I came to a halt upon the path, my mind in a whirl. “But this is madness, my lord! For we know Miss Conyngham to be united by affection to Portal himself — her present grief must make it so.” Unless—
I saw again in memory the scarlet-clad Medusa of Tuesday’s rout, her black locks tumbled and her countenance made ugly by grief, as she keened over the slain Harlequin. Maria Conyngham then might almost have felt the knife to pierce her breast along with Portal’s, so great was her suffering. But was her display in fact the consummate expression of art — merely Conyngham the Tragedienne, with deceit her chief ambition?
“Perhaps Mr. Portal valued wealth far more than love,” Lord Harold suggested. “Or perhaps Miss Conyngham merely affects the bond — and her present grief — for the foiling of her enemies. She is accomplished in the art of dissembling, recollect.”
I shook my head, bewildered. “Then how, my lord, in the midst of such a maze, do you intend to proceed?”
“I propose to make love to the lady in turn,” he briskly replied. “For from intimacy much may be discovered.”
“She is unlikely to allow any of the Wilborough line within a mile of her person!”
“I beg to disagree, my dear Miss Austen. If she and her brother know aught of this crime, and fear discovery, Miss Conyngham will cultivate my attentions as ardently as a watchdog. She will find in me a necessary evil, for the preservation of her peace. And I shall exploit the impulse ruthlessly.”
His resolve caused my heart to sink. I could not be sanguine regarding even Lord Harold when confronted with so formidable an enchantress; and I mistrusted a something in his tone, and look, that called to mind the Theatre Royal. Miss Conyngham had worked upon him strangely as he sat in the Wilborough box, his glasses fixed upon her form.
“I intend to learn a vast deal from increased proximity,” the gentleman continued, oblivious of my anxiety, “and I should relish the prospect in any case, were my nephew’s name already cleared. Lord Swithin is spoiling for a challenge — but there are many ways of defending one’s honour, and only a few involve pistols.”
We followed a turning sharp within the maze, saw daylight suddenly before us — and were deposited at the Labyrinth’s very heart.
It remained only to find our way out again.
Chapter 10
The Comforts of Cooling Tea
14 December 1804, cont.
DANCING OF A FRIDAY EVENING IN THE LOWER ROOMS BEGINS precisely at six o’clock, and runs no later than eleven — which custom we owe to the autocratic tendencies of the late “Beau” Nash, that arbiter of all that is genteel in Bath society.[56] Accordingly the Austens put in our appearance at precisely ten minutes before six; paid our respects to Mr. King, the present Master; and the Reverend George then abandoned the ladies of the party for the delights of the card-room. My father being happily taken up by a rapacious set of whist-players, we were free to move about the Assembly in search of acquaintance, and found it presently in the form of Henry and Eliza. I was astonished to discover the little Comtesse in attendance — for it is her usual custom only to dine at six or seven, and to her the Assembly’s hours must seem shockingly provincial.
“Dear madam!” Eliza cried, with a salute to my mother’s cheek. “This is courage, indeed, to venture the crush of the Lower Rooms, and on such a chilly night! And here are the girls — positively ravishing, I declare!” She stepped back a pace, the better to view my sapphire gown and Cassandra’s spotted muslin, and turned to her husband for support. “We must hope for a glimpse of Lord Harold, Henry, when Jane is in such good looks.”
I coloured — for some thought of the Gentleman Rogue had counseled me to put aside my cap this once, and run ribbons through my hair — and felt Cassandra stiffen beside me.
“I wonder you seek to press his lordship’s suit, Eliza,” she objected. “He cannot be respectable.”
“Pooh! And what should that signify to me? Or to Jane, for that matter? We shall leave such tedious fellows as have only their respectability to recommend them, entirely to yourself, my dear — and find contentment in the reflected glow of virtue.”
I reached a self-conscious hand to my throat, and fingered my topaz cross. “You look very well this evening, Eliza. Purple is not a hue that many may wear — but it entirely becomes you.”
“Oh, this old thing,” she said, with an indifferent shrug. “I should not dare to attempt it in London, where it has already been seen this age — but in Bath — well—” Her bright eyes roved about the room. They were filled with an animation that belied her three-and-forty years.
“Mrs. Austen!” cried a tall woman with a long white neck, her hair done up in a bewitching demi-turban of Sèvres blue and gold. She reached down to the diminutive Comtesse and pressed her gloved hand. “How delightful to see you! It has been an age!”
“Isabella Wolff, I declare!” Eliza replied in kind, and seized the beauty in a determined grasp. “You grow lovelier with every year. Jane, Cassandra — allow me to introduce Mrs. Jens Wolff, the wife of the Danish Consul. My sisters, the Miss Austens.”
Cassandra and I curtseyed.
“May I introduce Mr. Thomas Lawrence to your acquaintance, Mrs. Austen?” Isabella Wolff enquired in turn; and peering over Eliza’s shoulder I observed the handsome painter. He awaited Mrs. Wolff with an air of patient adoration. It seemed quite alien to his stormy, self-possessed features — but perhaps the more striking for its unfamiliarity.
Mr. Lawrence bowed, but showed no inclination to part with the attentions of his lady for even so short a space as an introduction; and we were forced to be content with an unintelligible word muttered into his neckcloth. If he recollected our introduction in Laura Place, he gave no sign; and I thought it very probable that he did not — his faculties this morning having been entirely taken up with the effort of capturing Lady Desdemona’s likeness.
“And is Mr. Wolff in Bath as well?”
“He is not at present.” The Consul’s wife seemed indisposed to elucidate the matter.
“But you do intend a visit of some duration?” Eliza persisted.
“As for intentions — I may never return to London at all! Everything about Bath agrees with me exceedingly.” This, with a provocative smile for Mr. Lawrence, who had the grace to colour slightly. “You must call upon me in Bladuds Buildings, Eliza — or look in upon the meeting of the Philosophical Society. I quite depend upon it—” And so, with a flutter of her hand and a general nod, Isabella Wolff ran off, and spent the better part of the evening in dancing with Mr. Lawrence, to the scandal of the town.
“Now I wonder what she has got up to,” Eliza mused, as she followed the pair with her eyes.
“A very handsome lady,” my mother said with approval, “though I cannot like her taste in turbans. She might almost hail from the tent of an Oriental, I declare!”
“She was never happy with Jens Wolff, and Mr. Lawrence is decidedly handsome,” Eliza went on, oblivious. “He has quite a brooding, stormy air as well, does he not? I might as readily lose my heart to him myself, were I disposed to wander.”
My mother started, and surveyed the Comtesse narrowly. “I believe I shall go in search of Henry, my dear,” she said with decision; and so she left us.
“But you are not disposed to wander,” I reminded Eliza, who would giggle at my mother’s departing back, “and I cannot think that Mr. Lawrence would be entirely agreeable, on closer acquaintance. I have it on reasonably good authority that he is nearly a bankrupt.”
“And who among the fashionable is not?” Eliza retorted carelessly, as she fanned her flushed cheeks. “A man may run on for years in that fashion, owing huge sums to everybody, so long as he clings to reputation.”
“I should judge Mrs. Wolff to risk far more in that quarter,” Cassandra observed. “Her reputation is not likely to survive her visit to Bath.”
“Mr. Lawrence does have a habit of throwing ladies into disaffection with their husbands, Jane,” Eliza conced
ed. “You must have seen the recent letter in the Morning Gazette.”
“It has been ages since I read a London paper,” I replied, my curiosity roused. “To what letter would you refer?”
“Mr. Siddons’s.”
“The husband of the celebrated Sarah?”
“The same. He resides here in Bath, you know, for his gouty legs — and has quite broken off with his wife.”
“I did not know it. But what of this letter?”
Eliza’s eyes shone with delicious malice. “Mr. Siddons offered a reward, no less, to those who would expose the author of the slanders directed at his irreproachable lady — of having been detected in adultery with Mr. Lawrence!”
“But she has always been reputed virtuous — and is of an age to be Mr. Lawrence’s mother!”
“I quite agree, my dear. Isabella Wolff, at least, we may consider his contemporary. But Mr. Lawrence has painted Mrs. Siddons a score of times, to the greatest public acclaim — and in years past, seemed quite taken with the entire family. Excepting, perhaps, Mr. Siddons.”
“I think you had better convey this tale to your friend Mrs. Wolff,” Cassandra observed, in a tone of gentle reproof.
“She is already aware of it, I am sure,” Eliza said with a shrug. Then, leaning towards my sister, she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Is not that Mr. Kemble, Cassandra? Your old friend from the Chilham ball?”
A portly officer in his thirties, not above the middle height and with receding brown hair, was advancing determinedly upon us; and I trembled for my sister. She is of so mild and unprotesting a disposition in general, as to be severely imposed upon by bores of every description — who find in her quiet beauty and paltry fortune a double advantage; for she is a lady who can neither fail to bring them credit as a partner, nor tempt them to abandon the single state. At the Chilham ball to which Eliza referred, my sister had consented to dance no less than four dances with Mr. Kemble — and had found both his conversation and skill to be sorely wanting. He can claim no relation to the famous Kemble family of actors — tho’ such a distinction might render even his tedium easier to bear — but is rather a member of the Kent militia, and an intimate of my brother Edward’s home at Godmersham. Mr. Kemble is a great enthusiast for shooting and riding to hounds. He finds ample scope for discourse in the merits of his dogs and hunters.
“Now there is a respectable gentleman, Jane,” my mother declared, reappearing with Henry in tow. “There is credit and propriety.”
My sister audibly sighed.
“Shall we seek the cloak-room?” I enquired, but it was too late. Mr. Kemble had achieved his object.
“Miss Austen,” he cried heartily to Cassandra, with a bow that brought him nearly so low as her knees. “Delighted! Capital! I am only just arrived in Bath — and here I find my old partner! You haven’t changed a bit — and it has been all of three years since we met, I declare! I might never have left Chilham! I trust you are at liberty for the first?”
“I am, sir,” my amiable sister replied with a curtsey.
“Excellent! Excellent! I shall look to partner you the entire evening, then — would consider it a favour to your excellent brother Edward! — for I cannot suppose a lady of your mature years to be very much in request. We shall deal famously together!”
Mr. Kemble offered his arm, and with a despairing look, Cassandra accepted it; and I heard him exclaim, as they moved towards the floor: “My setter Daisy’s had two litters since you went away! Capital little bitch! No turning her from the scent!”
“How well they look together,” my mother mused, in following her elder daughter amidst the couples. “Though she is perhaps too near him in height for convention’s sake.”
“That is very bad in Cassandra, indeed,” Eliza said mischievously. “A lady should always attempt to be shorter than her partner, can she contrive it, and had much better sit down if not. But you shall not suffer a similar indignity, Jane, for Lord Harold is quite tall, indeed. Shall we dance, Henry?”
The first dance was struck up; I found Cassandra quite martyred among the couples; and felt a gentleman to loom at my elbow. I turned — and saw Hugh Conyngham.
He had left off his court dress, and was arrayed this evening in a plum-coloured coat of superfine cloth, a pair of dove-grey pantaloons, and a waistcoat of embroidered silk. The folds of his neckcloth were so intricate as to leave the eye entirely bewildered, and his collar points so stiff as to demand a permanent elevation of the chin. I smothered an unruly impulse to laugh aloud — the tragic Hugh Conyngham, a Dandy! — and curtseyed deep in acknowledgement. For all that he might affect the popinjay, Mr. Conyngham is nonetheless a handsome fellow, with his tousled dark head and his bright blue eyes — and I must appear sensible of the honour of his attentions.
“Miss Austen,” the actor said with a bow. “Your ankle is quite recovered, I trust?”
“Entirely, sir, I assure you. I may thank your excessive goodness — and excellent brandy — for the preservation of my health.”
“Then may I solicit this dance?”
“With pleasure.” My surprise was considerable; but I followed him to the floor without a murmur, my thoughts revolving wildly. Had he discovered the plundered desk in the manager’s office, and recollected the curious nature of my stumbling in the wings?
“I am all astonishment, Mr. Conyngham, at finding you present in the Lower Rooms,” I said, as we entered the line of couples arranged for a minuet. “I had thought the company engaged tonight in Bristol.”
“And so they are — but the play they would mount has no part for me.” He moved well, with unconscious grace, and his aspect was hardly grim; perhaps I had misread his eagerness in seeking me for a partner. “I had thought to find Her Grace’s party at the Assembly — but must suppose their present misfortune to have counselled a quiet evening at home.”
“Perhaps. Though I believe they intended the Rooms.”
“Lord Harold is a prepossessing gentleman. I had not made his acquaintance before his appearance in Orchard Street last evening.”
“Very prepossessing, indeed,” I carefully replied. “And blessed with considerable penetradon. He is highly placed in Government circles, I understand.”
A swift, assessing look, as swiftly averted. “You are quite intimate with the family?”
“No more so than yourself, Mr. Conyngham.”
“I?” He permitted himself a smile. “As though it were possible! No, no, Miss Austen — not for me the pretensions of a Mr. Portal. I do not aim so high as a ducal family.”
“And did the manager truly entertain a hope in that quarter?”
“I must assume so. Portal was excessively attentive to Lady Desdemona.”
“But — forgive me — I had understood him to be devoted to your sister.”
“Admiration, perhaps — esteem and affection — but devotion? I should not call it such.” He shook his head.
“No,” I mused, “for the devoted do not look elsewhere.”
“As my sister has long been aware. Maria has never been so incautious as to place her faith in the affections of a gentleman; and I cannot find it in me to counsel her otherwise. We are a reprehensible lot, where ladies are concerned.”
“You are severe upon your sex!”
He smiled bitterly. “I have seen perhaps too much of our fickle nature, Miss Austen.”
“But you can know nothing of light attachments yourself, Mr. Conyngham.” I hesitated, then plunged on. “I have it on the very best authority that your heart is given over to one already in her grave.”
He inclined his handsome head in acknowledgement, but seemed much preoccupied, and presently said, “I see that you have heard something of my sad history.”
“Your affection for the late Miss Siddons? Yes — an acquaintance of mine, familiar with the story, did let something slip.”
A flush suffused Hugh Conyngham’s cheeks, and as swiftly drained away. Such acute sensibility should not be surprising i
n a man devoted to the Theatre.
“I must applaud your sentiments,” I continued. “Such constancy in a gentleman — even unto death — is exceedingly rare.”
His blue eyes held mine for a long moment, and then he moved around me in a figure of the dance. “It was Her Grace who happened to speak of the business, I must suppose?”
“On the contrary — an old friend of your family’s. Madam Anne Lefroy.”
“I do not recollect—”
“You are unacquainted with the lady, I believe, but may profess at least to have seen her. Madam attended Her Grace’s rout in the guise of Queen Elizabeth.”
“Ah, yes,” the actor cried, comprehension dawning. “I did chance to observe her. She spent a considerable period in conversation with the Red Harlequin.”
“Mr. Thomas Lawrence. Do you know the gentleman at all?”
“Our paths have crossed before,” Hugh Conyngham supplied briefly. “But tell me, Miss Austen — how is it that your friend professes to know aught of my history? For I have assuredly never met her.”
“She chanced to act in an amateur theatrical with your parents many years ago, I understand, at the Dowager’s estate in Kent — and followed the course of your life with considerable interest for many years thereafter. Music, and theatre, and excellence in composition, are beyond all things Madam Lefroy’s delight.”
Mr. Conyngham’s looks were abstracted, as though his mind was entirely fled, but he collected himself enough to say, “A lady of parts, I perceive. She is resident in Bath? For I should like to make her acquaintance, and hear her recollection of my parents.”
“I regret to say that her home is in Hampshire — in the village of Ashe, not far from where I spent the better part of my childhood.”
When the actor reached for my hand in the figure of the dance, I perceived that his own was trembling slightly. “But Madam Lefroy claims an acquaintance with both yourself and the Trowbridge family?” he enquired. “Then perhaps I may yet encounter her with time.”
“I should do much to summon her again to Bath,” I said with feeling.
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