by Joan Smith
“Bickles is hopeless with hair,” Ella replied simply.
Sara sighed. How very typical of Ella! Her abigail had been accused of being hopeless with hair for four seasons, but no effort had been made either to replace her or teach her the rudiments of dressing hair. “I'll lend you Stepson,” she said.
“Thank you, Sara, and will you lend me your old white gloves as well? Mine have a finger out."
“Yes, love, but do buy a pair of gloves next time you are out."
“I know I am not stylish enough to please you, Sara, but I have just been reading in Hannah More a passage that expresses my feelings exactly. ‘Where your heart is, there will you store up treasure.’”
Sara stared at this irrelevancy, and said curtly, “No one will fear your heart is on your back then, will they?"
“What Miss More means is that you spend your time and thought and money on what is important to you, and people who gild and polish their bodies do so only because they think in physical terms, like the lower animals. It is the mind and spirit that are important. I would rather decorate my mind than my body."
“Let me tell you, Ella, Hannah More is a humbug. Your heart ought to be on finding a husband at this stage of your life, and if you think a decorated mind is going to be of the slightest use, you mistake the matter."
“I know that, but I don't want to marry a man who hasn't the sense to look below the surface.” This matter settled, Ella turned to speak to her grandmother.
“Will you take particular note tonight at Fenton's rout as to whether Lord Byron is present, and whom he talks to, and so on. Try to stand by him for a while and pick up a quote or two. He is highly quotable."
“Miss Prattle is finding a subject nearly as interesting as Clare, is she not?” Lady Watley asked. “You may be sure I'll be hanging on his every word, if he's there."
“I am planning a column on him. I will admire his beauty, deride his slovenly habits of dress, berate him for his affairs, and forgive him everything for his divine poetry."
“I am surprised his slovenly dress is to be derided,” Lady Sara said. “I made sure you and Hannah More would approve."
“But in his case it is all affectation, you know,” Ella informed her aunt. “They say he curls his hair in papers, like a lady, and I think it is true, for it is curlier sometimes than others."
“There is nothing in that,” Sara defended. “Rain makes naturally curly hair curlier."
“Yes, but Byron's is straighter when the weather is damp. And his limp is a little more pronounced too though, of course, I shan't mention that."
“I should hope not!"
“It is not his fault. But what I shall mention is the shameless way Lady Caroline Lamb haunts him."
“That is not entirely her fault, for he was used to sit in her pocket a while back, and it must be a blow to be losing him."
“Yes, he must be a sore temptation, but temptation was made to be overcome. Hannah More says..."
“Resist the temptation to quote Hannah More at me, love,” Sara said. “Nothing is more likely to put a gentleman off than to be forever preaching at him. And while you're about it, you might overcome the temptation to wear that pink gown as well. Have Bickles hem up that new golden dress, so that you won't look such a quiz at Almack's."
“Lord, Sara, you don't still hope to get me off your hands, do you?” Ella asked with an ironic laugh. “I am stuck on you and Sir Herbert like a barnacle.” She looked worried when her aunt frowned at this instead of smiling, as she had hoped.
“Oh, do you hate having me? I shan't mind going back home to mama. Truly I shan't. It is only Miss Prattle I shall regret, for she is fun, but I do plan to write my novel you know and can get on with it when I go back home."
“Nonsense! I am thinking of you. I love having you, and so do Herbert and the children. But it is unnatural the way you never make the least push to form an attachment."
“I have tried, Sara, but the older gentlemen are too wise to bother with me, and the younger are too stupid for me to bother with them, so what's to do?"
“Someone in between—a gentleman no longer young—say thirty or so."
“The good ones get snapped up young, and there aren't many gentlemen at the magic age of thirty or thereabouts."
That evening Lady Sara and her charge entered Almack's and made their bows to the Patronesses before joining the throng hovering at the edge of the dance floor. Both ladies had the same prey in mind—Lord Clare—but upon discovering that he was not present, the elder did not appear disappointed. She shepherded Ella to the far corner of the room, for no reason apparent to her niece. No one was there but Bippy Tredwell, standing alone in a pose denoting an advanced state of boredom. One could not but wonder why he had come. There were more gentlemen than ladies present, so naturally Tredwell was without a partner. With a greeting, Lady Sara sallied forth and engaged him in conversation. When the music began, he asked Ella to stand up with him. Ella had feared this very contingency, and felt she might have done better for herself from all the surfeit of black jackets standing about, but Sara was smiling quite contentedly. With a shortage of girls, Ella had a partner for every dance. It was while she danced with Mr. Peters that Lady Sara once again accosted Bippy Tredwell.
“Ah, Mr. Tredwell,” she began in a flattering tone. “What a pleasure it was to see you dancing with my niece. I must confess I had not observed how smoothly you executed the new waltz, till Ella said to me there was no one who did it so well as you."
Bippy's little blue eyes popped in surprise and pleasure. He was a stoutish gentleman, not conspicuously light of foot. Had she congratulated him on his fine baritone voice, he would have thought it no more than his due. Quite a fine voice. Everyone said so. But to receive a gratuitous word of praise on his dancing was a novel experience.
“Did she say so, by Jove?” he asked contentedly. It was vigorously confirmed.
“A bit of a dab at it, if I do say so myself,” he admitted modestly. “Took me the devil of a time to get on to it, but I've got it down pretty pat now. Not easy to whirl around backwards, and count one, two, three at the same time. Takes a bit of getting used to."
“It's a wonder how you've mastered it so completely. I thought when Ella first said so it was her partiality speaking, for you must know she is loud in her praise of Mr. Tredwell. His very fine voice, his wit, his seat on a mount"
“No, really,” Bippy beamed, coloring in obvious pleasure, and beginning to suspect Miss Fairmont of more discernment than he had formerly supposed. He danced with Lady Sara, and it took no more than a hint for her to repeat her compliments and let him know Miss Fairmont thought him a wonderful fellow.
With this misinformation lodged in his brain, it was only natural that he should seek Miss Fairmont out for another dance. As it happened, she had no dances free, and as refusing a gentleman was a new experience for her, she apologized in some confusion and at length. It was enough to confirm what Lady Sara had said. The girl was sweet on him.
He did not love Ella. Indeed, before this evening he had only the haziest idea who she was, though he had spoken to her before and danced with her once. But there is some sweet seduction in feeling another admires us—a notion so flattering that some return of esteem takes place without our quite being aware. Ella liked him, and that conjured up a mental image of Ella. His satisfaction with himself spread to her, and before long the imagined esteem was mutual. Before Bippy left Almack's that night, he had decided Miss Fairmont was quite an unusual girl. Not a dasher, not an Incognita. Not a great wit or anything of the sort, but a very nice girl. He liked her.
Lady Sara observed with satisfaction that Tredwell's glance was in Ella's direction more than mere chance would warrant, but Tredwell was only the tail-end of her scheme. The major part of it had to await Clare's arrival. This happened just before the door closed at 11:00. The Prince Regent himself might arrive at one minute after, and he would not be admitted, but Clare arrived at 10:59, and the ro
om breathed a sigh of relief. It was only an indifferent evening when the Duke of Clare did not attend.
He bowed to Lady Cowper, quizzing her on a stunning new gown, exchanged compliments with Mrs. Drummond Burrell, a joke with the Countess de Lieven, a five-minute flirtation with Lady Jersey, who exacted this honorarium from all the fashionable gentlemen and pouted at them for a week if they didn't pay up. His duty done, Clare lifted his quizzing glass to survey the room that was now surveying him. He bowed here, nodded there, and within three seconds no less than three chaperones were racing to nail him for their charges. The Marchioness of Strayward, though she had legs barely two feet long, got there first. She had a handicap of five yards on her closest running mate. Her daughter, the Lady Honor, was in her wake, not even panting, for she was taller than her mama.
“Ah, Clare, so you've got here at last,” the Marchioness said happily. “We'd about given you up and were thinking of taking a look-in at Fenton's. That's where you've been till now I suppose."
“No."
“Well, you're in luck. I've had Honor save you a dance."
“You are too kind, ma'am."
Clare bowed stiffly to Honor and offered his arm, which she accepted as though it were the arm of just anyone, and not the most sought after arm in England. Lady Honor held herself very high, for she was the daughter of the fifth Marquis of Strayward. She may have been a tall, gaunt girl, with pale blue eyes and a skinny face, no conversation or liveliness and no visible intellect, but she was Lady Honor, and that she did know. She knew as well, what brains she possessed being used on matters of family, estates and titles, that the Duke of Clare was made in heaven for her. His lineage, title, fortune—all were unexceptionable. She was not aware that he was handsome, popular, a Corinthian, a charmer when he wanted to be. But she knew better than he knew himself what blood flowed in his veins, and she meant it to be transfused into her progeny when the time came. It was a settled thing in her mind. She made no effort to attract him, but still she meant to marry him, and she was supported by the full weight of her large, influential family.
Lady Sara tapped her satin-shod toe in impatience as Clare was run to ground by one mama after another. She remarked that it was not once necessary, or even possible, for him to seek a girl out. Always there was one in line, waiting to pounce. Clare dutifully paced the floor with two others after Miss Sedgley, then his civility was at an end. He strode out the door with a harassed expression on his face and headed to the parlor where the insipid beverages were served. Sara was after him like a shot and could not believe her luck to find him quite alone. He threw a wary look over his shoulder when he heard her enter.
“Relax, Clare, it's only me,” she said brightly. “And I have no notion of asking you to stand up with me, or my niece."
“Sara, nice to see you,” he smiled in relief. “Come and bear me company, and help stave off the mamas."
It was the very sort of remark that enraged Miss Prattle, yet after watching Clare's evening entertainment, one could hardly blame him. They hounded the man to death.
“A tedious bore, being an eligible dook, ain't it?” she teased.
“Truer words than you know, my girl, but never mind that. Where's Herbert these days? I didn't see him at Tatt's so he must be out of town."
“Yes, gone to Kent to help his papa with some estate business. He'll be gone a fortnight."
“Why didn't you go with him?"
“You forget I have a niece to chaperon."
“Oh, is that girl still with you? Taking you a devil of a long time to get her popped off. What's the matter with her?"
“She tells me the old gentlemen are so wise she bores them, and the young ones don't interest her. It's a problem."
“We all have our problems,” he replied in a condoling spirit and led Sara to two chairs in a quiet corner, conveniently apart from other seats to allow privacy. They were old friends, coeval, and had hit London the same season. Clare had fancied Miss Watley at one time, but she had never had eyes for anyone but Sir Herbert. Still, they remained friends, met every season, and sent each other cards for their balls and larger parties. She was always happy to have a few minutes’ flirtation with him when they met socially, and he was similarly inclined. Sara was now determined to capitalize on this long friendship to wangle Ella an invitation to Clare Palace. Miss Prattle would enjoy it, and while she would have no hope of attaching Clare, she would meet others there, and it would lend her a certain cachet to have been among the elect at his party. She broached the subject cautiously.
“One hears you are skipping town for a week or so. Taking a party to Clare, are you?"
“Yes, I have to go on business, like Herbert. Strayward has told me Honor is going with me, and I'll be damned if I'll be stuck with her alone, so have enlarged the party to lessen the strain of her company. Also, I might add, to lessen the likelihood of being expected to make an offer."
“They can't make you have her, you know."
“Can't they? I don't know, Sara. It's in the air. They expect it. I shall awake one morning and find Miss Prattle has got me engaged to Honor, and I'm for it then."
Sara squirmed in her seat at this reference to Prattle, but made no comment on it. “So you have invited a couple of your gayer flirts to enliven the party. Whom are you taking? Miss Sheridan, I gather?"
“And as Miss Sheridan is a ravishing brunette—rather in your style, Sara, so far as looks go—I have invited a redhead to complete the trio."
Sara felt a flush of pleasure at the comparison—it was his eyes that made one feel so special, she thought. Really, the devil was a charmer. No wonder the girls were all after him.
“Miss Prentiss,” she supplied the redhead's name. Everyone knew Patrick's flirts, of course. “How interesting. Society will expect you to return caught by one or the other of them."
“My reason for inviting Sherry and Miss Prentiss was to eliminate that possibility, you recall."
“Yes, I do recall, but you don't often invite a small select party to Clare, and when you do so now, including only the three ladies from whom you are generally expected to choose your duchess, there is bound to be speculation. The time does draw near, you know. We are no longer young, Clare, you and I."
“Good God, Sara, you're frightening me to death. But I have invited some gentlemen to enlarge the party."
“I should hope so! Not even you would be so outré as to invite a party composed entirely of ladies, with yourself the only attraction."
“Yes, I would,” he said with a raised eyebrow and a wicked glance. “And attraction enough for ‘em, too."
“What, a third of a duke each?” she jeered. “The one who got the top third, from the shoulders up, would do well enough, but truly, you know, neither your torso nor your nether limbs would be very amusing."
“My nether limbs, and particularly what you so genteelly describe as my torso, are grossly offended,” he replied seriously, but with a sparkle of mischief deep in his eyes.
She slapped him with her silk fan. “That was very naughty of you, Patrick,” she said severely.
“That is what one likes so much about you, Sara. You maintain all the appearances of propriety, indeed you are a very proper lady, but you don't fly into the boughs over nothing. I shall be bored to finders with the infantry at Clare for a week with no decent company."
Sara's heart thudded at this leading remark. Surely now he would suggest her coming along.
“A pity Herbert's away, or you might have come with us,” he said. “I know you would not come alone."
“Yes,” she agreed, wondering how to channel his thoughts in the proper direction.
“But could your mama not come along for propriety's sake?"
“You forget my niece. Mama and I could not both leave her."
“Ah, I forgot Miss Mantel."
“No, she is not Herbert's niece, but mine."
“Miss Watley,” he corrected himself automatically.
“Miss
Fairmont. She is my elder sister's girl. You were not acquainted with Theresa."
“Oh, yes, I believe you told me that once before."
She had told him three times within her own memory, and very likely more, but this was no time to quibble. “I could not leave Miss Fairmont, you see. That is the only thing stopping me, for I should love to go otherwise.” She waited, in expectancy of hearing an invitation extended to Miss Fairmont, too, but was disappointed. Apparently his eagerness for her own company did not stretch so far.
“A pity,” he said.
At that moment, Bippy Tredwell, once again without a partner, straggled into the room and joined their party, pulling up a chair and ruining the private coze. “Asked Miss Fairmont for another dance,” he informed Sara, “but her card was full. Lady Sara's niece,” he told Clare.
“It chances we have just been speaking of her,” Clare replied.
“That so? Didn't know you knew Miss Fairmont, Pa'k. A nice girl."
“Yes,” Clare said mechanically. “A great pity you can't join us at Clare, Sara. Another time I hope.” He arose, bowed, and left Sara, straining her ears to hear what they said as they left the room, but without success.
The conversation she was not able to hear was brief, but the name of Miss Fairmont arose. “I'm leaving now,” Clare said. “Going to a club for a game of cards. Do you come with me?"
“Yes, surely. Might as well. Nothing to do here. A million extra men tonight. Miss Fairmont's card is full."
“Oh, yes, Miss Fairmont. Lady Sara's niece. Which one is she?” he asked, with very small interest, based solely on Bippy's having twice mentioned her name.
