by Laura London
Of course I should have known. I don’t know habeas corpus from corpus crumbcake, but I should have recognized the line about Admiral Barfreston making a verbal provision for us as precisely the type of courteous pretense one maintains to spare the sensitive pride of a pensioner. Admiral Barfreston had indeed been vague in the last few years of his life. My sisters and I had disappeared behind the foggy visions of sea battles and typhoons.
Anyone with any courage would have gone immediately to her room, packed her cases, and marched to the nearest workhouse, sisters in hand. Vive cowardice! I had been to a workhouse once on a “mission of mercy” with the vicar. The bleak, lifeless faces of the inmates had told a story more eloquent than any pamphleteer’s words. The public houses of good works were colonies for the living dead, the hopeless, the forsaken. Never would I condemn my happy little sisters to such a life. And I had recently learned the horrors of setting out unprotected, facing the night streets with all the human predators who prowled there. Probably what I should do was look for some kind of work. As a governess? A nursemaid? Probably what I would do was go on as before; pretending belief in the fabrication that Lord Dearborne was under an obligation to support me, that I wasn’t just another battening freeloader. Knowing now how fully I was under obligation to Lord Dearborne should have made me all the more grateful to him. It should have, but it didn’t. It is hard to feel anything fonder than the utmost pique for a man who persists in treating you (at his most mellow) like a poison-ivy patch.
Whatever anyone else thought of his coldness to me, they said nothing about it. Perhaps they all simply assumed that it was consonant with his usual arrogance, though I noticed Christopher regarding me sharply several times in the evening when the household sat together to dine on Lady Peterby’s lace-clothed teak table. Morbidly afraid of revealing my feelings for Lord Dearborne, I adopted a light, Lizzie’s-atop-the-world attitude toward life, letting everyone see that there was nothing bothering me. I must have overplayed it because Mrs. Goodbody, Christopher, Christa, and Caro came around separately and in pairs to ask me what in the name of heaven had gotten into me. Life was becoming very confusing. I was keeping so many secrets from so many people that I had to think carefully each time I opened my mouth.
Whenever I could, I escaped from painful adult reality to a world of make-believe with the twins, with their fantastic imaginations and energetic games. On one beautifully alive morning we returned from our lessons to toss our books on a garden bench, tuck our skirts into the tops of our underslips to shorten them to knee length, and race around the formal gardens chasing Lady Peterby’s arrogant yard fowl. Black swans, peacocks, and harlequin ducks scattered and barked viciously at our plebeian attack. When we did get close enough, we pulled out tail feathers until we had enough to make colorful plume crowns to decorate our hair, like the American Indians. Whooping and singing, we pretended to be brave warriors, hunters of wild beasts, and enemies of British settlers. We took turns capturing and bringing one another, struggling, to our imaginary village of hide huts. Being the fastest runner, I was the hardest to catch, but in relays Caro and Christa wore me down and dragged me, pleading for mercy between gasps of laughter, to a shallow lily pond where they declared solemnly that they were to drown me. One shove and I was sitting waist deep in water, feathers flopping in my face and faint with mirth.
Now if I had gone into the house for luncheon directly after lessons, I would have known that Lord Lesley Peterby had arrived from London with a determined Lady Catherine in tow. However, since I had not gone into the house, it was a small shock to me when Lady Catherine, Lord Dearborne, Christopher, and Lord Lesley came walking around the curve of the brick wall surrounding the herb garden. I probably would have been embarrassed at being discovered in a lily pond, dripping with moss and leaves, were it not for the flabbergasted look that Lady Catherine gave me. Her face was such a study of round-eyed disbelief that it set me off into peals again. Shaking helplessly, I staggered to my feet and tottered over to mischievously scatter a few droplets of water from my drenched skirts onto Lady Catherine’s immaculate gown.
“I vow, the chit’s drunk,” gasped Lady Catherine.
Indeed, I felt drunk. Or at least light-headed from laughter. “Oh, Lady Catherine, Lady Catherine, I’m intoxicated with life. Have some!” I chirped, waltzing merrily over to send another tiny shower her way.
I flitted over to Christopher. “Oops! Clumsy little me! I must have tripped on my hem.” I pressed myself full length against Christopher’s tailored finery, leaving wet splotches on his white leather breeches and linen shirt. I looked up into his brown eyes for a responsive smile but saw that his appreciative gaze, instead of meeting mine, was preoccupied with another part of my person. A quick glance around revealed that the other gentlemen present were similarly engaged. Looking down, I saw that my waterlogged gown was clinging tightly to my figure. I reached out a muddy fist to chuck Sir Lesley under the chin. “I don’t know what you’re staring at. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” Then on tiptoe, I plucked a limp, bedraggled peacock feather from my sodden curls and threaded it through Lord Dearborne’s buttonhole. “There,” I said, patting his lapel. “I think this belongs to you, it must have fallen out of your tail.”
I turned to my sisters. “Come, girls,” I said, holding out my arms to them. “Assist me to my boudoir. I fear my attire is too fashionable for this particular company.” I was laughing so hard I could not trust my legs to carry me; the twins came in handy as I took my leave.
Halfway up the grand stone staircase, we met Mrs. Goodbody, who hustled me into my bedroom, clucking that I would catch my death in cold. After the twins and I had our lunch on gleaming silver trays in the old nursery (the same one where my mother had once taught the Peterby daughters), I took a long, luxurious afternoon nap and awoke feeling depressed as Hades. There, on the cherrywood étagère next to the empty limestone fireplace, was the box of old books, maps, and naval paraphernalia that had been so precious to Admiral Barfreston. I went over to paw through them, stopping to polish the tarnished brass instruments with loving care. The maps were interesting. Some were crazily outdated, a glimpse into another world, with hand-drawn pictures of hideous dragons, griffins, and demons in the margins. I decided to take the box into Mudbury to show the vicar. He would appreciate the contents.
I was tucking away an astrolabe, or some such thing, when a buxom parlor maid came in to inform me that dinner would be an hour early tonight, so I’d best start making ready. She added that the Macreadys were to join us; dinner had been moved up to accommodate the squire, who stolidly kept country hours. In fact, before I had finished dressing, I could hear voices in the entrance hall and knew the company had arrived. I was in no mood to enter the parlor alone, after the way I had misbehaved that afternoon. Still, whenever I thought of how Lady Catherine had looked with her eyes jumping from their sockets, I would almost start to laugh again! I had been dreadful and not even ashamed at the way my dress clung to me. But when I am gripped by the giggles, there is nothing under our bold sun that can inhibit me.
I finished my preparations and knocked on Lady Peterby’s door to ask if I could accompany her down the stairs.
“How good of you, Elizabeth. I wish all the young people had your consideration. It is difficult for me to navigate, you know.”
I flushed and admitted, “I’m not really as considerate as you think, Lady Peterby. I came to walk downstairs with you because I’m shy of entering the drawing room by myself.”
I received a laugh and a quick hug in reply. “A moment, dear,” said Lady Peterby, patting the seat of the brocade settee invitingly. “I think that we must talk, just a little.”
Obediently, I sat down next to her. Lady Peterby regarded her fingertips reflectively and then turned to look approvingly at me.
“How lovely you are tonight. Well, if you still blush at a compliment from an old lady then the London beaux must be a great deal tamer than they were in my day! Ahem
, in fact it is about the London beaux that I wanted to talk to you. Without doubt Anne is a sweet creature and the most well-meaning girl, but she is really too young to have the charge of chaperoning you. Something has upset you.”
Lord, is my face as translucent as a window? I shook my head in hasty denial.
“No, no, my dear, do not deny it. I assure you that I have neither the right nor the intention of prying into things that you would not have me know. However, I shall tell you this. Whatever the world may say, I still retain some control over my tempestuous offspring. If he is the source of your distress, I beg you will confide in me because I would not for the world have you plagued by him.” She paused to pat my hand and smile again. “I see you are surprised. You think that I’ve let my partiality blind me to Lesley’s faults. He is a wild, unstable boy, I know, bad-tempered, impetuous, and selfish. But beneath that rake-hell, hedonistic crust is intelligence and a great deal of honesty. Adulthood comes more easily to some.”
You mean adultery comes more easily to some, I thought. But for all that I was able to assure her that her son was not the source of my distress. In truth, if it hadn’t been for Lord Lesley’s intervention that night in the slums, might I now be under even greater distress?
“Then it is Nicky.” It was a simple statement and it was the simple truth. “You’ve fallen in love with him, haven’t you? I was afraid that might happen. It seems to be a natural consequence of putting any female in contact with him. The boy was always far too easy on the eyes for the comfort of everyone concerned, including himself. And combine that with a set of the most engaging manners, an old and respected title, and a vulgarly large fortune and you will see a far less steady boy than Nicky ruined before he can even appreciate what he has. For all that, though, there’s a great deal of sweetness in Nicky, if only someone would encourage him to show it. But what can you expect when the women that he spends most of his leisure with are high-born hussies like Lady Catherine?”
I gave a watery giggle. Probably, had not Lady Peterby’s top-lofty dresser come in at that moment to say Lord Peterby desired speech with his mama, I would have then unburdened myself thankfully before this kindly, sympathetic audience. I had barely time to straighten up before Lord Peterby strode into the room, favoring my sodden countenance with a brief, irritable glance, and said, “Well, don’t look with daggered eyes at me, Maman. I didn’t make her cry!”
“Nonsense. She’s not crying. There was a bit of dust in her eye. And you might do me the courtesy of knocking instead of sweeping into the room like a prizefighter lurching into the ring. Just because you will persist in hobnobbing with the horrid fellowship does not give you leave to imitate their manners in this house. You might remember that you were at least born a gentleman. And I want Lady Catherine out of this house by tomorrow afternoon. She is a disgrace to the good name she bears. I will not have you lodging your whores in my home.”
Whew! I took one scared peep at Lord Peterby and was surprised to see an ironic grin on his saturnine countenance. He bowed in full court style to his mama. “As you wish,” he replied cordially. Much as I relished hearing one of society’s dangerous blades being chewed out by his mother, I’m still glad it was she and not I who told him off. It’s cornplants to cobwebs he would have blacked my eye.
Dinner went as well as could be expected under the circumstances. I could see that Lady Peterby was trying to keep me out of as much undesirable company as possible, so I was seated between Christopher and Jeffrey Macready, who leaned over me to talk to each other of sport and horses. Anyone in Christopher’s set was a safe enough companion for me. It’s not that they were so virtuous; but Christopher was so ready to sport canvas in my defense, and his friends had developed a healthy respect for his robust right.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t far enough away from Lady Catherine (to be honest, nothing under twenty miles would be far enough away) to avoid hearing her salacious flirtation with Lord Dearborne. The food turned to coal dust in my mouth. Everything Lady Peterby and Mrs. Goodbody said about her was right. She was a clever, scheming, manhunting coquette. And I wished fervently that I could be just like her.
Whatever fault the good ladies Peterby and Goodbody might find with Lady Catherine, the marquis didn’t seem to share their negative views. He listened to her suggestive chatter with casual amusement, a slow smile often decorating his sensuous lips. All of the men present seemed to be preoccupied in like fashion. She would lean over to talk or listen, gracefully managing to make some physical contact with her conversant, and let the neckline of her gown droop enough to allow the entire French army to march through on maneuvers. Her conversation may not have been the most edifying, but the males present were getting a good lesson in female anatomy. I found myself wondering if Lord Peterby would obey his wise mother and send Lady Catherine packing.
At last the meal was over, and Lady Peterby gave the customary signal for the ladies to withdraw and leave the men to their talk. We withdrew into a sitting room, and Lady Catherine turned her charms on us; she seemed much easier to take without the men around, confining herself to items of London gossip instead of flaunting her beauty. Cecilia and I began to relax under her anecdotes. She really was an interesting and flattering companion on this basis, but her efforts to get on Lady Peterby’s good side were fruitless. Her most ingenious tidbits of information roused nothing more from Lady Peterby than the smallest of civil exclamations.
The lateness of the hour eventually forced our gathering to a close. Lady Catherine’s room was near my own and I found myself ascending the staircase with the still verbal beauty. We made our goodnights, and I had just finished changing into my nightgown when Lady Catherine knocked on my door. She said:
“Elizabeth, do you mind coming to my room for a moment? I want to show you something I recently bought in London. Perhaps your knowledge of classical civilization will help me.”
Although I was ready for bed, her invitation was polite and she seemed to desire my help. I was intrigued. I went with her into the room and she motioned me to the bed, and then turned to remove something from her portmanteau. She turned and showed me a cameo, and we held it up to the light to examine it.
“I bought this at Hepworth’s,” she said. “They told me it was Greek but I wanted your opinion. Could you tell me anything about it?”
“Of course,” I said. “That is Eos, the goddess of dawn, pouring the morning from an ewer. I really don’t know enough about it to tell you if it is authentic or not. I’m not that much of a scholar, really.”
“Now, don’t be modest,” she said. “You certainly know more about it than I. I had not the slightest idea what this cameo depicted. And neither did the dealer for that matter.”
I couldn’t help feeling a little proud of myself at that moment. It probably showed on my face.
“I’m so ignorant of classical civilization,” she continued. “Why don’t you sit and have a glass of wine with me and tell me what you know.”
I was hesitant. I didn’t like to drink spirits after my experience at that particular ball in London.
“We’ll just have a little,” she said reassuringly, pouring some for us. To be polite I gave in, feeling that I would just swallow the minimum and then take my leave. To my surprise, the wine tasted not at all unpleasant, and in no time at all, I asked for another glass. It made me feel so relaxed. I had had a hard day of playing and partying, and it was rather pleasant to sit with Lady Catherine and talk about matters that interested me. She paid such rapt attention as I warmed to my subject; we were sitting with our legs crossed, chatting like schoolgirls.
I noticed my tongue beginning to trip while I was making important points about Homer; my eyes were beginning to blur, and my eyelids to droop. I felt so good, but it was time for bed.
“Dear Elizabeth, I feel I have kept you so late. Let me help you to your room,” Lady Catherine was saying.
“No, I can make it all right,” I said. I was wrong. My legs would not
hold me up.
“I’ll help,” she said. “It’s no trouble.” I was being supported by Lady Catherine’s soft shoulder, making my way down the dark hallway. Now I was being put to bed, at long last. A fire was flickering swimmingly in the fireplace and Lady Catherine was tucking the cover under my chin in a cozy, maternal way.
“Have pleasant dreams, Elizabeth,” she said. How could I have ever been so wrong about her, I was thinking. She’s really very nice. I was falling and floating into sleep.
Chapter Fifteen
I don’t know what it was that brought my mind back to spinning consciousness. Perhaps it was the discomfort of my nightgown which had twisted itself around my body like swaddling bands. The silent room blurred in opaque firelight. Several weak, fretful attempts to free myself from the clinging silk left me panting with exhaustion. My limbs seemed unable to respond to my commands. Was I ill? I certainly felt ill. The fear that I was sick crept over me, the fear that I wouldn’t be able to call for help. I would lay here dying, dying alone. Even the bedroom looked strange to me. I didn’t remember the heavy mahogany dresser with racing forms tossed casually on it.
Racing forms? I struggled to prop myself up on one elbow just as I heard the sound of voices in the hallway. I concentrated on gathering my energy, to make one great effort to call for help. As I did my eyes focused for one hazy instant on the bedstand and saw there the large signet ruby of Lesley Peterby. In one stricken flash I knew that I had been betrayed. I heard the door handle clunk and Lord Peterby’s voice.
“… and I promise you, Nicky, that it was—” His voice died as he saw me. His expression was filled with such surprise that I wondered if I had become in some way deformed. My hand rose limply to my face.
He spun around to Lord Dearborne and gripped hard at his shoulders. His eyes looked straight and clearly into those of the marquis. His voice was hard: “God as my witness, Nicky, I swear that she’s not here by my design. Seeing her here is as much a shock to me as it is to you.”
