Lady Incognita

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  Lady Palmerton had sent round her footman with the message to be ready. She and Atherton would stop with the carriage. Lady Constance had not asked if Louisa desired to attend the theater; quite probably the thought of doing so had not occurred to her. But for this time at least Louisa was glad of the invitation.

  She had the payment for Love in the Ruins and the writing of The Spectral Hand, the tentative title of the story of Percival and Corrine, would soon put another one hundred pounds in her pocket. And even if things had not been going well, Louisa admitted to herself, the prospect of an evening in the company of Atherton was too good to resist.

  At the bottom of the staircase, the Viscount stood waiting. Louisa’s heart fluttered at the sight of him, so lean and dark. His corbeau-colored coat stretched so tautly over his broad shoulders that she could see the muscles ripple as he turned. His cravat had that look of elegant haste that took the beaux so long to achieve. His breeches of black florentine silk and his black silk stockings set off well-muscled legs. Her heart beat erratically at the sight of him.

  He had turned at the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, and Louisa, feeling those dark eyes on her so intently, knew that the color was flooding her cheeks. Every time he looked at her in that intimate way she remembered how she had surrendered her body to him in the waltz.

  Then she reached the bottom of the stairs and the Viscount took the shawl from her arm and put it round her shoulders. “Constance is in the carriage. I’m afraid she is rather in a huff with me,” said his lordship with a lazy smile. “I insisted upon us being at the theater in good time. Since this is your first appearance there and since I take it you wish to attend to the performance, I wanted you to see it from the beginning.”

  “Thank you,” said Louisa, as tucking her arm through his, he escorted her to the carriage and helped her in.

  “Good evening, Lady Constance,” said Louisa with a smile, hoping that her patroness’s ire would not extend to her.

  “Good evening, Louisa,” replied Lady Constance petulantly before she turned to her brother. “Really, Philip, you are absurd. No one will be at the theater at this unfashionable hour.”

  The Viscount merely smiled good-naturedly. “Jonson’s Every Man in His Humour has not been acted these fourteen years,” said he. “Except during the Old Price riots when no one could hear it. I do not think it extremely unkind of me to wish to see it in its entirety. You know that I attend the theater to watch the performance, not to ogle and be ogled.”

  “Nevertheless,” began Lady Constance, and then seeing the Viscount’s face darken, apparently thought better of it and lapsed into sulky silence.

  “If you wished to arrive late, you should have asked Palmerton to accompany you.”

  The snort that issued from Lady Constance’s well-bred throat at this comment sounded very like one of Aunt Julia’s. “Philip, you are absolutely abominable. You know that my Palmer-ton abhors the theater. I should never get there at all had I to depend upon his escort.”

  “Then,” said Atherton with a slight twinkle in his eyes, “perhaps since you wish to depend upon mine it might be wise for you to observe my wishes in this matter. Abominable as I am, I am a very useful brother.”

  Lady Constance broke into reluctant laughter. “Oh, Philip, you always could wrap a woman around your finger. Beware of him, Louisa, my dear, he is like a little boy when he wants his way.”

  “Rather like a hero,” whispered Atherton for Louisa’s ears alone.

  “Well, Philip,” said Lady Constance, “since you are dragging me to Drury Lane so insufferably early you might at least tell me something about the play. I suppose I shall be constrained to watch the beginning at least. There will be no one of the first diamond there this early.”

  Atherton smiled. “It is simple enough to understand. In the play every man behaves in his own humor.”

  “Philip!” said Lady Constance plaintively. “You know I am not a literary person.”

  The Viscount chuckled. “You have learned about phrenology from Aunt Julia.”

  “Yes,” replied Lady Constance with such a heart-rending sigh that Louisa had to stifle a giggle.

  “Well, when Jonson wrote this play at the end of the sixteenth century, humors were a way of explaining man’s character. It was perhaps the phrenology of its age, though rather more widely accepted than Aunt Julia’s science. It was held that there were four fluids entering into the constitution of the body and deter-mining by their relative proportions a person’s health and temperament.”

  “Rather like Julia’s four types,” said Lady Constance.

  “Rather so,” agreed Atherton. “The four fluids were blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile. They were closely related to the four elements: blood to air - hot and moist; yellow bile, to fire - hot and dry; phlegm to water - cold and moist; and black bile to earth - cold and dry.”

  Atherton smiled mischievously at Louisa. “The sanguine man, with a dominance of blood, was beneficent, joyful, and amorous. The choleric man, overwhelmed by yellow bile, was easily angered, impatient, obstinate, and vengeful. The phlegmatic man was dull, pale, and cowardly. And the melancholic man, overcome by black bile, was gluttonous, backward, unenterprising, thoughtful, sentimental, and affected.”

  “I see,” said Lady Constance with a sparkle in her eyes. “Much of Julia’s science is not so very new after all.”

  Atherton chuckled again. “Quite true. But let me counsel you, sister dear, not to advise her so.”

  “Yes, please. Lady Constance,” added Louisa hastily. “Her science is all she has.”

  Lady Constance chuckled. “If either of you believes that I would venture to contradict the inestimable Julia, you have something missing in your upper story.”

  “My upper story is quite well-supplied -with bumps,” said Atherton, sending the other two off into a fit of the giggles. How was it, Louisa wondered momentarily, that she should so often feel lighthearted in Atherton’s presence?

  Suddenly Louisa was startled by the stopping of the carriage. The ride had seemed so very short. As Atherton helped her descend, she glanced around her. In spite of Lady Constance’s fears of being the only person there, Drury Lane was crowded with carriages. The street echoed with the voices of coachmen, the clatter of hooves, and the rumble of wheels. Smart equipages disgorged ladies and gentlemen, all dressed to the teeth, and glittering with jewels and decorations that blazed in the light of the lamps. Unconsciously Louisa cast a glance at her gown; and, Atherton, seeming to understand her fears, said quite softly, “You have nothing to fear from the competition tonight. You look quite becoming.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, very glad that Lady Constance had still to be helped from the carriage.

  Then, offering them each an arm, he guided them deftly through the crowd and inside to their box. The pit was rapidly filling up, Louisa saw as she looked down. She was eager to take in everything for she had never before attended the theater. Mama had often spoken of it, but as she would never go without Papa and as Papa was most often in India, Louisa had never been given the chance to attend.

  With curious eyes she regarded the blue and white colors of the boxes. Curiously she looked at the front of the box across the way, trying to make out the figures in the scene of the cameo raised on it in white on a cornelian background. As she was carefully considering the scene, trying to decide if she could place it, she became aware that a man in the box, a man dressed simply and yet having a decided aristocratic bearing, was staring at her through his quizzing glass. In surprise Louisa drew in her breath.

  Beside her, Atherton chuckled. “If you are going to ogle Castlereagh, you must expect to be ogled back.”

  “But I wasn’t,” protested a blushing Louisa. “I was trying to decide if I knew the scene on the front of the box.”

  “The scenes are from Ovid, painted by Rebecca,” said Atherton. “But I much doubt that Castlereagh would believe such a Banbury tale.”

  �
�Philip!” Louisa found herself blushing again and was very much aware that, in the light of the great cut-glass chandeliers that hung from wrought-iron branches between the boxes, her countenance must be clearly visible.

  “Come, Louisa,” said Atherton gravely. “If you are going to be one of the ton, you must accustom yourself to be ogled. Besides, in that gown you are quite the first stare of fashion. Castlereagh is no novice in the butterfly line. He knows quality when he sees it. Ogle him back.”

  “Philip! I cannot.”

  “Come, come,” said he with a grin. “You must learn to stare a man down. Every lady learns to do it. It may some day serve you a good turn with the pomposity.”

  Louisa shook her head. “I doubt that he would notice.”

  “Well,” suggested Atherton, “if you cannot ogle him back you might at least regard our invincible foreign secretary.”

  In spite of herself Louisa’s eyes strayed back to the box across the way. Fortunately, Lord Castlereagh had directed his attention elsewhere. He appeared to be tall and handsome, Louisa thought, with hair brushed simply. As she watched he turned to the woman beside him and spoke with such charm that Louisa, though she could not hear his words, felt sure they had contained a compliment.

  “Does he not look like a hero?” said Atherton softly.

  Louisa jumped, startled. “I ... I do not know.”

  “He is not popular with a great many people,” observed the Viscount. “But he served us well in the matter of the Irish Rebellion in ‘98. And even more so in his selection of Wellington as the man to crush Boney. They say that he never loses his temper. In negotiation his manner is one of courtierlike suavity and invincible resolution. And he is a man of principle. No amount of coercion, of talk of expedience, of pressure from any area, can swerve him.”

  Louisa looked at the statesman again. His position, she thought, was not an enviable one.

  The noise from the pit rose higher and higher; the sound of squabbling voices, of catcalls, of men cracking nuts, rose to assail her ears. “Is it always this noisy?” she asked.

  Atherton nodded. “Always. Most of the ton have as little regard for the performance as those in the pit. But eventually you may learn to disregard their clamor.”

  “Have you seen Kean before?” asked Louisa.

  Atherton nodded. “He has a great talent, that man. If only he does not burn out.”

  “What have you see him do?” asked Louisa with interest.

  “Oh, just about everything he has essayed. Earlier this year I saw him as Bajazet in Tamerlane, Duke Aranza in Honeymoon, Sir Giles Overreach, the Duke in Massinger’s Maid of Milan. He is very good with Shakespeare’s creations. I’ve seen him as Shylock, Richard III, Othello, Iago. Hamlet, and Macbeth. I have followed his career from its beginning.”

  “I have read about him in the Morning Chronicler said Louisa. “Is he really a small man?”

  The Viscount nodded. “Yes, he is small and dark. Not very prepossessing. But when he acts you forget all that. You see him only as the character he creates. The man is a genius. He does best in tragedy, I believe. His great dark eyes seem to reach out and hold you then. The part of Kitely does not give him as much room, but still you will see him become the man - full of suspicion and fear.”

  Louisa smiled. “I should like to see Kean as Othello,” she said.

  Something unfathomable flashed through his eyes. Then the lazy smile returned and he drawled, “I don’t think Kean is doing Othello again this season. Perhaps next year...”

  Louisa nodded, suddenly unable to speak. Did he mean that next year he might take her to see Othello? For a moment she felt her heart thudding in her throat. Then her practical side asserted itself. She would not go off on flights of fancy like that, of what might be. “Kiss the joy as it flies,” she repeated to herself. That engraver Blake had said it so well.

  “The curtain is going up,” said Atherton. “I hope you enjoy the play.”

  Louisa smiled, aware that she would enjoy anything if Atherton were in the seat beside her. Then, conscious of his advice, she made a concerted effort to blank out the noises around her and concentrate on the story.

  As the play progressed, Louisa realized why this play was not one that had been part of her education. Winky, though personally addicted to romances, obviously did not regard such a play as this fit subject matter for the mind of a young lady.

  When Kitely agonized over the virtue of a wife and sister, who appeared to be eminently virtuous, she found herself chuckling at the little man.

  How well Jonson wrote that, Louisa thought.

  “My brain, methinks, is like an hour- glass, Wherein my imaginations run like sands, Filling up time, but then are turned and turned, So that I know not what to stay upon, And less, to put in act.”

  The writer in Louisa took great pleasure in the apt simile, so very appropriate, in a different way, to her own situation.

  She sat enraptured, enchanted by the amusing characters revealing themselves in their words. Long before she expected it, the curtain fell for intermission.

  The Viscount smiled. “It appears that you are enjoying the play.”

  “Indeed, very much,” replied Louisa.

  “It is an amusing play,” commented Lady Constance brightly. “And Kean does very well as Kitely.”

  Louisa nodded. “Yes, he does.”

  Atherton’s attentions seemed suddenly diverted by a man across the way, a man whose cheerful round face Louisa recognized as that of Alvanley. “I collect that Alvanley wants to speak to me.” The Viscount looked at Louisa from under lazy lids. “I imagine he wants to check on my progress in the affair of our wager. Or, more probably, crow over my inability to discover the secret. I shall return

  soon.”

  As Atherton left through the door at the back of the box, Lady Constance spoke. “I’m too fatigued to promenade. Do move over closer to me so we may talk.”

  Obediently Louisa moved into the seat that the Viscount had vacated. Lady Constance began to point out certain noteworthy personages as they left and entered various boxes. The names flashed by Louisa so fast that she could not always connect them with the faces. A few of them, however, she remembered from her ride in the Park: Poodle Byng with his curly hair, Lord Petersham of the beaky nose and snuff, Lord Worcester in his sky blue trousers.

  “There you are, my dear,” said a voice from the back of the box.

  Lady Constance turned. “Come in, come in. Louisa, have you met Lady Jersey?”

  Looking up, Louisa saw a small woman, exquisitely dressed, with deep-fringed eyes that glanced at her provocatively. “Hello, Lady Jersey,” said Louisa.

  “Constance, my dear,” said Lady Jersey in a rather commanding tone, “Lady Castlereagh wishes to speak to you in the corridor.”

  “Of course,” replied Lady Constance, as though Jersey had every right to order her about.

  As Lady Constance left, Lady Jersey settled her elegantly gowned body into the chair. “You are looking quite charming tonight, my dear.”

  Such a compliment from a woman that even Louisa knew hated other women must have some import behind it. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Lady Jersey leaned closer, those deep-fringed eyes glinting conspiratorially. ‘I must congratulate you. You have become quite an item.”

  “I?” replied Louisa in some surprise. “Why?”

  Lady Jersey laughed, but there was no warmth in that laugh. “You are far too modest. Since Atherton has taken you up all the ton is buzzing as to whether he is dangling after you or whether perhaps you have something to do with his wager with Alvanley. Perhaps you know who Lady Incognita is.”

  Louisa’s heart thudded painfully in her throat. Had Jersey anything on which to base this speculation or was she merely fishing?

  Jersey smiled maliciously. “We have long given up on Atherton. Certainly we never expected him to form a partiality for an unknown.” She sighed. “The man has had innumerable connections. All
ineligible, of course.”

  Louisa’s mouth grew suddenly dry. Could Lady Jersey have been or hope to become one of those “connections”? It was true that she was older than he, but she was still a woman of great beauty.

  It was said that men adored her. And everyone knew what she had been to the Regent.

  Suddenly Louisa recalled the conversation in the carriage. She would use it. “Lord Atherton is not dangling after me,” she replied with as much calm dignity as she could muster. “Nor, I’m afraid, can I help him discover Lady Incognita’s true identity. Lady Constance’s husband does not care for the theater and her brother kindly agreed to escort her.”

  “And you,” said Jersey.

  “My Mama was a friend of Lady Con-stance’s,” replied Louisa. “She has been most kind to me.”

  “I see,” said Jersey with a smile that chilled Louisa’s blood. “Let me give you a little friendly advice, my dear. Atherton is not the man for a girl like you. His taste runs to sophistication - and experience.”

  Louisa’s calm turned to anger. No matter who Lady Jersey was she did not have to sit there and continue this terrible conversation. “I thank you for your advice,” she said coldly, “but it is quite unnecessary, I assure you. And now I believe I’ll stretch my legs.” And Louisa rose and marched into the corridor without a backward glance.

  She had just about reached Lady Con-stance, who was not speaking to Lady Castlereagh or anyone else for that matter, when she felt a detaining hand on her arm and Atherton stopped her. “Louisa, are you ill? You look extremely pale.”

  “I ... I have just had a quarrel with Lady Jersey.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You picked a formidable antagonist.”

  “I did not pick her,” faltered Louisa. “She attacked me.”

  “Concerning what?” asked the Vis-count.

  Too late Louisa realized the trap she had set for herself. “I ... I cannot say.”

  Atherton frowned. “You mean you will not.”

  Louisa shook her head. “Please, do not ask me.”

  The Viscount’s features hardened. “Perhaps I should ask Jersey.”