by Vanessa Gray
Her enjoyment faded when she saw, with sinking heart, Marianna Morton cantering gracefully toward them. Clare’s glance slid past Marianna to the sober-clad horseman behind her. Choate, of course.
A flush mantled Clare’s cheek as she fell into confusion. What could she say to him? How would he greet her? Like the hoyden that he must have thought her? She clenched her hands together in her lap and waited for the blow to fall.
It did not fall. She heard Lady Warfield and Eugenia greeting Miss Morton, and knew that Benedict spoke to the Warfields. And to Clare. She forced herself to look up, unable to conceal the apprehension in her eyes.
Lord Choate, however, seemed to regard her with indifference, and spoke only the merest commonplaces, and soon she began to believe that she had refined too much upon the incident the other day. More proof, if it were needed, of her greenness.
Before she could bring herself to answer Benedict’s remarks, Marianna had nodded to them and moved off, Benedict dutifully in her wake.
“She does remind me,” said Eugenia thoughtfully, “of my old governess. Remember Patterson, Mama? Such a disciplinarian, Clare. I was quite afraid of her.”
“Miss Morton has far too much ton for you to speak of her thus,” said Lady Warfield repressively.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” said Eugenia. But she gave Clare a glance brimming with amusement, and Clare smiled back. It was helpful, she thought, to consider the splendid Miss Morton in the irreverent light that Eugenia cast on her. Clare decided, suddenly, that she did not like Marianna Morton in the least.
The barouche now turned, on Lady Warfield’s order, and began the return journey. Harry Rowse cantered up and spoke to them, his eyes lingering on Clare. He was a friendly face among many impersonal and indifferent ones, and Clare felt a grateful warming toward him. But Lady Warfield spoke coldly, and did not stop. Toward the corner, just before they were to leave the park, a latecomer to the promenade hurried in on a fresh horse, tit-tupping as it caracoled onto the drive.
“Cousin Alexander!” cried Eugenia. “I thought he would not wish to be late, when he knew who was riding in our carriage,” she added with an arch glance at Clare.
He was an undistinguished man, with a plain but kindly face, and since he knew he could not approach Corinthian sartorial splendor, he chose not to try. Clad in fawn riding breeches and a black coat, he managed to look unexceptionable, which, to do him justice, was all he wished.
Now, reining in beside the Warfield barouche, he doffed his top hat and spoke pleasantly.
“I was delayed,” he said importantly, “because Catalini was arriving at the opera house just as I went past. By the stars, there is a fine woman, and they say she has a voice that could charm the angels. I should wish to hear her, for you must know that I have heard the greatest singers in Italy, and I consider myself no mean judge of the voice, you know.
“While I feel that bel canto is by far the most delightful sound, yet I must confess there is something about the impassioned drama that impels one to continue listening, no matter what the music.”
Turning to Clare, he made a bow. “Perhaps, if Lady Thane would like it, I could make up a party to view the opera. Should you like that?”
“Of all things!” cried Clare, suddenly enthusiastic. “Shall it be soon?”
“I will see whether my sister, Mrs. Totten, will come with us. Totten has a box, you know, and he has offered it to me any number of times. I think I shall certainly take advantage of the opportunity, don’t you know.”
Leaving him with many expressions of civility, the Warfield carriage moved on, past the corner and through the streets until it arrived in Grosvenor Square. Entering the house, Clare glanced behind her to the park in the center of the square. Behind the iron fencing, several children played a game with a brightly colored ball, and a barking dog capered, delirious with excitement.
Life here in London was beginning to take a turn for the better, she thought. The great ball of Lady Thane’s was approaching, Sir Alexander was being very attentive, and she truly liked him, even though she had dark thoughts about his prosiness, and Lord Benedict Choate had not deliberately snubbed her, this first meeting after the incident Cousin Benedict—she thought with amusement. How he would hate for her to call him that—the connection being remote, but unmistakably there! She resolved not to yield to the temptation to sting him further.
Lady Thane’s approval was easily obtained for the theater party, and in three days the carriages joined others in the Haymarket, where the King’s Theater was brilliant with gas lights. Its arched facade in the Italian style glowed in the darkness.
Catalini was reported to have received two thousand pounds for her first season in London five years before. The proceeds of two benefit performances and some private concerts, so said Sir Alexander, more than doubled her salary in that first year.
“Since then,” he said, “of course she is recognized as the highest-paid prima donna in the world.”
Mrs. Totten and her brother escorted Lady Thane and Clare to their box. Totten, so his wife said with a wry twist to her lips, suffered from the headache, but probably was this moment sitting down to a green baize table at Crockey’s to gamble the night away. “Fortunately, he is often lucky,” said Amelia Totten.
“The auditorium here is a particularly fine one,” said Sir Alexander, taking upon himself Clare’s entertainment. “It was designed, I believe, by Novosielsky, and you will see it is in the shape of a giant horseshoe. Although, I suppose you are not much acquainted with such mundane affairs as horseshoes?” Sir Alexander gave his peculiar snorting laugh.
Not waiting for an answer, he said, “I believe the five tiers of boxes represent the largest structure of its kind in the world—they tell me ... I have made particular inquiries about this—it can hold more than three thousand persons at once!”
Clare soon found it was beyond her ability to sustain a lively interest in Sir Alexander’s well-informed speech. She fixed a smile on her face, but her eyes wandered over the beautifully gowned ladies in the boxes, the jewels flashing as their wearers moved, catching the light.
One in particular caught her eye. “Pray tell me,” she said when she found an opportunity, “who is that very attractive lady in the box just outside? She has been watching you this long time.”
To her great surprise, Sir Alexander ignored her question. But a telltale flush crept along his cheekbone, and she knew she had made an error. Not until the intermission did Lady Thane enlighten her.
“That is Harriette Wilson,” she told Clare in a whisper. “A Fashionable Impure.”
Suddenly enlightened, Clare realized that the woman dressed in white, perfectly at home in a box that let for more than two thousand pounds for the season, with diamonds at her throat and in her ears, was, for all purposes, invisible to the ladies of Clare’s acquaintance. But not to the men, Clare noted with sudden amusement. For there was Frederick Lamb, Lady Melbourne’s son, and the Duke of Beaufort’s heir, whose name Clare couldn’t remember, behind Harriette.
And surely Sir Alexander, flushed of cheek still, knew her well!
Not until Catalini had sung her last note and taken her last bow, still with the fixed smile with which the singer greeted tragedy or ecstasy in her singing, did Clare rouse from the trance that the performance had engendered in her.
There was a sad crush while the audience gathered in the foyer and waited for their carriages to file the length of the short street and arrive at the arched portico. In the jostling throng Clare was thrown off balance, and a strong arm steadied her. She turned to smile her thanks, and the smile faded on her face.
Lord Choate said, with the ghost of a smile, “A sad ending to a delightful evening.”
Clare stiffened. “To meet me, you mean?”
He lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “Not at all. I am glad once more to be of service to you. I merely meant such a shocking squeeze.”
His words had been pitched low, but not low enough
to escape the sharp ears of Miss Morton. Smoothly she joined the conversation. “How comforting it must be to you, Miss Penryck, to find a gentleman always at hand to set you straight again.”
Clare paled. Marianna clearly referred to the episode in Oxford Street, and she could only have known it from Benedict. How dared he discuss her with Marianna? His rage was strong, but she had thought his behavior not so degraded as to gossip about her, but clearly she was wrong. She glanced at him with a kindling eye, but he had become once more unapproachable and remote.
Marianna had not finished. “I do wish, Miss Penryck, that you wouldn’t find it necessary for Choate to rescue you at every hand. It does look so ... strange, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Morton, on her daughter’s other side, said quietly, “Marianna, my dear...”
Marianna’s tongue fell silent at her mother’s reproof, but her eyes still glittered, and Clare was glad when Sir Alexander’s carriage was called.
But the damage had been done. Clare fell asleep that night not listening in her mind to Catalini’s rich voice, but to the realization that Choate found her a nuisance.
Or—said a lurking imp—is it Marianna that finds you a nuisance?
6.
It was nearly mid-June. Clare had, in less than two months, become well-acquainted in the fashionable world of London society. She had come to London at her grandmama’s bidding to see something of the world, and if all went well, to make an advantageous marriage. But the time had flown by, and while she had certainly seen something of the world, no marriage was in sight.
To be truthful, Grandmama had not given much instruction on that head, even though it was a source of anxiety to Lady Penryck as to what would happen to her darling granddaughter when she would be left alone.
“But you have no call to worry,” urged Clare. “You told me that Great-Uncle Horsham would be my guardian, and I am sure I know how to behave. I shall give him no trouble.”
Grandmama shook her head. “I fear he would not be quite up to bringing you out in London. I should like to see you settled, child.”
Clare thought a moment. “Even if Great-Uncle Horsham is disinclined to anything but a retired life ... well, he is all there is, and I will just have to conform.”
“All there is?” said Grandmama musingly. Then a sudden thought struck her, and she dismissed Clare from her presence. “I have things to settle,” she said, and called for writing paper.
It was later that Clare learned that one of the letters was to Lady Thane, and before long she was on her way to London.
Two months, and she was no farther along in fulfilling Grandmama’s wishes than the day she had arrived in London. She had met many gentlemen, of varying fortunes and intentions, but none she fancied. At least, fancied enough to give any encouragement.
As a matter of fact, it took some careful finesse on Lady Thane’s part to make sure that her inexperienced goddaughter was not snapped up at once. Sir Alexander Ferguson, prosy and deliberate, would have taken up all of Clare’s time, had he been allowed. And Lady Thane, searching Clare’s face for signs that she had at least a feeling for Sir Alex, found no comfort.
But Clare was eminently biddable. Lady Thane had to admit that. There was none of the Penryck resolution in her, so far as Lady Thane could see. Clare reminded her more and more of Elizabeth Tresillian, whom Lady Thane had much loved.
Clare tried hard to be enthusiastic about the parties that constituted their life. There were routs, and drums, and card parties. There was much talk about the series of lectures to be given by a poet called Coleridge, in the Philosophical Society’s rooms in Fleet Street. And there were the Elgin Marbles, new shipments from Greece arriving periodically to add to the remarkable frieze, the first part of which had arrived eight years before.
To view the marbles, one must travel only to Park Lane, quite near Grosvenor Square, and enter a ramshackle temporary building that Lord Elgin had erected to house his treasures until he and the government could come to terms as to price. But the marbles were open to viewing, and had been this three years past, and Lady Thane had seen them more than once.
“Sheer beauty, they tell me,” she told Clare. “But sadly unclothed, I fear. And while they may have been entirely appropriate to Athens, I really feel that Lord Elgin might have done better to leave them there.”
Clare dutifully inspected them, in company with Sir Alexander and his amiable sister, and regretted that she did not find them breathtaking, as she was sure she ought But all the sightseeing in London was cast into the shade by an event that came as much of a surprise to Lady Thane as it did to Clare.
The heavily embossed envelope with the royal crest arrived by hand, and the receipt of it nearly sent Lady Thane into a swoon. “The prince regent!” she said faintly. “His Midsummer Ball! My dear Clare, we must have new gowns—imagine his asking us, when he knows well we have been Whig this long time. But they do say he is sadly neglecting his Whig friends, and I do think it is ungrateful of him. But then, I should not criticize royalty, after all, for my dear husband would never permit it. Of course,” she added reflectively, “the Tories were in great favor, and that made a difference. I daresay he might have said a word or two about the prince regent, and his highness does not easily forget criticism. But enough of that. How fortunate that the ball will come before my own small entertainment! I shall feel quite correct in sending a card to his highness.”
It was the measure of the prestige of the regent’s invitation to Carlton House that Lady Thane set out that very day to augment her wardrobe. Being of a kind nature, she spent rather more thought on the gift of a ball gown she was making to Clare than to her own heavy blue satin embroidered with pearls, to be worn with a delicate silk shawl of cerulean blue.
She declared herself satisfied with the result of Clare’s straw-colored Indian muslin, embroidered in gold thread. “It sets off your coloring, and is not quite so young-looking as the white we looked at,” she pronounced.
‘Thank you,” breathed Clare, entranced at her elegance.
“My birthday gift to you,” Lady Thane said. “After all, you will be sixteen tomorrow. I wish we could mark the day with a special celebration, but questions might be awkward, you know.”
‘‘We’ll pretend the regent’s ball is my party,” said Clare, with a dazzling smile.
But the new gown was, after all, not the main thing. Lady Thane, the morning of the ball, rustled in to the morning room, which faced out upon the back garden. Clare favored this room above all the others in Lady Thane’s house. The walls were covered with a figured yellow paper in an old-fashioned bergere style, but gay indeed.
Clare, though, sitting with empty hands gazing out across the clipped privet that bordered the garden paths, did not reflect the cheerfulness of the room.
“My dear Clare, I am sorry to see you in the mopes!” cried Lady Thane. “Pray do not frown so, it makes the most horrid wrinkles and that ages one’s face so quickly!”
“Perhaps it would be a good thing. I mean, to look a little older,” said Clare, disconsolate.
Lady Thane was taken aback, but only for a moment. She had noticed a certain lack of response in Clare for some time, and she had laid it to worry about her grandmama. However justified such worry might be, yet it was Lady Thane’s duty to bring her out of herself, and guide her in the ways that Lady Penryck wished the child to go.
Never one to shrink a duty, she ignored Clare’s comment. “I wonder,” she said guilelessly, “if you object to going to the ball with Amelia Totten. She has asked us, you know, and there will be such a sad crush of carriages that I own it would be a relief to me.”
“Whatever you think best, Lady Thane.”
“That means, of course, that her brother will accompany us, as well as Mr. Totten. But perhaps this is too much? Shall you like that?”
Clare, not being stupid, began to see that Lady Thane’s questions were leading to an as yet unknown purpose. She fixed her eyes upon her god
mother and said cautiously, “Sir Alexander is certainly unexceptionable company.”
Lady Thane hesitated. She had not expected enthusiasm, but this neutrality was a bit daunting. “I have noticed,” she began again, “that he has distinguished you particularly for some time. And, if I am not mistaken, he means to offer for you.”
“Oh, no!” cried Clare faintly.
“The time has come for plain speaking, Clare. Naturally, your grandmother and I would do nothing to force you into a marriage you could not like. But it seems to me that there is nothing about Sir Alexander that would repel the most fastidious of ladies. He is quite wealthy, you know—not a nabob like Choate, but certainly with a respectable income. And well-informed—”
“And kind!” exclaimed Clare, and jumped to her feet. She took an agitated turn around the small room and turned back to face Lady Thane. “Oh, pray, do not let him offer!”
“And how do you suppose,” said Lady Thane, startled, “that I can prevent him?”
“Oh, you must know ways to stop him!”
Lady Thane considered for a little. Surely such maidenly demureness was excessive! Unless Sir Alex had in some way presumed, and frightened the girl? Reflecting upon Sir Alex’s character as it was known to her, she discarded that possibility at once.
Conceiving that the situation required either much more thought or a firm hand, Lady Thane chose the latter as being more productive of results. “My dear, you must consider the alternatives. If your grandmama is no longer able to provide for you, you must know that you will have to endure a guardian who may not be at all the way you would like. And of course, if you had your own establishment, or were betrothed so that you would be in the way of having it, things would be much more convenable for you.”
Clare sighed. “I do know, ma’am. And I should not like it, to have an old man as a guardian. Uncle Horsham is very old, you know.”
