Lord Francis Wheaton was likewise disappointed in the weather that afternoon, for he had planned to view a fight a few miles from London. This program naturally had to be abandoned due to the inclement nature of the weather, and he instead elected to pay a visit in Clarges Street. If he was disappointed on being shown upstairs to discover that only Harriet and Letitia occupied the sitting room he was too polite to show it.
"Isobel has gone out," responded Letitia to Lord Francis' inquiry, made only after he had politely conversed on various other topics with the two ladies.
"That tiresome frieze," added Harriet. "I am sure that if I have heard her mention it once, I have heard it a thousand times. How very glad I am to be at home with this stitchery, rather than watching Isobel speculate on precisely why it was that the Greeks chose to proportion something or other in that exact way." She shuddered, producing a laugh from Letitia.
"Harriet, you mustn't say so. I am sure that Isobel would not intentionally subject you to tedium."
"Oh, certainly not, for she is the most considerate person imaginable. It is simply that she is transported beyond words by those grubby bits of stone, I am sure that I cannot understand it, but then I recall that my brother could converse for hours about the pleasures of angling, and what he found amusing about waiting for fish which were not to be found to swim up to his line, I do not know, and besides, he contracted a fatal inflammation of the lungs from being outside on a day much like this, attempting to catch a fish."
"Angling is a sport whose charms I believe only the devotee can truly comprehend, Miss Walcott," interrupted Lord Francis smoothly. "I fear that I am one of them, so I must therefore look with sympathy upon Miss Paley's transports over antiquities," he said, neatly bringing the conversation back to his topic of interest. "Where is this famous frieze of hers to be found?"
"Why, it is at the British Museum," answered Letitia. "I recall having read in the Times about the great interest it has aroused. I fear that we cannot expect Isobel to return any time soon, however, since I believe she took her sketch book with her and expressed an interest in reproducing the work of the Greek masters."
Lord Francis remained a few moments more, bringing his call to a close after the proper interval, and leaving Letitia and Harriet exchanging knowing glances. He then set off towards the British Museum. Here was an excellent opportunity to learn a bit more about a side of Miss Paley that he had some inkling of, but which she was at pains to conceal. A well-born lady who chose to view Greek antiquities out of interest rather than because it was the fashionable thing to do must be viewed as unusual.
It did not take Lord Francis long to hunt out the object of his interest. There were quite a number of people engaged in viewing the frieze, most of them not persons of fashion. Isobel was striking amongst them with her auburn curls, air of elegance, and very modish gown. She sat with her sketchbook before the frieze, which had been reassembled for the curious to view. When Lord Francis appeared, she was intent on correctly transcribing the figure of Artemis in her chariot, drawn by stags, and his lordship thus had the leisure to view her for some minutes before he approached her. Her hand moved rapidly but with great precision across the page, producing images he could tell were of the finest craftsmanship. Her green eyes were intent on her work, and she showed no sign of awareness that a crowd swirled around the carvings; her attention was completely captured by the work of the long-dead artisans. Lord Francis surveyed the picture she presented with pleasure.
"Miss Paley," he drawled. "What a pleasant surprise to find so much modern beauty diverting itself among that of the ancients."
Isobel jumped and squeaked, but composed herself rapidly. "What a very pretty compliment, Lord Francis," she said. "But I fear that examination of these sculptures can only emphasize the many respects in which my looks diverge from the classical ideal."
"As to that, I think that however much the classical profile may be admired, Miss Paley, we should none of us find it excessively appealing should it be presented to us at Almack's. I find an English freshness such as yours far more charming."
Isobel made no reply to this, wondering what Lord Francis was at with his compliments, and Lord Francis stretched out a lazy hand and picked up her sketchbook, glancing through it with a connoisseur’s eye. "You are an artist, Miss Paley," he observed. "Your sketches of the frieze are remarkably true to the original. Your talent for drawing goes far beyond that which any fashionable young lady must possess."
"I would not call myself an artist; perhaps a draftsman with a fair eye would be a more honest description," she replied lightly, reflecting internally on how very far beyond what was fashionable her interest in the frieze went. "But I have a feeling for this, which calls forth my best efforts, and I am flattered by your approval."
"I must always approve of the activities of a lady so accomplished as you, Miss Paley," said Lord Francis with a bow. "How came you to be visiting alone? Could you not convince Miss Walcott or Lady Morgan to join you?"
Isobel chuckled at that. "Oh no, how could I impose my excessive interest in what Harriet would surely apostrophize as a lot of dirty rocks on my friends? I never invite poor Harriet to come on my historical expeditions."
"To be fair, she used the expression 'grubby bits of stone,' I believe," responded Lord Francis. "But it sounds as though you often frequent such places as this, Miss Paley. Surely that is not the occupation of a lady of fashion."
Isobel bit her lip; she had not intended to speak so freely to Lord Francis, but his easy good humor had betrayed her into revealing her thoughts. She reverted to a previous remark rather than answer him.
"I do not come here alone, Lord Francis, you see here is my maid, who I know will not cavil no matter how long I choose to idle here with my sketch book."
She glanced at him from under her lashes, wondering if she had diverted his attention, and it seemed as though she had, for he abandoned the topic of her unusual interest in antiquities, and instead turned to the frieze itself.
"Miss Paley, do you not find the caryatids under the pediment on the right side of the frieze to be a remarkable example of the Perseid period in Greek art?" he inquired, closely observing the frieze through his quizzing glass.
Isobel gaped at him in amazement, then, recollecting herself, lowered her eyes and schooled her expression. What possible response could he be expecting to this farrago of nonsense, she wondered. There were no caryatids on the frieze, and certainly there had never been a Perseid period.
"Lord Francis, I fear that your questions go far beyond my poor ability to interpret this work. My knowledge of Greek art is not so remarkably informed as yours," she replied demurely.
"Surely not, Miss Paley! I believe you once mentioned that you assisted in the design of a classical folly. Perhaps your sketches will assist in some future effort. Do you not think that the repetition of the Corinthian elevation found on the plinth in the ornamentation of the entablature is charming?" Lord Francis turned his quizzing glass towards her, as he uttered this ridiculous string of words with a pronounced drawl and an expression of the utmost sincerity.
Isobel gritted her teeth and responded lightly. "Lord Francis, I must allow my taste to be guided by one who is clearly far more versed in the vocabulary of classical architecture than I."
"To be sure, madam," responded her tormentor. "Allow me to educate you further. I would say that the Spartan influence is pronounced in these carvings." He pointed the chased end of his glass towards the center of the frieze. "The attention to detail seen in the center piece speaks eloquently of it."
Isobel could take his nonsense no longer. "Lord Francis, do you take me for an idiot?" she burst out. "Surely you are aware that Sparta is some two hundred miles distant from Bassae, and was famous for the plainness and lack of ornament of its civic architecture. The citizens held that such fripperies detracted from the military might of the city and contributed to softness among the soldiers."
The quizzing glass fell,
and Lord Francis turned an expression of exaggerated surprise towards her. "My dear Miss Paley, only a moment since, you protested your ignorance of classical architecture. From whence comes this sudden knowledge?"
"My dear Lord Francis, only a moment since you made an observation which none but a ninnyhammer could allow to pass without comment," she answered acerbically.
"I hardly think that a familiarity with the effect of civic culture on the art of ancient Sparta is required to prevent one from being characterized as a ninnyhammer," he protested mildly. "I venture to guess that if one were to query those assembled at a fashionable gathering, that not one person in ten could speak with authority on the subject."
Isobel had to laugh at his expression of injured innocence. "Lord Francis, you are in a very quizzing humor, I fear," she said. "Pray, why do you plague me so?"
He returned her smile. "I am curious merely. Miss Walcott tells me you are forever viewing 'grubby bits of stone,' yet you disclaim any particular knowledge of Grecian antiquities. You are clearly engaged in a detailed reproduction of this frieze, yet you profess ignorance of classical architecture. However, when I express an opinion on the matter, you issue a sharp correction. It is rather puzzling, you know."
"Very well, if you must know, I am copying this frieze for my cousin, who is too busy to visit London and has a great desire to see my sketches. I wish to oblige him, as he has been kind to me, so I come here to make the requested drawings. It is quite simple, really."
"Ah, the cousin whose paper you were copying when I stayed at Kitswold. You must be on excellent terms with him."
"I believe you could say so," Isobel responded.
"I suppose that your relationship with Alexander is quite close," Lord Francis pursued. "You spend a great deal of time engaged in his activities."
"I am certainly very fond of Mr. Paley. One must do as much as possible to assist in the acquisition of knowledge by those who can truly appreciate it."
Isobel felt that the conversation was now straying towards very dangerous ground indeed. "Oh, how late it is growing," she cried with a feigned start. "I really must return to Clarges Street, Lord Francis. We are dining with Lord and Lady Ansgrove this evening before going on to the Opera."
Isobel turned and beckoned to her maid, who was disappointed that her afternoon of reading was to be cut short. Lord Francis gallantly offered her his escort, but the presence of the maid meant that further conversation beyond the barest generalities was quite impossible. However, Lord Francis had seen enough to be certain that Miss Paley hid a vast knowledge of antiquities under her fashionable surface. He was uncertain why she was so determined to hide this, and precisely what use she made of it, but his interest was certainly piqued.
Chapter 10
Isobel was in a pleasant humor as she deftly turned her phaeton into the gates of Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of five-o-clock. Although she was quite a pretty whip, she was nonetheless cautious, and she had made sure that her groom had driven her pair of matched black horses daily since she had come to town. Now she felt confident that they were sufficiently accustomed to the traffic and noise to be safe for her to handle. She was wearing her plainest carriage dress, a fawn merino trimmed with knots of forest green ribbon, and serviceable york tan gloves. Her phaeton boasted sleek lines, but was not the high perch variety much favored by the Corinthians. Isobel accounted herself an excellent horsewoman whether riding or driving, but she had no wish to emulate the notorious Letty Lade, and settled for an elegant, rather than a sporting, equipage.
Neither Lady Morgan nor Harriet had chosen to join Isobel, Miss Walcott having a terror of open carriages and Letitia pleading weariness from the many engagements of the previous days, so she was accompanied only by John Harrison, the groom who had put her up on her first pony, and taught her all she knew about horses. She threaded her way through the throngs promenading in the Park, saluting her friends with a nod and a smile and surveying the pleasant scene presented by the cream of the fashionable world. The track was crowded with the barouches of fine ladies, numerous dashing phaetons and tilburies, and Tommy Onslow was present in his curricle. There were also any number of elegant ladies and gentlemen mounted on fine horses, the ladies clad in dashing riding habits of every hue.
Isobel picked up her friend, Mrs. Ravenhill, who was strolling with her sister, and took her for a turn about the Park. They compared opinions on the amazing bonnet sported by Lady Walshingham, Mrs. Ravenhill deeming it to be very pretty, while Isobel found it striking, but lacking in taste. Shortly after she had restored Mrs. Ravenhill to her sister, she saw Lord Francis Wheaton standing among a small party of officers. He waved to attract her attention, and although Isobel remained concerned about the wisdom of encouraging Lord Francis in any way, she could not ignore him, so she prepared to pull up to speak with him.
As she did so, a young man garbed in an excessively sporting riding costume impinged on her vision. Unfortunately, his exaggerated shoulder padding, and nipped waist could not disguise the fact that the legs covered by his riding breeches could only be described as spindly, nor did his very high shirt points and spotted Belcher neckcloth adequately distract an observer’s attention from a complexion that clearly showed the ravages of a previous case of adolescent spots. He bestrode a beast of similar character; a showy chestnut, which rolled its eyes and snorted in an apparently spirited way, but the expert eye could see that it was built down hill, was tied in at the knee, and might even suffer from heaves. With a slightly sinking feeling Isobel realized that he was the Mr. Braithwaite she had danced with at Almack’s some nights before, and though he bowed and smiled at her in an exaggerated fashion, she gave him only the slightest nod in return.
She was just squeezing gently on the reins to bring her horses to a halt so that she could take Lord Francis up with her, when the flashy horse ridden by the Mr. Braithwaite took violent exception to a feather that had made its escape from the turban of a matron riding in a neighboring carriage. The breeze blew it across his path, and the frightened beast shied halfway across the track. Rather than responding in a soothing way, its rider foolishly chose to punish the poor animal with his whip, slashing at its flank, and it bolted blindly with him, making directly for Isobel’s phaeton. With the surrounding press of equestrians, carriages, and pedestrians, there was little Isobel could do to maneuver her way out of danger. She dropped her hands, hoping to move forward enough to get her horses out of its path, but her well trained pair, already coming to a halt, did not move quickly enough. The chestnut ran into her blacks, and in an instant, Isobel was fighting to prevent catastrophe, as one horse sought to bolt, while the other seem to be intent on removing the floorboards from the phaeton with its hooves. The chestnut reared, dislodging its rider, and leaving him on the ground perilously close to the plunging, whinnying horses.
Harrison had jumped from his position at the back of the carriage the instant that it became apparent that the feckless rider would cause an accident, but was unable to quiet both of Isobel’s horses, especially when the chestnut became tangled in the traces. Isobel, face white with anxiety, tried desperately to keep from completely losing control of her pair.
"Harrison, I can manage them for a few moments more," she cried. "You must move that young man before he is trampled."
Harrison swore violently; his first duty was to his mistress, but Mr. Braithwaite was in imminent danger of being killed, while Isobel, for the moment at least, was unharmed, though in a dangerous and frightening situation. He looked about in a harried way and was relieved beyond measure to see Lord Francis race up. His lordship ran to the heads of Isobel’s pair, jerking downwards on the bits.
"Harrison, leave that idiot lying where he is," he shouted. "And get that chestnut untangled from the lines, and away from him. Then I will be able to settle Miss Paley’s pair."
Harrison obeyed with alacrity. With Isobel’s and Lord Francis’ combined efforts, the pair could be steadied, and once the chestnut wa
s removed, he knew that the danger would be gone. In short order, Harrison had the chestnut tied to a tree, and its rider arrayed on the ground at some little distance, while Lord Francis competently brought order to the chaos between the traces of the phaeton. Harrison returned to the carriage, where Lord Francis was assessing the damage, and Isobel sat white and shocked, reins slack in her fingers.
"Shot in the neck, my lord," grunted Harrison, jerking a thumb at Mr. Braithwaite.
"I'm not surprised," responded Lord Francis, a look of distaste on his handsome face as he surveyed the unconscious man. "I suppose he rented that nag from one of the livery stables nearby," he continued. "Miss Paley’s pair appears to be unharmed, and I think that in a few moments I will have them quiet enough to drive home. The damage to the carriage is superficial, and I hope that bandaging will prevent any soreness in the horses. Find the stable that the chestnut came from and return it. Then you can obtain that young man’s name and direction and ensure that he is returned to his lodgings. I will engage to bring Miss Paley home."
"Aye, my lord," answered Harrison, responding instinctively to the authority in Lord Francis’ voice.
A little crowd had gathered when the accident had first occurred, but since quick action on the part of three of the four principals had averted an injury, there was now little to see and the usual promenade continued. Lord Francis leaped onto the seat next to Isobel and took the reins from her.
"My dear Miss Paley, are you all right?" he inquired with concern.
Isobel’s face was still pale, and her lips trembled as tears threatened to well from under her eyelids. "There is nothing amiss," she maintained resolutely. "I am perhaps a little shocked, merely, nothing more."
"You are very brave, and it is fortunate that you are an accomplished whip," said Lord Francis. "If you had panicked instead of remaining calm, a nasty accident could have become a tragedy."
The Secret Bluestocking: Isobel's Traditional Regency Romance Page 9
