by Jaima Fixsen
I will remind you that formidable or no, I am no coward, and ask again to have the honor of making your mother’s acquaintance—no, don’t get that pained look. I’ve asked once, and will hold my piece now on that head. Until tomorrow. After all, it is persistence that lets wind and water shape the hardest stone.
Thank you for your compliments—I despise my quizzing glass a little less, now that I know you favor it. I only like that it allows me to send messages to you. Here’s a new one: if I hurl the thing into your box at the opera tonight, it means I like the production. Since I have no expectation of enjoyment, you should be safe.
Unless I spend the evening looking at you. Is that allowed? Never mind. I shall do it anyway, with or without your permission.
Your devoted,
Tom
Censoriousness, outrage, chagrin—these emotions vanished by the time Georgiana reached the last paragraph. When she set down the letter, she almost felt envious. She searched her memory, trying to find a letter like this addressed to her. She couldn’t. She remembered Sophy chuckling over letters from Henrietta and Jasper, sometimes reading aloud the funniest bits. The letters she received from her son and daughter were recitals of facts in Henrietta’s case, and polite taunts in Jasper’s. More than once, she’d fought the desire to crumple his letters. One could—and did—occasionally answer in kind, but it was hard to best him. Impossible, really, shielded as he was by indifference.
And the letters she exchanged with her husband . . . well, when they did write, it was usually through the medium of his secretary.
Please inform my husband that I will stay a week longer with Lady March . . . .
Lord Fairchild bids me write that he will return from Scotland the second week of November . . . .
She could no longer say with certainty why things had gone so wrong. Other husbands took mistresses, other couples lost children. It didn’t always make them hate each other. She and William had been at war so long, neither of them knew how to sue for peace.
Wearily, she replaced the letter and the book, closing the drawer. She had to go out this evening, or people would laugh even more. Sophy wasn’t her daughter. No doubt people expected her to shrug off both the girl and her mésalliance. Never mind that she could not. She cared horribly for Sophy, her only willing companion, and felt her absence like an ache in her joints.
She would go to the theatre tonight and force herself to sit through one act. Alistair had offered to escort her, knowing she couldn’t depend on William or Jasper. She was about as eager for the excursion as she would be for a purge—a horrid business, but necessary sometimes to maintain one’s figure. Hairdressers, slimming diets, nail brushes, silk and lace and subtle cosmetics: with their help, she looked like a different species than the sharp-boned gutter trash that littered London’s streets. But she knew hunger too—it was a terrible thing, a hopeless, desperate craving. It consumed thought, destroyed every other comfort, leaving one with nothing but want—and not all kinds could be answered with food.
*****
It was a sad thing, Lord Fairchild thought, when a man had to bribe his servants to obtain news of his wife.
“Nothing ails her, my lord, though it’s plain to see she’s lonely without the young miss,” Dawson, his wife’s maid, reported reluctantly. It had taken persuasion and a considerable sum to convince her to keep him informed about her mistress, and even then, she scowled at him like he was an unscrupulous ruffian. She found the arrangement as distasteful as he.
“You could discover this yourself, sir. All you would have to do is ask her. Lady Fairchild has never made a habit of confiding to me.”
“But she complains about me, yes?”
Dawson glanced down, her frown deepening. “Not lately. And why not, is what I’d like to know!”
He couldn’t help a laugh, but he sobered quickly. “I’d like to know why too.” He ignored Dawson’s disgusted snort. “She goes to the theatre tonight?”
Dawson nodded.
“Who escorts her?” he asked with studied unconcern.
“Captain Beaumaris.”
Some of his tension left. He took out the promised pound note and placed it on the dressing table.
“She’s dining at home tonight,” Dawson admitted, compelled to full disclosure by the money resting between them. She didn’t pick it up.
“Unfortunately, I am not,” William said. Pity, but he was expected at a dinner with Sir Samuel Romilly to discuss his latest bill. William didn’t support the Whigs in all their endeavors, but he agreed with Romilly that something had to be done for the hordes of injured soldiers and sailors. Currently, unless they had a written pass, if they were caught begging it was a capital offense. No, Romilly and his bill could not be put off, but with any luck, he could meet Georgiana at the theatre.
“Thank you, Dawson.” He left before the words held back by her bitten lips escaped her. Dawson’s loyalty was well only to a point; if she spoke out of turn, he would have to dismiss her and he really didn’t need any more reasons to anger his wife.
William escaped the after-dinner political debate early, knowing he wouldn’t be missed. After voicing his support for Romilly’s bill, he’d said little and his attention had wandered. No one questioned his excuses as he departed.
He’d left no instructions for his coachman, being unsure what hour he would be free to leave for the theatre. It would only take him a quarter of an hour to walk from Russell Square to Covent Garden, so he engaged a link boy to light his way. The streets were insalubrious, but so were hackneys, and at least he wouldn’t have to sit, waiting for his hired coach to advance through the press of carriages choking the street in front of the theatre.
The skinny, tow-headed boy holding the light was ragged and grimy, but he owned a pair of shoes. He chattered incessantly as they crossed the square and turned down Drury Lane, undeterred by William’s rare, one word responses. He was a resourceful scamp, offering to fetch a whore if William liked, or show him the best flash houses.
“Just take me to the theatre,” William said, glancing over his shoulder, lest the boy be drawing him into an ambush. No one seemed to be trailing them, but best to keep a sharp eye out.
Under the first floor overhang of a building clad in grimy timbers and plaster, a woman minding a tea wagon thrust a cup in his way. He darted by, careful not to touch her. No good if he arrived at the theatre with smudges of goodness knows what on his clothes. The garbled cries that followed him were indecipherable. He knew without looking that the tea seller had a mangle mouth of black, peg-like teeth. Though not an especially fastidious man, he shuddered at the thought of swallowing tea sold by such a creature. Probably wasn’t tea at all—just old leaves bought from kitchens like his own and dyed black again.
“Almost there, me lord,” panted his little street sprite. The boy had to take two steps for every one of William’s, but he never flagged, hopping over ruts and puddles of slops like a small bird.
The market was closed, the stalls cleared away. Orange sellers lingered on, selling fruit and flesh. The link boy waved at a flock of boys busy leaping and turning cartwheels in hopes of winning a chance coin. William kept his purse shut. Encouraging the children’s antics would only lead to broken limbs and carriage accidents. His guide’s face fell just a little as they passed—no doubt he was paid a portion of any take that came from the men he led by. On Bow Street, the Royal Opera House loomed on his right, gleaming in the smoky dark. It was still new, only a few years old, the last one having been burned in a fire.
He paid the boy, who’d slowed his patter, interspersing it with muttered comments since William had neglected to bestow largesse on the lad’s acrobatic friends. The offered coin redeemed him. In the blink of an eye, the boy snatched it and darted away, blessing William loud enough for all to hear.
Share if you want, but better to save for your next pair of shoes.
The second act was well begun when William entered his box. It was empty. Di
sappointed, William deposited himself in a chair—a welcome relief after the hurly burly in the streets outside. True, it carried on in the theatre too, but up here he didn’t have to smell it quite so strongly. He could sit back and enjoy the drama on stage, though the scenes played among the spectators were often more amusing than the show. Even the best actors were occasionally upstaged by the crowd, especially those along fop’s alley, where dandies and still more whores strutted up and down between the rows of benches. The women parading below were better packaged than the ones outside, but still not as brilliantly plumed as the high fliers perched in the boxes, trying to look like Quality. Of course, the Quality had their own drama, too. If he wasn’t careful, he and Georgiana might be it.
Where was she, though? The heat from the crowd in the pit, the candles, and the oil lamps made it stuffy, even in his almost empty box. At least when Georgiana arrived, she’d be carrying a fan. It was always best to seat yourself next to a female for that reason, if for nothing else.
The second act ended and the curtain fell, but he resisted the urge to wander during the interval, though the performing dogs on stage did not interest him. Two of his friends stopped by to exchange brief greetings and then Jasper appeared, coming up from the pit, looking a little worse for wear.
“Here? Alone? Father, what is the world coming to?”
“I expect your mother will arrive shortly.”
“And you came to see her. How charming. I’m touched.”
“In the upper works, perhaps.”
Jasper grinned, but it lasted only a moment. “I almost think I should help you home and call for the doctor. You’re not getting caught in her web, are you?”
William sent his son a warning look.
“A harmless inquiry. I like to know the lay of the land before I venture into it,” Jasper said, raising his hands appeasingly.
“You haven’t come to the house since Sophy left.”
“No, I haven’t come by since the wedding. I thought I should give you and mama time to reconsider your decision.”
A muscle jumped in William’s cheek. “She’s made her bed—”
“And as Alistair so kindly reminded me, she’s probably lying in it. Give over, father. She’s happy. Be happy for her.”
William glanced at the dog twisting through hoops on the stage, then looked back at his son. “I’d like to. But I worry. I know nothing of her husband. And your mother—”
“Yes, she’s known to hold a grudge, but that needn’t stop you from apologizing. You shouldn’t have done that to Sophy.”
William hesitated. He wanted to, but knew Georgiana would see it as another betrayal. He couldn’t afford that. And if Jasper learned he was trying to smooth things over with his wife—well, Jasper would laugh first, then tell his friends, and next thing he knew they’d be wagering on it in the club’s betting book. That would be considerably off-putting, never mind the fire and brimstone that would descend on him if Georgiana ever found out. No, matters between him and his wife were none of his son’s concern.
Jasper liked to pretend his mother was incapable of feeling, but William knew better. She couldn’t have hated him this many years if she hadn’t a heart to wound. More fool him, for injuring her so deeply. But she was lonely since Sophy’s defection and there was a chance, however slight, that she might be vulnerable enough to turn to him.
“Why are you here?” he asked Jasper.
“An actress. She’s playing Lydia. Chestnut curls and lovely elbows.”
“I didn’t notice,” Lord Fairchild said.
“Pity. Well, mostly it’s just a game to cut out Protheroe. I don’t really want to catch her so much as prevent him from doing it. Boz bet me a monkey I couldn’t.”
William looked at his son with growing irritation. Jasper had never lost his head over anyone or anything, or showed any sign of possessing a serious nature. His affection for his sisters might be deeper than the desultory interest he affected for appearances, but even then . . . he was indolent all the way through. William almost wished his son had a blazing infatuation for this actress, instead of a merely sporting interest—it would change him from this slippery creature into something human.
There was motion at the back of the box. William turned his head. His wife had arrived at last. Her hand was on Alistair’s arm, a smile frozen to her lips. His presence wasn’t expected, or welcome, apparently.
Both he and Jasper rose and bowed.
“Good evening,” William said, stretching out his hand. “I’d hoped to find you here this evening.” He must begin as he meant to go on if there was to be any hope of peace between them. She didn’t refuse her hand, but it took just a moment too long for her to bestow it, enough that any interested watchers would see her reluctance.
She’s just saving face, he told himself. Things would go better in private.
“Pouring balm into my cousin’s wounds?” Jasper asked her. “Or has he been attending to yours? I hear an injury to one’s vanity can be crippling.”
Ignoring sharp looks from both his parents, Jasper made to leave, but Georgiana stopped him with a question. “Do you hear from Sophy?”
“Yes.”
“How is she?”
Jasper’s face turned colder still. “Ask her yourself.” Bowing once more, he exited the box.
In the loud silence that followed, William quickly settled Georgiana in the chair at his side before she could think to resist. No doubt she had many friends who would be glad to offer her a seat for the remainder of the evening—a ploy she had used before, though not for a good many years. Still, William wasn’t going to take unnecessary risks.
Alistair took the chair on Georgiana’s left. “A pleasant surprise to find you here, uncle.” He waited for an answering nod before continuing, more slowly than before. “Jasper mentioned in my hearing that Mrs. Bagshot was doing well.”
It took a moment for William to realize that by Mrs. Bagshot, Alistair meant Sophy. It sounded utterly wrong.
“What a dreadful name,” Georgiana shuddered, apparently feeling the same.
Alistair gave him a guarded look. “I’ve looked in to that matter we recently discussed. It appears I was mistaken in my reading of Bagshot’s character. The connection I thought was unsavory appears to be entirely innocuous.”
Georgiana looked curious, but William wasn’t about to go into that conversation here. “I’m glad of it.” One less worry—a significant one—but he still had many.
They sat in paralyzed silence for some time, pretending to watch the stage. The next act began, but as none of them knew who any of the characters were, or what the preceding action had been, it was more labour than it was worth to reconstruct the tangled story. The types were there: a villain, a foolish maiden, a pair of vulgar comics—he thought they were supposed to be husband and wife, but couldn’t say for certain.
“I’m ready to go home,” Georgiana said. “I don’t feel up to waiting for the farce.”
“I’ll join you,” William said, rising.
She paused, her fan halfway into her reticule.
“I left no instructions for my coachman,” he added. “If I don’t go with you, I’ll have to take a hackney.”
Acquiescing with a faint lift of her shoulder, she followed Alistair from the box, William behind. Inside the carriage, she and Alistair kept up a gossipy conversation about one Frederick Morris, whom she had happened to see across the theatre. He seemed an unpleasant fellow, from their talk. They dropped Alistair at his family’s townhouse, where he thanked them for the evening and the convivial company, managing not to sound sarcastic. “Do you ride tomorrow, sir?” he asked.
“I’m not certain. Probably.”
“I’ll hope to see you in the park,” Alistair said, and turned away.
The footman shut the door with a snap and the carriage shrank to half its size.
“Am I crowding you?” he couldn’t help asking.
“A little,” she said, so he moved
to the seat opposite. A regrettable move, but it did thin the air that had congealed around them.
“Why the interest in Frederick Morris?” he asked.
“I’m not certain,” she said. “Alistair was curious about him.” She confided nothing more.
“You look lovely this evening,” he ventured.
“Thank you.”
They turned the corner—not quickly, but she reached for the strap nonetheless.
“Sophy would have liked the play,” he said.
“Yes, she would.” Georgiana turned her head to the window, though it was too dark to see anything. The small lantern inside reflected her face off the glass back to him. Her expression was familiar—unhappy.
“Do you ever think,” he began slowly, “that we may have been wrong?”
“I don’t think about it,” she lied, and set to work straightening her long evening gloves. Her cloak fell open as she moved. Beneath its dark velvet, the silk folds of her gown shone in the dim light.
“I’m considering the idea,” he admitted. “Not that it’s a new one. I have been wrong so many times before.” He watched her, hoping she’d take the offered opening.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” she said.
“Georgy.” She didn’t frown at the use of his old nickname so he went on. “You know what I mean.”
“It’s an easy thing to say, when it comes too late.”
His throat tightened. “Is it?”
She didn’t answer, just knotted her fingers together. The carriage halted. He’d been leaning forward, but the sudden stop swung him back into the padded seat. He heard the footman jump down onto the pavement.
“Not just yet,” he called. “Drive us round Grosvenor Square and back.” That would give him a little more time. He’d need it, he realized, countering Georgiana’s outraged stare.
“Do you have any idea what they might think?”
“Not particularly. I don’t propose to care either. I expect they think we have something to say to each other.”
