The Autumn Rose

by Fiona Hill

  Chapter II

  After an agonising half-minute of silent confrontation, Lady Caroline realized what she ought to have known from the first: her host, if he had indeed overheard anything she said to his prejudice, was by far too courteous to admit it. True to form, he smiled pleasantly and informed her that the carriage to take her to Lady Beatrice’s was being held in readiness at the door. “It is all very well,” thought she to herself when, after a few hasty preparations, she had taken her place in it, “it is all very well to be polite; but now I have no notion whether he heard me or not.” It was disagreeable to consider, but she rather fancied he had, from the look in his eyes. Besides, what other reason could he have had for hesitating before he delivered his message to her? And yet his voice had been every bit as smooth and even as it was habitually. There was no use in refining upon the point in any case, she concluded, as the coach bore her down South Audley Street. Either he had, or he had not; speculation could not change the fact.

  Still, she was visibly preoccupied when Lady Beatrice found her in the drawing-room, and the venerable marchioness at once set about discovering what so absorbed her. “Not homesick, I hope?” she hazarded, while they walked side by side to the chamber where the dressmaker awaited them.

  “No; or only a little,” she amended. “It is nothing, really.”

  “I will not tease you about it, but please have the goodness not to infer from that that I believe your rather spiritless explanation,” said the old lady agreeably. “And now tell me how you find my nephew. Is he not handsome?”

  “Yes,” replied Caroline, reddening. “Quite an Apollo.”

  “Yes. The great Sahara is also very handsome, do you not think?”

  “I have heard it is,” she answered, puzzled.

  “It is; I have seen it. But it is a little dry as well; doubtless you have heard that too.”

  Caroline nodded, trying at the same time to look as much as possible as if she did not comprehend the reference. Lady Beatrice insisted upon continuing this interesting conversation even as the clever dressmaker, Mrs. Alsweet by name, took Caro’s measurements and made her suggestions, although Caroline did everything she could to turn the subject.

  “I have always dealt well with Lord Seabury,” said that gentleman’s aunt. “He is a good man, though austere. I shall be sorry to see him marry Lady Susan—you know he is expected to marry her, I suppose?”

  “Yes. She seemed a very amiable girl to me,” lied Caro. “Was not her hair dressed à la Titus? I should like to dress my hair that way. Do you suppose—”

  “She is not an amiable girl at all,” the marchioness interrupted, declining to leave her topic. “She is a fish. A trout, I would say, or a cod. Spiritually, that is—you understand, my dear.”

  “Actually,” said Caro, smiling in spite of herself, “she did rather put me in mind of a fish.”

  “I am not surprised. It is the expression of her eyes, in especial. The resemblance is quite marked. And yet Seabury never sees it in the least. He professes to consider her a diamond of the first water. It is really ridiculous.” Lady Beatrice now appeared to be thinking aloud, and she went on in this vein in spite of Mrs. Alsweet’s actively seeking her attention. “Why will young people be so obstinate? It is extremely vexatious. I have as much as sworn to Seabury that a marriage to Susan would be tantamount to burying oneself alive, but he will not hear me. No, he insists, she is unexceptionable, entirely unexceptionable. He seems to believe that is the highest praise that may be given to a woman: that she is unexceptionable! Where can he have learned such a credo? Certainly not from Romby—and by the way, what do you think of my brother?”

  This was a less confusing topic for Caro, and she went on at some length giving her impressions of the earl. Mrs. Alsweet, ever busy about her work, cried out as if with pain when she learned Caro’s dresses were all to be of a single colour, but her objections were firmly overridden by Lady Beatrice. Her visit, which lasted above two hours, was thrice interrupted, first by the milliner and then by the corsetier. Later came a silk mercer, in company with the linen-draper who had been so fortunate as to have enjoyed Lady Beatrice’s patronage these past forty years; and all these persons hummed and bustled about, disputing, comparing, and privately forming very low opinions of one another until Lady Caroline could bear no more. Just at the moment she thought she certainly must scream if her desires were consulted (and subtly twisted to agree with those of a tradesman) once more, Lady Beatrice dismissed them all and swept them out of the chamber. She was tired; she would dine. She hoped Lady Caro would dine with her.

  This Caroline was happy to do, first sending a note round to Rucke House to explain her prolonged absence. Then she enjoyed a perfectly delightful repast, indulging herself (since there was no one but the comfortable marchioness to see) in three servings of a neat French pie very tastily prepared. Lady Beatrice’s considerable girth was soon explained by observing her at table: she ate a very good deal, and she clearly preferred rich foods. Caroline herself was by nature slender, and was therefore never obliged to trouble herself about how much dinner she ate, but she could easily comprehend that with such a cook as Lady Beatrice had, even a slight person might grow large. She was praising the sauce on the turbot when the under-butler appeared in the doorway of the dining-room. He looked at his mistress, hesitated, coughed a little and finally came forward bearing a small silver tray. On it was a card, which he offered to the marchioness. “I was not certain—” he began, leaving the sentence dangling.

  Her ladyship took the card, smiled, frowned, and looked up at Caroline. “It is Ansel Walfish, a particular friend of mine. He is, I fear, much in the habit of calling just at dinner-time. The poor man is a bachelor, and I suppose his income is insufficient to keep a cook. Will it disturb you if I invite him to join us? He is rather pleasant.”

  Lady Caroline of course replied that Mr. Walfish must on no account be turned away for her sake.

  “That is a dear girl,” said her hostess, giving the order to have the caller shown in. He appeared a few moments later, still carrying his stick. He was of middle height, fair-haired, about thirty years of age. Light-complected, with regular features and a mild expression, Mr. Walfish relied mainly on his clothing to mark him out from the other young men of quality. Tonight he wore Wellington Trousers and a blue frockcoat, two waistcoats (one striped, one plain) with gilded buttons, a gilded quizzing-glass, glossy highlows, a fob with three seals, and a cravat tied à la Bergami. Such splendour was quite unknown to Caroline, and if truth be told, she could not help but think it a trifle overdone; indeed, it was all she could do in the first few minutes of her acquaintance with this gentleman to keep from laughing aloud. She later learned that there were tulips with far greater pretensions to elegance even than Mr. Walfish, who dressed and behaved with much much more pronounced affectation. She, understandably, had been using Lord Seabury as a standard for comparison, but since (as she came to realize) he favoured only the most understated of fashions, this had been misleading.

  Mr. Walfish saluted his hostess with a graceful bow and a brief, dry peck at her hand; then he observed Lady Caro for the first time, quizzed her, and sank into a sea of courtesies. “Oh dear, my good, my most super-excellent friend, how horribly I have imposed upon you! If only I had known—! I am sorry beyond words; you know how anti-agreeable rudeness is to me—it is what I dislike above all things. But here am I, intruding with absolute hyper-coolness into what I now discover was a party of the most select character. Pray believe me, if I had had even the slightest inkling, even a micro-inkling I may say, I should never have—”

  “In the name of all that is reasonable, I beg you will be still a moment,” Lady Beatrice interrupted him. “Lady Caroline is my relative; she is but newly arrived in town; and if you continue at such a fever pitch of civility I am afraid she will also quit it forthwith. Now pray do sit down and dine with us—you see where a cover has been laid for you—and tell me what you have been doing.”<
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  The gentleman thus applied to obediently sat at table and allowed a few morsels of food to be placed on the plate before him. “But who is this glorious damsel?” he demanded. “You have kept her a deep secret, dear Lady Beatrice!”

  Lady Caroline, who did not especially enjoy being discussed in the third person while she was in the room, replied to this question herself. “I am the sister of the husband of a niece of her ladyship; not a near relation, as you see, but Lady Beatrice had been very gracious towards me nevertheless.”

  “Oh, fiddlestick,” said her ladyship. “I refused to take her in; judge for yourself if that is graciousness. She stops at Seabury’s. This is a scheme of his, this bringing-out of young ladies.”

  “Oh, are you to make your come-out, then? How perfectly charming.”

  “I am a little old for it, I th—”

  But she was hastily cut off by her hostess, who would not allow her to hang herself in such a manner. “We had hoped Caroline would come last year,” she said mendaciously, “but it proved impossible in the event.”

  “The intervening twelvemonth has but placed a greater bloom on your cheek,” Walfish remarked, “for the rose there now could not be improved.”

  New as she was to the world of the ton, Caroline had a pretty shrewd idea how her plain sarsenet gown and country toilette must appear to this town tulip. “You are kind to say so, sir; Lady Beatrice has been at considerable pains today to mend the deficiencies of my costume.”

  “Hardly necessary, my dear ma’am,” said Walfish, but even he could not deliver such a falsehood as this without wanting to laugh, a desire which he camouflaged unsuccessfully in the guise of a cough. “You will have a dozen offers before the end of a fortnight, depend upon it.”

  Caro smiled. “My young friend is not interested in offers,” Lady Beatrice said pointedly. “Are you, my dear?”

  Caroline, her mouth full of roast turkey, shook her head.

  Mr. Walfish raised his eyebrows but said nothing to indicate incredulity. “Will it be a very large come-out? I suppose it is hypo-delicate of me to inquire, but I know you will forgive me.”

  “Yes Ansel, it will; and you will be invited, so set your mind at rest. And while you are adjusting your mind, I wish you would remove all those little Greek flags from your vocabulary.”

  Mr. Walfish politely ignored the insult to his modish pseudo-classical terminology, asked when the come-out was to be, took out a little book, and made a note of the date. “You have no notion how full my calendar becomes sometimes,” he observed apologetically, adding, “not but what the date is forever engraved in my memory already, dear ma’ams.”

  “Heavens no, we are certain of that,” said the older lady, adding a moment later, “what date did I say, now? I did tell you the twelfth, did I not? I protest, I am positively in my dotage now-a-days, and can barely remember my name.”

  Mr. Walfish said yes. Mr. Walfish said no. Mr. Walfish said, “I think so.” At last Mr. Walfish was obliged to take out his little book again and consult it. Lady Caro enjoyed the spectacle greatly and (reflecting that she was, after all, supposed to cultivate eccentricity) gave in to her impulse and laughed very long. Lady Beatrice joined her, and even Mr. Walfish yielded in the end and grinned at his own foolishness. The under-butler, unobserved, smiled silently into a napkin.

  Rucke House, April 14.

  My dearest, kindest Angela,

  Well, I am launched, as one may say, and though it may seem odd I must report that I feel no different from when I was not “out” at all. What a pucker we were in, though, on Saturday! The guests were not expected until eight, but we were obliged to rise at ten in the morning—the crack of dawn in London!—and fuss and flutter about all day. I am told this is a part of the proceedings, and that I could not have been properly introduced into society if I had not passed that whole day in the most exalted agitation; if that is the case, I must be farther out than most, for I promise you there is nothing like ten women despairing over my appearance to set my teeth on edge. I was released at last (and not a moment to soon) in a ball-dress of ivory satin (even I, it was felt, could not wear rose at my come-out), veiled with Brussels net. A wide satin bandeau was placed upon my head, which was coiffed (you would not recognize me) in an hundred curls, and laced with satin ribands. The merest wisps of satin did for my slippers, and my stays (I may tell you) gave every sign of having been forged of steel, and ornamented with thorns. Lady Beatrice, who as I told you in my last letter is the dearest, roughest creature on earth, gave me a most extraordinary fan to carry—with a watch in the handle!—made of mother-of-pearl; and I wore the rope of pearls Humphrey gave me for my sixteenth birthday wound closely round my neck to complement it. My ministering angel also lent me a pair of pearl ear-drops, and a ring set with three black pearls (daring and distinctive, my dear) to wear over my gloves. The glovers here, by the way, are excessively careful in their measurements; I was two hours, almost, having mine fitted.

  Lady Beatrice expressed satisfaction with the result of all these efforts, especially congratulating herself on the sheen of the satin she had chosen for me, which she insisted improved the colour of my eyes from a mere common sea-green to a deep, vibrant, forest-green. Be that as it may, I was glad to have something to please her, since from her first estimation of me I thought I must always be a disappointment. I was not, naturally, the only one undergoing this torture: Miss Amy Meredith, about whom I have written before, was subjected to it as well for, as I think I mentioned, the come-out was for both of us. She submitted to the process with somewhat a better grace than myself, being (I do not think even she would contradict me on this point) a good deal more interested in fashion than myself; besides, she is finer material than I for this sort of thing. She issued from the hands of our tormentors looking considerably lovelier than I—for it is ridiculous to imagine that, with my excessive height and angularity, I could ever appear lovely, or charming, or adorable in any degree; however, I will own to looking magnificent, so do not pity me. Anyway, this Amy simply sparkled her way through the evening. Windle said I was much the prettier of the two of us, but you know what Windle is. The truly shocking thing was, that compared to Amy I not only looked less precious I also looked—just the tiniest bit—old. This is a terrible thing indeed, and one to which we must somehow put a stop!

  To continue with this fascinating history, somehow the day was survived by all, and the evening arrived at. There was an awkward moment just before the first guests came, when we all—I mean Romby, Seabury, Lady Beatrice, we two gorgeous young ladies and our chaperones—stood about in Lady Beatrice’s grand drawing-room trying hard not to breathe and so disturb our finery. “You are an enchanting picture,” said Seabury to Miss Meredith, though without much feeling.

  “I thank you, cousin,” said she. She is something in awe of him, I believe; as indeed she should be in awe of anyone who can say the alphabet backwards, or count to ten thousand, or perform any other useful and difficult feat which she cannot.

  “I think Lady Caroline is very beautiful tonight too,” said Windle loudly, to save what she fancied was my wounded self-esteem.

  I thanked her and returned the compliment directly.

  To my astonishment she blushed up to her eyes! “Oh,” said she, “I am sure no one else thinks so.” And then she cast a glance at Romby!

  Now this is something I did not expect, dear Angela. Let us only hope that my chaperone will not require a chaperone.

  I was under the necessity, of course, of making the acquaintance of a very large number of people that night, for the marchioness is something of an institution among society, and seems to know everybody in the world, but I will not burden you with more details than need be. Suffice it to say that my hand was tired of being shaken, and my lips of smiling, long before the evening had ended. What I did not weary of, though, was dancing, for this I find is quite wonderful. Thanks to my dancing-master here, my feet are no longer the slaves of that miserable little set
of contredanses you and I have so frequently walked through at the assembly-hall in High Bowen. On the contrary, they positively fly through the figures, skip and bounce and pirouette in a way most marvelous to behold. I always rather suspected I could dance, my dear, and I reflect with both complacency and gratification that I was absolutely right. It was my honour, too, to stand up with Seabury for the first dance, and I discovered to my surprise that he also dances wonderfully well! If I say this has made me a little more in love with him than his blue eyes had already done, you will think I am shallow and frivolous; but if I say otherwise I should lie; and so I think I shall not mention the subject at all, and thus avert misfortune.

  One quite interesting episode I shall mention, however, and that is the following. I had just returned to Lady Beatrice’s side after dancing a quadrille with Ansel Walfish, a particular friend to the marchioness, when a gentleman with a strangely lupine countenance came up to me and called me by name. I assumed I had met him earlier in the evening and forgot him, for he did not look familiar; so I offered my apologies, using the sudden rush of new faces as my excuse.

  “But I made your acquaintance long before tonight,” said the gentleman, grinning oddly. “Do you not recall me? Of course, if you prefer to deny the acquaintance, that is your prerogative…”