by Mona Prevel
She hoped the lateness of the previous evening’s affair had left the Marquis de Maligny too fatigued to dwell long on the past splendors of the French court With little hope for her wishes coming to fruition, she steeled herself for what was to follow, and did what she always did at such times: her utmost to block out the sound of his voice.
It did not take long for Althea’s fertile mind to carry her back to the previous evening’s debacle. Of course the ball had been a social triumph, a veritable feather in her cap, one might say, but her horrid experience in the library piled upon her mother’s mortifying behavior had rendered it the most disagreeable experience of her life.
Well, perhaps not the most disagreeable—nothing could top finding that perfidious bounder Nigel Fortescue in the feverish act of raising her chambermaid’s skirts. In Althea’s own sewing room, no less. If the little jade had not let out such screams of pleasure, they never would have been found out and she, Althea, would have married him and he most likely—nay, most definitely— would have carried on his shameful liaison right under her nose!
Suddenly her kinsman’s voice impinged upon her consciousness.
“But of course it goes without saying that the ballroom at Versailles is without equal.” He punctuated this remark with an expansive gesture.
“I regret that I have not had the opportunity to see it for myself,” Althea inserted.
“Did I not tell you that the queen used to single me out for special consideration?”
“I seem to recall such,” she responded. Only on every possible occasion since I was old enough to comprehend.
“When it came to the dance, La Belie Reine declared me to be the most skilled of her courtiers. She would …” His voice trailed off.
After a moment or two of silence, Althea shot him a glance. The marquis was known to nod off at the oddest moments. This was not the case. With eyes unfocused and bedewed with unshed tears, he seemed to be transported to another time and place. No doubt that gilded era when he had been young and handsome, and had danced with a queen.
Althea was jolted into a feeling of profound pity for him. She laid a hand over his and determined that in the future, she would listen when he shared his memories of past glories. After all, they were the things he treasured the most.
He looked startled by her touch, and then a warm smile wreathed his face. “Ah, Althea, my dear, dear, niece. Your kind regard is a great comfort under my present circumstances.” He clasped her hand with both of his and gave it a warm squeeze. “I await the day when my beloved chateau, Alençon, is restored to me. Then I shall have the pleasure of returning your hospitality in the grand French manner.”
His tone implied that English hospitality did not—indeed, could not—measure up to that of the French. In spite of her newfound resolve to be patient and forbearing with her uncle, she was sorely tempted to shake him hard enough to rid him of his complacent belief in the superiority of all things French.
Althea’s temporary lack of goodwill quickly passed, to be replaced by another wave of pity for the old gentleman. It was highly unlikely that his dream of returning to his former stature as a great French lord would be realized. What harm was there in allowing him a little grandiosity from time to time?
She thanked him prettily for his kind intentions and then searched for a way to take her leave as graciously as possible. A moment or two later, providence breezed by the window in the form of her mother, her arms laden with a basket filled with a profusion of daffodils.
“Please excuse me, Uncle dear. I wish to speak with Mama before she departs on her social rounds.”
Jean-Claude glanced outside in time to catch a carefree wave from Celeste. He returned the greeting with a frown. Althea surmised that on the previous evening, word of Celeste’s scandalous behavior had filtered into the salon where the older gendtlemen played card games.
“Hmmph. I am thinking that the little cocotte is looking far too pleased for her own good,” he muttered. “Her tryst with Viscount Ridley last evening must have been most fulfilling.”
“Uncle! That is highly improper.”
“Forgive me, ma petite. I must have been thinking out loud. But even so, as head of this family you cannot afford to affect—how do you say?—such missish ways. Your mama must be persuaded to exercise a little discretion. If you are not up to the task, I will undertake to do it for you.”
“I am afraid I must decline your kind offer. Mama is not a child to be told what she can, or cannot, do. Besides, I refuse to think the worst of her.”
At least, not out loud, and certainly not to another living soul
“You are forbearing to a fault, Althea. But then, you have always had a kind heart.”
Althea raised a brow. “Sir, you surprise me. You are the last person I would take for a puritan, especially coming from the French court. In fact, I find your attitude in this matter most puzzling. Most puzzling indeed.”
The marquis pinched her cheek. “When did you become so tolerant of the peccadilloes of the ton, chérie?”
Althea gave a shrug. “Come now. It is not unusual for widows to, er, enjoy certain freedoms. I know Society does not condone such things, but a blind eye is turned. Most of the ladies concerned are still accepted in the highest circles.”
“But of course. The English have a certain modicum of sophistication, thank goodness. I have had my share of belles amies.”
“Under the circumstance, I find your attitude towards Mama most forbidding. I thought you loved her.”
The marquis ran his fingers through a head of luxuriant white curls. “The love I have for both you and your mama is that of a father. That is why I suffer such distress over the matter. Celeste has never been one to indulge in such excesses. I did not think it to be in her nature. She was a virtuous young creature. Never a breath of scandal.” He gestured toward Althea. “In that way you are both alike—at least, until the last year or so. This liaison with such a rake degrades her. Your chère mama should find a worthier gentleman to love. One of infinite kindness and discretion—non?”
“Of course I would agree. But I refuse to believe Mama was guilty last night of anything more than a harmless stroll in the garden.”
“But of course, my child. A wise and proper decision, to be sure.” The distance in his tone belied his response. “Now if you will excuse me, I believe I am ready for my breakfast”
He strode from her presence with the vigor of a much younger man. In spite of a thickening waistline, he carried himself with a natural grace. It occurred to Althea that it was well within the bounds of possibility that the last queen of France had indeed found him to be a most pleasing dance partner.
Althea hoped it was enough to sustain him during his subsequent exile, but had her doubts. While musing on the subject, she happened to glance outside once more. Celeste was sitting on a bench, her face buried in the bouquet of daffodils.
She chose that moment to raise her head and blow a kiss in Althea’s direction. Althea was neither touched nor amused by the show of affection. Mama had to be aware that today, tongues in drawing rooms all over Town were most likely wagging over her dalliance in the garden with the dashing Marcus Ridley.
“I must convince Mama that it is in her best interest to return to the country as soon as possible,” Althea murmured as she rose from her seat. She started for the door leading to the garden, then stood stock-still and let out a groan. “I am afraid that should be our best interest. The ton must also find my inability to keep suitors from exploring beneath the petticoats of my chambermaids highly diverti—”
She stopped short, realizing that an onlooker might think she was engaged in a heartfelt conversation with the stuffed parrot This convinced Althea that it was time to depart the social round of London in favor of the soothing calm of Camberly Hall. To this end, she joined her mother in the garden.
Chapter 2
Althea approached her mother, fully expecting he
r to balk at the idea of leaving London before the Season had ended.
“I intend to leave for Camberly no later than Tuesday,” she said. “I would dearly love for you to accompany me.”
“But of course, darling.”
“I know you adore London, but I would deem it a favor if you could tear yourself away. I will do my best to make it up to you.” Althea’s was the rapid delivery of one who held out little hope for having her wishes realized.
Celeste tapped her on the shoulder with one of her daffodils. “My darling little cabbage, it is as I thought. You seldom listen to a word I say. I said I would accompany you.”
Althea could not believe how easy it had been. She searched her mother’s expression to make sure she was not teasing. Celeste’s brilliant green eyes were filled with deep-to-the-bone sincerity. This gave Althea a feeling of unease that she immediately dismissed on realizing that the tip of Celeste’s nose was coated with the yellow pollen of daffodils. How could anyone who looked so guileless possibly be up to something, and yellow-tipped nose notwithstanding, yet manage to look so extravagandy beautiful in the unforgiving brightness of a springtime sun?
Although vaguely aware that her reasoning did not exactly weigh heavily on the side of logic, Althea chose to dismiss the subject from her mind and hastened indoors to inform both of their abigails of their impending return to the Sussex countryside.
After a week at Camberly Hall, Althea found that she was filled with a strange restlessness. This feeling was alien to her and she wondered as to the cause. Could it possibly be due to the unsettling experience of eavesdropping in the library the night of the ball? She had known immediately that it had been a mistake—or had it? After all, it had firmed her resolve not to be taken in by would-be tide seekers and fortune hunters.
It took another week for Althea to realize that this was not the case. This occurred when she happened to be passing the ballroom, and as was her wont, stopped to admire the magnificent painted ceiling; through the door, she espied her mother engaged in a graceful waltz in the arms of an imaginary partner.
It hit her like a bolt of lightning. The source of her disquietude was a need for the sort of romance that seemed to befall her mother by right of being. Was it so wrong to want a man to regard her with the same ardor the elder Lady Camberly seemed to engender so effortlessly?
She hurried past the ballroom door and happened to glance at her reflection in a huge looking glass strategically placed for such a purpose. George Delville is right—I do look like a very prim governess. She wondered why it had taken the careless words of a Corinthian dandy for her to see what was so painfully evident to others.
Althea pulled a strand of her dark-blond hair out of her bun and it immediately sprang into a curl, curving into the hollow of her cheek. “Such foolishness,” she muttered. Not realizing how the effect had softened her features, she pulled the tendril back within the confines of a side-comb.
She turned away from her offending image to see her mother staring at her, a thoughtful expression on her face.
“You should consider the change, darling. It is most becoming.”
Althea felt her cheeks flame. How pathetic she must seem. It would take more than a curl or two to make her looks even passable, much less becoming. Obviously, Mama was allowing mother-love to color her judgment.
She gave her head an impatient toss. “I like my hair the way it is. I do not care to sit around all morning while Lizzie pulls it this way and that.”
Celeste smiled. “How different we are. I sometimes wonder if you are a changeling.”
Althea stiffened. “I am sorry to be such a disappointment to you, Mama.”
Celeste shook her head. “Never think that I could not ask for a better daughter. You always consider the welfare of the rest of us before your own. I know Uncle Jean-Claude can be a pompous bore and your Cousin Philippe is not much better.’’
“But Cousin Philippe goes to Bedfordshire to visit his maternal grandparents quite frequently. Besides, he is an absolute lamb. He causes no trouble whatsoever.”
“Exactement! Poor Philippe is twenty-one years old and has yet to defy his grandfather.”
Althea was puzzled. “And you find this distressing?
“But of course. A boy cannot become a man until he develops a backbone. Such a one cannot help but become a burden to all concerned.” Celeste gave a wry smile. “And then you have me with whom to contend.”
Althea was tempted to respond to this remark. If she could convince her mother to exercise more discretion in the conducting of her personal affairs, perhaps she, Althea, would be able to sleep more soundly at night. Instead, she said, “Please do not refine on the matter, darling. We are a very small family and I would be terribly lonely if any of you were to pack your bags and decide to live in the dower house.”
This sentiment earned Althea a pat on the cheek. “Very prettily put, ma petite, but if you had the courage to be beautiful, a handsome gentleman would fall madly in love with you and in no time at all you would have this enormous edifice absolutely crawling with children.”
“Mama!”
Celeste rolled her eyes. “Mon Dieu! Is there no joy in you? You will find that an ability to laugh at oneself makes life run a lot more smoothly.”
“I am sorry, Mama, but my experiences of late give more cause for tears than laughter.”
Celeste’s eyes grew moist and she enfolded Althea in a quick embrace. “Ah, yes. Nigel Fortescue. One day you will be glad you sent him packing. The cochon is not fit to breathe the same air as you.”
Althea giggled. “You express yourself beautifully, Mama. Nigel is indeed a pig, but I was referring to another distressing incident.”
Celeste’s face filled with concern. “Oh? Kindly elucidate.”
Althea went on to explain her experience in the library, leaving out none of the humiliating details save those that bore reference to Celeste’s escapade.
“Pah! Pigs, pigs, pigs. One would expect such behavior of any spawn of Baron Lampton’s, but in George’s case, I feel you have been utterly betrayed. We all have. You have been playmates since you were both in leading strings.”
“I know. That was the unkindest cut of all. George has received his last invitation from me, but I shall not lend him the importance of an outright snub. A certain coolness will do. I am sure that after a while he will begin to fret over the lack of a social life.”
A Gallic chuckle gurgled from the back of Celeste’s throat. “Mais oui. The perfect revenge. Your affairs are the only contact George has to the upper stratum of society—the Lamptons hardly count since they seldom go to Town, thank goodness. Without your cachet, I doubt George will cut such a fine figure.”
Althea frowned. “You do not think I am being too harsh on poor George?”
Celeste threw up her hands. “Poor George, is it now? Althea darling, I wash my hands of the whole affair. Do as you think fit.”
As I think fit. I had thought my own corner of the world and everyone in it fitted quite nicely into cozy little slots over which I had perfect control What a fool I turned out to be!
Celeste inspected her reflection in the mirror, rearranged an unruly curl, and gave Althea a reassuring smile. “Do not give the matter another thought, darling. Such people do not deserve the effort it requires.”
It occurred to Althea that perhaps it was this philosophy that enabled her mother to keep the wrinkles at bay.
“I am going into the village this afternoon,” Celeste continued. “I have been told that Hansford’s has a new supply of silks and muslins in stock. I wish you would accompany me. It would not hurt you to have some new dresses for summer. We could have Madame Zizette come and make them up for us. I am sure she would welcome a month or two away from the city.”
Althea gave a dry laugh. “I suppose she would. She made herself so welcome last summer, she spent an extra week letting out the seams of her own dresses before return
ing to London.”
“So you will come with me today?”
Althea nodded. “I think the excursion might do me some good.”
Celeste rewarded her with a beaming smile.
Celeste decided that they should make the trip to Camberly Village without any servants tagging along.
“We might wish to talk.”
Celeste handled horses as well as any man and loved to drive a handsome equipage, but Althea insisted they make the trip in the pony-and-trap. She found her mother’s bold way with anything more powerful far too unsettling.
Hansford’s was situated on the esplanade facing the ocean. It was a handsome-looking establishment for a village the size of Camberly. Ladies came from as far away as Brighton, a good six miles, to purchase the fine materials and special trims for which the shop was noted.
It was rumored that Hansford’s ample supply of goods was due to trading with smugglers who ran the French blockade. As long as the local authorities did not look into the matter, Mr. Hansford’s customers considered the rumors to be just that, and continued to give him their patronage.
It was a beautiful day to be by the ocean. For a change, there were few clouds in the sky and the sunlight danced on the waves in a very delightful fashion. Althea felt most exhilarated—too much so, as the thought of spending even a moment in Hansford’s musty shop became intolerable.
When their pony-and-trap approached the pier, Althea put a hand on Celeste’s elbow and called out, “Please stop here, Mama.”
Celeste complied, then looked about her, taking care to give the pier extra careful scrutiny. “The place is deserted. Why are we stopping?”
Althea gave her a beseeching look. “Forgive me, Mama. I cannot stand the thought of being cooped up in Hansford’s on such a glorious day. It is so unusual for April. I should like to take a turn on the pier while you make your purchases.”
