by M C Beaton
And if you wonder if these gentlemen had nothing better to do with their time, the answer is that they had not.
They were absentee landlords, caring neither for tenants nor livestock. They did not belong to the Corinthian set, neither boxed nor fenced nor shot nor hunted. They spent most of the day polishing up their bon mots for the evening. The fun was to put some cove or mott down in order to put oneself up, as the latest slang had it. They drank too much, had weak digestions, and hated everybody.
They gambled a great deal and hardly ever won. They dropped names and nicknames of the great and famous, hoping thereby to gain some reflected glory. They heartily despised all military men since any man fighting for his country made them feel obscurely guilty.
Gambling fever gripped the whole of society and the dandy set in particular. At White’s, Boodle’s and Brooks’s in St James’s Street, it was nothing for a gentleman to lose £30,000 or £40,000 in a single evening. Raggett, the proprietor of White’s, used to sit up with the gamblers all through the night, sending his servants to bed, so that he could sweep the carpets himself in the early hours of the morning to retrieve the gold carelessly scattered on the floor.
To practise economy was to be out of fashion, no gentleman would dream of pausing to consider it. They were hell bent on living high in spite of the bailiffs waiting at the door and the post-obit bills stuffed out of sight in the ormolu writing-cabinet.
A great deal of time and money also went on clothes and grooming. Beau Brummell spent some five hours every morning at his toilet. First he bathed in milk, eau de cologne and water, then he spent an hour under the ministrations of his hairdresser whose job it was to tease his thin light brown hair into artistic curls, and then another two hours were spent ‘creasing down’ his starched cravat.
Although the seven gentlemen who were plotting Minerva’s downfall hardly represented the Pink of the Ton, they certainly represented all the worst traits of fashionable society.
And so the armies were massing against Minerva who slept peacefully, untroubled by bad dreams or thoughts of her future.
Lady Godolphin had privately vowed to write to the vicar the following morning, asking that gentleman to take Minerva home. It was a pity the girl was such a prude, because she was quite beautiful. But any miss with half Minerva’s looks and some town bronze had more hope of succeeding. Lady Godolphin had a soft spot for Charles Armitage, having known him when he was a wild young man. She was anxious to help him so long as it did not mean parting with too much of her own money.
She had spent quite enough already on Minerva’s wardrobe and now there seemed little hope that she would ever get any of it back. When she raised her old head from her paint-smeared pillow the following morning, Lady Godolphin began to think about Colonel Brian. Now there was a man! But Minerva would soon find out he was married, if she had not already, and would be bound to spoil sport. By the time her ladyship was dressed and had put a new mask of paint over the old and had donned a new flaxen wig which had arrived only that morning, she was more than ever convinced that she must speed Minerva on her way.
The first inkling she had that life had taken a strange turn was when she found her butler, Mice, in the hall directing footmen to find vases for various pretty bunches of flowers.
‘Where did all the buckets come from, Mice?’ demanded her ladyship. Correctly interpreting buckets as bouquets, Mice bowed gravely and said they were for Miss Armitage. Miss Armitage was in the Green Saloon, reading the cards.
‘Follicles,’ breathed Lady Godolphin. ‘She’s bin spending good money sending ’em to herself.’
Minerva arose at Lady Godolphin’s entrance.
She was looking extremely fresh and pretty in a cambric high gown covered with a Spanish robe of pea-green muslin. Her hair was dressed in the ‘Roman’ style, being caught up in a knot on the top of her head with falls of light ringlets.
In her hand were a number of cards. ‘From your admirers?’ said Lady Godolphin in a voice which implied they were no such thing. ‘Let me see them!’
Minerva handed them over.
Quickly Lady Godolphin flipped through the cards, her eyebrows vanishing under her flaxen wig in surprise. They were obviously genuine.
‘God’s Hounds!’ she said. ‘Who have we here! Bryce, Blenkinsop, Chumley, Dubois, Barding, Yarwood, and the moody Mr Fresne! Such infusions! Well, well, well. It looks as if you have taken after all. What a set of rattles … although Chumley’s fortune and Fresne’s property are not to be sneezed at.
‘Now, what can have brought this about? T’was not your Methodist manners. Ah, I have it! Lord Sylvester Comfrey. He sets the fashion.’
‘I do not wish to seem immodest,’ said Minerva, ‘but perhaps I myself may have done a little to attract these … ’
‘Follicles! Mark my words, it’s Comfrey. He’s always playing tricks. Once he returned from the country wearing his father’s old green plush game coat and he needs must go and tell that idiot Chumley that it’s all the rage. Chumley tells the whole of St James’s and soon the whole lot of ’em are parading around in the most horrible game coats until they find it’s all a hum and Lord Sylvester is his usual tailored self in Bath superfine. Did Comfrey send you flowers?’
Minerva blushed, but said nothing.
‘No. I didn’t s’pose so,’ said Lady Godolphin, answering her own question. ‘Now, let me consult our appointments …’
Minerva turned away, wishing she did not blush so easily. A bouquet of flowers had arrived, accompanied by an unsigned letter, but she was sure it was from Lord Sylvester. Who else would have sent her such an outrageous poem?
The note hoped that she had recovered from the ‘rigours of the dance’. Then came the poem. It went:
‘Why blush, dear girl, pray tell me why?
You need not, I can prove it;
For tho’ your garter met my eye
My thoughts were far above it.’
On the other hand, he could surely not have meant anything scandalous, thought Minerva as her cheeks cooled. It was perhaps the tone of her own mind that was impure. ‘My thoughts were far above it’ surely meant that his lordship’s thoughts were on higher things. Perhaps the high moral tone she had set had influenced his rakish soul. It was wrong to think badly of people, Minerva chided herself. He had saved her from a very embarrassing situation and … and … he had cast himself in the role of brother.
With these comforting thoughts, she was able to turn and face Lady Godolphin calmly.
‘We’ve nothing much here,’ said her ladyship, thumbing through the card rack, ‘until this evening. Ball in the garden of the Russian Embassy. Countess Lieven requests.’
‘Do we have to go?’ asked Minerva, rather timidly. She thought nervously of whispers behind hands and staring eyes.
‘Go! Of course we have to go. The Countess Lieven is more important than the Prince Regent. Do you know what she says? She says, “It is not fashionable where I am not,” and that’s a pretty accurate summing up of the situation. She’s one of the most important leaders of the ton.’ Lady Godolphin pronounced ton, not in the French manner, but as if describing a ton of coals.
Lady Godolphin was about to lecture Minerva again on the merits of diplomatic speech when Lord Chumley was announced. Accompanying him were Mr Bryce, Mr Blenkinsop, and Mr Dubois.
Minerva threw an anxious look at Lady Godolphin who was grimacing quite horribly and set herself to please. But as Lady Godolphin listened to the gentlemen’s conversation, she realized in amazement that they were more moralizing and prosy than Minerva had been. Lord Chumley was bemoaning the evils of gambling, Mr Silas Dubois was holding forth on the evils of drink, Mr Blenkinsop became quite impassioned over the fall in church attendance, and Mr Bryce was positively howling for prison reform. Minerva listened quietly but neither agreed nor disagreed.
Lady Godolphin was further startled by the arrival of the Dandy Set in the shapes of Lord Barding, Sir Peter Yarwood and Mr Hug
h Fresne. All at once the Green Saloon seemed to be overflowing with moralizing gentlemen.
Was the girl never happy? thought Lady Godolphin crossly. She would have expected Minerva to be in raptures over all this saintly conversation, but Minerva was becoming increasingly distressed and embarrassed.
‘Lord Sylvester Comfrey,’ announced Mice from the door.
Startled faces turned in his lordship’s direction.
Lord Sylvester put up his quizzing glass and surveyed the room.
‘Now what’s he up to?’ thought Lady Godolphin as Lord Sylvester let his glass fall and walked over and made her an elegant bow.
‘I am come to take Miss Armitage driving,’ he said with a hint of laughter in his voice.
‘I say,’ expostulated Lord Barding, his corsets creaking like the ancient timbers of a prison hulk, ‘Miss Armitage don’t want to go with a rattle like you.’
‘And how is Lady Barding?’ asked Lord Sylvester sweetly. ‘And all the little Bardings? And Lady Yarwood?’ he went on, turning slowly and looking down on the fuming Sir Peter. ‘Not coming to Town again? Tut, tut! The way you wicked gentlemen keep your wives buried in the country.’
Lord Barding and Sir Peter Yarwood scowled by way of reply. They had hoped to charm Minerva before she found out they were wed. Now they were labouring under a heavy handicap. The bet could not stand. They both turned their angry gaze from Lord Sylvester to where their last hope, Mr Hugh Fresne, sat smouldering Byronically by the fireplace. But Mr Fresne was convinced that Minerva must be sighing over the romantic picture he presented, and thus he was staring intensely into the fireplace so that he should show his profile to its best advantage.
The rival camp prodded their white hope, Lord Chumley, into action.
‘Won’t do, Comfrey,’ he said. ‘Miss Armitage would prefer to go driving with me. And I’ll tell you why. ‘Cos Miss Armitage is a high-minded gel, that’s why. We was discussing the miseries brought about by gambling ’fore you came in. Now, since you play deep, Comfrey, I feel sure the tone of this conversation would be —’
He trailed off under Lord Sylvester’s amazed stare.
Lord Sylvester turned his back on Lord Chumley, affording that gentleman an excellent view of Weston’s tailoring at its best.
‘Miss Armitage,’ he said. ‘I would consider myself the happiest of men if you would honour me with your company.’
Lady Godolphin’s small, pale blue eyes darted hither and thither, from the self-satisfied look on the faces of Minerva’s entourage – for surely she would reject Comfrey – to Minerva herself, who was studying the pattern of the carpet.
Minerva raised her eyes. ‘I am delighted to accept your kind invitation,’ she said. There was a sound of several breaths being indrawn in disbelief.
Lady Godolphin’s eyes sparkled. Comfrey was simply amusing himself. But she thought that Minerva had made a very clever strategical move.
Some ten minutes later Lord Sylvester picked up the reins, and his magnificent bays, one of which Minerva recognized as having once belonged to her father, set off at a smart pace.
He looked down at his companion. Minerva’s face was shaded by a pretty chip straw bonnet.
‘Now why,’ mused his lordship aloud, ‘did you decide to favour me with the honour of your company?’
Silence.
‘After all, I gather the gentlemen share your views.’
‘They appeared to do so,’ said Minerva in a low voice.
‘Odso! You shock me profoundly. Can it be that the gentlemen were not sincere?’
‘You know they were not.’
‘Indeed. I thought perhaps you had reformed them.’
‘I think they are out to make a fool of me.’
‘You have done that to yourself … very ably.’
‘My lord, you are too harsh,’ said Minerva furiously.
‘I may have been undiplomatic. But I was merely trying to keep my standards amongst a group of people who appear to have none.’
‘Highly commendable. But it was perhaps not necessary for you to be so voluble. We do, believe it or not, have some genuine reformers amongst our frivolous ranks. But they confine reforming to the areas in which it will do most good and where their voices will be heard. The House of Commons, for example. They quite rightly use the uncaring members of society merely as a source to raise funds for their projects. Now let us take the sad case of Miss Armitage. You wish to marry well so that you may provide for your family. Charity begins at home. You must keep that in mind. It is a sad fact, but if you wish to entrap a suitor with money, then you will need to be as other debutantes. You will need to flirt, to charm, and above all, to please.’
‘It is no use now,’ said Minerva wretchedly. ‘I am socially ruined.’
‘Ah, no. If you will enlist my help, I will put it about that you were playing a very great joke. They will never dare admit that they did not see through it. I am powerful enough to bring you into fashion almost by my attention alone …’
‘You are arrogant.’
‘No. I have a great deal of common sense.”
‘What if I do not wish your attentions?’ said Minerva, rather pettishly.
‘They should not trouble you in the least since you know them to be helpful rather than serious. Think about it while I go over the characters of your latest courtiers. There is a party of four and a party of three. The four are Bryce, Blenkinsop, Chumley and Dubois. They belong neither to the Dandy Set nor the Corinthians because they affect the worst of the manners of both. They are neither very good, nor very bad … with one exception.’
‘And that is?’
‘Mr Silas Dubois. There are various unsavoury stories attached to his name. Nothing can be proved against him. On the other hand, nothing can be said to his credit, except that he is an expert shot, one of the best in England, I believe. He attaches himself always to a group of weak men and urges them on to folly.
‘The party of three aspire to the Dandy Set. That is Barding, Yarwood and Fresne. It was quite amazing to see them present a united front. Usually they quarrel quite dreadfully. Now, I have made you a very civil offer. Have you considered? Do you wish my help?’
Minerva tilted up her head and studied his profile from under the brim of her hat. She felt that his very elegance made him untrustworthy. Even his face had a manicured look; the heavy-lidded eyes, the thin straight nose, the beautifully chiselled mouth, the square chin so closely shaved that not a suggestion or shadow of any stubble showed.
His hair was curled and arranged to complement the set of his curly brimmed beaver which he wore at an angle. His shirt points were moderately high, and his cravat was a intricate piece of white sculpture. His long hands holding the reins were encased in fine kid gloves. Life seemed to amuse him. She had a longing to make him angry, to upset him as much as he upset her.
‘Do you care deeply for anything?’ she asked. ‘Apart from your clothes, that is?’
One green eye slid round towards her.
‘I am sorry if I have offended your sensibilities with my criticism,’ he said. ‘Obviously you feel a desire to hit back and any minute now you are going to accuse me of being a Dandy. I see nothing wrong in presenting oneself at one’s best. Now, if, for example, I painted my face and wore my hair like the feathers of a Friesland hen, pinched myself in the middle and padded out my chest, smelled like a civet cat, and wore fixed spurs in the drawing room so that I walked like a felon, then I should see room for reform. Now that is one way to find if Barding, Yarwood and Fresne are honest in their attentions.
‘Tell ’em you can’t stand Dandies. You’ll have an opportunity tonight. I assume you are going to the Countess Lieven’s ball?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then try it. You have begged my question again. Do you wish my help?’
Minerva hesitated. They were turning in at the gates of the Park. Sun slanted in great shafts through the light green of the trees and glinted on varnished panels of carr
iages, on jewels, and painted faces, on glistening horses and silver harness. Fashionables who were not riding walked up and down. A faint haze of dust sent up by the carriage wheels hung in the afternoon air.
Minerva came to a decision. Her family must come first. She must marry and marry well. And so she must repair immediately the damage done to her reputation.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Splendid,’ he said lightly.
‘Has it not occurred to you that the gentlemen who called on me might be in earnest?’ asked Minerva.
‘No. It had not. But on the other hand, who knows? Your beauty may have reformed them.’
Now if you think you do not suffer from any personal vanity whatever - and Minerva was convinced she did not – then it is very hard to recognize the beast when it crops up.
And so, as Minerva became increasingly aware of a few admiring glances cast in her direction, and she turned his last remark over in her mind, she began to chastise herself for having been so hard on the gentlemen who had called on her.
The fact that she might have been instrumental in bringing some reform into the decadent souls of at least seven members of society began to take root and flourish.
She would certainly accept Lord Sylvester’s offer and try to become fashionable and marry well. But perhaps she could also perform some good service along the way.
Then her conscience gave a nasty twinge. Annabelle would not have concerned herself with moralizing matters like these. Pretty, frivolous Annabelle would have charmed and pleased, and would have been engaged to a rich man before the Season was two weeks old.
Lord Sylvester was giving his full attention to negotiating his team through the press of traffic. Minerva wondered what Annabelle was doing and if she ever heard from Guy Wentwater.
Annabelle Armitage viciously sliced the tops of some thistles by the roadside with a hazel switch, and envied Minerva from the bottom of her heart. While Minerva was driving in Hyde Park, Annabelle was on her way to read to Lady Wentwater.
