by Allison Lane
Chapter 9
“If I cannot find a better way to occupy my time, I shall go mad!” Caroline addressed the novel she had just slammed shut. The words refused to engage her mind, merely dancing on the page like so many ants. After four days in town, time hung heavy.
Not that the Marchgates ignored her, she admitted as she pulled out a sketch pad and idly began a picture that rapidly evolved into Crawley Manor against a stormy sky. She had accompanied the countess and Eleanor on morning calls, acquitting herself well in the drawing rooms of some of Mayfair’s most powerful hostesses. But the quiet reserve that cloaked her lack of insipid chatter and ignorance of ton gossip would never promote friendships.
Turning the page, she penciled an exaggerated sketch of Lady Debenham’s oppressively Egyptian drawing room with its clawed furniture, lotus-blossom tables, caryatid-supported mantel, and a lion-headed chair that had to be the most uncomfortable she had ever endured. A giggle erupted as her pencil made the torturous chair devour Lady Debenham.
Rain precluded outings to the park. Her only exercise since arriving had been a turn around the square with Eleanor and the footman, Sam, who despite his terrifyingly formal appearance turned out to be a lad of sixteen. The square itself was surrounded by elegant town houses and boasted a central garden set amidst sheltering plane trees, its focal point an equestrian statue of the King. But rain again confined her to the house, falling so heavily she could barely make out Gunter’s on the far corner. And there was nothing to do.
Her fingers idly moved on to produce a rapid study of the Laughing Dog Inn.
Now why would she draw that? True, it represented the point at which her life had swerved to a new course, but was that good or bad? Was her present situation an improvement? Even if this visit to London proved congenial, she had no assurance that life as Mrs. Mannering would do so. Thomas had grown colder each day since returning from Graystone, until they barely spoke to each other. It would be easier to bear if they had not shared so comfortable a first week together. But being the lesser of two evils no longer made her acceptable. Even commonplace messages passed via the servants. And she had no assurance that the polite world would receive her any differently.
Invitations did not yet include her, a situation neither she nor the countess bothered to correct. She needed time to adjust. Nor was she anxious to throw herself into the giddy marriage mart rounds, though she expected to attend many of its entertainments. She already partook of Eleanor’s sessions with the dancing master, both to polish her skills and to learn the waltz.
She had made one interesting acquaintance at Hatchard’s that morning. Arms full of books, she’d rounded the end of a shelf and collided with another lady equally laden.
“I am so very sorry, ma’am,” Caroline apologized, gazing ruefully at the volumes now scattered on the floor.
“Entirely my fault,” insisted the other, a pretty blonde about her age and only a couple inches shorter. She wore a gold pelisse with bronze trim. “I am Helena, Lady Potherby.”
“Mrs. Mannering, my lady.” She was already sorting books. “I hope you enjoy this as much as I did,” she added, stacking three volumes of Sense and Sensibility onto Lady Potherby’s pile.
“I’m sure I will. Everyone has raved about it since it’s publication last fall, but my name is still on the list at our local lending library. We have some very slow readers in our area. Is this treatise on education yours?”
“Yes.” Caroline blushed. “I started a day school in our village and hope for ideas on improving it.”
“Wonderful! I want to do the same but my husband is adamant about maintaining our consequence. He fears anything that caters to the lower classes.” Her face twisted into exaggerated disdain.
“How shortsighted. Perhaps your vicar could suggest someone willing to run it with your backing. Before my marriage I invited village children to attend the lessons I taught my younger siblings.”
“It is possible. If I was not actively involved, perhaps James would reconsider.”
“Consider it part of your duty to your tenants. In this era of enclosures and agricultural reform, their future may depend on an ability to read and write.”
As they discussed the problem, she discovered that Lady Potherby was also a vicar’s daughter. She had married Lord Potherby seven years before and now had three children. But her husband disapproved of bluestockings, so she had to pursue her studies unobtrusively.
Caroline’s spirits lifted. Despite their problems, Thomas had much to recommend him as a husband. Not once had he complained of her bookishness. And he had become an able estate manager, willingly authorizing programs to better the lives of his tenants.
“I would love to hear more of your school,” said Helena. “But I am already late for a fitting at my modiste’s.”
“Perhaps you could call tomorrow,” suggested Caroline. “Morning hours?”
Helena laughed. “I would love to.” She gathered her books and they bade each other farewell.
But for now, Caroline was bored. Not even the sketching helped. Her fingers moved on their own, leaving too much time for thought. Thomas was likely still looking for an assistant for Jacobs, she supposed. He would arrive in town as soon as possible, for he knew Alicia was here. Would he ever discover the harpy’s true nature? If so, what would he do? But speculation was worthless. Jacobs’s words teased her mind, describing Thomas’s reaction when Alicia arrived at Graystone. Such lack of control could only create scandal in town. How would she maintain her own poise in that event?
Her mind circled dizzily, thankfully interrupted by a summons to the drawing room.
“Ah, Caroline,” said Marchgate as she paused in the doorway.
Lady Marchgate was enthroned near the fire, with Eleanor diligently attacking a piece of needlework nearby. The fourth occupant of the room was a stranger, but he seemed oddly familiar. On the shady side of fifty, his salt-and-pepper hair was fashionably cut, as were his clothes. Clad in a blue tailcoat, fawn breeches, and highly polished Hessians, he exuded an air of elegant importance. Brown eyes twinkled as he turned to appraise her.
Thankful that she was wearing one of her new gowns (a walking dress of sprigged muslin with a fashionable flounce) and grateful that Dawson was just as talented as her sister, she smiled.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Caroline, I would like to introduce my good friend William Morris, the eighth Earl of Waite and your uncle. William, my daughter-in-law, Caroline Mannering.”
She turned surprised eyes to the earl, unsure how to greet the head of the family that had disowned her mother. That explained his familiarity. The shape of cheek and chin resembled his sister’s, as did his eyes.
“I cannot describe how delighted I am to meet you, my dear,” said Waite, his charming smile lighting the room. “I never approved of Father’s behavior, you must understand, but he forbade any mention of Fanny, and his effects did not disclose her direction.”
Relieved at the words, her smile spread to her eyes. Marchgate now noted their similarity, for Caroline strongly resembled her mother.
“Thank you, my lord. We live in Sheldridge Corners, on the Bath road west of Hungerford.”
“No my lording, Caroline,” he admonished her. “I am your Uncle William. Have you brothers and sisters?”
“You told him nothing?” She turned to Marchgate in surprise.
“That is for you.” He motioned to a nearby couch and tactfully joined his wife and daughter by the fire.
“I am the third of twelve, Uncle William,” she confided, eyes sparkling with mischief as she gracefully seated herself and motioned him to join her.
“Good Lord!” he burst out. “Poor Fanny!”
She laughed. “I doubt she would willingly part with any of us. She is a devoted and loving mother. We range from Constance, now six-and-twenty, to Angela, who just turned two.”
“So,” murmured Waite, his mind doing rapid sums, “Father lied when he claimed she el
oped because she was increasing.”
“Heavens! Mother would never condone such behavior,” she exclaimed in shock. “Nor would Father. And one could hardly term it an elopement as they wed in your own parish church, following the usual banns. I always understood that the seventh earl disapproved of the match and disowned her when she insisted. The only hint of why was one comment I overheard some years ago when she mentioned that he was so high in the instep he could never countenance a connection with a younger son of a mere baron. The remark struck me as odd, for she never allows herself to disparage anyone, however well deserved.”
“It sounds true, however,” confirmed her uncle. “Father was odiously puffed with conceit. We all suffered from it. I am only sorry that I was making my grand tour at the time and was unable to assist her. But tell me something of your family.”
She spent the better part of an hour with her uncle, describing her brothers and sisters and life in the vicarage. The most telling points for the earl were the Cummings’ closeness and the love that prevailed despite economic hardships and the loss of Fanny’s entree to society. A weight he had not previously noticed lifted from his heart with this intelligence. At the end of her recital Caroline felt comfortable enough to ask about the rest of her mother’s family.
“Fanny and I had a brother and three sisters,” he told her. “The oldest, Beatrice, lives in town. She is now the Dowager Viscountess Shelby, and you should avoid her for she has become notorious. Every family has its black sheep, but you are young and unknown as yet. Your reputation would suffer if linked with hers. Of the rest, Timothy stays almost exclusively on his estate in Devon, Margaret married a Scottish earl and never comes to town, and Sylvia succumbed to consumption some five years ago. My own wife died in childbirth after presenting me with two sons and two daughters.”
“Goodness,” gasped Caroline, her head swirling with new people. “And I suppose there are other cousins as well.”
“Some five-and-twenty, if memory serves. But that does not include the more remote connections. The family is rather extensive.”
“I wonder if Mother has followed your lives.”
“I must ask her. Does she still take surprises well? I would dearly like to see her again and long to surprise her, but would hardly risk shocking her by suddenly appearing after eight-and-twenty years.”
“I doubt she would suffer from so pleasant a shock, Uncle William. But you must not expect lavish treatment. Times are bad and the vicarage none too opulent.”
“I understand. Perhaps I can offer some belated support from the family. At the very least, she should have the dowry Father refused to provide. But enough of the past. Will you attend the theater with me this evening? It is more than time you were introduced to society.”
“Thank you, Uncle. That sounds delightful.”
The theater proved to be both better and worse than she had anticipated. The building was opulent beyond belief, with a domed Corinthian rotunda and twin staircases curving up from the lobby. Everywhere she looked, stunningly dressed ladies and fashionably garbed gentlemen abounded. Nor did she feel out of place, for the first time confident that her own toilette did not shame her. Dawson had outdone herself, sweeping her hair upward into a high knot with soft waves framing a face whose tan was already beginning to fade. The smooth lines of Madame Suzette’s green silk gown further accentuated her height and displayed her fine figure. Pearls borrowed from Lady Marchgate drew attention to her swanlike neck, as did the long pearl earrings that had been a wedding gift from her mother, one of that lady’s few remaining pieces of jewelry. The total effect implied a sophistication and elegance she hoped would not be spoiled by any lack of address.
“Caroline!” exclaimed a nearby voice while she was still dazedly taking in her surroundings.
Her eyes focused on a black-haired lady of medium height whose gray eyes were wide with surprise.
“Cissy, how wonderful to see you again.” She smiled at Squire Hatchett’s oldest daughter, with whom she had daily ridden and studied in their youth.
“Papa wrote that you had married, but I had not heard of your arrival in town.”
“I only just got here. Your papa was very disappointed that you were unable to be home for Christmas.”
“I know it was wretched for him, but we were promised to Nigel’s family. His sister had just presented her husband with an heir, so the season included a christening. But did Matt Crawford really make a fool of himself Christmas Eve?”
“Worse, but this is no place to talk. May I present Thomas’s father and sister, Lord Marchgate and Lady Wembley? And my uncle, Lord Waite. This is Lady Carstairs, wife of Sir Nigel Carstairs and a former neighbor.”
Greetings were exchanged and Cissy promised to call the next day.
The crush swept them toward their respective boxes.
Her disappointment with the theater arose from the impossibility of either hearing the play or following its plot. The theater remained noisy, the audience more interested in conversing with friends than in the action. Worse, the company’s presentation of Hamlet had been edited out of all recognition. Shakespeare must be turning in his grave, she reflected as another scene jaunted off in an unexpected direction, introducing new characters at the expense of old and twisting the plot yet again.
But the stated purpose of the evening – introducing her to society – was admirably achieved. Their box overflowed with people at each of the intervals.
“Lord Rufton, how lovely to see you again.” She smiled when he pushed his way through the crowd.
“Mrs. Mannering.” He lifted her hand gracefully to his lips. “And why is Thomas not here this evening?”
“A small emergency delayed him at home,” she explained yet again. “But he should arrive within a few days.”
“How did you find Crawley?”
She shuddered. “Thomas can describe it far better than I. But things are slowly improving. You must visit and inspect our progress.”
Rufton smiled. “I would be delighted. But we cannot converse here. Perhaps I could call upon you tomorrow?”
“I will look forward to it. There was no time to get acquainted at Sheldridge Corners.”
Waite recalled her attention in order to introduce another visitor, and Rufton slipped away.
“Caroline, this is your second cousin, Andrew Morris, Viscount Wroxleigh. Drew, my niece, Mrs. Mannering.” He flashed a conspiratorial smile. “Do not believe a word he says as he has a well-deserved reputation for flummery.”
“My secret is revealed,” Wroxleigh moaned, theatrically smiting his brow. “How can my consequence survive such assault?” About thirty, the blond, blue-eyed viscount exuded the same powerful presence as Thomas. Noting the twinkle in his eyes, she concluded that Waite was warning her that he also shared a penchant for raking.
“Doing it too brown, aren’t you, cousin? Perhaps it has long since succumbed,” she teased as he raised her hand to his lips, retaining it considerably longer than protocol demanded.
“You wound me.” He pouted.
“Is that possible?” she riposted with a twinkle.
“But of course! And you must make amends. Drive with me in the park tomorrow.”
“Certainly, cousin,” she agreed, stressing their relationship. A flicker of his eyes acknowledged the message.
“Alas, the interval draws to a close and I must return to my party. But I expect the full tale tomorrow of why you have hidden yourself from my sight all this time.”
“You’ve not missed me a bit, my lord.”
He laughed and departed as the second act began.
A moment later new arrivals entered a box across the way – Alicia and two well-dressed dandies. If the gown she’d worn to visit her modiste had been immodest, tonight’s costume was little short of scandalous. Sheer silk clung revealingly to every curve, the neckline so low she was in danger of popping out each time she inhaled. A sapphire necklace dangled its pendant into the exposed cleft, f
urther drawing the eye. Nor was she at all hesitant about leaning close to each escort in turn as she laughed at their sallies, offering an enhanced view even as her breasts brushed against their arms. Her behavior was far worse than that of the courtesans in the next tier. Even Lady Shelby – whom Uncle William had pointed out on arrival – acted the lady in public. But she could understand Thomas’s interest. Nearly every buck in the house avidly devoured her charms. And who could blame them?
* * * *
Cissy and Lady Potherby both made morning calls the next day. Previously unacquainted, they took an instant liking to each other and the three spent a pleasant hour conversing over tea.
“What happened with Matt Crawford?” asked Cissy. For years he had pursued his self-appointed task of judging the behavior of the neighborhood young people – and not sympathetically.
Caroline laughed. “He returned home last autumn in a very agitated state, but whether from debt or disappointment in love or some other cause we never discovered. The night of Sir Robin’s Christmas party he was quite melancholy, spending much of the evening in conversation with the punch bowl.”
“Oh, dear,” interrupted Cissy. “Matt never could handle wine.”
“That much certainly hasn’t changed,” she agreed. “It wasn’t long before he emerged very well to go. He grabbed Edith Hawkins and insisted that she waltz with him – despite that the music was a country dance.” Cissy giggled. “They twirled dizzily into the refreshment room, his face turning greener by the second, until they crashed into a table. Matt landed flat on the floor with Edith sitting on his stomach and the punch bowl upside down on his very green face.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. Two footmen dragged him hurriedly into the next room before he succumbed to his just desserts. He slipped off the next morning and hasn’t been home since.”
Shaking their heads over the excesses of young bucks, the three ladies recalled other ludicrous events they had encountered. From those, conversation moved on to the destruction wrought by Cissy’s cat when a bird blundered into her morning room, to the condition of Crawley upon Caroline’s arrival, and finally to the lurid and cluttered decorating scheme Lord Potherby’s grandmother had imposed on the house. By the time her guests took their leave, Caroline’s spirits were soaring. London promised to be quite enjoyable.
