by Joan Smith
She nodded slyly. “I see. I shan’t say a word about scheming or abetting, but I shall be indisposed when she wants to go out. Now run along and try to enjoy yourself.”
This injunction was about as necessary as telling the archbishop of Canterbury to say his prayers. Severn seldom failed to enjoy himself, at least when he was in London. With the Season not yet open, he would go to his club and begin inciting his friends to an interest in Helena.
“I have a charming cousin visiting for the Season. A dark-eyed señorita from Spain,” he said to Rutledge, but the others were listening. “And I don’t want you fellows cluttering up the saloon. I think I shall keep this one for myself.” This, of course, was bound to bring them to Belgrave Square in flocks. He continued to elaborate on her accent, her gowns, her romantic past, living in a castle and a convent. “Something quite out of the ordinary,” he said with a sigh.
“A little too far out of the ordinary for me,” Rutledge said. “Shall we play cards?”
“I am happy to hear it,” Severn said, as if satisfied. “Of course, I am no friend to marriage myself, but gentlemen in our position must have a wife to provide an heir, to run our house, and to display at public functions. Naturally the lady we choose must be suitable as to breeding and bring a reasonable fortune with her. Twenty-five thousand and a vinery in Jerez.”
“What vinery?” Rutledge asked at once.
“It is called Viñedo Paraíso, I believe. Formerly owned by the Artolas.”
“But they make excellent stuff!” Rutledge exclaimed. “The finest amontillado I’ve found, and a very decent sweet sherry as well. The amoroso is excellent.”
“I prefer claret myself. Your deal, I think,” Severn said. He had hooked his fish. He wouldn’t work the line.
He won fifty guineas at cards and returned at three, to sleep the sound sleep of the winner. There was a gray drizzle at the window the next morning, but it did not dampen his spirits. Let the española get a taste of English “sunshine.” A few weeks of it might be enough to send her back to Spain.
He was happy to see Helena wearing a sad face when he joined her at breakfast. “Good morning, Helena. I hope you slept well?”
“Fine, thank you, Eduardo. What miserable luck! It is pouring rain.”
“Pouring? Why, this is nothing. Much better than our usual spring weather.”
She stared. “You think Madrina will venture out in such weather?”
“Probably not, but I shall be honored to escort you, Cousin.”
He watched, fascinated, as her frown vanished, to be replaced with a radiant smile. “How very kind you are, Eduardo!”
“It will be my pleasure,” he said with a bow.
His eyes skimmed over her toilette. The gown was different from English ladies’ gowns in some subtle way. Brighter, richer, but by no means lacking propriety as to cut.
With her outing assured, Lady Helena forced herself to eat the unappetizing breakfast in her dish. The toasted bread was tolerable. Not even an English chef could entirely destroy eggs, and she made her meal of these, washed down with tea. She heartily wished she might have a cup of coffee.
Lady Hadley soon joined them. Her son said, “As it is raining, Mama, I shall go with Cousin this morning.”
“Have you forgotten, Edward? We decided that last—”
“Naturally you will not want to go out in the damp,” he said, cutting her off.
Helena sat like a spy, listening and coming to her own conclusions. Severn was making a pitch to win her. She turned a smile on him. “It is very kind of you, for this outing is most important.”
“Where is it you want to go, dear?” Lady Hadley asked. “Did you wish to go to church? We have services only on Sunday in England—along with a few special feast days.”
“Oh, no! I can wait until Sunday for church.”
“Did you want to meet some of the exiled Spanish nobles? We have a flock of them, scheming to oust the Frenchies off their throne. So encroaching of Bonaparte to make his brother king of Spain.”
“I should like to meet them soon, but that can wait a little. I was speaking of toilette. It is important that I be elegant, Madrina, as I plan to move in the first circles. I must see what the ladies are wearing before I make any purchases, no es verdad?”
Lady Hadley ignored her charge’s occasional foray into foreign gibberish and said, “Severn is the very one whose advice you want. He will know what pleases the gentlemen.”
Heedless of her wishes, Severn planned to take her on a tour of his own devising, beginning with Westminster and including such famous spots as St. Paul’s Cathedral, Exeter Exchange, with a nod to the wild animals and the mint, the various royal residences, and ending in Hyde Park, if the rain ceased. If that did not bore her to distraction, he would be surprised.
“Mama will take you shopping another time,” he said.
“She did not say shopping, gudgeon,” his mother said bluntly. “She just wants to see what the ladies are wearing. A drive along Bond Street will do. The sun will soon be out. It rains every day,” she confided to Helena, “but not for very long, usually.”
“Every day!” She tossed up her hands in dismay. “¡Que Iástima! What I ought to buy is a dozen waterproof coats, no es verdad?”
“You were going to try to speak a little English, dear,” her godmother reminded her. “It sounds so very odd to hear all that foreign gibberish, n’est-ce-pas?”
Severn welcomed the reminder until his foolish mama added her French note. He glanced to see if Helena had noticed it. Her lips were moving unsteadily. She peered across the table at him, and he found himself sharing this private joke.
“What does that no es verdad thing mean in English, my dear?” Lady Hadley asked. “I might as well brush up on my Spanish while we are at it.”
“In English it means n’est-ce pas, Madrina,” she replied daringly.
“Ah, that is interesting. I see one would have any number of occasions to say it in that case—no es verdad?” She laughed merrily at her wit. “I shall be parlaying Spanish in no time at this rate.”
Severn hid his amusement behind his teacup. When he set the cup down, he said, “All set, Helena?”
Chapter Four
Although it was unlikely Mrs. Petrel-Jones would be spotted on her first foray into London, Helena put her father’s billet-doux in the bottom of her reticule. She meant to take it with her everywhere and make inquiries among all the people she met. Someone was bound to know her, or know of her.
“What bonnet will you be wanting, milady?” Sal asked.
“I shall wear my second-best pelisse, as it is pouring rain. The navy-glazed straw goes with it, if you please.”
“Lovely! You’ll look all the crack in this one.”
“All the crack? What a droll expression,” Helena said, adjusting the bonnet at a daring angle over her left eye.
“How’d you keep your skin so white, milady, in the burning hot sun of Spain?”
“I didn’t. I was ruddy when I left. I spent much time below deck during the voyage, and my pe—my freckles faded. It is the sun that causes them. You should avoid the sun, too. And you must try lemon juice on your spots, Sal.”
“Lordy, they’d never let me waste good lemons in such a worthless cause.”
“Men do not deem beauty worthless, I think. As to the lemons, I shall waste them for you. Tell Cook I want a lemon a day for my complexion.”
“With my old red hair, it don’t hardly matter, milady.”
“You will find the lemon also lightens your hair. It is not very red. I think it might tint to blond, if you use the lemons faithfully for a few months.”
This sharing of wisdom and lemons was condescension of a high order, and it made Lady Helena a staunch friend.
“Mercy! You never mean it! No wonder the ladies are so jealous of their lemons. Can you use sugar, or must you take it straight?”
“¿Que?” Helena blinked, then said as comprehension dawned, “You
don’t drink the juice. You put it on your face and hair.”
“Well now!” Sally exclaimed in wonder.
“My navy pelisse, por favor.”
* * *
Lord Severn ran a practiced eye over his cousin when she descended the staircase. The dark bonnet and pelisse toned down any riotous Spanish excess to an acceptable level. He rather hoped the rain would let up, to allow him to show her off on Bond Street. They went out to the waiting carriage, arm in arm.
While the drizzle held up, Lady Helena was driven down Whitehall Street and shown the buildings where the wonders of British democracy were executed. They proceeded on foot to have a glance at the murky Thames, wandering idly by. It lacked the grandeur of the Guadalquivir at full flood. She was taken to see St. Paul’s and peered through the thinning haze at its massive dome-topped bulk, which looked plain to her foreign eye, attuned to the flamboyance of Spanish baroque. Severn spoke at length of Christopher Wren and belabored the large dome.
“Papa has described it to me many times. I pictured something grander” was her comment. “Like the Santiago de Compostela, you know.”
“Ah,” Severn said, for he never liked to display his ignorance.
“It is the Cathedral of St. James of Compostela, in Santiago. He established Christianity in that area,” she said vaguely. She was no authority on such things. “It is a marvelous old baroque church, with soaring steeples and very much ornate stonework. St. James was martyred in Jerusalem long ago, but his followers returned his body to Santiago. The wagon bearing his body was pulled by two wild bulls. The altar inside is a marvel of complexity,” she announced grandly.
“Very interesting,” he said in a bored voice.
“I listened to your speech on St. Paul’s,” she pointed out.
Severn disdained to reply to this childish outburst. He was happy to see she was bored. “Would you like to see where the Royal Family lives?”
“That would be most interesting!”
She found Buckingham Palace small, compared to the unending facade of the king of Spain’s palace in Madrid, or the Escorial.
“We have a saying in English that comparisons are odious,” he said haughtily, and next drove her past Carlton House. She could scarcely believe that the famous Prince Regent actually lived in that little hovel. “It is indescribably magnificent inside. And the gardens at the rear ...”
She shrugged. “The Corinthian columns are well enough, but not for a prince” was her indignant comment. “I have heard the Prince of Wales is a spendthrift, but I see the man is wronged. A prince living there! Why, it is not even clean. It needs a lick of whitewash.”
“The prince will appreciate your sentiments, but pray do not express them to the taxpayers,” he said. “Ah, I see a ray of sun is out. Let us go to Bond Street.”
The sun burned away the layer of mist, and they descended to stroll along the fashionable shopping thoroughfare, where they encountered not less than three sets of bucks who ogled Helena. Although she appeared unconscious of the sensation she was causing, at last he had found something to please her. The bowfront windows held an array of items from around the world. She oohed over gewgaws and insisted on entering a shop featuring ladies’ toys, where she expressed such interest in a red-and-gold silk fan with black slats that he bought it for her.
She lifted the fan and worked it with a flirtatious charm he had not seen before. It fluttered like a giant butterfly, now giving a glimpse of her dark eyes, now hiding them. He found these Spanish tricks enchanting but felt a strong inclination to limit their practice, like her mama’s gowns, to Belgrave Square. Rutledge, he told himself, would not approve.
“It is all the crack, no?” she asked.
“Where the deuce did you pick up that expression? You have only been in London for less than a day. You must have learned it from the sailors aboard the Princess Maria.”
“No, I heard it from Sally. And by the by, I must have some lemons. One a day, for my complexion. I shall pay for them myself, of course, as I understand they are a delicacy in England. I must obtain some English money very soon. That can be easily done, n’est-ce pas? You see how quickly I am picking up the English idioms.” She smiled. “Your mama is such a goose.”
“It is not considered proper for a young lady to mock her elders,” Severn said sternly.
“But I adore her! I meant no harm, truly,” she said, her eyes large in chagrin.
“Entre nous, she is a bit of a goose,” he allowed. She smiled in relief. It occurred to Severn that he ought to have been more severe, but with the sun shining and a pretty lady on his arm, he was in no mood for severity. “About your money—”
“I have a letter of credit from Papa’s bank in Spain.”
“I’ll handle it for you this afternoon.”
She lifted the fan, then slowly lowered it, revealing a soft smile. One gloved hand came out and touched his fingers. “What would I do without you, Eduardo?”
This wouldn’t do! She was flirting with him, and he felt a pronounced desire to respond in kind. “I am happy to oblige you, Cousin,” he said stiffly, and led her out the door.
“I may have to take you up on that offer.”
“It will be my pleasure to serve you.”
“Does pleasure always make you frown?” she teased.
“It is the sun in my eyes.”
“That weak little candle! In Spain—but comparisons are odious.”
“Just so,” he said, relaxing into a smile.
Lady Helena’s real interest was the ladies’ toilettes, and here she was sadly disappointed when they resumed their walk. “Appalling!” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “Do the ladies have no figures to show off?”
“Indeed they do! And I wish you could convince them not to hide their figures. This is called the empress style, from France,” he explained. He loathed it. It hung in a line from just below the bodice to the ankles, concealing everything between.
“I see that what English ladies consider elegant is what we wear to bed in Spain. It seems quite immodest to me to wear nightgowns in public, but if I must make myself ugly to accomplish a grand match, then I shall have some of these nightgowns made up immediately.”
“When in Rome, you know,” he said regretfully.
“Ah, but Rome did not wear such unflattering things as this. The men, too,” she added, casting a glance on a brace of blue-jacketed bucks who strode by in the street. “They all dress alike. Is it a uniform, this inevitable blue jacket and fawn trousers? I notice you wear the same outfit, Eduardo.”
“It is not a uniform! It is just what everyone wears.”
“You would look so well in richer colors, a bordeaux jacket, or a deep green. But then you must avoid the vulgarity of being different, too, or you will not find a lady to marry you. You will require an esposa one day, I think?”
“You are speaking Spanish again,” he reminded her, thus avoiding a reply to her question. A red or green jacket? He’d look a demmed jackanapes.
Though the colors would suit his dark hair and swarthy complexion ...
She mentioned that she had brought one of her papa’s jackets to use as a pattern for some new ones. Would Eduardo oblige her?
“Weston,” he said. “I shall take it to him for you.”
“Gracias.” She turned to examine the ladies in the street. “What frightful coiffures,” she said, conning the hairdos that peeped from below the bonnets. “They all have their hair hacked off like muchachos’.”
“There is no need to cut your hair,” he said. He admired her luxuriant sable hair. More than once, he had wondered how it would look set loose from its pins and cascading over her shoulders. It looked soft and smooth as silk.
“Oh, but I must be in fashion.”
“Nonsense! You may set your own fashion in such details as coiffure.”
“I sincerely wish I might set my own fashion in gowns, Eduardo. You don’t think ...”
With a memory of last night
’s emerald gown trimmed with black lace, he said, “I am afraid not, Helena. Perhaps after you are married; but the debs are scrutinized closely.”
“I wonder how the gentlemen can be bothered to look at them,” she said. “Shall we go into a drapery shop to look at the muslins?”
“I shall ask Mama to have a modiste bring samples with her. That will be easier for you,” he replied.
Easier for him is what he means, she thought. But she was determined to conciliate him and smiled agreeably. “You are so thoughtful.”
It was as they were driving home that Lady Helena said, “Do you happen to know a Mrs. Petrel-Jones, Eduardo?”
“I know of her,” he replied, his lips tightening in a way she was coming to know denoted disapproval. “May I ask how you come to know a woman like that?”
“You mean lady, surely?” she asked, surprised.
“I am not so sure of that.”
“Is there something amiss with her, then?”
“She is a widow, I believe, who has been jauntering about Europe. She showed up a year ago and managed to make a name for herself. How do you know her?”
“I met her in Spain. She was not a widow, but separated from her husband, who has died since then. She was received at Court,” she added.
“Indeed! I cannot think the Spanish queen was very nice in her judgment.” Not nearly so nice as Rutledge, who would think less of Helena if she took up with that rackety female.
“But your Prince of Wales does not live with his wife. In fact, from rumor, Princess Caroline is much worse than Mrs. Petrel-Jones.”
“Oh, well, royalty may do as it pleases, I would not like you to seek out Mrs. Petrel-Jones. You are not likely to meet her anywhere that I take you. If she calls, we shall have Sugden tell her you are out. You shan’t return her call, if she is so encroaching as to come running after you. Do you think it likely? Was she a close friend of yours in Spain?”
“Not a close friend. She is much older than I.”
