The Smile of the Stranger

by Joan Aiken

  “But she promised to trim the neck of my costume for the Masquerade!” wailed Fanny.

  “Quiet, child! She must leave tomorrow,” Lord Lambourn said to his wife.

  “But, Lambourn, how can she? You cannot escort her to Hampshire. And I most certainly cannot!”

  “I? No, indeed! Your maid Partridge may accompany her as far as Winchester; and I will send an express to your father, requiring him to have a carriage meet her there.”

  “Papa will not be best pleased—” began Lady Lambourn, and then she gave a scream and said, “Send Partridge? Are you out of your mind, my lord? I cannot possibly spare Partridge tomorrow.”

  “Why not?” snapped her husband.

  “Have you forgotten everything?” demanded Lady Lambourn tragically, sniffing at the wrong end of her vinaigrette in her agitation. “Tomorrow is the night of our Masquerade—! I cannot possibly allow Partridge to be absent. Juliana will have to stay here until the following day. Besides,” she added practically, “even if you sent an express, it is odds that it would not reach my father in time, and Partridge can hardly leave Juliana on her own in Winchester. And I cannot possibly spare her for upwards of twelve hours.”

  Lord Lambourn was obliged to concede to this, but he laid the most strict injunctions on his wife that Juliana was not to stir outside the house in the meantime, and that she must leave at daybreak on the following day.

  Juliana, who had hardly been addressed during this scene, crept away like an outcast, and retired to bed in a mood of mingled relief, resentment, and melancholy. Relief predominated. The thought that she might now be free from Sir Groby’s odious advances—for it seemed improbable in the highest degree that he would trouble to pursue her to Hampshire—was inexpressibly comforting.

  What matter that she would, on her return to Flintwood, almost certainly have to endure her grandfather’s displeasure? That would be much easier to support, she thought; and she might perhaps, in course of time, make herself so unobtrusively useful that he might be persuaded to allow her to remain in his house.

  She could not help feeling somewhat unjustly used, however. It was no fault of hers, after all, that her name was being bandied about in Corinthian circles; why should she be debarred from social intercourse on account of such a misadventure?

  Nor could she deny to herself that she felt a pang at the prospect of leaving London without seeing Captain Davenport again. She would have liked to thank him once more for his unbelievably opportune intervention at Ranelagh. If he had not come along just then, where would she be now?

  Shuddering at the horrible thought, she drifted off into sleep.

  Next day from dawn to dusk the whole house in Berkeley Square was in turmoil and confusion while the servants made ready for Lady Lambourn’s masquerade party that evening. Errand boys ran in and out with deliveries of food, of flowers, great baskets of napery and hired glasses, hampers of wine; carpenters hammered, putting up an awning, and also erecting a gallery in the ballroom, which Lord Lambourn said was a perfectly foolish and unnecessary expense; upholsterers were at work laying carpets, and florists’ men contrived bowers of blooms and greenery. Lord Lambourn irritably conferred with his butler and steward. He was perfectly aware of the necessity to give a large party at least once in the season, but he considered that his wife’s choice of date was ridiculously early.

  “But, Lambourn, then everybody we invite is obliged to invite us back!”

  “And why, of all idiotic forms of entertainment, must you choose a Masquerade? It invariably gives rise to horseplay and ill-bred behavior!”

  “The girls enjoy dressing up,” said their mother, without going on to add the obvious rider that such a plain pair were seen to best advantage in fancy-dress costumes and loo masks.

  Juliana, though vaguely aware of the party’s imminence, had given little thought to it. She had helped her cousins with their costumes, but had not troubled to try to provide herself with one; and now she was glad she had spared herself the pains, for it was made plain to her by her aunt that, being in disgrace, she was not expected to attend. This was no particular blow to her, since she was very certain that neither Captain Davenport nor Count van Welcker had been invited, and if Sir Groby were recovered enough to be present, she had no wish to encounter him.

  She passed the morning of that day tranquilly enough, in a small chamber known as “the young ladies’ music room,” embroidering fleurs-de-lis on the costume of Miss Ardingly, who had chosen to attend the Masquerade in the character of Jeanne d’Arc—a singularly unsuitable choice, reflected Juliana, for a lady who was in her sixties, and had a nose and chin like a pair of nutcrackers. Miss Ardingly occasionally stepped in to see how Juliana was progressing, but was called away with equal frequency to give advice about floral arrangements, write the place cards for the dinner before the ball, and attend to numerous other details.

  A Court hairdresser had been bespoken, and was passing the day at the house; Lady Lambourn, Miss Ardingly, and the twins each spent several hours under his ministration, and emerged, Juliana thought, resembling the elaborately caramelized and confected creams that had been served at Ranelagh. Once coiffed, they did not dare move about too much or take part in any activity, but were obliged to retire to their chambers and lean against wooden backrests.

  “When I was young all ladies had their hair done once a fortnight,” sighed Miss Ardingly reminiscently. “And then you had to sleep on a wooden backrest, so as not to disarrange your coiffure, and you scratched your head with a hooked ivory rod. Fleas were the main problem.”

  “I should think they must have been,” said Juliana thoughtfully, rethreading her needle.

  “You had a paper cone for your face and cotton jacket for your shoulders.”

  “Why was that, ma’am?”

  “To keep the powder off you, of course, while you were being powdered! We had blown-glass ornaments in our hair, and flowers in containers of water.”

  “You must have looked delightfully, ma’am.”

  Then Miss Ardingly was summoned by the hairdresser’s assistant, and hastened away.

  Juliana, having finished the Jeanne d’Arc costume, was about to take it to Miss Ardingly’s chamber when, walking out into the upper hall, she was astonished to observe the plump elegant form of Count van Welcker ascending the staircase at a leisurely pace, and glancing about him with the most amiable interest.

  “Ah, good morning, Miss Paget!” he remarked, executing a graceful bow when he perceived Juliana. “The very person I wished to see. I am so delighted to encounter you! I observe that this house is at sixes and sevens! Nobody was in the hall to inquire my business, but the portals were wide, as they were laying down a piece of carpet on the steps, so I ventured to walk in. Ah—Lady Lambourn’s Masquerade tonight, I apprehend?”

  “Why—why, yes, sir,” replied Juliana, a little embarrassed because of her certainty that he had not been invited. Stammering a little in her confusion, she said, “W-won’t you step in here, Count?” and retreated to the little music room. “Though I should inform you,” she added, recollecting, “that I am in disgrace and not allowed out, and I daresay that also applies to receiving visitors.”

  “That is the reason why I am here, Miss Juliana,” he replied unexpectedly. “I heard from a friend of mine, Sir Miles Beaumont, who is acquainted with your uncle, that Lord Lambourn was very displeased to learn of your fame as a balloonist and heroic rescuer; Sir Miles told me that Lord Lambourn proposed to rusticate you, and perhaps visit you with other penalties? Which is why I came here, to ask if I may help you, or in any way avert his displeasure, for I feel sadly instrumental in this undeserved disgrace that has fallen upon you.”

  Juliana was greatly touched at this consideration. She felt tears prickle in her eyes.

  “Dear sir, this is extremely kind in you. But to tell you the truth, I am not yet so addicted to London
that I feel any great distress at the prospect of being sent back to Flintwood. And I am in hopes that my retreat to Hampshire may at least rid me of my unwelcome suitor.”

  “I would not be too sure of that, ma’am,” said the Count. “I hear that your seventy-year-old beau is hobbling about with a plaister on his head, a new and very ill-fitting set of porcelain teeth, and a vengeful light in his eye. True, once you have left town it may be out of sight, out of mind—but I would not depend upon it. I am wondering if another solution to your problem might not prove more satisfactory and permanent.”

  “What might that be, sir?” inquired Juliana, surprised, and greatly dismayed to learn that Sir Groby was so soon recovered. She wondered very much what other solution the Count might have in mind.

  To her astonishment he now went down upon one knee.

  “Ma’am, I fear that this proposal does not come amid the romantical circumstances which I know you prefer, and indeed deserve,” he said, taking Juliana’s hand in his, and casting a hasty glance back over his shoulder to make certain that the door was closed, which it was. “But believe me, my dear child, although aware that I cannot in any way aspire to your ideal of the English gentleman—of which I recall the description most vividly—yet I have so sincere a regard for you, and so keen a sympathy for your situation; I so deeply admire your amiable virtue and the elegance of your mind—not to mention the inexpressible charm of your air and countenance—damme, I have lost the thread, where was I?”

  Juliana, though exceedingly astonished, could not help laughing.

  “You have so sincere a regard and keen a sympathy for me,” she said obligingly, “that—?”

  “Ah, yes, thank you, that was it. That, in short, Miss Juliana, I think you the most charming of your sex, and, although you may have heard that I am not a marrying man, I find myself impelled to consider changing my state, and must now hazard my fortune in one momentous question. Dear Miss Juliana! I believe that through life, as in that damned uncomfortable balloon, we should deal extremely together. May your devoted servant have the honor to shield you from further harms and difficulties—to nourish and cherish you—in short, to call you his own? Will you be mine, Miss Paget?”

  Juliana would really have preferred to put a period to this speech the moment she saw whither it was tending, but it had been impossible to interrupt the Count, once he was in full flow; she had not had the heart to cut him short.

  But now she quickly said, “Dear sir, you are all goodness—all consideration! I cannot express to you how deeply I feel your generous kindness. But although I look upon you as one of my most trusted friends, I do not entertain for you those sentiments which—which I would wish to feel towards the man I married. You are not—you are not—”

  Count van Welcker—he was still upon one knee—looked up at her resignedly, with a rueful grin upon his good-natured countenance. He heaved a sigh.

  “I know! I know how it is! You need not be at the pains of explaining to me, Miss Juliana. I do not in the least resemble King Charles the First—is not that it?”

  Laying a hand upon the arm of a chair that stood beside him, he had begun helping himself to his feet, when he suddenly let out such a furiously loud yell—“Godverdomme!”—that Juliana started back in horrified amazement, and Fitton, the butler, who had been passing the door with a tray of cut-glass decanters, dropped the whole load upon the stairway. Servants came dashing from all directions, and two footmen burst open the door.

  “Oh, sir! What can be the matter?” exclaimed Juliana.

  “What’s going on here?” cried one of the footmen, regarding the overturned chair, Miss Paget pale and startled, and the foreign gentleman furiously wiping his bleeding hand.

  “What’s going on? Why, nothing, nothing at all,” replied the indignant Count. “Only Miss, here, as usual, has left her bodkin sticking in the arm of the chair, and it has run halfway through my palm. Here—pull this out, will you?—the damned needle is so slippery with blood that I can’t get any purchase on it!”

  A footman’s kid-gloved fingers soon had the offending needle removed. Juliana, overwhelmed with penitence and contrition, offered to bind up the wound, but the Count, whose feelings had been considerably ruffled by the occurrence, merely wound his hand in his kerchief, and then said he had better get out of there before he fell prey to some other hideous mishap. Juliana begged his pardon over and over, thanked him for his good opinion of her, and bade him a most friendly farewell. “Indeed, I cannot apologize enough, sir!”

  “No, indeed you cannot!” he replied.

  “My grandfather also complains of the fault.”

  “You would certainly have to shed that habit before I married you, I can tell you! But now, my dear Miss Juliana, will you do me a kindness—will you make me a promise?”

  “Anything that is within my power, sir.”

  “If you are ever in difficulties—remember that you can always turn to me. I mean this seriously: I am your friend, and will stand by you in need.”

  “Sir, you are truly kind, and I will remember—I will seek your help if it be necessary. Only, where should I apply to you? What is your direction? Suppose you are abroad again, seeking more treasures for His Royal Highness?”

  “I shall not be doing that for some months after the wedding,” he replied. “Prinney will want his friends about him then, if I know anything of the matter! So you may apply to me at the Royal Pavilion in Brighton; and a letter addressed to me there will always be sent on to me.”

  “I will remember—and I thank you again, sir. There is, perhaps, one kindness,” said Juliana hesitantly, “which you might possibly be able to do for me—yet I hardly like to ask it—”

  “What is that, my child?”

  “Why,” she said, rather embarrassed, “are you by any chance acquainted, sir, with Captain Francis Davenport?”

  “Davenport, Davenport—to be sure, the name does ring a bell—is he a member of my club?” the Count wondered. “What does he look like—what age of man is he?”

  “I suppose, sir, in his mid-twenties; he has a beard, and he—and he looks very much like Charles the First,” Juliana faltered.

  The Count shot her one very sharp look. “Does he indeed? And what is your wish, in respect of this Captain Francis Davenport?”

  “Only, sir—that if you should come across him—you might, perhaps, very kindly mention to him that I—that I am obliged to go out of London quite suddenly.”

  All the Count replied to this was “I see!” in very pregnant accents. He then bowed briskly, and was out of the door and down the stairs, just as Lord Lambourn, whose attention had been attracted by the shout and the crash, come to inquire into what was going on. Juliana would have incurred a rare scold for illicitly entertaining a visitor, had not her uncle been too preoccupied in discussing with his butler the catastrophic breakage of his best six Waterford glass decanters.

  Juliana slipped away to her chamber and spent the rest of the day musing over this strange proposal. How kind the Count was! For she was sure that he had made the offer only from feelings of obligation: he felt that her name was compromised because he had related her story. He had said that he was not a marrying man, and by now Juliana had heard enough about his reputation to be aware of the truth of this statement. “A delightful cicisbeo, a charming quiz,” Miss Ardingly had said after the drive, “but just like the Prince his patron—light-skirts—high flyers—ladybirds—dozens from the muslin company, but never a serious attachment. Once a rake, always a rake, I fear. So there would be no purpose in setting your cap at him, child.”

  “I would not dream of setting my cap at him, ma’am,” Juliana had answered indignantly.

  Recollection of this conversation made her aware that she had not yet taken Miss Ardingly her costume, and she now made haste to do so. She found the old lady reclining against her curved wooden backrest, laughi
ng to herself over a scandalous novel from France. Her face was covered by a leathern visor to reduce wrinkles, her forehead was wrapped in a bandage steeped in mud and vinegar, for the same purpose, and her eyebrows were thickly smeared over with an unguent of mixed gall water, green vitriol, and gum arabic. She was able to thank Juliana only with the greatest difficulty, since her teeth were covered in bleaching powder; she smelled strongly of Spirits of Ambergris, Otto of Roses, Aqua Mellis, and Cordova Water.

  Having no maid of her own, she was happy to accept Juliana’s offer to stay and help her dress for the party.

  “It is certainly rather hard that you may not attend it yourself, you poor little Cinderella,” she remarked, having rinsed her mouth with a breath-sweetening tincture of wine, bramble leaves, cinnamon, cloves, orange peel, gum, alum, and honey infused in hot ashes. “Especially as everybody will be masked. What difference could it make whether you were there or not? Nobody would recognize you!”

  “Oh, I do not regard it at all, ma’am,” cheerfully replied Juliana. “I am to travel all day tomorrow, so may as well go to bed early. Besides, nobody will be there that I wish to see. And if Sir Groby is present, I had very much liefer not see him.”

  “Augustus is in a fine fret,” confided Miss Ardingly, “for it seems the Duke of Clarence has intimated that he may drop in for half an hour—they are neighbors down in Surrey, you know, for Bushey ain’t so far from Weybridge, but Augustus would never have dared risk a snub by inviting Clarence—and he is not at all gratified by the honor, I call tell you!”

  “Is the duke not respectable, then?”

  “Aha! I see you have gauged your uncle’s nature to a nicety! No, the duke is not respectable—or not above half. He lives with his mistress, Mrs. Jordan, who has four children by previous lovers, besides two or three of his—there never was such a scrambling household!”