by Joan Smith
“Two of them stole your bonnet and my reticule out of the carriage while Fairly was fighting off another pair. They travel in two pairs of two.”
“Shocking!” she said, turning to her husband. “And you actually tackled them, Fairly?” she asked, hardly able to credit such an unlikely tale. Yet Fairly’s nose, now that Meg took a glance at it, stood out in brilliant relief against his white face.
“With a club,” he said, peering soulfully at Meg.
She rushed forward to comfort him. “Oh, my poor esposo. Are you serving him tea, Sissie? Call for brandy. We all need a glass of brandy.”
Cicely duly noted that contraband brandy was readily available in noble homes—and drunk not only by the heroes but by their wives.
“You should stay home tonight and help Fairly to recover,” Cicely suggested. “He looks very peaked, does he not?”
“Stay at home?” Meg asked, and laughed. “Hardly! I shall take him to Lady Amelia’s ball and show him off.”
“Fairly is in no condition to dance.”
“Indeed no. We shall sit out all evening. I shall wear a black shawl, to show how serious your condition is, Fairly. And you, a black sling on your arm.”
To Cicely’s amazement, Fairly entered into this foolishness with the greatest enthusiasm. She had no doubt that by the time they reached the ball, Fairly would be in a Bath chair and the four attackers (two of them hired, she was now convinced) would be a whole band, armed to the teeth.
“Well, you were very fortunate that Fairly was there to protect you, Sissie,” Meg said. “But you have still not explained why you took my bonnet.”
Cicely studied the pair and decided this was the strategic moment to push their reformation a step further.
“Fairly was returning it to the milliner, Meg,” she said, darting a commanding look at Fairly. “He realizes, if you do not, that borrowing from the cents-per-center will ruin you both. You are not to buy any more clothes this season.”
Fairly looked in horrified alarm, first at Cicely, then at his wife, who—strangely—was batting her eyelashes furiously and smiling at him in a coquettish way he had not seen for a twelvemonth.
“You have enough bonnets,” he said sternly. “The best turned-out lady in London. Everyone says so.”
“Do you really think so, Fairly?” Meg asked, sitting down and taking his hand. She felt a warm gush of something stronger than mere pique at his high-handedness.
“Common knowledge.”
Meg directed a speaking smile at him. “I must go abovestairs to change for dinner. Come with me, Fairly. I want you to help me choose what I should wear tonight.”
Fairly flushed in pleasure. “You haven’t asked my opinion on such things in a long time, Meg.”
She turned to Cicely. “I have had my dresser put a gown for the dinner party in your room, Sissie,” she said.
The couple walked upstairs together, arm in arm, whispering and smiling. Cicely was also smiling. Now if Montaigne would do his part and give Meg a good talking-to, this shambles of a marriage might yet be pulled from the fire.
She finished her tea; then, when the brandy arrived, had a sip of it for research purposes. Medicine! She left it and went abovestairs to see what she would be wearing to Mr. Murray’s dinner party.
Montaigne had sent his sister a note informing her he didn’t want Sissie to look like a light-skirt but a provincial lady. To Meg, this meant a gown a couple of years old, not in the empress style that currently ruled. She had scoured her closet for the most likely gown she possessed. Its provincialism was solely in its age. Neither its cut nor its lack of adornment was in the least dowdy. The gown was a dark green and silver net that shimmered under the light with the effect of water seen by moonlight. It clung closely to the body above, flaring out in a full skirt below. Once again a shawl was required to conceal the paucity of material from the waist up, but the shawl had to be arranged with care to display Anne’s diamonds. As Meg had not provided a shawl, Cicely used Anne’s white wool.
The Fairlys were having guests to dinner that evening. Before they arrived, Lord Montaigne came to escort Cicely to Murray’s party. His eyes turned to her at once to judge her toilette. His somewhat strained expression softened to pleasure as he studied her.
With her shawl firmly wrapped around her shoulders, she looked modest. Her dark gown was a matronly shade, and that white shawl had a whiff of the country in its sturdy material. The coiffure was pretty, without reaching such heights of elegance that it competed with Meg’s do.
“You will never guess what, Monty!” Meg exclaimed. “Fairly is a hero! I am going to Lady Amelia’s ball with him this evening.” She studied her brother eagerly for his reply to such shocking news.
“I hardly know which piece of news is more startling,” he said in a bored drawl. He suspected that Sissie was involved in both events. He looked a question at her. Her laughing eyes belied her innocent expression. “What heroic deed has he done? Not a duel in your honor, I trust, Meg? That is a shade too heroic for Society. Duels are out of fashion this year.”
“No, silly. He beat up a whole gang of armed bandits who attacked him and Sissie at that horrid place with all the dials. Was there ever anything so shocking! They got away with my new bonnet,” she added with a moue.
Montaigne turned in alarm to Sissie. He was reassured to see she was not only unharmed but having some difficulty controlling her amusement.
Before Montaigne could learn the real story, Fairly came limping in with his arm in a sling to help his nose recover. He at once delivered a much-embroidered version of the attack. As Sissie had anticipated, the four men had grown to an indeterminate number, but certainly more than four.
“Fairly is going to raise the subject in the House,” Meg said proudly when the tale was told.
“Is he, by God?” Montaigne exclaimed. “I shall show you where your seat is, Fairly,” he added with a touch of cynicism.
“And you must show me where the visitors’ gallery is,” his sister said. “I shall take a group to hear him. Do they serve wine as they do at the theater at intermission, or must we take our own?”
“I should hold the wine until you reach home, Meg,” he replied. “No doubt you will be having a party to celebrate Fairly’s maiden speech in the House.”
“What a gorgeous idea! A speech party! Why did I not think of it? It is so difficult to find new excuses for an afternoon party. I shall invite the prime minister.”
Montaigne drew a deep sigh. “I doubt a Tory prime minister will be interested. An occasion of this sort is strictly partisan.” Meg frowned in confusion. “Your husband is a Whig,” he informed her.
“Oh, yes, of course. I must warn the ladies not to wear anything blue. True blue and Tory, too—is that not what folks say? Pity, when I look so well in blue.”
“P’raps you would give me a hand with my speech, Monty,” Fairly said. “Sissie thinks I should mention poverty. What do you think?”
“That would dilute the aroma of self-interest,” Monty agreed with a nod of appreciation at Sissie.
When Montaigne had escorted Sissie out, he turned a quizzing look on her. “What really happened this afternoon?” he asked and assisted her into his carriage.
She always felt like a princess when she stepped into Montaigne’s beautiful crested chaise. She felt a pang for the denizens of Seven Dials as he placed the fur rug over her knees.
“I believe Fairly hired a pair of bruisers to hold us up, so he could act the hero. Unfortunately—or fortunately, as it turned out—two real ones got into the carriage during the performance and stole my reticule and Meg’s bonnet. Fairly got his nose punched during the fracas. I succeeded in convincing Meg he is a hero.”
“I assume Hawkins handled the fellows? You weren’t hurt?”
“No, I wasn’t. Fairly had taken along a cudgel, so I used his walking stick. Hawkins and I managed to subdue the real thieves.”
In
the darkness of the carriage, Montaigne allowed a smile to peep out. It came as no surprise that Sissie had rescued herself. He was coming to realize she was a lady of many accomplishments.
“I’m surprised you let the fellows snatch Meg’s bonnet from your head.”
“I wasn’t wearing it. Fairly brought it for me to wear when we went on the strut later. I hope Fairly carries through on his promise to raise the matter in the House. It was incredible, Montaigne. The poverty, the real destitution. Is there nothing that can be done about it?”
“The Whigs are taking an interest in the matter. Such major changes are needed that it will take time. Education and jobs are the crux of the matter. Private charities don’t go far, as I am learning.”
“The earnings from Chaos—”
“An orphanage, for some of the worst cases,” he said curtly. “I suggested it to my aunt.”
“I feel a wretch for teasing you about the orphans. I had no idea until I had seen them myself. You have been to Seven Dials, I think?”
“Yes, I have been there and other places. But we shan’t discuss all that now and spoil your party.”
“It doesn’t spoil it,” she said in a pensive tone. “It just makes me realize how important it is. I shall give some of my earnings to charity as well—if I sell my novel, I mean.”
To lighten the mood, Montaigne inquired how Cicely had liked Bond Street.
“As things turned out, we didn’t get there after all. That is one thing I should like to do before I leave London. It might be best if you could accompany me. I would not like to put Meg in temptation’s path. Fairly has forbidden her to buy anything else this Season.”
Montaigne’s head turned slowly to gaze through the shadows to his partner. “I beg your pardon?”
“The little altercation with the thieves painted Fairly as a temporary hero. When Meg inquired why her bonnet was in the carriage, I told her Fairly was returning it to the milliner because she was spending too much money. A plumper, of course, but for a good cause.”
“And she swallowed that?”
“She was thrilled to death at his daring.”
“I find that hard to believe. Meg without a new bonnet is like—like Prinny without a new jacket.”
“Oh Monty, don’t you know anything about ladies? They make a fuss about being independent, but they really like to think their husband is a strong man, one who takes charge and looks after their best interest. They went upstairs together almost immediately. Meg was making big eyes at him. I’m sure they were going to—” She stopped.
“Yes, you were saying?” he asked, enjoying a silent laugh at her predicament.
“You know what I mean. I see that as an excellent sign,” she said, trying for an air of dignity. “I only hope something comes of it. I’m convinced a child would do them both a world of good. They couldn’t act like children themselves if they had a real child to worry about. I have done my bit; it remains only for you to read Meg a lecture, and I believe the marriage may be saved yet.”
Montaigne considered the notion of chiding Cicely for intimating what might have gone forth between Meg and Fairly in their bedchamber, but he let it pass. It would only lead her on to some worse solecism.
“It wouldn’t have come to a divorce,” he said.
“They would probably have gone on inhabiting the same house for the looks of it. That’s not my idea of marriage. A marriage means sharing all of life, its hardships and victories.”
“Till death do us part, in fact. It’s that suggestion of a life sentence that puts me off the notion of marriage.”
“Me, too,” she said, surprising him. “I have never yet met a gentleman with whom I could envisage sharing the rest of my life, but those who have made the bargain ought to live up to it. Marriage is a gamble, in a way, and a gentleman, I understand, always pays his gambling debts. His debt, in this case, is to his wife. And I am not talking about money.”
“A very pretty piece of sophistry, Miss Cicely. Where is the gamble when one is guaranteed losing his freedom for the temporary pleasure of enjoying a pretty lady’s company? Talk about loaded dice! That is not a gamble, it is a life sentence.”
She scowled at him in the darkness. “What about children? A man needs a son and heir. One would never guess you cared for children, the way you talk. What about those orphans you spoke of, that the Whigs are trying to help?”
“That is a different matter entirely. One cannot blame the children. They are helpless victims. I help them to assuage my conscience.” As Cicely didn’t reply, Montaigne peered at her through the darkness and spied a smile. “Why are you laughing at me?”
“I never heard a man making excuses for his generosity before.”
“Don’t go turning me into a saint, Sissie. I would not want to see myself canonized in your next opus.”
“How did you know I was on the lookout for a hero? Fairly failed me entirely. Perhaps I shall find someone tonight at the party.”
With a thought of the guests, Montaigne replied, “I shouldn’t think so.”
The dinner party was held at the Pulteney Hotel. As it was in honor of a lady, Murray had included the wives of his guests in the invitation. Murray was a youngish gentleman to have attained such prominence in the field of literature. He was not yet in his forties. He introduced Cicely to his wife, who expressed admiration for Chaos Is Come Again, then presented Cicely to the one literary giant he had managed to bring to his table, George Crabbe.
This aging widower was a modest gentleman who was vicar at Trowbridge, in Wiltshire. Cicely fell speechless when she was introduced to this legend.
“Oh, Mr. Crabbe, I have read The Village dozens of times,” she said, shaking his hand firmly. “My copy is literally falling apart. I wish I had it with me for you to autograph. Anne would never believe it! Anne is my sister.”
“You have good taste, Miss Cicely,” Murray said, smiling to see his new writer was happy with only one luminary to honor her. “Everyone from Dr. Johnson to Lord Byron counts Mr. Crabbe among their favorite poets. You will be happy to hear I’m bringing out a new edition of Crabbe’s works, along with a new piece he is working on.”
“What is it called? I shall be on the lookout for it,” Cicely said eagerly.
“It is called Tales of the Hall,” Crabbe said, smiling almost shyly at such praise. I’m afraid I cannot say I have read your novel.,Miss Cicely, but my housekeeper has been late with my tea the past week. I cannot get her nose out of your book.”
“You wouldn’t like it,” Cicely said. “It’s a gaudy thing. You write about real life. That is what I should like to do.”
Murray and Montaigne exchanged a startled glance. “There is room for everything under the broad mantle of literature,” Murray said. “Some prefer Byron, some Mrs. Radcliffe, and—”
“And those with good taste prefer Mr. Crabbe,” Cicely said.
Murray hustled her away, with Montaigne on her other side. “When you meet Sir Giles Gresham, it might be best to not insult your own book,” Montaigne said rather testily.
“You said I must be particularly nice to Sir Giles, as Mr. Murray doesn’t own his magazine. Which one is Sir Giles?”
“I wouldn’t say I own the Quarterly Review,” Murray objected. “I have an interest in it. They have their own editors and editorial policies.”
Cicely gave him a cagey smile. “The one who pays the piper calls the tune, n’est-ce pas? I am sorry, Mr. Murray. I didn’t realize it was a secret that you exert an influence beyond your book-publishing firm. How very convenient for your authors.”
She was led to a tall, ascetic-looking gentleman who stood by himself in one corner, his lips curled in distaste as he stared at the assembled guests through a quizzing glass. His chestnut hair had silver wings, giving him an air of distinction.
“Sir Giles, I would like to present my new writer, Miss Cicely Caldwell,” Murray said. “How did you like that copy of Chaos I sent you?”
> “Well-named, Mr. Murray,” Sir Giles said in a drawling voice. “I’ve not laid eyes on such a chaotic load of mumbo jumbo since your Byron landed on the scene to pervert public taste.”
“He has certainly tapped into something the public craves.”
“Yes, sensationalism. Bread and circuses, sir. Lord Byron provides the circus.”
“Childe Harold is still selling remarkably well.”
“There will always be a market for pornography, unfortunately. I see his English Bards and Scotch Reviewers gathering dust at the bookstalls. A spiteful, childish rant.” He lifted his quizzing glass and stared at Cicely. “So this is your new star. She is younger than I thought.”
Cicely smiled demurely. “Young enough to improve the quality of my writing, I hope, Sir Giles. I do appreciate your kindness in giving a sincere critique. Most gentlemen, you must know, only give the false coin of flattery. I hope we have time for a long chat this evening, and you can tell me all the things in my horrid book that require improving in my next effort.”
Sir Giles stared at her a moment, suspecting irony. Cicely stared back demurely at the enlarged eye behind the quizzing glass. Sir Giles’s sneer softened to condescension.
“I daresay I could give you a few pointers,” he said.
Murray darted off to rearrange the seating. Sir Giles was to have the seat at Miss Cicely’s right hand. Cicely gave Montaigne a conning smile that did nothing to reassure him of her ability to carry off her plan.
“Well, Monty, how am I doing so far?” she asked in a low voice as he led her to the table.
“Sir Giles didn’t come down in the last rain. He won’t be so easy to con as you think.”
“But he is a bachelor,” she said. She then unfolded her shawl, which added considerably to Montaigne’s sense of foreboding. He saw that the modest-seeming gown was extremely revealing. Gresham might be an old stick who railed against pornography, but if he had any blood at all in his veins, he would be inflamed by those tantalizing, creamy globes.
When Montaigne realized where his thoughts were wandering, he pulled himself back to attention and scowled.
