by Isobel Carr
George sat up again and began petting her dog, who had heaved himself up and was drooling copiously all over her skirts. ‘Have you seen Eleanor and the twins yet?’ she inquired, suddenly changing subjects.
‘No. I did call with the earl when the colonel sent news of his sons’ arrival but his wife was not yet receiving visitors and the twins were asleep.’
‘Perhaps we can invade tomorrow?’ George suggested. ‘I’m simply dying to see our newest additions, and to see how Eleanor is getting on. Twins. Can you imagine? No wonder she was so uncomfortable when we saw her last.’
Imogen blew her breath out in a sympathetic puff. ‘Twins certainly would explain poor Mrs Staunton’s discomfort.’
‘Come inside, you’ll freckle if you sit out here all day.’ George pushed the dog away and stood waiting with obvious impatience.
‘Very well, lead me to your treasure trove.’
The countess had not exaggerated when she’d referred to her shopping spree as an orgy. Her boudoir was strewn with parcels, trunks, and bandboxes, a great many of which, Imogen was embarrassed to discover, were intended for her.
While she knew George meant it kindly, to accept so many gifts all at once caused an uncomfortable pang. Especially when she could hardly appear so churlish as to refuse the things George had bought for her. But there were so many of them. George appeared to have run mad in the capital, and to have purchased nearly an entire new wardrobe for them both.
As the countess and her maid sorted through the packages, Imogen’s pile grew and grew. There were hats and bonnets, new gloves in a multitude of colours and lengths, new nightgowns and a very elegant dressing gown, a long redingtote à l’Allemande, with large gold buttons and a high, mannish collar, a huge bearskin muff, and a swansdown tippet. There were fripperies, such as hair ribbons, and silk flowers, and a quantity of silk stockings, some of which were even fashionably striped.
‘I also bought fabric for new walking and carriage dresses for us both,’ George said, glancing about the ruin of her boudoir, with a distracted, slightly harried look on her face. ‘And I think we both need new habits as well,’ the countess pronounced with a mischievous smile.
‘George,’ Imogen protested, staring down at the huge pile of things the countess had brought her, all her misgivings suddenly boiling up. ‘It’s too much. Really. I can’t possibly…’
‘Pooh,’ George replied, turning her head as she studied a reflection of herself in a calash bonnet of morone-colored silk. ‘None of that now. I told you when you came to stay that I’m extravagant by nature, and you promised to not allow yourself to be embarrassed by whatever small things I might be moved to give you. You’d best take this, too,’ she added, dropping the bonnet back into its box. ‘It doesn’t suit me nearly as well as it will you. Red really doesn’t flatter me at all, I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought it.’
‘But, George…’ This was not what she’d been picturing when the countess had mentioned small things.
‘But nothing.’ George brushed her concerns away with a wave of her hand. ‘I’m quite determined to puff you off at the races, and no amount of protesting, or cavilling is going to stop me. So just take them,’ she added, her tone brisk, but her eyes still smiling.
Imogen smiled back at her and shook her head. George was being ridiculous. Though she should have been expecting it. The gown that had arrived for the ball was apparently just the start of it. ‘I’ll promise to try and not be so proud and disagreeable, and I’ll even accept this appalling large collection of finery, if only you’ll promise not to run mad again.’
The countess grinned, all lop-sided cheer, and agreed to attempt to curb her more outrageous urges, so long as Imogen would continue to accept the things she purchased when her compunction to shop won out. Imogen cautiously agreed, fearing that what she’d just done was to hand George carte blanche to supply her with anything and everything that caught her fancy.
And seemingly, almost nothing escaped her notice. Imogen’s shoulders sagged as she spotted an ivory spoked fan amongst the jumble of things intended for her. She was going to be almost as well supplied for the coming season as she would have been if she was still married to Perrin. Possibly better supplied, as her former husband would never have approved of some of the more outrageous kicks of fashion that were now in vogue.
This conclusion was reinforced when George said to her as the maid directed several footmen to carry Imogen’s new things down to the dowager house, ‘Besides, my dear, you’re simply not going to be allowed to settle in here and disappear like some poor relation. Don’t imagine I’d allow it for a moment.’ Feeling both exasperated and disgustingly happy, Imogen hugged the countess, and willed herself not to cry. She was not going to cry; regardless of the hot, heavy sensation burning behind her eyes.
George hugged her back, and then waggled her brows at her, ‘Shall we spend the rest of the afternoon choosing designs for our new gowns? I’ve brought back the latest issues of all the fashion magazines, and I’m determined that our dresses will be ready for the races, and for Lord Glendower’s shooting party.’
‘Shooting party?’ She’d heard on numerous occasions that George was the only woman who attended Lord Glendower’s annual party. Even his wife excused herself to visit one of her numerous sisters for the duration.
‘You didn’t think I’d dream of going without you?’ George replied, not looking up from the toilette she was studying intently. ‘What do you think of this one? For the corded silk?’ Imogen took the magazine, glancing over the plate showing a woman in an elegant, redingote du matin, worn over a white petticoat with contrasting ruffles. Mentally stripping away the monstrous Nicolet headdress, and the heavy trimming of bugles, Imogen nodded appreciatively, and handed the magazine back to George.
‘I like it. Very elegant. I especially like the waistcoat peeping out at the bottom.’
George nodded and folded down the corner of the page. Imogen thought about bringing up the subject of the shooting party again, but knew that there was probably no point. The countess was hard to gainsay, and if she was determined to drag Imogen to the shooting party, then chances were high that that’s exactly what would happen. By now Imogen had enough experience with George’s methods to just acquiesce with good grace to the inevitable.
They spent the rest of the afternoon curled up on the sofas in George’s boudoir, flipping through the pages of Galerie des Modes. George had brought back several copies, and by the time the earl poked his head in to check on them, they had dog-eared numerous pages, making notes in the margins as to which fabrics to use for the design, and which of the numerous frills and furbelows shown on each dress to leave off.
‘Mrs Gable was asking if you ladies would like tea?’ he said, seating himself upon the arm of the sofa George was ensconced on. He put one hand on the back of the sofa, behind his wife, and leaned over to peek at the page she was currently studying. ‘I like that.’
‘Listen to this,’ George said, holding the magazine up and reading from it, ‘Fitted redingote of deep lilac, shot with white; longer than they were worn last month, and trimmed with mink. Do you hear that, Imogen? I sincerely hope you were paying attention. This month they are longer than last month,’ she repeated for emphasis, and laughing, tossed the volume aside. ‘I must be one of the most unfashionable women in all of England. I’m still wearing the same Redingote I bought last year. Thank heavens I’ve bought you a new one. Otherwise we’d be terribly dowdy. I can’t believe that Alençon condescends to be seen with us.’
Imogen choked, and the earl laughed appreciatively. ‘Yes, my dear,’ he said finally, his teasing eyes glancing about the room to take in all the new purchases George had just made, ‘I’m embarrassed to be seen with you, myself. Been meaning to drop you a hint.’
George rolled her eyes and slapped at him playfully, shooing him off to assure their housekeeper that tea would be very welcome.
Still feeling oddly out of sorts, Imo
gen retreated to the dowager house after dinner. She wasn’t the best company at the moment, and certainly didn’t want to spend the entire evening with the earl and countess, who’d clearly missed one another during their brief separation.
The sight of the two of them gave her a pang, like a bubble bursting inside her chest. It was petty of her to be jealous. It wasn’t as though she and Perrin had ever been anything like the Somercotes after all. They had been a very proper married couple, and would never have done anything so unfashionable as to hang on one another in public. Even in private she’d addressed him as Perrin—or husband—never William.
Annoyed with herself, she sat down at the pianoforte, and began to play; pounding her way through a Bach concerto. Bach always made her feel better. The music was so strong, so emotional. You couldn’t possibly concentrate on how you yourself were feeling when you played it, you had to give yourself over to what he had been feeling when he wrote it. And she particularly liked the physical sensation of playing Bach when she was upset, or angry. It simply felt good.
The dramatic notes were clearly audible, drifting out over the garden when the earl and countess walked past, taking a moonlit tour through the garden.
George paused to listen. ‘She’s not happy.’ She squeezed her husband’s hand.
‘Brimstone?’ Ivo inquired.
‘I’m not sure.’ George stopped on the steps as they turned to go back up to the house. ‘She just feels restless to me.’
She was almost positive that Gabriel’s absence was responsible for her friend’s depressed air, though she was not going to discuss it at length with her husband.
Ivo could be very dull at times such as these.
His advice would be to not interfere, not get overly involved or invested. He would tell her that it wasn’t any of her business, and that Gabriel wouldn’t welcome her thrusting herself into his personal affairs, but he’d be wrong.
Gabriel had certainly always taken a brotherly interest in hers, and the least she could do was do the same. Besides, she and Lady Morpeth had had plenty of time to discuss the very promising nature of Imogen and Gabriel’s romance when she was in town, and to think of various schemes for promoting it. One of which was to get them both to the First October Races.
Exposure was the key. She was sure of it.
Chapter Ten
Could Lord S——’s new distraction be the reason he makes no protest to his wife’s flaunting herself about on the arm of the Angelstone Turk?
Tête-à-Tête, 3 October 1789
Imogen was well aware of the timing of all the races. They were, after all, popular events with the men of the ton, and as a political hostess she’d had to be aware of such things to avoid planning conflicting events.
The First October Races were exactly what the name implied. They took place on the first Monday in October, thereby preceding the Second October Races and the Houghton meeting, which brought the racing season to a close. No more formal races would be run until the following spring, when the Craven would be held on the Monday after Easter, and the entire sporting world would once again make the pilgrimage to Newmarket.
The young Prince of Wales was an a avid patron of the turf, frequently running his own horses, and could be counted upon to absent himself from London for all the major race meetings. She still recalled with particular relish when one of her rival hostesses had planned an elaborate masked ball, sent out the invitations, and was horrified to discover that she’d chosen the eve before the Oaks, and that nearly everyone who was anyone would be at Epsom Downs. Imogen’s own Venetian breakfast, offered a well-planned three days later, had been a smashing success.
Imogen flexed her foot in the stirrup and clucked to her mount. They were almost to Newmarket, having set out just after breakfast, and Quiz was beginning to slow down. The elderly bay gelding was her favourite amongst the many horses in the Somercote stable, and she’d been delighted with George’s suggestion that they all ride to Newmarket. They’d sent their trunks along in the carriage the day before, and even now their things and servants should be awaiting them at The Slug and Lettuce, the inn George’s set reserved whenever they were in town. Imogen reached down and patted Quiz soundly on the neck, eliciting a snort and a head shake.
‘Almost there, old boy,’ the countess said, glancing over at her friend. ‘Talavera’s getting tired too, but not Cobweb,’ she noted, as her husband’s horse gave an irritated little cow hop.
‘No, not Cobweb. He’s rather annoyed just now at being forced to bring up the rear,’ the earl replied, taking a firmer grip on the reins. ‘Nasty brute that he is.’
Imogen pressed her lips together and did her best to resist laughing. The way the earl said it, nasty brute was undoubtedly an endearment. Much like when George referred to Gabriel as a dreadful provoking beast, or her godson as a thatch gallows.
As they neared the town, the road became choked with men on horseback, and vehicles of every description imaginable, from the most elegant equipages to the humblest gigs, as well as mail coaches with their tops full to overflowing with passengers.
When the rooftops of Newmarket came into view a man’s voice called out, ‘I’ll be damned. It’s Mrs Exley.’ And they all reigned in, steering their mounts onto the verge, and turning in their saddles to observe a very elegant gentleman mounted on a solid chestnut hack.
‘I say,’ the man continued, stopping beside the countess, ‘that’s quite a horse you have there.’ He studied Talavera intently for a moment, entirely missing the amused glance George threw her husband. ‘Spanish?’
‘Dutch,’ the countess replied, reaching out to scratch her mount’s neck.
‘Dutch, you say,’ he mused, finally looking up from the horse. ‘Hmm. Well, a beauty all the same. And I say,’ he said a second time, catching a glimpse of the earl’s horse. ‘That’s a splendid animal as well. You can’t tell me he’s not got a splash of the Spanish.’
‘Guilty as charged,’ the earl answered, raising one brow inquiringly at his wife. Imogen bit her lip to hold back a laugh. One simply never knew who might claim an acquaintanceship with George. She seemed to know and be known by everyone from princes, to dandies, to pugilists.
‘Somercote, this is Lord Fitzwilliam, who I’ve known for an age. Lord Fitzwilliam, this is my husband, Lord Somercote.’
‘Well, well,’ Fitzwilliam said, smiling in a very open, friendly manner, taking in the earl with a bit more enthusiasm. ‘Guess I’ll have to get used to calling you my lady now.’
George shook her head at him and introduced him to Imogen as well. ‘Here for the races?’ he asked her, blithely stating the obvious. ‘Good, good. You keep an eye on my Pewett. Won the St Ledger this year, and I have every hope of doing the same here. Good place to put your blunt.’
He chatted on for a few minutes with the countess about the other contenders, and then, with a neat bow of his head he excused himself and rode off down the road, whistling through his teeth.
Imogen glanced at George.
‘Obsessed with horseflesh,’ George said by way of explanation, turning her horse back towards Newmarket. ‘Wait and see Ivo, he’ll make you an offer on Cobweb before we head home. I recognize his acquisitive gleam.’
The earl answered his teasing wife with a smile and a shake of his head. Imogen had no doubt she was right, but there was no chance at all that the earl would be induced to part with Cobweb. The big grey dapple was his longstanding favourite.
After weaving their way through the crowded streets, past braying donkeys, roving orange girls, and what seemed like hundreds of carriages, they rode into the yard of The Slug and Lettuce and handed their mounts over to their waiting groom. ‘Anyone else here yet, Catton?’ George inquired, as her long time retainer took the reins from her.
‘Yes, my lady,’ he replied, drawing out the my lady, in an affected way. ‘Mr Bennett, Lord Morpeth, the Duke of Alençon, Lord Cardross, and Lord St Audley are all here. I believe they’re in the tap room.
There’s only the Misters Angelstone, Lord Layton, and the earl, his father, still wanting.’
‘Excellent,’ the countess pronounced, linking her arm through Imogen’s. ‘Thank you, Catton.’ The groom nodded, and led the horses away to be unsaddled and stabled. ‘And now, Ivo dearest, I think Imogen and I shall go up to our rooms and tidy up, and then we’ll join you for luncheon.’ The earl sketched them both a quick bow, and strolled off towards the tap room.
Up in her room Imogen washed her hands and face, took off her hat and set about attempting to resurrect her hair. She was still struggling with it when the countess knocked and summarily entered her room.
‘Ready?’ she asked brightly. ‘Apparently not,’ she added, shutting the door behind her. ‘Here,’ she came around behind Imogen and batted her hands away, ‘let me do it. I love your hair,’ she sighed, deftly twisting up the riot of springy curls and pinning them in place.
‘Someone has to,’ Imogen mumbled in return, frowning at her reflection. George caught her eye in the mirror, and shook her head at her. Imogen quirked up one side of her mouth, and watched as George finished pinning up her hair, carefully drawing out a few curls at the nape, and taming them with a bit of water.
‘There now,’ George said, stepping back and admiring her handiwork.
Downstairs, the tap room was filled with gentlemen, a great many of whom were by now familiar to Imogen. The sporting set was quite large, but most of the core constituency had been present at the Somercote’s house party. They were all drinking ale, making quick work of the hearty plates of food supplied by the inn keeper and his surprisingly amiable wife, and talking horses nonstop.
George and Imogen took seats at a small table partially occupied by Mr Bennett and Morpeth and proceeded to eat, surrounded by the mad hubbub of the room. Imogen chewed her food slowly, glancing thoughtfully around the room, content to watch and listen. George was already in the thick of it, arguing the various merits of several contenders.
