by M C Beaton
“Now what’s this about?” the marquess asked Mira.
“Perhaps Drusilla, who was behind us, saw us driving in the opposite direction of the Park and reported it to Papa.”
His face cleared. “Oh, that is of no moment. There is nothing shameful about driving a lady about London in an open carriage. We have done nothing we ought not to do.”
But when he walked into the drawing room behind Mira, he stared about him, suddenly worried. Drusilla was there, as was Lord Charles. Lord Charles was looking stern, and Drusilla had an air of gleeful anticipation. Mr. and Mrs. Markham had stern faces.
“Pray be seated, my lord,” said Mr. Markham. “We have just received some distressing news.”
“If it is distressing news, I prefer to stand in order to hear it.”
“As you will. We have received a report that you went on a curricle race to Sands Hill and that Mira here, dressed in boys’ clothes, acted as your tiger.”
Before Mira could speak, the marquess said with chilly haughtiness, “And you believed this?”
“My lord, I could not do else. It was a most reliable source.”
“Namely?”
“Mrs. Gardener.”
A look of contemptuous amusement crossed the marquess’s handsome face. “Mrs. Gardener is the most malicious gossip in London.” He assumed an air of patient reason, like a weary parent talking to slightly backward children. “My attentions to Miss Mira have, you must be aware, caused a certain amount of jealousy. I have never heard a more ridiculous story.”
He received help from an unexpected quarter. Drusilla, sure now that the story was all lies, was still smarting over Mrs. Gardener’s description of how she, Drusilla, had been humiliated at the ball by assuming the marquess wished to dance with her when the invitation was for Mira.
“I never believed a word of it,” she said.
“But it is such an elaborate story,” said Mr. Markham, still plainly puzzled. He swung round to Mira. “Is there any truth in this rumor?”
“I wish there were,” said Mira ruefully, and the marquess could not help but admire her acting ability. “I should like that above all things, to masquerade as a tiger. But did you go on a race, my lord?”
“Yes, Miss Mira, and with a most recalcitrant tiger. My own had disappeared, and this urchin approached me in Grosvenor Square and offered his services. He was competent enough, but he brawled in the inn yard with one of the other tigers, and I had to cuff his ears.” He turned to Mr. Markham. “If you ask any of the gentlemen who were on that race with me, you will find they will support my story of the fighting tiger. Can you imagine your daughter fighting in an inn yard?”
Mr. Markham gave a reluctant smile. “My apologies. I should not have believed such a tale.”
“But where did you go this afternoon?” demanded Drusilla. “We did not see you in the Park.”
“I drove Miss Mira to Westminster Bridge instead to look at the river, a harmless occupation and quite conventional. Now I would like to take my leave.” Haughty disdain was back on the marquess’s face, alarming Mr. and Mrs. Markham, who had no wish to alienate this lord, who had been so kind as to bring the unruly Mira into fashion.
“Please, my lord,” said Mr. Markham, “you must understand our concern. The story seems fantastic now, but at the time it had the ring of truth because it was just the sort of thing Mira might once have done.”
Mrs. Markham felt that things were getting worse and that her husband was being unusually clumsy in even suggesting that Mira could be a hoyden.
The marquess appeared to relent. “I shall see you all at the opera tonight. I have promised Miss Mira a dance.”
But when he left them and reached the street, his face was grim and set. He drove straight to his mother’s. The dowager marchioness preferred to live in a little town house of her own in South Audley Street, claiming that she felt lost in the large family mansion in Grosvenor Square.
He mounted the stairs and entered his mother’s drawing room. She had been sleeping in an armchair by the fireplace, but came awake with a start when he marched into the room. He tossed his hat into a corner and sat down opposite her.
“Mama, that Gardener female saw fit to call on the Markhams and regale them with the story of Miss Mira being my tiger. It could have originated only from you or Lady Jansen.”
His mother sat up straight, blinking in alarm. “It was not I!” she exclaimed. “Would I, your mother, spread such a story about? Do you think I want you to marry a rowdy little chit like this Mira? And that is what you may have to do if this is believed.”
“I scotched it. But that means that Lady Jansen is the culprit.”
“Oh, but she is such a dear lady and the soul of discretion. I thought she would make you the ideal wife. No, no, one of the servants must have been listening at the door.”
“Which untrustworthy servant would that be?”
“I do not know. John, the footman? But he has been with you some years now, and your butler is above reproach.”
“Then we come back to Lady Jansen. I do not wish you to have anything further to do with that woman, nor do I wish you to introduce me to any more females. Should I choose to marry again, then I am perfectly capable of finding my own bride.”
“To be sure,” said his mother weakly, “I was only trying to help.”
“Don’t!”
The dowager marchioness looked sulky. “Your dear father would never have spoken to me in such a way. But, yes, yes, when Lady Jansen calls, I will not admit her.”
Lady Jansen prepared herself with great care for the opera that night. She felt sure the marquess would be there. The gossip she had spread would already be working. Little Mira Markham would be in such disgrace now that her parents, in order to protect the reputation of the elder, beautiful daughter, would be forced to return Mira to the country. She thought constantly of the marquess. He had looked on her with approval. When his mother had at first slyly suggested she might be a suitable bride for her son, she had been interested, but only because of the marquess’s wealth and title. But when she had met him, she had realized that here was the man of her dreams. Her passionate and voluptuous nature, which had never been allowed to blossom in an arranged marriage or among the strict rules and taboos and shibboleths of London society, smoldered away dangerously. She had never taken a lover as had some other widows.
Her opera gown of gold tissue, she thought, lent her a stately but seductive air. She turned this way and that before the long glass, trying to shrug off a bright little image of Mira. The girl was positively plain with those Slavic cheekbones.
She summoned her companion, one of those sad, indigent females who eke out an existence chaperoning such as Lady Jansen. Her box, Lady Jansen knew, faced that of the marquess across the opera house. She was sure her golden gown and diamond tiara would catch his eye.
As she had little interest in the music and liked to make an entrance, she planned to arrive at the first interval, unaware that her poor companion was looking forward so much to hearing Catalini sing and that music was the one consolation in her rather miserable existence. Her name was Mrs. Anderson, the Mrs. being a courtesy title, for Mrs. Anderson was in her forties and had never married, the fate of so many of little looks and less dowry.
That Mrs. Anderson, who was small and mousy, was capable of hate would have surprised Lady Jansen very much, but Mrs. Anderson did hate her employer for the many little indignities and cruelties she was subjected to. She was wearing a gown that Lady Jansen had grown tired of. It was a merino gown of red-and-white stripes, which Mrs. Anderson considered vulgar but wore because the material was good, and also it was warm.
Mrs. Anderson knew all about Lady Jansen’s hope of snaring this marquess and had been with her on calls that day when she had set out to ruin the reputation of some chit called Mira Markham. Mrs. Anderson did hope that Mira Markham had somehow survived the damage done to her reputation, for she was eager to see this spirited girl
who dressed as a boy and went on races. Mrs. Anderson admired spirit, having very little of that commodity herself.
They arrived at the opera house exactly in time for the first interval. Mrs. Anderson sat down quietly at the back of the box, blinking a little in the glare of lights from the huge chandelier that hung in the middle of the theater.
Lady Jansen sat waiting impatiently for callers. After a few moments she took out a pair of opera glasses and leveled them on the marquess’s box. It was empty. She swung it along the boxes and then stiffened. The marquess was in the Markhams’ box. She could just make out his golden head above the press of men crowding around the Markham sisters. They all seemed to be laughing a lot.
She slowly lowered the glasses at the end of the interval, for as the callers left, she could see Mira quite clearly. What had happened? Then she sat back and forced herself to be patient. The gossip, which usually spread like wildfire, had obviously not reached the Markham parents yet.
The opera began again, and she fidgeted impatiently while little Mrs. Anderson gave her soul up to the music.
The next interval was no better. This time she saw the marquess rise and leave his box only to reappear in the Markhams’ box. She swung her glasses angrily about the other boxes until she located that famous gossip, Mrs. Gardener. Good. It was only a matter of time.
For his part the marquess had made a very amusing story about the “lie” about himself and Mira. He then suggested to the other callers in the Markhams’ box that they all invent some really horrendous lie about Mrs. Gardener and spread it about, and the laughter rose loudly when Mira offered that they suggest that Mrs. Gardener’s magnificent head of white hair was actually a wig and dare people to take tugs at it.
And all the while Mira laughed and joked, she had a dismal awareness that she was telling lies. Her green eyes flew from time to time to the marquess’s face, seeking reassurance, but he looked blandly back, and she did not know that he was well aware that the real source of the gossip was sitting in the opera house at that very moment.
Lady Jansen fantasized about the marquess all through the last act. He had not called at her box because he did not know she was present, or so she persuaded herself. She should have arrived at the beginning of the performance. But there was always the opera ball. He would ask her to dance. She would float in his arms. She would fascinate him with her conversation, surely so mature and wise compared to that of Mira Markham. Like most rather stupid, humorless, and selfish people, Lady Jansen prided herself on her own wisdom and sound good sense. Men did not like a bluestocking, admittedly, but she was firmly convinced that a good figure and gentlewomanly wisdom were a nigh irresistible combination.
She was relieved when the “tiresome” performance was over and one of the finest voices in the whole of Britain and Europe was finally silent.
Ordering Mrs. Anderson curtly to carry her fan and shawl, she made her way to the ballroom.
To her annoyance the first dance was claimed by some elderly colonel who bored her with military matters when they met during the figure of the dance. During the promenade she reminded him gently that talk of wars and battles was not suitable for gentle ears, to which the elderly colonel glared at her and said, “Forgot. Beg pardon. Trouble is, I was talking to a vastly intelligent girl the other night, Miss Mira Markham. Forgot the rest of you were dim as parish lamps.”
With irritation coloring her cheeks Lady Jansen sat down again. But her heart surged as the marquess approached her and asked her to dance. And it was the waltz. For a few moments she was so wrapped up in rapturous dreams of being the next Marchioness of Grantley that it was with a start she realized he was actually talking to her. “Why did you spread that gossip about Mira Markham?” he was asking.
Her eyes flickered uneasily. Useless to deny it. Mrs. Gardener would say firmly that she had been the source. She manufactured a light laugh. “It was too amusing an on-dit, my lord, and Mira Markham has already been socially damned.”
“I had your word you would not gossip,” he said roundly. “Fortunately no one believes the gossip. My mother wishes you to cease calling on her. You nearly ruined the reputation of one young lady.”
She could not think what to say. She felt absolutely wretched. Misery made her movements wooden. He did not promenade with her, but as soon as the waltz was finished turned and walked abruptly away.
Then she found herself confronted by a very angry Mrs. Gardener. “How cruel of you to tell me such lies,” cried Mrs. Gardener in her shrill, piercing voice. And then over her shoulder Lady Jansen saw that the dowager marchioness of Grantley had arrived.
“I did not lie,” she said. “Come with me and hear the truth from his own mother.” Not only did Mrs. Gardener follow her to where the marchioness sat but a curious little group of fellow gossipmongers tagged along as well.
Lady Jansen confronted the elderly dowager marchioness. “Do tell Mrs. Gardener, dear Marchioness, that your son did admit to going on a curricle race with Mira Markham as his tiger.”
It was between dances. Her voice carried. Suddenly it seemed as if everyone was listening avidly. The dowager’s old voice was as clear as a bell. “Nonsense,” she said. “I have never heard such a farrago of lies. Be off with you. Our friendship is at an end.” She looked about her and shook her head. “Poor woman. It’s the laudanum, you know. Addles the wits.”
Mrs. Anderson, standing behind her employer, felt a surge of pure glee. Heads were bent, whispering and whispering. Mira Markham was beginning to appear in the eyes of society as a fascinating figure. After all, she was someone who had excited enough jealousy in Lady Jansen’s bosom to make that normally staid lady tell terrible lies about her. Debutantes eyed Mira’s hitherto despised cheekbones and decided to throw away their wax pads and perhaps go on the fashionable diet of steak, potatoes, and vinegar.
The marquess was beginning to feel sorry for Lady Jansen. He felt he had been too hard on her. It had, after all, been a delicious piece of gossip that Lady Jansen had innocently repeated. All society gossiped, and it was his own fault for having told his mother about Mira in front of a lady to whom he had been newly introduced. That Lady Jansen had used the gossip to try to ruin Mira was a Gothic idea. One had only to look at her. Such a respectable and sensible lady could not stoop to such depths. And much as the marquess, like everyone else, despised Mrs. Gardener, it was still very unfair to damn the woman so. After a shamed Lady Jansen had resumed her seat, the marquess joined his mother. “I fear I have been too harsh on Lady Jansen. I presented her with an irresistible piece of gossip.”
“Well, you have shamed her in public, and so have I,” said his mother, “and I do not feel comfortable about it at all.”
The marquess made up his mind. “I shall take her in to supper and look so well pleased with her that society will begin to think it was all a joke.”
Mira danced with partner after partner but never with either Charles or the marquess. The one would have enchanted her and the other reassured her, she thought, feeling suddenly friendless. But the marquess would no doubt take her up for the supper dance, and then they would eat together and chat away, and she would bask in the envy of less fortunate debutantes and be able to forget about Charles for just a little.
When the supper dance was announced, she waited hopefully, but Charles asked Drusilla, and to her amazement the marquess approached that stately lady whom the gossipmongers had told her had been the real source of the gossip against her, that Lady Jansen, and took her onto the floor. She forced a smile on her face when elderly Colonel Chalmers bowed before her. “I don’t see why the young fellow should have all the fun,” he said. Mira liked the colonel and so forced herself to dance prettily and to entertain the old boy so well during supper that she succeeded in looking as if she did not have a care in the world.
The marquess, for his part, was enjoying the undemanding company of a grateful Lady Jansen. She was experienced enough to draw him out and get him to talk about
himself and his estates. She appeared to have a great knowledge of agriculture, a subject she actually loathed but quickly divined was close to the marquess’s heart. The marquess gallantly apologized for having been so rude to her, saying that he should have known a lady of such good nature and good sense would never deliberately set out to destroy the reputation of a “little girl” like Mira.
But the evening for Mira was not a total disaster, for Charles said he had secured permission to take her driving. She barely slept that night, wrapped up in rosy dreams of soon being alone with Charles as in the old days.
How long the next day seemed before that precious drive! Gentlemen she had danced with the night before called to pay their respects.
She fussed over her dress and kept running to the window to look anxiously at the sky, which was cloudy and overcast. An irritating little wind was blowing straw along the street.
When it was time to descend to the drawing room, she felt quite exhausted with lack of sleep and the effort of trying on one outfit after the other. Charles looked incredibly remote and handsome. She could feel her newfound confidence ebbing. She tried to remember what the marquess had said about moral courage and not focus on petty things, like how the damp air would make her wretched hair even more frizzy.
