A Match of Hearts: A Regency Romance

by Gilman, Hilary

  For the next half-hour or so, Zanthe and the Cholmondeleys greeted arrivals, exchanged pleasantries, begged newcomers to take a little refreshment, and generally acted as hosts at a large reception. Zanthe was a little distracted by keeping an eye out for Lord Launceston, who had retreated from the Rooms as the crowds began to arrive and had gone, she strongly suspected, in search of stronger refreshment than that dispensed by Miss Susan.

  She saw him stroll into the room presently and felt a little thrill mingled with irritation. Why did he present himself with his cravat as ever loosely tied and his shirt front un-pressed, and why did his disheveled appearance give him such a roistering air, as though a pirate had wandered by chance into a ladies’ sewing circle? Their eyes met, and a smiled passed between them, but he did not approach her.

  A few minutes later, Parry arrived escorting the Dowager with casual grace. Zanthe found a chair for her at the front of the room, all the while shielding Margery, who was sitting at the back with the Cholmondeleys, from view.

  Presently, a bell rang out, and those clustering around the refreshment tables obediently found their seats. The hall had now filled up with the performers’ friends and family, many charitable persons interested in the cause, and a scattering of hangers-on who took any opportunity to mingle with the higher orders.

  The programme opened with Sir Humphrey’s magic tricks, performed to an accompaniment upon the pianoforte provided by Miss Tarleton, a spinster of uncertain years but spritely demeanor. The card tricks went very well. Several gentlemen were invited up onto the stage to pick cards and looked suitably thunderstruck when their own card was presented back to them. But, most unfortunately, Sir Humphrey, who was an admirer and disciple of the celebrated Monsieur Louis Comte, next attempted the trick, first practiced by that great illusionist, of pulling a rabbit out of a hat. The rabbit, who was in a very bad mood, kicked and struggled so violently as to tip over the little table upon which the hat rested and thereby revealed the hidden compartment where he had been enjoying a quiet nap. He then bit Sir Humphrey on the finger, leapt nimbly from his arms, and hopped off the stage into the audience. Ladies screamed and pulled their flounces around their ankles until several youths with shouts of yoiks! and tally ho! captured the beast and returned him to his owner.

  After this, even Mrs Preston, who performed it, felt that The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk was an anticlimax. Spirits descended even deeper into gloom when Miss Amelia and Miss Katherine Weatherspoon seated themselves at the pianoforte and commenced to play an interminable Haydn sonata. It was, thought Zanthe fairly, no reflection upon Herr Haydn that the audience shifted in their seats, coughed, and glanced surreptitiously at their pocket-watches. The playing was ponderous, and the young ladies would have required to be a good deal more attractive than they were for the ordeal to be thought tolerable by any but their Mama.

  ‘Oh, dear, what’s next?’ she whispered to Margery, who was sitting in a happy dream beside her.

  ‘What? Mmm—er—it is the Quarrel Scene.’

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ sighed Zanthe with a sinking heart. There was nothing to be done. She and the other members of the audience must simply grin and bear it.

  But, most unexpectedly, the Quarrel Scene became the hit of the evening thus far. It began quite as badly as Zanthe had expected. The young gentlemen had finally mastered their lines, but the effort of memory was so great as to put any prospect of actually acting them quite out of the question. However, during the first of Cassius’ speeches, the young actor made a wild gesture, which inadvertently knocked Brutus’ laurel wreath off his head and left it hanging upon the end of his decidedly retroussé nose. The audience laughed. It was not the laughter that had greeted poor Sir Humphrey’s rabbit trick. They laughed because they thought it a part of the performance. Zanthe saw the realisation dawn upon the players and watched with deep misgivings as the scene turned into an impromptu Punch and Judy show. The gleeful participants raced around the stage, and there were trips, falls, tweaked noses, slapped bottoms and, as a finale, an improvised duel with walking canes filched from the gentlemen in the front row. Zanthe laughed so hard that she could not speak but only pressed her hands to her side where a painful stitch was forming. The young men took their bows to thunderous applause, with only poor Lady Templeton regretting that the vast majority of the famous text had been left unheard or unspoken.

  Susanna was the last to perform in the first half of the concert. She walked on to the stage to find the audience still laughing and chattering over the last scene. People were fidgeting and glancing over to the refreshment tables, impatient of sitting any longer on the hard benches. It was a prospect that would have daunted most young performers.

  Miss Fallowfield, a slight, graceful figure in white voile interwoven with strands of silver that gleamed in the candlelight, simply stood and calmly waited for the hubbub to die down. Politely, the audience members hushed each other and turned their faces to her, pitying her youth and willing to extend their indulgence just five minutes more.

  When all was quiet, Susanna inclined her head to her accompanist, folded her hands in front of her breast, and sang.

  Never, never, thought Zanthe, had there been anything like it. The crowd was on its feet clapping, cheering, calling for more, although Susanna had already given three encores. They would not let her go. She smiled and curtsied and sang for as long as they wanted her, soaking in the applause and giving back—enchantment.

  Even Zanthe had never heard her sing as she had that night. She realised that Susanna had been saving her voice in rehearsals, just sketching in her performance. She turned to Margery and exclaimed, ‘There can be no doubt about it now! She must be given the freedom to sing, to be heard; anything else would be a crime.’

  There was a sudden disturbance at the back of the hall. A lady who had been listening from the farthest bench, cloaked and veiled, arose, cast off her cloak and paced in stately splendour down the centre aisle until she reached the stage. She mounted it and threw back her veil. There was a gasp as the audience recognized Signora Villella. In a superb gesture, she lifted the heavy gold and emerald tiara she wore from her head and placed it upon Susanna’s. Then she took the young soprano’s hand in hers and led her down to the front of the stage. ‘So, I am deposed. I pass the crown to my successor.’

  Twenty-two

  Zanthe, sipping weak tea from a porcelain cup, could not help thinking that a glass of champagne would be more in keeping with her mood and, she suspected, that of several other persons in the room. The high, excited hum of voices revealed an audience still transported by what they had heard.

  Susanna was the centre of an ever-shifting throng of admirers, all eager to touch her hand and to hear her speak—and already rehearsing in their own minds how they would casually mention in the future how they had been among the first to hear the great soprano sing. The Signora had disappeared, generously leaving her daughter to enjoy her triumph, unrivalled. There fell a sudden hush. Zanthe looked up to see that Lord and Lady Fallowfield were making their way across the room towards their niece.

  ‘My dear, what a triumph!’ said Lord Fallowfield, taking her hand between his. ‘Magnificent!’

  His lady smiled and said in her cool way, ‘Quite remarkable.’

  ‘We are privileged to be among those to be present at your debut.’

  ‘Thank you, but I do not consider this to be my debut, Uncle,’ responded Susanna. ‘I intend to make my first professional appearance at Covent Garden, not Bath. But, of course, I hope you will attend then also.’

  ‘Covent Garden? But, my dear child, what are you thinking of? A Fallowfield of Trenton Hall cannot sing in public.’

  ‘I believe I have just done so.’

  ‘Oh, I do not count such a concert as this. I hope you will grace many such private entertainments in the future. But to become a professional singer? No, I cannot allow it.’

  Susanna merely smiled, sphinx-like. ‘But, Uncle, recollect I have not
asked for your permission.’

  Zanthe stepped forward and hurriedly interposed, ‘We cannot discuss the matter here, Susanna. The second half is about to begin. We are all eager to hear your—I mean—Signora Villella.’ She turned to Lord and Lady Fallowfield. ‘I shall bring Miss Fallowfield to call upon you in the morning, if that is agreeable to you?’

  ‘Certainly,’ bowed his Lordship. He and his wife moved away to join Mr Fallowfield, who was chatting in a desultory way with Lady Templeton.

  ‘Really, Susanna,’ scolded Zanthe in an undertone, ‘That was rather rude, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not as rude as his thinking he has the right to order my existence when he wasn’t even aware of it a month ago.’

  Zanthe quite saw the force of this argument. ‘I have every sympathy, my love, and I shall do everything I can to help you, of course. But, really, you do not want to fall out with your family when you have only just met them.’

  Susannah merely shrugged. Zanthe could only envy her steadfastness and reflected that she might have been a happier woman if she had been gifted with it herself. At that moment, the bell rang, and the audience, replete with tea, cakes, and little sandwiches, found their places once more. She could not refrain from glancing towards the bench where Launceston had been sitting during the first half, but it was empty. She guessed that he had stayed only to hear Susanna and had left to keep his appointment with Sir Marmaduke.

  Although they had all talked glibly about the second half, the remaining portion of the programme was, in fact, very much shorter than the first. The prima donna’s accompanist, a notable musician in his own right, was to give them a concerto, and the remainder of the evening would be the Signora’s alone.

  It would have been wrong to call the Signor’s performance a disappointment. She sang divinely and looked very beautiful. But then, she was expected to sing well. There was none of the excitement, the thrill of the unexpected that had attended Susanna’s performance. Perhaps only Zanthe and one other suspected that she had deliberately banked down her own fires, holding back her considerable presence for her daughter’s sake.

  Nevertheless, the crowd demanded several encores and, at the final curtain, a blushing little boy in nankeen breeches and short blue jacket was pushed forward by his Mama to present the Signora with a large bouquet.

  Very few of the crowd seemed disposed to leave the concert hall. They remained milling around, finished the refreshments, and complimented the various artistes upon their performances. Signora Villella was the centre of an admiring group, graciously responding to the extravagant praise bestowed upon her when, all at once, her attention was caught by the sight of Mr Fallowfield, who was standing beside Zanthe at the outer edge of the circle, watching her with a singular smile upon his face.

  ‘Why—it’s never—it is! Johnny Fallowfield!’

  ‘Hello, Fanny,’ he responded with a grin. ‘I thought it was you.’

  Ignoring her admirers, the Signora sailed through the crowd, holding out her hands to him. ‘Well, this is a surprise. I thought they’d packed you off to India.’

  ‘They did. But I came back.’

  ‘So I see. Are you one of these nabobs now, then?’

  ‘That’s it. And what about you, Fanny? Setting up as an Italian these days?’

  ‘Well, it’s no lie. My Dad was an Italian.’

  ‘Go on! You never knew who your dad was.’

  ‘Yes, I did, I just didn’t own to him.’ She stepped back and looked him up and down. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes and no mistake, Johnny.’

  ‘And you are as fascinating as ever. I always told you that you chose the wrong Fallowfield.’

  ‘Ah, but Dickie loved me. You never did.’

  ‘I was too much of a bingo-boy to be any good to anyone back then. I learnt some sense out in India, though.’

  ‘Not too much, I hope,’ she smiled. ‘You were a lot of fun in them days.’

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘I am still a lot of fun, Fanny, as I hope to show you. Dare I hope that you are not currently living under some fortunate gentleman’s protection?’

  She laughed out at that. ‘I don’t need no protector. I’ve a tidy fortune of my own, I’ll have you know. I haven’t even got a petit ami as the French say. Not since young Lady Brookenby came to town in any event.’

  It occurred to Zanthe that she was quite superfluous to this encounter, and so she retreated, leaving the two old friends to converse in comfort. She saw Mr Fallowfield lead the Signora to a chair and seat himself beside her. He seemed, thought Zanthe, to have much to say.

  Fascinating though this glimpse into the Signora’s past might be, she had, as the vulgar saying went, other fish to fry. Avoiding her mother-in-law’s eye, she went in search of Margery and found her in the little salon used as a cloakroom putting on her pelisse and hat. Miss Cholmondeley, already wrapped up in a cloak and old-fashioned calash bonnet, was flushed and quivering with excitement.

  ‘Oh, Lady Brookenby, to think that at my time of life I should be assisting at an elopement! So romantic! There is no one I would rather have as my sister-in-law, I assure you, than dear Margery.’

  Zanthe’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Indeed, she has been the best and sweetest sister to me, and I am sorry to part with her. But I shall hope to receive all of you as my guests when—’ She stopped suddenly, hesitated, and then continued, ‘—when I have an establishment of my own.’

  Margery was attempting to tie the strings of her bonnet, but her fingers were shaking and so Zanthe did if for her. When she had tied a skittish bow, she leant forward and kissed her sister on the cheek and said in a choking voice, ‘You know all the happiness I wish for you, don’t you? There is no need of words.’

  ‘Bless you,’ was all Margery could manage to say. She thrust a folded and sealed letter into Zanthe’s hands. ‘This is for Mama. I could not leave without a word.’

  ‘I will see that she gets it. But not until it is too late to chase after you,’ she added with a dimple.

  Margery’s eyes widened. ‘Do you think she would?’

  Zanthe laughed. ‘Perhaps, but what could she do even if she caught you? Don’t give her another thought.’

  The Reverend came in at the moment to tell them that the post chaise was at the door. The three ladies hugged and kissed and promised to write every day; then they all walked out of the Rooms and into the street where the chaise was waiting.

  ‘Four horses,’ noted Zanthe approvingly. ‘No expense spared. That is the way to conduct an elopement.’

  The two older ladies were handed up into the carriage, and the gentleman sprang up after them. The horses rattled off down the street, and the last Zanthe saw of them as they rounded a bend in the road was a white handkerchief being waved from the window until they were out of sight.

  She became aware that Parry had strolled out of the Rooms and was standing at her shoulder. ‘What have you been up to, Zan? Where’s Margery going with that old spindleshanks?’

  ‘Margery is going to be married. And Mr Cholmondeley is neither old nor spindleshanked. And, let me tell you, it is only the most foolish and—and—callow—youths who make fun of worthy people who have attained middle-years.’

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘All right, all right. Anyone would think you were in love with the old—the worthy—gentleman, yourself.’

  ‘I regard him as a brother,’ she told him loftily. ‘And one a good deal more to be depended upon than you, odious boy!’

  ‘Why, what have I done now?’

  ‘Nothing, but only because you have been too weak to cause any trouble. And it is thanks to you I became acquainted with that—that—cur—Marmaduke Carlyle, who tried to—well never mind that.’

  But Parry was looking like thunder. ‘Tried to do what, Zanthe? Damn it! Did he presume to touch you? I’ll break his damn neck.’

  ‘Well, he did; but there is no need for you to break his neck because Launceston is
going to do it for you.’

  A voice from the shadows interrupted her: ‘Well, my Lady, it’s to be hoped he will, but that Sir Marmaduke is a deep file—an’ I’m afeard your gentleman is walkin’ into a trap!’

  Twenty-three

  ‘Why, is it Mr. Critchlow?’ Zanthe said, peering into the darkness.

  ‘Aye, Ma’am, it’s me. I come to see you because it goes to my heart to see a cove like my Lord done down by as nasty a villain as I’ve laid eyes on. It seemed to me I should warn the cove, but I don’t know where to find ‘im—so I come to your ‘ouse, and they told me you was ‘ere.’

  ‘What’s this?’ demanded Parry, regarding Critchlow with disfavour. ‘Do you know this man, Sis?’

  ‘Yes, I do. And so do you, come to think of it, but you do not remember because you were foxed. Pray be quiet. Now tell me, Mr Critchlow, what do you know?’

  ‘Well Ma’am, I’d be much obliged if you weren’t to tell my rib this, but I was having a wet at the Bird in Hand when, all of a sudden, this swell, as we saw with this young shaver that day when you comes to see my Martha, walks in. An’ he’s talking wild about this other swell as he’s going to have a turn-up with. Anyways, I hears something I weren’t meant to hear between the swell and a couple of the lads that made me think this ain’t goin’ to be no fair fight. It’s an ambush, that’s what it is.’

  ‘Oh, Good God! I’ll come immediately.’

  ‘What? To the Bird in Hand? Not on your life,’ said Parry decidedly.

  ‘To his lodgings first, but if he is not there, to the inn. I must warn him!’

  Mr Critchlow looked very much shocked. ‘No, my Lady, I never meant that! You tell me where to find ‘im an—’