by Darcie Wilde
“And then?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I can at least shift the balance.”
Fletcher cupped her chin in his broad, soft hand. Margaretta waited for the shiver of warmth that had once passed between them, but that was long gone.
“I’ll do what I can,” Fletcher promised, and Margaretta willed her heart and her mind to believe him, just once more.
CHAPTER 4
The Usefulness of the Circulating Library
He gazed on her with admiration and flattered her with attention; and for a long time mutual civilities and favors passed between her husband and the defendant.
—The Trial of William Henry Hall vs. Major George Barrow
for Criminal Conversation
On another day, Rosalind might have set straight to work considering the person and the problem presented to her. Her sleepless night, however, had left her muddled and impatient. She could not in good conscience embark upon a new solution in such a state. Neither could she fairly and accurately judge the person of Mrs. Seymore.
Therefore, Rosalind set the whole matter aside for a day while she rested, and caught up with her accounts, correspondence, and other such household matters. The following day, much more refreshed and clear in her mind, Rosalind was able to consider a starting point on her path toward a solution for Mrs. Seymore. As always, that path depended upon Rosalind making discreet use of her connections. In London society, connection was a great, tortured, largely invisible net thrown over the lives of thousands of persons. Whom did one know? Who knew one’s family and under what circumstances? This determined one’s status, whom one could visit, and whom one could ask for favors.
Rosalind Thorne had been born into the haut ton. Her father, Sir Reginald Thorne, had in his day been possessed of enormous charm and wit, not to mention taste and that ineffable quality called ton. He’d been a sought-after houseguest, and his daughters, Rosalind and Charlotte, had been feted and petted on this account.
But like so many young men of his caste and class, Sir Reginald had regarded money like water. It flowed in rivers from his hands, and when it failed to come in as easily, he simply borrowed more. When he could no longer borrow, he listened to the stories of fortunes to be made in the markets and invested. When the investments failed, he took to forgery to create the notes of credit that would allow him to keep living a life of leisure and grace.
But when Sir Reginald was caught signing the name of a friend to a bill, he packed up and left his wife and younger daughter to make what they could of out of the ruins.
The punishment of social disgrace was immediate, and it would have been total, had it not been for Rosalind’s godmother, Lady Blanchard, who provided both home and a social lifeline that allowed Rosalind to be received in the great houses by the prominent hostesses, although not quite on the same footing as formerly. The acceptance of one of their number allowed the others to be charitable, and to congratulate themselves for being so.
But while it might be a tight net and an inescapable one, caution had to be used when tugging on the threads of connection. To society, the only thing more important than connection was appearance. If one was seen using connection in a way that might be interpreted as brazen or forward, it could spell disaster. Therefore, matters must be arranged with a delicate hand.
Fortunately, this was Rosalind’s specialty, and once she had finished her morning roll and coffee, it took her to Mr. Clements’s Circulating Library.
“Good morning, Mr. Clements,” Rosalind said as she pushed through the door.
“Miss Thorne!” cried the little man behind the counter. “How delightful to see you!”
Mr. Clements had been born Ernesto Javier Garcia Mendoza Clemente in Argentina. By what route he had come to London, Rosalind had not yet been able to ascertain. But the straight, red scar that showed through his thinning hair spoke of an active past, as did the firm and definite way he spoke when saying the greatest felicity a man could know was a perfectly quiet life.
“May I ask how you do this morning?” Mr. Clements’s English was impeccable, as was his Latin, his Greek, his Italian, and, of course, his Spanish. A slight hint of lilt and lisp was all that betrayed him as not being a native of London.
“I am very well, thank you.”
“Excellent, excellent. How is it I can help you? I have a new memoir that might interest you, very fine . . .”
“Thank you, Mr. Clements, but today I am in search of poetry.”
“Excellent!” He clapped his hands together. “Of what sort? Classical? Romantic? Devotional?”
“Have you anything by Mrs. William Seymore?”
A pained look came across Mr. Clements’s mobile features. “Oh, Miss Thorne. I should not think she would suit your tastes at all.”
“I am sorry to disappoint, Mr. Clements, but it is specifically Mrs. Seymore’s work I am come to find.”
He sighed. “Oh, very well. She is most popular, I will not deny that, but I think we may have one volume left on the shelves. If you will just give me a moment.” He wrote down a note on his pad, tore off the leaf, then let himself through the door behind the counter that led to the stacks.
While Rosalind waited for the librarian’s return, the bell jangled as the door was pushed open. A plump, open-faced woman in a dark blue Spenser jacket and bonnet bustled into the library.
“Why, Mrs. Buckland!” exclaimed Rosalind. “How lovely to see you this morning.”
“Is that Miss Thorne?” Mrs. Buckland fumbled for a moment with the spectacles she wore on a gold chain about her neck. “Why, it is! Good morning, Miss Thorne!”
Mrs. Buckland was an amiable woman, of newer money but good repute, as long as one did not cross any of her particularly cherished opinions. Among her exemplary qualities was that she believed in the importance of routine. Whether this was the result of being married to a naval officer, and having sailed with him for several years during the early days of their marriage, or if it was some inborn quality, Rosalind could not say, but it was established fact that Mrs. Buckland ran her house, and her life, according to schedule and rule.
For example, at ten o’clock on Wednesdays, having seen her girls settled at their lessons with their governess, reviewed the day’s menus with the housekeeper, and assembled her assorted lists, Mrs. Buckland could without fail be found at Clements’s Circulating Library.
“How are the children?” asked Rosalind. “And the admiral?”
This polite inquiry elicited a fountain of domestic concerns and triumphs: Angelica was turning into a madcap, Hortense had the croup. Thomas was called up twice for good at Eton. A letter had come from Brendan’s commander aboard the Boniface that he was excelling in navigation.
“As for the admiral, why, we hardly ever see him these days.” Mrs. Buckland shook her head, causing the curled fringe on her forehead to swing dramatically. “I would have thought with the peace he would be home more often, but heavens no! There’s always something that must be done in that great, gray building, and it seems none of it can be done without him! Still, at least he is able to dine with us three or four times in the week, and I need no longer worry about some French cannonball removing his dear head.”
Rosalind smiled at this pronouncement. At that same time, Mr. Clements reappeared from the stacks with two books in his hands. These he gave to Rosalind before he turned to greet Mrs. Buckland.
“I’m returning these.” Mrs. Buckland gave the librarian several slim volumes. “Have you anything new?”
Mr. Clements did. He’d set it aside especially, in fact, the first volume of a new novel by Mrs. Cuthbertson. If Mrs. Buckland would wait just a moment . . . Mr. Clements retreated once more into the bookroom.
“And what is it for you today, Miss Thorne?” Mrs. Buckland gestured toward the books Rosalind had received from Mr. Clements.
“I
was in the mood for some poetry today, and a friend recommended Mrs. Seymore.”
A troubled look crossed Mrs. Buckland’s mobile features. “Well. Yes. She is reckoned to be very good, in her way. A trifle mawkish for my tastes, but then, not everyone enjoys Mrs. Cuthbertson.”
“I believe she is married to a naval man. Mrs. Seymore, that is, not Mrs. Cuthbertson.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Buckland flatly. “That she is. Captain William Seymore.”
“Oh?” Rosalind permitted her brows to arch. “Are you acquainted with the Seymores? I suppose your husband must know so many officers.”
Mrs. Buckland sniffed. “Some of them rather more than he would wish to. Oh, thank you, Mr. Clements. This looks marvelous. Now, let me check my book.” Mrs. Buckland pulled a small notebook from her reticule, opened it, and held it up so close to her eyes that her face was nearly obscured. “Yes, yes. I’m sorry to send you back, but Hortense has been plaguing me for Glenarvon.” Mr. Clements bowed in acknowledgment and trotted away again. “I really can’t say I approve,” Mrs. Buckland sighed to Rosalind. “But she’ll only get it from someplace else, and I do think girls must read bad books to learn to recognize the good, don’t you?” Rosalind agreed this was probably true. “Now what were we . . . Oh yes, Captain Seymore. Well, it’s all too bad, really, and I feel for his family, of course. You have to understand, with the peace and everything still in an uproar on the Continent, and no one quite sure where everything will settle, great changes are afoot in the Navy. While the blockade and the fighting were going on, every single hand was needed. Many faults might be overlooked, particularly among the officers. That is no longer the case. Half the admiral’s business these days is reading letters from men begging for position or consideration, and turning them down.”
“May I take it then that Captain Seymore has been looking for a new position?”
Mrs. Buckland suddenly became very engaged in smoothing down her sleeves. “William Seymore has been demanding one. Impertinent man. Presumes heavily on his family’s connection to the Marquis of Weyland. We’ve had to quite strike him off our list for dinner invitations.”
“Oh, dear,” murmured Rosalind. The Marquis of Weyland must be the high connection Mrs. Seymore had alluded to.
“Now, that connection may have been enough to get him his commission,” Mrs. Buckland went on. “But it’s up to him to keep it, isn’t it?”
“Naturally.” Rosalind nodded. “And of course, it speaks volumes that the marquis is not intervening for his cousin now.”
“That’s just what I was saying to the admiral, and he remarked it was very telling that neither the marquis nor his brother Lord Adolphus had spoken up at all for such a close cousin. In fact . . .” But Mrs. Buckland stopped, and she regarded Rosalind over the rims of her spectacles. “Miss Thorne, are you up to something?”
Rosalind raised her chin and assumed a lofty air. “Mrs. Buckland, you can hardly expect me to own such a thing.”
“You are then. Hmm.”
Further remarks were delayed, however, by Mr. Clements’s return with the three green morocco-bound volumes of Glenarvon. Mrs. Buckland accepted these and stowed them in her copious carrying bag.
“Well. If you are determined to indulge your curiosity about that family, I happen to know that my friend Mrs. Oldman will have Seymore’s younger brother, Sir Bertram, and his wife to dine with her on Thursday. I believe Lord Adolphus may be there as well. It may be that I can procure you an invitation.”
“I admit that would be most welcome. I only wish I could return the favor.”
“It may be you can,” said Mrs. Buckland. “Angelica is making her come-out next season, you know. We’ve been taking her around a bit now, getting her used to things. Lady Thompkins has arranged a private concert to close out her season, Dolcenetti is singing, and Angel is mad to go, but I have been unable to procure a ticket for love or money. You are so clever at such things, perhaps you might be able to manage?”
“I hardly like to promise, but there are one or two people I could ask.”
“Then I’m very glad I happened to run into you. Now, however, I must be off, Miss Thorne. I will have a card sent round to you for Thursday. Good-bye. Good-bye, Mr. Clements.”
Satisfied with the conclusion of her morning’s business, Rosalind returned to Little Russell Street. There were, as always, a great number of letters to be answered. There were few things as necessary to maintaining sources of information about the currents of society as the maintenance of an active and varied correspondence.
In fact, this morning would not be too soon to begin writing to her various acquaintances who might know something about the Marquis of Weyland, and what difficulties existed between him and his cousin, the beleaguered Captain Seymore.
Rosalind spent a good hour opening, reading, and sorting the morning’s mail, arranging her piles according to whether the letters were personal or business, and the urgency of each. At the bottom of the pile, however, she discovered a letter closed with a seal she’d never seen before. It was an ornate medieval letter C surrounded by a wreath of laurels.
Rosalind broke the seal, and unfolded the paper to discover two tickets to the evening’s performance at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.
She stared at the tickets, and then at the letter, which was written in a bold, neat, and flowing script, and read:
Dear Miss Thorne,
It is my very great hope that you will excuse the impertinence of this letter. I was recently informed of your efforts on behalf of Mrs. Seymore, and wish to take this opportunity to fully acquaint you with my perspective on the matter. I sincerely hope I will be able to make it clear that the lady is in no way to blame for the fulminations and errors in judgment currently being pursued by that man to whom she is espoused.
I hope you will find yourself able to accept the gift of these two tickets to the Theatre Royal, and that you and the companion of your choosing might be willing to accept my invitation to dine afterwards.
Yours, with humility and respect,
Fletcher Cavendish
“Well,” murmured Rosalind as she laid aside the tickets and the letter. “Now, I wonder, Mr. Cavendish, just what has Mrs. Seymore told you of this business?”
CHAPTER 5
A Pleasant Evening at the Theater
Among the principal objects which call for reform in the Theaters of London, no one appears to me to be more important than that of protecting the more rational and respectable class of Spectators from those nuisances to which they have long been exposed.
—Benjamin Dean Wyatt,
Observations on the Design for the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane
“Well,” announced Alice as she and Rosalind climbed down from their hired carriage. “This is quite the most gorgeous mess.”
There were few locations where one could see the entire panoply of London life crammed together, but the entrance to the Theatre Royal was one of them. Unfortunately, that panoply made it almost impossible to actually get into the theater itself. The line of grand private carriages stretched down the block, causing Rosalind and Alice to agree the thing to do was to get out and walk. Mrs. Kendricks, who had accompanied them to perform the offices of chaperone and lady’s maid, looked pained, but did not argue.
“Allons-y, mes amies,” murmured Alice to Rosalind. They linked arms, gathered hems, and thus united, plunged into the crowd with Mrs. Kendricks following close behind.
Rosalind had chosen Alice Littlefield as her companion for this momentous evening. Of course, Alice was her dearest friend, but she would also be very slow to forgive if Rosalind denied her the opportunity of dining in the company of a renowned actor, especially one on the cusp of what promised to be a splendid criminal conversation trial. It was to Alice’s credit that she did not even attempt to deny this.
Despite the fact it was frequently called just
the Drury Lane, the Theatre Royal was in reality situated on a corner of Russell and Broad Streets. That corner was at the moment filled to overflowing with all manner of traffic. Idlers stood and gawped at the grandly dressed men and women as they exited their carriages. Hawkers of goods, programs, oranges, and other tidbits shouted to be heard above the din and brandished their wares overhead as they pushed through the crowd. A number of women displayed their personal wares just as openly. Mountebanks and musicians played and danced and sang, hoping for the possibility of a few pennies in return for their efforts. No doubt there were others looking for coin as well, sliding unseen through the crowds, hoping to lift a wallet, watch, or reticule.
“Rosalind.” Alice clutched at her sleeve. “I think that’s Mr. Harkness!”
Rosalind’s head whipped around. There, in the shadow of the public house, she saw a tall man. Torchlight glinted on his fair hair. He was dressed far more soberly than the majority of the crowd, but the most remarkable thing about that man was how very still he stood. Indeed, if he took but half a step back, he would be invisible in the shadows.
“One wonders what brings the Bow Street runners to the theater tonight,” said Alice.
“I expect it is a combination of the worthies’ jewels and those who would have them change ownership.” Rosalind had only recently met the principal officer, but the encounter had been eventful, and unsettling. Now she made herself turn away. She had other business tonight, and there was no reason for her to be standing and staring at a man who did not want to be seen.
• • •
The Theatre Royal itself was a low, square building with the liveried ushers standing in strict attendance by every door. Its most outstanding feature, however, was the brightness of its illumination. The theater was the first in London to be lit entirely by gas. The resulting hard, brilliant light took the eye some time to get used to. Many complained of the smell, and decried the jets as unsafe and lacking the friendly warmth of lamps and candles. But once her eyes adjusted, Rosalind found she rather liked it. For one thing, it produced far less smoke than more homelike lights. For another, it was singularly steady and reliable in a way no candle could be.
