by May Burnett
“And have you decided yet whether you’ll accept Charles?”
“Charles, is it? What happened to Mr Denham?”
“I still call him that to his face and in company, but it feels so unnatural to call him Mister, when we call Lord Winstanton Silas. Somehow I feel as though I’ve known Charles forever. If you marry him, he will make an excellent cousin-in-law.”
“Is there such a word as that? I am taking his advice to think long and carefully. That he told me to do so, and not reply at once, already demonstrates how very different he is from Silas.”
“Oh, I hardly think two men of similar age could be more different than these two. Like night and day. And you are right to take your time, after all you are barely nineteen. Chances are good that you will fall in love again.”
“I am not sure I ever was in love with Silas – at most, with the false impression of him. Whatever I feel for Charles is completely different. Is it love, though?”
“What is it like?” Cecily inclined her head curiously. “Does he invade your dreams?”
“Not in the way you imagine – he does not kiss me in my dreams or anything like that. But last night I dreamt that I was pursued by a group of hunters, and ran to him for protection.”
“That sounds like a nightmare. How did it end?”
“He closed out the pursuers and we had tea in a little cottage, talking of nothing in particular.”
“A strange dream,” Cecily commented. “I hardly ever remember mine. Who knows what interesting stories they contain, that I could use for the book I am writing?”
“You are still working on that? How is it going?”
“Quite well. We have been very quiet these last days while you were not around, and I have already penned five chapters. I only hope the publisher can read my handwriting.”
“It is perfectly legible,” Anthea protested. “Better than mine, at any rate. So what are you writing about?”
“A noble young girl unjustly persecuted by a scoundrel, who will be rescued by the hero. Before you ask, she is not at all like you, but has raven hair and violet eyes with long lashes.”
“You would say I don’t have long lashes? Anyway, I am glad not to be the template for your novel.” The plot sounded like one of her subscription novels; strange when Cecily’s reading tastes were much more literary. “Damsels in distress are commonplace in fiction; why not allow your heroine to rescue herself?”
“We all need a little help and assistance now and then. But I might add an episode later on, where she saves the hero in turn.”
“Well, good luck,” Anthea said. “Am I allowed to read your opus?”
“Not until is all finished,” Cecily said firmly. “I don’t want any comments until I am done.”
“That is probably wise,” Anthea acknowledged. “You don’t want to interfere with inspiration.”
“I have twice surprised Cherry writing in a little blue book,” Cecily said, “it is likely just a journal, but from the way she quickly put it out of sight, I wonder if she herself is the author of the Maxims for Young Ladies? Why else would she know that publisher so well she can hand him my own story?”
“It makes sense,” Anthea said slowly. “But she clearly does not want it generally known, so we had better keep our suspicions to ourselves.”
“Imagine, if I had told her I found the book intolerably prosy and pretentious! I could have hurt her badly without being aware of doing it.”
“A good thing you didn’t,” Anthea said. “If you are done with the book, you can lend it to me; now I think I know the author I feel much more interested in those maxims. In the meantime, let’s go up and try out these drops of yours. And help me choose the dress for the dinner party. I must look just right, if I am to act as Cherry advised.”
“You will do very well,” Cecily said. “I look forward to applauding your performance.”
Chapter 28
Dressing right for a part is already half the battle won.
Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, by A Lady, London 1823
“Are you sure this is the right gown for tonight?” Anthea slowly turned in front of the full-length mirror in her dressing room. “It looks so insipid with just my pearls, so colourless.” White was no longer as fashionable as it had been for most the previous decade; ladies tended to avoided it now that colour was permissible after the long pseudo-Grecian period. Even worse, the dress showed barely a hint of cleavage, although it was de rigueur even for debutantes to display their bosoms much more fully in the evenings. It had been chosen by Lady Desborough early in the previous Season, before Anthea had developed her own preferences.
“It creates the effect you said you wanted,” Cecily insisted. “Virtuous, virginal, innocent. Of all the dresses you possess, this comes closest. In fact, I would even leave off the earrings. The pearl necklace is enough. Do you have the engagement ring?”
Anthea nodded. Since she wore elbow-length white gloves she had tucked the hated jewel into the tiny white silk reticule dangling from her wrist, together with her embroidered handkerchief.
She took off the pearl earrings, studied the effect. “There is not enough time for changing anyway, the guests are about to arrive – is that a carriage I hear outside?”
“Probably the Vicar, he tends to arrive early.”
The two cousins went downstairs side by side. Cecily was arrayed in an embroidered pale green evening gown of considerably more daring cut, showing her trim figure to advantage. Strange that no young man had yet realized what a gem she was.
“Courage,” Cecily murmured.
Anthea nodded minutely. She had told herself over and over that she had done nothing wrong, had no reason at all to feel chastened, whatever her parents thought or said. While her mind accepted the assertion, her foolish heart was still bruised. She would never again feel the unquestioning trust in their wisdom and affection, with which she had grown up; she had not even been aware of its value until it was lost.
Entering the Blue Salon, her eye was immediately drawn to Charles’s tall form. His evening clothes were well-cut if subtly out of style. He stood conversing with his grandfather and Mrs. Trevor, but sent her an encouraging smile.
“Ah, Anthea, come here beside your sister, to receive our guests,” the Countess commanded. Her voice was cool – she had not forgiven Anthea yet, any more than Anthea had forgiven her. “Peter, you stand here, on your sister’s other side.”
“Yes, Mother.” Anthea moved next to Cherry, who winked at her. As the guest of honour about to be presented to their outside guests, Cherry wore a magnificent gold-coloured gown that displayed a full creamy bosom framed with a spectacular diamond necklace; a huge glittering teardrop pendant pointing straight down into the valley underneath.
The first arrivals entered right on time, as Anthea’s father joined them. “Welcome, Lady Meckling, Miss Meckling – and Sir George,” the Countess greeted the first in line. “May I present my stepdaughter, Lady Madeline Durwent, and her husband, Mr Jonathan Durwent?”
The news of Cherry’s existence had galvanized the neighbourhood. None of the invitations had been turned down, and the guests barely managed to hide their avid curiosity with a veneer of well-bred indifference.
Anthea was conscious of curious and even pitying glances – only because she was relegated to the position of younger daughter, she hoped. There was not the slightest indication that news of Silas’s accusations had leaked out; everyone treated her exactly as before. Silas himself was standing a little apart, but was soon surrounded by a group interested in horses, betting, and racing. She was glad that he was not by her side in the receiving line. He did not know it yet, but he would never be a member of this family.
The guests all arrived within fifteen minutes of eight. Since dinner was not to begin until a quarter to nine – in case anybody was delayed – in the interval they mingled, sipped refreshments, and made small talk. Freed from the need to receive guests, Anthea and Cherry joined a group o
f neighbours who eagerly plied Cherry with questions and compliments. Anthea listened with amusement as they tried to catch Cherry out in some error that would prove her unworthy to move among their elevated circles.
“So you grew up near Norwich?” one of the guests, a Miss Thirkell, asked Cherry. “I believe Lord Pell has an estate in that area?”
“Yes, we are acquainted,” Cherry said carelessly. “I last saw him in July, when we spent a few days at Amberley, his sister’s home.”
“Amberley is said to be one of the most beautiful estates in the Lake country.”
“Yes, it is lovely, though I have not seen enough of the area for a fair comparison. I prefer the smaller estate of Amberley’s brother James, in Sussex, it is more intimate.”
“Your late mother’s younger sister married the Duke of Ottway,” another neighbour said, “that would make you a cousin to his heir, Lord Molyneux?”
“Indeed, an estimable and handsome young man.” Cherry smiled. “It was through his suggestion that my connection to the Desborough family was first discovered.”
“You know the Marquis personally?” The lady could not hide her surprise. Anthea suppressed a grin.
“I believe my sister Mary, Lady Mandrays, was acquainted with you in London?” Mrs. Fellowes asked Cherry. “She wrote me that she served on some charitable committee with you, though you were styled Mrs. Randolph at the time.”
“Indeed.” From the sudden shadow on Cherry’s face, her sister’s memory of Lady Mandrays was not a fond one. Her next words confirmed this impression. “I believe I recall your sister. Long face, with an overbite and a fondness for boiled sweets?”
“That is Mary to the life,” Miss Thirkell confirmed with glee. “She already threatened to grow sadly stout in girlhood.”
As the same could well be said of Mrs Fellowes, Anthea hastened to change the subject before that lady took a huff. “How is Lady Mandrays these days? Is she coming to visit you soon?”
“Maybe in the spring - ,” the reply was interrupted by a hubbub in the hall outside. A female voice of piercing quality made their well-bred guests fall silent and look at each other in delighted anticipation of something unusual about to happen. Lady Desborough frowned and began to move towards the doors.
“I will not be denied!” There was a hysterical tinge to the voice. Anthea felt Cherry’s hand lightly brush over her own, a silent warning to be alert. Surreptitiously she dug in her reticule for the ring. Heaven help her get rid of it at last…
A dishevelled but very attractive young woman in a dusty velvet cloak burst into the Salon and looked around frantically. On her heels followed an older female who looked stout enough to fell oak trees, and bore a grim expression on her face. Lord and Lady Desborough gaped at these unlikely intruders, while the butler tugged ineffectually at the older woman’s bulky arm.
The younger woman was in the very last stages of pregnancy, her stomach even more prominent than Cherry’s.
“There he is!” The crone pointed at Lord Winstanton accusingly. “We have found him at last!”
Her pregnant companion approached Silas, her hands stretched out in supplication, but she prudently stopped outside reach, perhaps put off by his icy stare.
“This is your babe I’m carrying! You promised to marry me!” she wailed. Her voice had a carrying timbre that must be audible over half the house. Anthea winced. The woman’s accents were those of the London middle classes.
Silas merely raised a supercilious brow. “My good woman, I have never seen you in my life. Whatever this farce means, it has nothing to do with me.”
“Seducer! Cad!” The young woman cried, and began to cry noisily into a large handkerchief.
“What is the meaning of this scene?” Lord Desborough asked sternly, fixing the older woman, who certainly seemed more likely to respond to a rational query. “Who are you?”
She stepped forward and sketched a small, clumsy curtsy. “I am Mrs. Ellen Fisher, my lord, and that is my poor daughter Jennifer. Lord Winstanton is the father of the child she carries, and yet he has not answered our appeals, though he had promised marriage to my poor child.”
“Utter nonsense!” Lady Winstanton protested, pale with outrage. “The very idea is absurd!”
“Silas, have you forgotten all that we were to each other?” The young woman raised a tragically suffering face to Lord Winstanton. “Must your babe grow up fatherless? Must I seek the river, dishonoured by your betrayal?”
“Throw them out,” Winstanton said contemptuously to Lord Desborough, not deigning to reply to the woman directly.
“Silas! How could you?!” Anthea cried, recognizing her cue. “How can you be so cruel and unfeeling to the mother of your child?”
He shrugged . “It is all lies.” As he spoke, his gaze on her sharpened. “Can it be that you-;”
The people standing next to Silas drew away, leaving him exposed and alone. Anthea wanted to smile, but this was not the moment.
“I don’t believe you!” Her own voice was nearly as loud as Miss Fisher’s. How good it felt to defy him. “How can you treat the poor woman so? Have you no heart or conscience at all?”
Her mother was signalling to her frantically, trying to silence her, to salvage her betrothal. No time to lose. Anthea hurled the emerald ring at Silas’s feet in the most melodramatic fashion she could contrive. Every eye in the room followed the movement of the glittering jewel as came to rest on the oriental carpet.
“Our engagement is ended, Lord Winstanton! I never wish to see you again – I have been monstrously mistaken in your character!”
Silas glared at her. If looks could kill …
“You will regret this, Anthea.” Ignoring the ring, he closed in on her, crowding her with his height and bulk. Anthea stiffened her spine.
“Anthea!” Lady Desborough cried. “Consider what you are doing!”
Anthea proudly raised her chin. “I cannot marry a man without honour or loyalty. Do not ask it of me.”
“Well, I think she is doing the right thing!” Jonathan Durwent stated. “I felt all along there was something not quite respectable about Winstanton.”
“Just what do you mean by that?” Silas snarled.
“What is to become of me and my babe?” The young woman cried loudly. “Silas, I appeal to you! Do not abandon us like that!”
Cherry went to her and put an arm around her shoulder. “Clearly there is nothing to be gained by appealing to a heart of stone,” she said loudly, with a contemptuous look at the Viscount. “But a scene like this is hardly the way to secure his support. Will you come with me?” She managed to steer both women outside, her husband right on her heels.
Silas’s face was pale with fury. Anthea could not help shivering when she met his burning eyes. “I shall wring your neck for this trick,” he hissed. Those close enough to hear fell back, shocked. He grasped her by the shoulders, began to shake her. Her teeth rattled, half in fear at the ferociousness before her.
The unpleasant sensation only lasted for a moment. Charles, dear Charles, with a movement too swift for her to follow, hit Silas on the chin with his left fist. Silas toppled over backwards as Charles offered her his arm for support.
The butler gingerly picked up the ring from the carpet, probably worried someone would step on it in this unseemly scuffle.
“Winstanton,” Lord Desborough said as Silas got up from the floor, his face more murderous than ever, “it would seem that your engagement to my daughter is at an end. It might be best if you departed sooner rather than later.” He had interposed himself between Silas and Charles, on whose sleeve Anthea had placed her white-gloved hand. It was clear to all observers that Lord Winstanton wanted to throw himself on Charles, who regarded him coolly, unrepentantly.
“This is yours, I believe, my lord.” Perkins pressed the ring into Silas’s hand.
“This is the worst humiliation I have suffered in my life,” Lady Winstanton pressed out, thin-lipped. “I shall also depart
of course. Your daughter has behaved very rashly, Lord Desborough. It may be for the best if she does not marry into our family.” She shot Anthea a poisonous look.
Anthea smiled back sweetly. “Oh, do stay for dinner at least.”
The older lady ignored her. “I shall go pack,” she said icily, “you may send up a tray.”
Silas looked around at his fellow guests, who one and all evaded his eyes, before turning once again to Anthea. “Very clever,” he sneered. “But don’t think you have won. When I’m done –,”
“This is not the correct way to address a lady,” Charles interrupted him. He bowed to Anthea. “I humbly beg your pardon for using violence in your presence, but such insolence was more than could be tolerated.”
“I do not mind.” She reached out with her hand for his. “A strong protector is always welcome.” Anthea deliberately turned her back on Silas. From the corner of her eyes she watched Peter and her father converge on him. They pulled him to a corner, and began to argue in low voices - what was there still to argue about? She was free. Free!
All around the blue salon, their guests were not slow to comment and dissect this unusual entertainment.
“Charles – what on earth possessed you?” Sir Christopher said. “The provocation was strong, but to use that left hook in a room full of ladies! This is entirely unlike you.”
“Indeed, a surprising development,” Dr Twombley commented. “I fear that you are right, young man. You are better suited to secular pursuits.”
Charles raised Anthea’s hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss on its back.
“I am free to give you an answer now,” she murmured under her breath. If he was not a fool, he would guess at its nature from her tone. “After dinner, if we ever get to eat.”
A smile broke out in those green eyes, like the sun rising over the sea.
“I cannot wait, my lady.”
She felt as happy and excited as she ever had in her life, answering his smile with her own. After a moment she recalled that she had just been cruelly deceived in her betrothed, and looked suitably grave again.
