by Jane Ashford
John pictured the scene—a carefully manicured London garden ravaged by yellow-eyed invaders. He had to smile.
“It’s surprising how odd goats look with their mouths full of pink petals,” said Conolly, his tone cordially commonplace.
“She shrieked like a yowling cat,” said Lady Caroline. Her accompanying smile was rather feline.
“So it was rather like the ferrets at dinner?” said Mary.
John turned to look at her. What ferrets? At what dinner?
“Oh, better than that,” Lady Caroline replied.
John watched Conolly and Lady Caroline exchange a long appraising look. It went on until Conolly blinked and turned back to face the crowd. “Ah, hmm,” he said. “Well. The diplomatic corps has turned out in force tonight. There is the Prussian ambassador, Wilhelm von Humboldt.” He discreetly indicated a burly man with a chest full of honors.
John looked him over. The people in these rooms represented the highest echelons of the profession he’d chosen. It was fascinating to see them all gathered and to know that weighty matters could be settled here in a few sentences, rather than dragging on for months at a conference table. The place buzzed with possibilities as well as conversation.
“And over in the corner there are the Count and Countess Lieven,” Conolly continued. “He represents Russia.”
“Or they both do,” murmured Caroline. “They say the countess is a far better ambassador than her husband.”
“‘They’ are great gossips,” replied Conolly with a smile.
“Dorothea von Lieven is a patroness of Almack’s,” Caroline continued. “Along with Lady Castlereagh, of course.”
Mary tried not to be overwhelmed by the volume of chatter surrounding them. There were dozens of people in these rooms, perhaps hundreds, all talking while casting critical glances about as if searching for someone more important to engage. She sorted the possibly important information Conolly had shared from the irrelevant. She would never be going to Almack’s.
“The Esterházys are here somewhere,” Conolly said. “Austrian ambassador. And a Swede or Dane or two. Those are the main ones.”
“No one from China?” Mary asked.
Conolly and John shook their heads.
“There’s Lady Castlereagh.” Caroline tugged at John and Mary. “Come. I’ll introduce you.”
Mary hung back. “She seems quite occupied.”
“Nonsense. Don’t you want to thank your hostess? And isn’t the point to get noticed?”
John stood straighter. Mary thought of his career and allowed herself to be led. “But she’s talking…”
“To the American ambassador, Richard Rush,” Conolly supplied.
“Everybody says he quite gentlemanly,” Caroline murmured. “It’s much appreciated after the last one, that dreadful little man. What was his name? John Quincy Adams.” She wrinkled her nose. “Why should an American insist on three names?”
“Mr. Rush’s father was one of the signers of the former colonies’ Declaration of Independence,” John murmured.
“Trust you to know the odd fact,” said Conolly.
“Well, he has the good sense not to mention it,” Caroline commented.
They approached their hostess and lingered nearby, waiting for a break in her conversation.
“Yes,” Lady Castlereagh was telling the American ambassador, “we have several North American animals in our menagerie. Down in the country, you know. A mockingbird and a flying squirrel.”
Richard Rush nodded politely.
“The mockingbird does not sing, however. Would you know how to make it do so?” She cocked her head, rather like a bird herself, Mary thought. A hungry hawk, perhaps.
“I fear not, your ladyship,” replied the ambassador.
“Ah, too bad. I should like to discover the problem. For, you know, I have been wanting to procure a hummingbird from the United States, but I’m worried that, once on English soil, it will not hum.”
Mr. Rush choked and cleared his throat. “Um, I’ve heard you have a tiger in your collection, ma’am.”
“Yes, he’s quite vicious, always growling at us.” Lady Castlereagh seemed to relish that fact. “We have kangaroos as well, all the way from Australia, you know, and some ostriches.”
An aide approached the ambassador. “Here we go,” said Caroline as the man excused himself and moved away. She practically pushed the Bexleys up to their hostess, then dropped a small curtsy. “Good evening, Lady Castlereagh.”
“Evening.” Her tone was cool.
“I’m Caroline Lanford,” she added with a bright smile.
“Ah, St. Clair’s girl, isn’t it? And William.” Lady Castlereagh nodded at Conolly.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Caroline. “May I introduce Mr. John Bexley and his wife Mary?”
“Ah?”
John bowed. Mary curtsied. Should she say anything? she wondered. Or was it like being presented to the queen?
“Friend of mine from the Foreign Office,” Conolly added.
“Oh? So, you work for my husband, Mr. Bexley?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“In what capacity?”
“Analysis, ma’am, the same as Conolly.”
“He was with Amherst in China,” Conolly prompted.
“Indeed. Robert hoped for so much more from that effort.”
Her disapproving look put a brief damper on the conversation.
“Mrs. Bexley is a talented artist,” Caroline said then. “She draws the most wonderful portraits. In just a few strokes. So very lifelike.”
“Really?”
As Lady Castlereagh turned to examine her, Mary felt her cheeks blaze. What in the world was Caroline up to? She felt horribly exposed. John looked startled, too, and not pleased. She felt ready to sink under Lady Castlereagh’s hawkish eye.
“You don’t say so?” drawled another voice. “How very interesting.”
Mary’s heart quailed further as she saw Edmund Fordyce lurking behind Conolly. She watched her husband stiffen and scowl, then quickly hide his reaction.
“I have the greatest respect for such gifts,” Fordyce added. He slid closer to Lady Castlereagh. “Almost a…reverence, you might say. We should have a demonstration. I’m sure your guests would find it most entertaining, my lady.”
He spoke as if she weren’t standing right here, Mary thought. And he looked her up and down as if she were a juggler or conjuror hired for the night. Mary saw John’s fists clench. “I wouldn’t presume…” Mary struggled to find the right words to pass this off lightly. She glanced at Caroline for help.
“She is not here for your entertainment,” Caroline began.
“Of course we would not ask…” Conolly said at the same moment. Their words overlapped and were lost in the general din.
“Something a bit out of the common way,” Fordyce inserted smoothly. “I’ve not seen anything like it at an evening party.”
When a flicker of interest passed across Lady Castlereagh’s face, Fordyce flagged down a passing footman and demanded paper and pencil. The servant looked to his mistress. Lady Castlereagh cocked her head as if curious and gave a shrug and a nod.
Praying that no drawing materials would be found, Mary tried again. “I really cannot…I mustn’t take up your time, when you have so many guests.”
“Indeed,” John added. “If your ladyship would excuse us. It was a great pleasure to meet you…”
“Nonsense,” interrupted Fordyce. “We must not allow Mrs. Bexley to be so modest. Not when we have such respect for her talents. Look, here we are.”
The footman was returning. Mary cursed his competence as Fordyce intercepted him, snatched the sketchbook and pencil he carried, and thrust them at her. She had to take them or let them fall to the floor.
“A portrait of our ho
stess,” declared Fordyce, “by an exceedingly gifted young lady.” He spoke loudly, attracting the attention of a number of nearby guests.
“Really, Fordyce,” said Conolly.
“Edmund,” said Caroline at the same time. “You are being quite…”
“Rather like a game,” said Fordyce, ignoring them.
Lady Castlereagh looked around, took in the circle of interested guests, and gave another tiny shrug. “Why not?”
She looked at Mary. Everyone looked at Mary. The beady stare of all those eyes made her feel a little sick. There must be some way to escape this trial, even now. Lady Castlereagh made a small gesture, urging her on. It seemed to Mary that she could not refuse without giving offense.
She grasped the pencil and held up the sketch pad. She would be quick. A few minutes, and it would be over. How she longed for her own cozy parlor! She began to draw.
Once she’d laid down the first outlines, Mary’s self-consciousness began to recede. She no longer noticed the noise of the crowd. The jostling of people around her faded from her mind, as her focus narrowed to the page. Lady Castlereagh’s face took shape—round cheeks, straight nose, lower lip a little thin. As always, Mary lost herself as her hands took over. Ringlets dangling beside the lady’s ears, a shadow beneath her eyes. Mary’s fingers moved with confidence now, creating highlights and shading. This was her gift. She knew how to do it; she was meant to do it.
And then the image felt finished. Mary’s drawing hand went still. She took a deep breath and let it drop. The sense of the room flooded back as people crowded forward to see the result. Abruptly, Mary felt hemmed in hard, stifled. She felt John’s hand on her elbow. He was right behind her, looking at the drawing.
Fordyce darted forward and snatched the sketch pad away from her. He held it up for Lady Castlereagh to see, making certain it was visible to a large segment of the surrounding crowd as well. Lady Castlereagh examined the image, and as she did, Mary stared at the picture she’d created. The resemblance was striking. It was their hostess to the life. But the woman gazing back at her from the page wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t the chattering, assured center of this glittering gathering. Her mouth was tight; her eyes were deep and…haunted. The portrait gave off a sense of terrible sadness and fear.
Mary looked up and found the actual woman’s eyes burning into hers. She didn’t have to wonder whether Lady Castlereagh had noticed these nuances. The answer was dismayingly plain.
“What’s all this?” asked a male voice. The foreign secretary himself wove through the press of people around them. At fifty years of age, Lord Castlereagh was a large handsome man, with pale hair and even features. He stopped beside his wife and looked at her portrait. His eyes flew to her face, back to the image. Then he turned and, without a word, walked away.
Murmurs swept the crowd around them. Many of them saw the mysterious anguish in the portrait, Mary thought. It was all too plain. Others were approaching from the far corners of the reception, asking each other what was happening.
“How dare you?” whispered Lady Castlereagh. She jerked the sketch pad from Fordyce’s hands, slapped it closed, and thrust the object at a footman. “Take this away,” she ordered. The man fumbled with the tray of glasses he was carrying, got the tablet under an arm, and hurried off. With a final glare at Mary, Lady Castlereagh swept away, parting the gaping crowd like a knife through soft butter.
“Oh dear,” said Fordyce, his voice oozing satisfaction.
John stepped toward him. “I warned you,” he hissed under the buzz of speculation sweeping the gathering.
“But I spoke of your wife with the utmost respect,” was the mocking reply. The man’s pale eyes glittered. “And she certainly justified my…esteem. I don’t think anyone will heed your ‘stories of the voyage’ after that little performance.”
Mary had never fainted in her life, but she felt as if she might right now. Every complaint her mother had ever made about her came back in a dizzying rush. She was heedless, dull-witted, and wholly lacking in common sense. Her dreamy immersion in art would lead to a bad end. And it had. She had offended the Castlereaghs! She had been stupid and careless and… Her knees threatened to give way and leave her in a heap on the polished wooden floor.
“Come.”
Caroline’s arm laced through hers and supported her. Mary let herself be pulled toward the arched doorway. She saw Conolly pull John away from Fordyce and urge him along behind them. John’s jaw looked so tight Mary thought it must hurt. Faces loomed and passed, staring and jabbering, as if they would drink in every particle of her humiliation. It was like a nightmare.
They passed into the entryway. Caroline kept moving. And then they were outside in the chill of late evening. Footmen and linkboys peered at them. After a moment, Conolly came out with their wraps and threw Mary’s shawl around her shoulders. Where was John? He hadn’t gone back…? No, there he was, coming behind.
“I’m so sorry,” Caroline said. “So sorry. I meant to help you by mentioning the…”
“Help?” John’s voice was like a lash. “Where do the carriages wait?” he snapped at a servant.
“I can send a message to your…”
“Where?” John interrupted.
“Over yonder,” supplied a linkboy. “Down that street on the other side of St. James.”
John pulled Mary away from Caroline. When she swayed a little, he put an arm around her to guide her along the pavement. “You shouldn’t come with us,” he said to Conolly when the other man started to follow. “No need to be linked with me.”
“Of course we will…” Caroline began.
“We will come,” Conolly replied.
The four of them walked in silence across St. James Square. Mary found she was shaking so hard it was difficult to move.
Conolly’s voice came out of the darkness. “You know, Bexley, this may not be so very bad…”
John snorted. “It’s a disaster!”
Mary stumbled. Only John’s arm kept her from falling. Despair engulfed her.
They found the mass of carriages in the designated street, along with a cluster of drivers waiting for their charges. After a brief hunt, they located their own conveyance and got in. Mary huddled in the corner of the seat and tried not to cry.
“I only meant for Lady Castlereagh to hear how talented you are,” Caroline said when they had been under way for a while. “What a wonderful artist. So that you—both—would be noticed.”
“Noticed!” John’s tone was savage.
“I’m sorry,” Caroline repeated. She sounded near tears herself.
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Conolly. “If Fordyce hadn’t pushed in…”
“I could kill him,” John snarled.
Mary thought of the ruffians John had encountered in the slums and what they might do for pay. Her hands grew icy. “You mustn’t…you can’t…”
“We all might like to, but of course we cannot,” replied Conolly, his tone all calm reason.
“More’s the pity,” Caroline said.
“This incident will pass off as a mere triviality,” Conolly said.
Mary didn’t think any of them believed it. At any rate, no one responded. The journey back home was mainly silent.
Fourteen
John sat in his study in the silent house, forehead resting in his hand, and wondered about fate. Were his brothers actually right? Had he somehow been born a bungler? Was he cursed? He saw now that he’d been naive to imagine he’d defeated Fordyce. The man would never forgive John for having witnessed his cowardice on the ship. He’d merely grown more subtle, lying in wait for a chance to ruin John’s career.
Something like a growl rumbled in John’s throat. He sat up straight, his hand moving in an impatient gesture, rejecting exaggeration and self-pity. Let us not overdramatize, he thought. Ruin was not the word. He wouldn�
�t be dismissed. No one would go so far as that. But his dreams of serious advancement…
John nearly laughed. He’d longed to rise from obscurity, to distinguish himself from the rank and file of Foreign Office functionaries. And so he had! He’d become the man whose wife had offended Lady Castlereagh, without even being acquainted with her. If social connections were vital to preferment, social destruction must be the death of such hopes. He could remain in his current junior position for as long as he cared to be employed there. As years passed he would age into one of those wizened clerks he sometimes encountered in the furthest corners of the offices—knowledgeable but negligible in the grand scheme of international affairs. Frederick and George would be round to tell him how right they’d been, to offer their misguided comfort.
And he didn’t see, just now, anything he could do to mend matters. Draft an apology? What precisely was he supposed to say? Lady Castlereagh, I’m very sorry that you did not like my wife’s portrait of you? She…she what? What had Mary been thinking? And who cared about a drawing anyway? It was infuriating to be thwarted by something so petty and silly… But wars had been started over events that looked quite petty and silly in retrospect.
John sat back and stared at the opposite wall. Fordyce had outdone him at the game of underhanded swipes. If John circulated the story of his cowardice now, the fellow would easily pass it off as a vengeful lie. Perhaps he’d been emboldened by a sense that John had never wanted to do it anyway. He disliked having to be devious. And clearly, he wasn’t much good at it.
He could practically hear Fordyce’s voice, murmuring down the corridors of the office, insinuating, pretending to be sorry even as he shared every detail of this incident. Or…not every one. Details selected, or made up, by him, designed to put John in the worst possible light. What could John’s wife have been up to, he would wonder, all wide-eyed innocence. What had John told her to make her draw such a strange likeness? He would probably plant the idea that John told tales about his work at home. He would hold John up as devious, and spiteful, and…bungling. John closed his eyes briefly.
