So entirely distracted was I that I missed a step.
Allenham paid no mind and continued.
“And the sublime, the sublime is greater than beauty. It overwhelms the senses. It consumes us. It is the pure fury and power of nature. It must be felt to be known. An artist must feel in order to paint, and of that, madam, you will never learn from reading Sir Joshua’s dry Discourses.”
Well, reader, I simply could not fathom how I might respond to that. What might a girl who knows nothing of society, of worldly behaviour, of nature or passion make of such a statement? I stared at him, so spellbound by his vitality, his light, his perfect assembly of features, as to be awed into silence. Why, he was the most remarkable person I had ever encountered. As I joined hands and circled with the other ladies in our square, I picked over his comments. If only I had the wit and vivacity of my cousin, I lamented. I was so simple, so frightened, such a milksop!
“Perhaps I should improve myself by reading Mr. Burke,” was all I could think of to say.
As we danced, I prayed he could not read the pain of embarrassment on my face. Beside Allenham I felt graceless and clumsy, while he seemed utterly unshakeable, as if he hardly needed to think, as if everything he did, every comment and step, came as naturally as breathing. Surely, I told myself, he wished to dance with my cousin, not with me. The more I contemplated this, the greater my discomfort grew. A picture settled in my mind of Lady Catherine bursting with fury at this error, the humiliation I would cause Lord Allenham, the scandal that would explode before me. Panic began to rise within me as the dance wound to its conclusion, and before I had so much as recovered myself, I found my partner leading me across the room to where our party stood. There I spied my aunt, her brows arched in an expression of disapproval, and my cousin beside her with a face hard and indignant. My heart lurched.
“My lord,” I said with urgency as we approached the group, “I fear… I fear there has been some error…”
He regarded me with a playful glance.
As we stood before my cousin, I explained, “I believe you had wished to dance with Lady Catherine but… there was some confusion. I… I am Miss Ingerton.” My mouth trembled as I forced a smile.
Allenham bowed his head at Lady Catherine and then at me, his face never once wavering from its polite cast. He made no remark upon my comment, but turned to my cousin and requested the next dance.
One comment that is often made about Lord Allenham is that he had a genius for discretion. That much was apparent from our first meeting. What could have been perceived as a faux pas was instantly smoothed away by the attention he lavished upon my cousin. For the one cotillion he danced with me, he partnered Lady Catherine in both a minuet and a reel. I cannot express to you the contentment I felt at seeing them, hands joined, step and bounce together in careful formation. Honestly, I enjoyed this sight more than I did my own dance with the Baron. After all, the scene was meant to have played out in this way. My heart swelled for Lady Catherine. It also sighed with relief. Had the situation not been put right, I dread to think how she might have taken against me. I had been embraced as her dearest, most treasured friend, but knew all too well the power of her wrath and how easily I might be cast down.
Happily, the night was remembered as a triumph. Allenham remained affixed to our group for the duration of the ball, offering us his arms and escorting our party between the tea room and the card tables. At his side, my cousin burst into life, giggling and casting looks with as much accomplishment as an actress. To be sure, she was perhaps on occasion too loud and too ebullient in her conversation, but, as I was to observe, the Baron had this effect on most ladies. They either quaked with nerves or fell into a silent stupefaction in his presence. Indeed, I have known only one other gentleman to possess such a hold over the female sex, and that was Lord Byron, who with his clubbed foot could not even dance!
You can imagine our delight when, at the conclusion of the evening, Lord Allenham turned to my aunt and uncle with a reverential bow and requested permission to call upon us the following day. As he put his question, a hint of boyish uncertainty darted across his confident expression. His bright smile quivered endearingly, as if he feared for an instant we would refuse him. As if that were at all possible.
Needless to say, neither I nor my cousin had more than a wink of sleep that night. We lay huddled together in the bed we shared, just as we had done as children. Lady Catherine squeezed my hand as she recounted every sentence he had spoken, every compliment he had paid her, every dance they had enjoyed. Indeed, I had never heard her gush with such heartfelt enthusiasm for any previous admirer.
“I shall die of love, I think I shall die of love,” she panted. “Do you not think him the most handsome man in the world, Hetty?” she asked for what must have been the seventh or eighth time.
“Oh yes,” I agreed.
“Do you think he is in love with me?”
“How could he not be, cousin? You are so pretty and accomplished.”
Then she gasped quite suddenly, as if startled by a realization.
“I do believe I shall marry him!” she squealed.
I held her hand tightly and shut my eyes fast.
“Yes, I do believe you will.”
Chapter 5
It could be said that the courtship of Lady Catherine Ingerton and- George, Lord Allenham, began in earnest when they appeared beside one another in the Baron’s box at the Theatre Royal. I was fortunate enough to have accompanied them, as was Mrs. Villiers, my uncle and my triumphant aunt, who was eager for all of Bath to observe her. Especially eager, I might add, after she received confirmation from a friend that Lord Allenham was not, as she had heard, engaged to either Miss Featherstonehaugh or to Miss Powis. In the wake of this news, it was remarkable how rapidly she recovered her health. Why, to look upon her that evening at the theatre, one would never have thought she had suffered a moment’s pain. She sat alongside her daughter, her colour heightened, her head held high, as proud as a goose upon her eggs.
Needless to say, this turn of events altered the tempo of our stay quite markedly. In fact, following my uncle’s departure for London that week, our little band of ladies was thrown into a positive fit of giddiness. My aunt’s lethargy was replaced by a constant, nervous bustle. A fuss was required for every occasion, every possible meeting with Lord Allenham was strategized as if Lady Stavourley were preparing her daughter for battle. New feathers and shoe buckles were purchased, and two further boxes of Lady Catherine’s apparel were sent for from Berkeley Square. Sally Pickering, one of our childhood nurses who now served as our lady’s maid, was set to work brushing down and making repairs to all of my cousin’s gowns. An entire day was devoted to this task, to sewing a new silver edging on a bodice, applying a lace trim to a set of sleeves, reshaping several pairs of satin shoes. Sally stitched love into her mistress’s attire, smiling as she moved her needle. Indeed, to this day I have never seen a maid so devoted to her lady. She tended Lady Catherine with the adoration of a mother, but saw to me grudgingly, angrily combing the tangles from my hair or viciously pulling at my laces. She despised me, to be sure, that much was plain.
As I have explained, there was never a time when I was not mindful of my place within my uncle’s household. Like Sally, I too recognized that I was no more than a minor player within this larger drama. By the time Lord Allenham made his entrance into our lives, I had acquired a great deal of practice in performing my part. I knew precisely what would be required of me: I would be called upon to participate in most small social occasions, though not expected to contribute much by way of conversation. I had grown accustomed to providing a fourth pair of hands in a game of cards, to quietly turning sheets of music for Lady Catherine, and accompanying her on walks with her suitors. Where a party set out for a ride or a visit to the theatre or some public exhibition, I was always among them, simpering demurely with lowered eyes. I never once expected any mind to be paid to me; I never wished for any notice.
It was Lady Catherine’s place to radiate, like a diamond set among garnets.
In the daily visits that Lord Allenham began paying to our lodgings, when he joined us for dinner, or came for an evening of entertainment, I never once courted his attention. I was adept at sliding from a room, or retreating into a sunlit corner with a book or some piece of embroidery. It therefore surprised me, or shall I say caused me embarrassment, that no matter where I hid or how silent I kept myself he seemed always able to locate me. On one occasion, I had been so entirely engrossed in my book that I had not even been aware of his entrance into the small parlour.
“The Vicar of Wakefield,” he had announced, startling me terribly. “Dear Miss Ingerton!” he apologized, “I did not mean to frighten you.” He stood quite still, afraid perhaps that I should faint from fear, until he noticed the appearance of my bashful smile. This caused him to laugh, and I soon joined him, my cheeks growing ever hotter and ruddier under his gaze.
“You find Mr. Goldsmith to your liking?” he questioned me, when at last we caught our breath.
“Very much so,” I answered, before Allenham took a seat beside me. I could hardly bring myself to look upon him, knowing that if I did, I should begin to tremble. Why he took an interest in my thoughts, I could not comprehend, but he soon drew me into a discussion on the merits of the book and its characters.
Incidents such as this occurred on several occasions. They lasted but a few moments, before Allenham, realizing he would be missed, or that my cousin had thrown me a jealous look from across the room, made his excuses and rejoined the others. I must admit I thought nothing of these friendly exchanges at the time, though I cannot say the same for my aunt, who monitored them with some interest.
“It is rare to see a young man so generally concerned with all members of a party,” she had stated to Lady Jervas, a relation of Lord Allenham’s who had joined us for a game of whist one evening. The Baron was at the fortepiano with my cousin and well beyond earshot. “His manners are so cordial. He has the air of a courtier.”
Lady Jervas smiled archly. “He learned it from his father, who was Minister Resident at Turin for a good many years. Such is to be expected in a family of diplomats. His lordship spent his boyhood learning to tip-toe across marble palace floors.” Then, thoughtfully, she pressed her cards to her chest, and leaned towards Lady Stavourley’s ear. “There are many benefits to a foreign education. He rides and fences as well as a French chevalier—and speaks the language as well as one. Of course, he has also mastered Italian.” She looked at him across the room. “He will be a catch indeed.”
My aunt gazed over the top of her cards towards her daughter with an expression that spoke of both pleasure and concern.
I understood what preoccupied her thoughts: she did not trust Lady Catherine. My cousin bore that familiar mischievous look when she stood near Allenham; her narrowed eyes and mild smile gave her a feline air, as if she were preparing to splay her claws.
“Yes,” Lady Stavourley replied, “and someone need catch him quickly.”
But as the days folded over into one another, my cousin failed to bare her teeth. She did not resort to her usual trickery. There were no cutting remarks and no turned backs; on the contrary, her habitual ebullience seemed muted, she seemed contained, calm, tamed by Allenham’s influence. She hung upon his every utterance, as did we all.
He had that particular gift, you see. He possessed a unique ability to compel and captivate with his words and, when this gift was coupled with his startlingly handsome features, there was no one whom he had not the power to persuade. It was for this reason that gentlemen such as my uncle, Mr. Fox and Mr. Sheridan saw a great future for him in politics. He was by all regards a natural statesman. Why, to this very day you may go to Brooks’s Club in St. James’s and there speak with half a dozen or more fellows of an august age who will vouch for his talent at telling a good tale. Everyone around the table, or riding with him in a carriage, would fall silent as he painted scenes all about us. Of course, in his youth, he spoke a great deal of the places he had seen as a boy: the Forum ruins in Rome, the carnival at Venice, Pompeii and Herculaneum. For ladies who had seen very little of the world, this was greatly diverting. We listened with fascination, not knowing which was more enchanting, the stories or the animated, tenor-voiced storyteller.
I remember distinctly our visit to Spring Gardens and how he regaled us with talk of the luxurious palace gardens at Caserta. Allenham insisted on taking us to view the rows of pink-blossomed trees, which had recently burst into colour. It looked like a fairy landscape, with the breeze sending rose-coloured petals in swirls around us, but I was hardly aware of this picturesque scene, so lost was I in his words.
“The park spreads for almost as far as the eye can see, and at the end of it there is a cascade which tumbles down what looks to be a row of steps into Venus’s Grotto,” he told us as we strolled, my cousin and I with our arms resting upon his.
“I have read of this,” said I. Lady Catherine looked at me with a cold expression. “There are several fountains within the cascade. There is one dedicated to Diana and Actaeon. All around the cascade are placed statues representing the winds and zephyrs. I should like to see it one day.”
“I cannot imagine such a thing,” said my cousin. “I should have to see it to know you had not invented, Hetty.”
“No, I have seen it and it is quite real. Miss Ingerton is correct; it is decorated with all manner of fantastic things. There is another cascade just like it at Vienna and at the Palace of Versailles.”
Lady Catherine did not enjoy being proven incorrect. She replaced her merry face with a downcast one and fell conspicuously silent. Noting this, Allenham stopped, placed his hand upon hers and addressed her in a gentle tone.
“There is a book I would like to show you. You may see a print of the cascade in there and many of the other sites I visited as a boy. Tomorrow we shall go to Pratt and Marshall’s Library.”
As he gazed at her, she raised her eyes to him adoringly.
You have heard of bee charmers and snake charmers, lion tamers and those who have a calming way with wild dogs? Allenham was a person such as this. He had an instinct for sadness or disappointment, and an understanding of how to lift it. On that day, he must have sensed it in me. In fact, I believe he had seen it in me all along, even before I myself understood what I felt.
There had been a moment, as we advanced towards the carriage, when Allenham and I found ourselves separated from the others by several paces. We had walked for some time without speaking, listening to the breeze and to the calls of a noisy flock of blackbirds. It was then that he turned to me, his handsome face candid.
“It is difficult to be always in the shadows,” he stated.
When I looked at him quizzically, not comprehending his meaning, he continued. “Most do not know that I had an elder brother. I was not intended to be my father’s heir.” He glanced at me, the wind teasing a strand of his dark hair. “He died of scarlet fever when I was but fourteen.”
“I did not know this,” said I, apologetically.
“It is no matter.” He shook his head. “He was far better formed for this role than I. He excelled in all things. In strength… as a scholar—he was barely nine years old and reading Pliny!” Allenham exclaimed with a sniff of laughter. “I, by contrast, was always awkward.”
“I cannot believe that, my lord,” I spoke up, chiding him slightly.
“No, it is true. As a boy, I was very shy. Naturally, my father favoured my brother…” The Baron looked wistfully at me. “Miss Ingerton, I know what it is to be considered the lesser of two. Sometimes it is the cause of genuine pain.”
I listened to these words with a sense of unease, but chose to say nothing in response. My first thought was to deny what he was claiming, to state that I had no such experience of this pain that he described. But it was not true, and it surprised me greatly to hear someone depict so plainly that which I held privately inside
me.
After he disclosed this, I realized why he had been so intent on never excluding me and on always paying my cousin and me equal attention. Although my position was no more than that of a chaperone, I was aware of a warm friendship taking root between us. We had many similar interests, more, it must be said, than his lordship and my cousin. Although Lady Catherine entertained him with her merry wit, filling our suppers with droll remarks about Bath’s swaggering or gouty visitors, it was to me that Allenham turned when he wished to discuss opinions and ideas. He spoke of the sublime beauty of the Alps, he mused on the subject of painting, on architecture and on Rome, but nothing animated him as vividly as did mention of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. To see him, you would understand, dear reader, how the writings of this great philosopher burned within his mind, for his very eyes flickered with admiration.
Unfortunately, talk of such lofty subjects did not amuse my cousin. As we stood around the long library table at Pratt & Marshall, examining an illustrated volume of palace gardens, she wearily wandered off.
She left Allenham and me to pore over the detailed engravings, each diagram more intricate than the last. I opened a page to reveal images of all the statues in the gardens of Versailles. The Baron and I bent our heads to study these mythical figures more closely. At times, his cheek would pass so near to mine that I could feel its warmth upon my own. His fingers crept across the page as he spoke, brushing once or twice against my hand or wrist.
“Daphne and Apollo,” I announced. My voice was higher and more nervous than usual. “That is my favourite.”
“But it is such a sad tale,” said he. “You surprise me. It is about a broken heart, a god who loves, who will never be loved in return.”
“But Daphne’s virtue is admirable, do you not think?”
“What I think, Miss Ingerton,” said he, lowering his voice, “is that you have read but a few of these ancient tales, and only those selected by your governess.”
Mistress of My Fate Page 6
