as if nothing troubled her thoughts beyond the colour and style of the gown that she would wear on the following day. And she stared down those whose gaze she considered too insolent to be tolerated. She watched the remarkable Vestris in the role of Macheath, shapely legs scandalously clad in masculine breeches, with due admiration. She frowned at the courtesans who paraded in the lobby and sent flirtatious glances at her escort—how dared they!—and frowned equally at her escort, who was not averse to returning the smiles. And she engaged Henry in trivial and lively conversation to keep from dwelling on the critical stares of the Dowagers in their boxes.
Mrs Stamford found need to comment on young women—no lady here!—who cavorted on stage in male attire. She could not imagine why anyone of breeding and sensitivity would prefer such a performance to a production of King Lear with Edmund Kean—so talented as he was. The Darling of London indeed! Vestris was in Mrs Stamford’s considered opinion no better than she should be! What was the world coming to! Eleanor turned a deaf ear.
Henry watched the performance with an amused smile and appreciative eye.
‘I trust you are enjoying yourself, my lord?’ Eleanor wielded her fan with considerable energy and expertise. Her mama was momentarily and safely occupied in conversation with a passing acquaintance.
‘I am.’ He slanted a glance at her lovely face.
‘And you approve of Vestris?’
‘Miss Lucy Bartolozzo? Definitely an asset to the production. It is everything you promised me. And the company of a beautiful woman, of course. You outshine everyone here, even the ladies of the lobby.’ His smile was fast and devastating. Dangerous, Eleanor decided, lowering her lashes to hide her confusion at his compliment.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Her lips curved in a genuine smile, despite her best intentions to remain censorious on the subject of the courtesans. ‘Such a compliment lifts my spirits inordinately.’
‘Is it possible that you are flirting with me, madam?’
‘Certainly not!’
Henry laughed aloud, drawing more than one pair of eyes towards their box.
‘Hush! I would not willingly give the town tabbies anything other to talk about! I was merely expressing my heartfelt gratitude.’ Eleanor looked away, more than aware that her cheeks were burning.
‘You must not, you know.’ Henry covered her hand for a moment with his own, his voice very gentle. ‘You are doing very well, Eleanor. It is not necessary to take the town by storm.’
‘No? I think that perhaps it is. Smile, Hal.’ Her own was brittle, but she held her head high. Once again, he could not but admire her spirit. ‘The town is watching us. I will enjoy this evening if it is the death of me!’
At last the never-ending evening drew to a close. At last! Henry helped the ladies from their carriage and into the entrance hall in Park Lane.
‘Satisfied?’ he asked, with a quizzical glance.
‘Yes.’ Eleanor raised her chin, still vibrating with energy.
‘Something you would wish to repeat?’
‘No.’ She could not lie. ‘Not in the foreseeable future. If you wish to renew your acquaintance with Vestris, it will be without my company. But you have my gratitude, Hal. I felt a need to…to make a grand gesture and be noticed. I do not regret it.’
Mrs Stamford halted on the bottom step before retiring to bed, turning to look at his lordship over her shoulder. ‘I have to thank you, Henry. For your unfailing support of my daughter. It should not go unsaid.’ She spoke as if the words were wrung from her against her better judgement.
‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ Henry bowed, hiding his initial amazement.
‘Not the easiest of evenings,’ the lady continued, arranging her embroidered Kashmir stole more elegantly round her shoulders. ‘And I am sure that you would have preferred to spend your time in other amusements.’
‘Not when the comfort of her ladyship is a priority.’
