by Jane Ashford
“Oh, my dear, I think not,” answered Lady Merryn quickly. “That is, I am almost certain… You must ask Alex just who…” She stopped. “Look at the time! We must get to bed.” She turned and started up the stairs. “And only think, Gwendeline, I may get to meet Mr. Godwin and his circle! How I have longed to hear their discussions.”
Gwendeline very much wished to continue and perhaps find out something concrete about her situation, but the countess gave her no opportunity. When she reached her bedroom, Gwendeline was too tired to do more than undress and fall into bed. Investigations would have to wait, at least until tomorrow.
Five
Gwendeline didn’t take the title of reigning toast from Lillian Everly, but in the weeks that followed she received a creditable number of invitations and was present at many fashionable ton parties. She danced at Almack’s, where the earl led her onto the floor on several occasions to confirm his high opinion of her. The patronesses were pleased to approve her and allow her to waltz, and some of the young gentlemen seemed flatteringly struck by her charms, and vied for the honor of partnering her. She went to Vauxhall Gardens to dance, eat wafer-thin slices of ham, and watch the fireworks display; she attended several plays and went riding in the park with Miss Everly more than once. She even began to feel that Lillian, as she had by now been asked to call the other girl, was becoming a friend. Gwendeline liked her very much and admired her assurance and quick wit. Lillian was her first friend of her own age.
Not everyone was as kind as Lillian, of course. One or two starched-up matrons snubbed her, and Mr. Blane continued to seek her out at every opportunity and try to engage her in conversation. She avoided him when she could; she didn’t care for his manner. But sometimes she was forced to speak to him, and then the things he said made her painfully aware of her youth and ignorance.
Just the opposite was true with another new acquaintance. Mr. Horton, one of Lillian’s court of admirers, sought her out when they attended the same gatherings, but he had even less “town bronze” than Gwendeline, and his awkwardness put her at ease. She also pitied him; he clearly felt much out of place in London and was unsure how to make himself interesting to the satirical Miss Everly. He seemed very grateful for Gwendeline’s good-natured attention and often spent entire half hours pouring out his thoughts, hopes, and opinions to her. He was not at all shy or diffident at heart, and he showed some inclination to educate Gwendeline when he had plumbed the depths of her ignorance of literature and the classics.
Thus, on the eve of her first real ball in London, Gwendeline felt more at ease in society, if not yet completely at home, and much more knowledgeable about its workings. Though she would never be a belle, perhaps, she had an established place and was accepted. Altogether, she anticipated the evening with pleasurable excitement.
But as she donned her pale aquamarine ball gown that evening, half listening to Ellen’s chatter about the antics of Alphonse, Gwendeline began to wonder what would become of her when the season was over. Lady Merryn, she had soon realized, expected that she would marry some eligible gentleman and thus solve the problem of her future. But Gwendeline had not yet met anyone she would think of marrying nor had she been the object of any eligible gentleman’s marked attentions. Her father’s disgrace and, even more, her penniless state would discourage almost any potential suitor. Probably she would end up retiring to her small house with Miss Brown and living a quiet life in the city.
“So he threw every last one of them out in the gutter,” said Ellen.
“What?” Gwendeline was pulled from her thoughts by this remark.
“He threw them out of the house, miss,” repeated Ellen. “Oh, if you could have seen him, waving his cleaver about and shouting at them in French. I couldn’t understand a word.” She pursed her lips. “And lucky for me, I say. Because some of it was French swearing or I’m a fool.”
“Are you talking about Alphonse?” asked Gwendeline. “Whom did he throw out? Oh, it wasn’t the chimney sweep, was it? I told him the chimneys must be cleaned.”
“No, miss,” answered Ellen, frowning. “It was the mice. You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
“Mice?”
Ellen sighed. “The mice what was eating foodstuffs in the pantry. Alphonse has been screaming and raging about them for days. La, miss, you should have heard him. ‘The mice, they shall all be removed or I go! They must be executed. Vive la guillotine!’” She giggled. “He swore he would cut them into little pieces and get six cats to eat them. Finally, Mr. Reeves got some traps.”
“Ah. And the mice were caught?”
“Aye. Seven of the little creatures. In a great cage. John, the footman you know, pulled the trap out of the pantry first thing this morning, and there they were. He held the trap up. You know how tall John is, miss. And Alphonse began to dance around him, waving his cleaver in one hand and a great knife in the other and yelling something fierce. I like to died laughing.”
Gwendeline smiled. “But he didn’t cut them up?”
“Him?” Ellen sniffed. “He couldn’t hurt a fly. He’s all talk. John took them outside, with Alphonse dancing after him every step. It was a sight.”
“I’m sure it was. And I daresay they’ve all found their way back into the house by this time.”
Ellen’s eyes widened. “Do you think so, miss? I must tell Mr. Reeves. He’ll set the trap again.”
“No, no,” said Gwendeline. “Don’t start the whole crisis over again. Come, I must finish dressing. I’ll be late.”
Gwendeline clasped her silver bracelet on her wrist as Ellen put the finishing touches on her ringlets. Her thoughts strayed back to their original topic, and she sighed. Thinking of the future remained nearly as depressing as when she’d sat in her old room at Brooklands trying to decide what to do.
A tap at the door announced the entrance of Lady Merryn. “Gwendeline, only look! Two bouquets.”
Gwendeline took the card from the bunch of pink roses. “Mr. Horton,” she said with a smile. “Oh dear, poor man, pink. I can never carry pink with this gown. Isn’t that just like him.”
“Well, well, my dear, it’s the thought, and so on,” Lady Merryn put in. “This Mr. Horton must be fond of you. I don’t believe I know much about him. Is he new to London?”
“He’s from the country, I believe. His father is in the church, and Mr. Horton plans to follow him eventually. I don’t know him well, really. I’m surprised he sent a bouquet.”
Lady Merryn looked disappointed. “The church. A country vicar, I suppose, with hordes of children. They always have. Well, at least you have an admirer, Gwendeline, even if he is not…” She broke off. “I’m sure he’s a very nice young man.”
“Oh, he is.” Gwendeline smiled. “Overwhelmingly nice. But really he’s an admirer of Lillian’s, not mine.” She had an idea. “In fact, I wonder if Lillian suggested he send me flowers. It would be like her, and it seems most unlike him to have done so.”
Lady Merryn’s face fell further. “Well, what of the other bouquet? It’s lovely.”
It was. Delicate green leaves surrounded a few white rose buds and the whole was enclosed in a silver filigree holder that went well with Gwendeline’s bracelet. She picked up the card. “The Earl of Merryn,” she read with surprise.
The countess’s disappointment was complete. “Alex,” she said dully. “How thoughtful of him. They will go with your dress beautifully.”
“You told him to send flowers, no doubt,” Gwendeline said.
“No. He must have recalled that this is your first ball. Well, if you’re ready, we may as well go, Gwendeline.”
“B-but why should he send flowers to me? He rarely speaks to me; I sometimes think he hardly likes me.”
The countess appeared distracted. “Nonsense, my dear. Don’t be silly. You must bring your Mr. Horton to talk to me this evening.”
Gwendel
ine said nothing as she followed Lady Merryn down the stairs, but she found she was very glad that Mr. Horton’s pink roses had been so unsuitable to her costume. She held the white ones to her nose. It made her unaccountably happy to carry them instead.
The first ball of the season was at Lady Sefton’s elegant town house, and when Gwendeline and the countess drove up, they had to join a long line of carriages waiting to deposit guests at the door. Linkboys with flaring torches ran here and there, and the scene radiated excitement and bustle. Gwendeline’s mood lifted further, and she began to be impatient to get down.
When they entered the ballroom, it was nearly filled with ladies in glittering gowns and men in evening dress. Lady Sefton had hung garlands of flowers throughout, and the effect was dazzling. Gwendeline stood gazing for a moment, then moved toward the corner where she saw Lillian Everly standing. Lady Merryn saw her safely disposed, then went off to speak to some of her own friends.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Gwendeline said to Lillian as she approached. “I’ve never seen such a room.”
Lillian’s answering smile held its customary touch of sarcasm, directed not at Gwendeline but at the world in general. “The flowers are very fine. And so are you. Your gown is lovely.”
“Thank you,” Gwendeline replied. She always felt a bit pale and washed-out beside Lillian, whose vibrant coloring tonight was heightened by a dress of deep rose pink. The two girls were a study in contrasts. “How is Thistle’s foot?” she continued. Thistle, Lillian’s favorite horse, had injured her fetlock when the two girls were riding a few days before.
“Much better,” answered Lillian. “My groom says she’ll be quite recovered by next week. I’m so relieved.”
“Oh, I am glad.”
At this moment, they were approached by two young gentlemen soliciting their hands for the first dance. Lillian was already engaged, but Gwendeline accepted and was carried off to join the set forming farther down the room. There was little chance for any but the lightest conversation, since it was a country dance, and through the first three sets Gwendeline was kept busy watching her steps, managing her skirt and bouquet, and responding to the sallies of her partners. After the third set, however, she found herself standing alone beside one of the long windows which ran down the side of the ballroom. She was about to go searching for Lady Merryn when Mr. Horton came up to her and said good evening.
“I…I am late,” he continued. “I meant to dance with you. That is, I still mean to. Er, what I am trying to say is, will you dance with me?” He had gotten a trifle red in the face, and he fell silent uncomfortably.
“Thank you,” answered Gwendeline. “I’d like that.” She smiled at him. “I must thank you also for the lovely bouquet you sent me. I’m terribly sorry I couldn’t carry it with my dress.”
“W-with your dress,” Mr. Horton echoed, looking mystified.
“Your pink roses were lovely,” she explained, “but my dress is the wrong color for pink, I’m afraid.”
“Oh. Oh yes, I see,” he replied. “Then you didn’t just, that is, you would have, I mean.” He paused, looking vexed with himself.
Gwendeline took pity on him once more. “I’m sure I’d have carried them had they matched my gown.” She hoped, for some reason, that he would not ask whose flowers she was carrying.
His face cleared. “Would you? I’m so glad. You’re a very sensitive and, and kind young lady, Miss Gregory. Not at all like most of the girls in London.”
“There is the set forming,” Gwendeline responded quickly. “We’d better join it, if we are to dance, don’t you think?” And she led the way onto the floor without waiting for his reply.
Gwendeline managed to find them a place near Lillian Everly, who was dancing with Lord Wanley. She knew supper would be announced after this set and she hoped to go in with Lillian and her partner to avoid any more private conversation with Mr. Horton. Gwendeline was alarmed at his manner and wanted to give him no encouragement. As they danced, she saw Lord Merryn stroll into the ballroom, stopping here and there to speak to a friend. She was a little disappointed when she couldn’t catch his eye, but he appeared quite uninterested in the dancers.
The four young people did go in to supper together, taking a table in the rear of the supper room. The gentlemen went off to fetch refreshments, leaving Gwendeline and Lillian seated. Lillian, occupied with a torn ruffle on the hem of her dress, was annoyed.
“Lord Wanley dances like a bear,” she said disgustedly. “I can do nothing with this. I must go upstairs after supper and pin it up.” She abandoned her efforts to mend the flounce and straightened. “He was reciting his latest sonnet, to my eyes, when he made a misstep and tore it.” She smiled crookedly. “The really maddening thing was that he didn’t even notice. He went on with his poem, leaving me to manage a dragging ruffle and try to keep it out of others’ way.” She laughed. “He is the most provoking creature. What am I to do about him, Gwendeline?”
“Couldn’t you simply refuse to dance with him?”
“With Lord Wanley? You must be all about in your head. The scene would be more embarrassing than dancing with him ever could be.”
“Yes, I suppose it would.” Gwendeline was preoccupied. “I also have a problem. Mr. Horton sent me a bouquet, and he has begun to talk very strangely to me.”
Lillian was immensely amused. “Has he transferred his affections to you then? What a wonderful relief! Now if Lord Wanley would only become enamored of you, I would be saved.” She looked at Gwendeline wickedly. “Perhaps I’ll suggest it to him.”
“You wouldn’t!” began Gwendeline, horrified, then realized Lillian was roasting her. “But what shall I do about Mr. Horton?”
“And what shall I do about Lord Wanley?” echoed Lillian melodramatically. The two girls broke into laughter. “Oh, it’s too absurd,” said Lillian when she could speak again. “Was anyone ever so persecuted?”
“And who would dare to persecute so lovely a lady?” asked a voice behind them. “Tell me, and I shall call him out straightaway.”
They turned to find Mortimer Blane bowing to them. He had left his own table, and he took one of the empty seats at theirs, unbidden. Gwendeline immediately began to feel uncomfortable. There was something about the man that made her uneasy. She could never decide just what. His eyes, Gwendeline decided as he sat down, so very brilliant and piercing, and his manner toward her were part of it. He always made her feel young and stupid and silly. And he looked at her with a speculative, sly impudence that was insulting without being tangible enough to warrant complaint.
Mr. Blane leaned back in his chair. “This is luxurious,” he said smoothly. “Two lovely young ladies for tablemates. I inadvertently danced with Alicia Holloway and now am partnered with her for supper. She says no more than a stick.”
“How comforting then,” answered Lillian languidly, “that she is so very rich.”
“Most comforting,” Mr. Blane agreed affably. “I certainly wouldn’t have danced with her else.”
“Ah,” replied Lillian. “Now we see where your interest in us poor females lies. We shall beware of you in future, sir.”
“My interest in you ladies has nothing of the mercenary in it, I assure you,” said Mr. Blane, with a telling look directed at Lillian.
“It just happens, then, that I am an heiress also,” she replied daringly.
“It happens that you are adorable,” he responded.
“As you find all heiresses, I have no doubt. We’ll never trust him again, will we Gwendeline?”
“Oh, I don’t…” Gwendeline broke off in confusion. She had no skill at this sort of conversation.
“If Miss Gregory would trust me,” said Mr. Blane, “I’d be honored indeed.” He smiled as Gwendeline blushed. “You look uncommonly like your mother in that gown, Miss Gregory. That blue-green. She used to wear it often.” His voice took on a dista
nt quality. “You are as lovely as she was. I remember her at a party several years ago in a gauze gown of that shade. She was ravishing!” He recollected himself. “As are you. Will you honor me with a dance later on?”
“I-I’m not certain I have one open. I must see,” stammered Gwendeline.
“Of course.” He stood as the two young gentlemen returned with plates of food. “I shall speak with you later. Ladies.” He bowed and walked away.
Lillian directed a meaningful look at Gwendeline, but further conversation was impossible as Lord Wanley and Mr. Horton spread their spoils on the table, with complaints by the former about the appalling crush around the buffet. As she ate lobster patties and salad, Gwendeline pondered Mr. Blane’s remarks about her mother. His tone had been very strange; it seemed to hold more than mere admiration.
Lord Wanley began to recite his sonnet once more. “Her eyes smite me like spears of dazzling light/ Her hair glows dark…”
“Spare my blushes, Lord Wanley,” said Lillian, “if you please. Why not write a sonnet to Gwendeline? I’m sure she’s much more nymphlike than I.” She glanced teasingly at Gwendeline.
“No one is more nymphlike, more perfect than you,” responded Lord Wanley. “That is what I say in the sestet.” He started to go on with the poem.
“No. I protest I will hear no more.” Lillian stood. “Come, Gwendeline, let us retreat from this flattery. I must mend my gown.” They left the table and walked upstairs to the bedroom set aside for this purpose. Several young ladies were repairing damage to their dresses. “I can never decide,” said Lillian, as she began to pin up her flounce, “whether Lord Wanley is simply a dunce or only misguided by the current fashion for poetic indulgence. His poetry is certainly awful.”
“Is it?” answered Gwendeline. “I confess I find it excessively silly, but I’m very stupid about literature.”
“It’s quite the worst poetry I’ve ever heard,” said Lillian. “If he were a great poet, like Scott, one could tolerate his odd starts, but he is not, not in the least.” Lillian shook out her skirt and eyed it critically in the mirror. “There. That should do, unless I’m forced to dance with Lord Wanley again.” She smiled mischievously at Gwendeline. “Perhaps if he asks me I’ll send him to dance with you.”
