By a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  “What the devil do you find so amusing, your lordship?”

  “It is a French fly. A mouche. And in Italian, should you be curious to know, the word for fly is mosca.”

  C.J. blanched. What a fool she had just made of herself! “Thank you for the education in romance languages, sir. All that for a mouche?” C.J. said, scarcely able to disguise her mortification.

  “Come, Miss Welles. Let us take a turn about the room and see if we can spot the real perpetrator of this heinous hoax. We shall put the first man or woman with a glaring red pockmark to the rack to see if they confess.” Smiling, he glanced down at her bare limb.

  “’Twas nothing more than a patch, then.” C.J. shivered and sighed and searched about for a linen towel with which to dry her arm. She would have to wash it before attempting to replace her glove, and without her glove, she would not be permitted on the dance floor. “Please excuse me, sir,” she said, and found a liveried servant, who arranged to have a basin of water and a clean cloth brought posthaste.

  Her impromptu toilette completed, C.J. sought out the rest of her party. She tried to ignore the cutting glances of the well-accoutered assemblage but was unable to stop her ears from the insidious buzz circulating around the room apropos of her hoydenish behavior.

  “Countrified manners,” sneered a handsome woman in a jeweled headdress, glinting over her peacock-feather fan. “But then what can one expect from a poor relation.”

  “I daresay my horses are better schooled,” guffawed a yellow-toothed, odiferous elderly gentleman. He removed his gold-rimmed spectacles to dab a rheumy eye with the edge of his ruffled cuff.

  Myriad comments of a similar nature filled C.J.’s ears, and she tried to hold her head high despite the sting she felt from the ton’s assault, but before she reached Lady Dalrymple at the perimeter of the ballroom, there was a collective gasp from all and sundry.

  Could her gaffe have been of such epic magnitude?

  When C.J. realized that this particular communal intake of breath was not directed at her, and that all of the patrons had turned toward the door, she, too, paused to regard the cause for such commotion.

  A young woman, attired from head to toe in lemon yellow, had just made her entrance on the arm of a dapper escort. They had eyes only for each other and feigned obliviousness to the effect they had produced amid the gathering throng.

  Just as the couple had located a pair of chairs, and the gentleman had seated his lady and was about to make for the negus table, Mr. King, the Master of Ceremonies, approached them and announced in stentorian tones, “You are not welcome here, your lordship, your ladyship.”

  The murmurs began anew.

  “She is carrying his child,” remarked a sweet-faced blonde. “And her, barely out of mourning for her father.”

  “I hear,” smirked a dandy so coated with cosmetics that he resembled a china doll, “that it was at the earl’s funeral that the deed was done . . . while the guests were partaking of the mourning meal. The funeral meats were cold, but our young Lord Featherstone’s was smoking. Just past the hedgerows, I hear it happened—on the old earl’s own property. He was always so fond of his rose garden.”

  “And now it seems that his Rose’s bush has been well pruned,” his older companion snickered.

  “Nay, not so much pruned as pricked,” the dandy laughed.

  “It seems Featherstone could not wait for the banns,” whispered a haughty matron who pointed a gloved finger at Lady Rose’s ever so slightly rounded belly.

  “You are to leave the room at once and are not welcome at future public assemblies,” Mr. King proclaimed, audible to all.

  There was no opportunity to protest and no court in which one would be entertained. Lord Featherstone offered his hand to Lady Rose.

  The collective reaction of the ton could not have been more powerful had it been choreographed. As the loving couple exited the room, depriving their detractors of the satisfaction of watching them depart at a hasty pace, it seemed that almost every aristocrat, regardless of age or gender, made a great show of turning his or her respective back on the pair. The silence during this exhibition was deafening. Once the illicit lovers had departed the Upper Rooms and were enveloped by the night air, the cats indoors resumed their merriment.

  Shocked by this display, C.J. made her way over to her “aunt” and seated herself beside her. Lady Dalrymple read the young woman’s expression and patted her hand sympathetically. “I do not condone the behavior you have just witnessed, nor do I agree with it, but my dear, that is the way of the upper crust. We are expected to set an example for those considered to be in the inferior classes, and when decorum is so flagrantly violated—paraded even—well, you see the degree to which it is tolerated.”

  “Is that what it means to be ‘cut’?” C.J. asked.

  “It is indeed,” replied the countess. “To endure the censure of one’s peers in such a fashion has quite effectively and publicly rendered Lord Featherstone and Lady Rose societal outcasts. Their presence will not be tolerated at public gatherings such as these, and any hostess who would presume to entertain them in her home or on her estate risks similar censure herself for the very act of defying this unwritten decree.”

  “But what if Lord Featherstone were to marry Lady Rose?”

  “No doubt he will, my child. Any fool can see that they are very much in love. It doesn’t signify, however. The indiscretion has been committed and no matter what pains are taken to rectify the situation, the act of censure remains the same.”

  “How dreadful. And ridiculous. I noticed that Lord Darlington did not turn his back, nor did many of those seated around the perimeter of the room.”

  “Percy has always been his own man, and for that reason, I have always doted on him. Now,” the countess explained, gesturing with her fan, “the others you remarked upon are not of the same strata as the ton. They have no call to cut their betters, whatever their behavior. Their circles rarely intersect with ours, except at public assemblies such as these.”

  “I cannot imagine wanting to be in the same room as those who would so universally condemn my actions.”

  Lady Dalrymple squeezed C.J.’s hand. “Ahhh . . . but a life of ostracism can become a very lonely one. It will be interesting to see whether or not Lord Featherstone and Lady Rose can endure such an existence without inciting rancor between themselves.”

  Mrs. Fairfax, who had been struggling to overhear the conversation between C.J. and the countess, admitted defeat and broached a subject of her own. Aiming her closed fan at Lord Darlington, she said, “The earl is one of the most eligible bachelors this season, your ladyship. Perhaps he will suit one of my girls. It will take their minds off of His Majesty’s officers.”

  “But, Mama,” Susanne lamented, “he is a widower and over thirty-five years old. Thirty-seven or even thirty-eight, some say. That is nearly more than twice Harriet’s age, and assuredly more than twice my own.”

  “Imagine being married to a man twice one’s age,” interjected Harriet. “If I were twenty, he would be forty. And by the time I reached that age, he would be eighty!” C.J. had to remind herself that she was dwelling in an age where it was popularly held that female children had no need to learn mathematics. “Besides,” Harriet continued, “I hope that Captain Keats will be here this evening. He looks so splendid in his uniform,” she confided to C.J.

  “Captain Keats is a poor officer with nothing of substance to recommend him,” her mother said dismissively.

  The pretty blonde sighed petulantly over her mother’s ignorance. “He has a medal for valor, Mama, which is more than any man of our acquaintance can boast.”

  As if on cue, a tall young gentleman, resplendent in his scarlet coat with its gold braid and shiny silver buttons, and decorated with an item that Mrs. Fairfax was quick to discredit as a mere tin trinket, approached their party.

  Harriet blushed. “Captain Keats! We were just discussing your merits. Do join us for a glass of pun
ch.”

  “I should be only too happy to oblige,” the dashing captain replied, as he stood beside the infatuated Miss Fairfax. “I could not help overhearing as I approached, mum, your daughter’s mention of my medal for distinctive service.”

  Mr. Fairfax presented Captain Keats to Lady Dalrymple and her “niece,” and the officer explained to the little group the history of his decoration. “I was one of Sir Ralph Abercromby’s expedition to Egypt this past March, you see, and each of us was granted the distinction of the Sphinx. If you inspect the order more closely, you will see that it is inscribed with the word Egypt.”

  Miss Fairfax was only too happy to oblige. “Oh, bless me! Goodness if it does. Egypt,” she mused. “That must be terribly far away.”

  “Indeed it is, Miss Fairfax. And a rather more arid climate than we are used to in England.”

  Quickly losing interest in a discussion of North African weather, C.J. scanned the room, noticing the earl and Miss Austen in the company of Lady Oliver and an older couple. Darlington was glancing in her direction as they sought chairs, none of which appeared to suit his esteemed aunt.

  After a few moments, the earl approached their party, greeting each of them warmly. He allowed that he remembered the Miss Fairfaxes, yet there was not a hint in his manner of anything beyond cordial recollection. Mrs. Fairfax would have to wage an aggressively persistent campaign on behalf of her nubile offspring if she wished the earl to entertain even the slightest inclination toward espousing either of her daughters.

  Darlington surreptitiously leaned forward to speak to C.J. “I should like a word in your ear, Miss Welles, if you can spare me a moment this evening.”

  “You have piqued my curiosity, your lordship.”

  “I should be quite honored if you would join me in a set.” He inclined his head toward the center of the room. “As you are no doubt aware, propriety prohibits me from engaging your company more than twice this evening—and my aunt’s wishes are rather adamant in my halving that number—which will not afford me nearly as much opportunity as I should like to enjoy your delightful company. Perhaps the supper dance would be best, and then we may talk more freely afterward.”

  C.J. was learning something else about the inhabitants of this society. Nearly everyone here danced around his or her intentions, cloaking them in nuance, riddle, and understatement. Would she ever become used to it? “I should be honored, your lordship,” she replied, and dropped a respectful curtsy.

  “My cousin would like to say good evening to you, Miss Welles, if you will allow me to separate you briefly from your companions.” Darlington nodded to the Fairfaxes and to Lady Dalrymple and begged their indulgence while he spirited away Miss Welles to greet his cousin, his arm lightly guiding C.J. by the elbow as they crossed the room to address the other party.

  “Miss Jane’s cousin’s first husband and my late wife were brother and sister—if you can follow that rather knotty family tree,” the earl informed C.J., who did not recall hearing about Darlington’s first marriage from his own lips. She supposed that among the ton everyone knew one another’s business regardless of whether or not the source of the intelligence was firsthand.

  They reached the opposite side of the ballroom, and his lordship made the introductions all around. “Miss Jane Austen, with whom you are of course acquainted, Miss Welles. And Miss Jane’s uncle and aunt, with whom she is staying in the Paragon, Mr. and Mrs. Leigh-Perrot.”

  C.J. offered them shallow curtsies and tried to express her pleasure in the opportunity to make their acquaintance. She felt woefully inarticulate and socially inept.

  “This is Miss Welles’s first season,” prompted the earl, surprised at her unusual muteness.

  Fortunately, C.J. was rescued by the articulate Miss Austen. “It is a pity you were not here earlier in the year.” Jane surveyed the room, and shook her head. “The crowd is shockingly and inhumanly thin for this place, though there are people enough, I suppose, to make five or six very pretty Basingstoke assemblies.”

  “Yes, Jane never tires of poking fun at poor little Basingstoke’s countrified remoteness,” Mrs. Leigh-Perrot agreed, then excused herself and her husband to join another couple in one of the few country dances requiring a square.

  Darlington held out a chair for C.J. “You would not think it to know her, for her manner is always so gentle, but my cousin has an exceptionally wicked predilection for gossip,” he commented. “You were treated to a taste of that at tea the other day, Miss Welles. Cousin Jane, do share with our companion what you were just telling me.”

  Miss Austen slid her chair closer to C.J.’s and spoke in a confidential tone. “I have a very good eye for adulteresses,” she whispered, glancing toward the opposite end of the room at a highly rouged woman wearing a handsome striped silk turban with a large topaz at the center, from which an enormous egret feather sprouted. “Though I have been repeatedly assured that another in the same party was the she, I fixed upon the right one from the first.” Jane looked pleased with herself.

  “You have great powers of perception, Miss Austen, to be able to detect the slightest foible of character at fifty paces,” C.J. murmured to her new acquaintance.

  The young women shared a laugh, and Jane, sensing a kindred spirit, took hold of C.J.’s hand. “I do believe we shall become great friends,” she pronounced with assuredness.

  Chapter Twelve

  A chapter fraught with incident, in which Miss Austen shares her opinions on the follies of both sexes; Lady Dalrymple puts on a show; our heroine gets kissed in the moonlight, followed by a stunning, though not altogether unexpected, proposal; and Lady Oliver’s checkered past is disclosed.

  RETURNING FROM THEIR EXERTIONS, the Leigh-Perrots asked Darlington if he would kindly fetch them some punch. Lady Oliver wished for a full report on all of the available refreshments before she would commit to a preference for a single one of them, and insisted that these days all the best assemblies served orgeat water, a nonalcoholic beverage made from barley and orange-flower water.

  Miss Austen directed C.J.’s attention to two members of the adulteress’s party. “I cannot remember being so amused at a ball,” she informed her companion with a gleeful smile. “Mrs. Busby is abandoning the two young women whom she is obliged to chaperone to run ’round the room after her drunken husband. His avoidance and her pursuit, with the probable intoxication of both, has provided the most convivial entertainment I have had this past hour.” Jane urged C.J. to quickly turn her chair, as the objects of Miss Austen’s pointed censure were headed their way. They swiftly rearranged their positions so as to avoid the addresses of Busby and wife.

  The earl rejoined their party with glasses of punch for the Leigh-Perrots and for his aunt, despite her earlier directives. No orgeat water, or ratafia liqueur either, was to be had this evening.

  Lady Oliver missed nothing of her nephew’s interest in Lady Dalrymple’s poor relation and squandered no opportunity to issue a rebuke. “If I had wished to spend my evening in the company of a salivating male, I should have brought my best Pointer. Percy, you are perfectly aware of the impropriety of the situation. To give Miss Welles such undue attention is not becoming to your status as a gentleman, and it will undoubtedly cause embarrassment to the family, not to mention damage to your already blemished reputation.”

  “Then a further blot will pass undetected, Aunt Augusta,” the earl replied.

  C.J. smiled complaisantly. “Lady Oliver, forgive my rudeness. Although we are seated five persons apart from each other, I could not help overhearing your remarks to your nephew, which I am sure were intended to be in confidence. Surely, if my presence is intolerable to his lordship, he is free to direct his attentions elsewhere.”

  Her ladyship’s rather audible grunt connoted her defeat as well as her displeasure. She adjusted her position with the aid of her ivory-handled walking stick.

  “She likes you well enough,” C.J. whispered to Miss Austen.

  Jane looked
up and smiled placidly at Lady Oliver in case the old bat should misjudge the young women’s gentle conversation for internecine plotting. “Her good nature,” she said sardonically, “is not tenderness.” Miss Austen lowered her voice to a whisper and raised her fan. “All that she wants is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it.”

  Darlington cleared his throat, which had the intentioned result of interrupting the tête à tête. “Ladies, I do believe it is time for the supper dance. Miss Welles, if I am not mistaken, you have promised this one to me.” He offered C.J. his arm and helped her from the hard wooden chair.

  An agreeable-looking young man with a fair complexion and reddish hair approached Miss Austen and requested the dance. The escorts led the young ladies out to join the longways set that was forming in the center of the room.

  Now that she was on the dance floor, C.J.’s anxieties about dancing all but dissipated and she began to feel herself on a surer footing. Owing to her twenty-first-century workshops in English country dancing, she was somewhat practiced at the kind of repartee exchanged among the gently bred men and women as they faced one another, traded partners, entwined under a raised arm, or took hands.

  She overheard Jane, down the set, engaged in an animated discussion with her russet-haired partner, a vicar’s son named Mr. Chiltern. The latter, who did not wish to share his witty partner with others in the set, was emphatically arguing, “I consider a country dance as the emblem of marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do not choose to dance or marry themselves have no business with the partners or wives of others.”

  Miss Austen twirled away from him as they moved one couple down the set. “But there you are wrong, sir. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a long room for half an hour.”

  C.J. and Darlington laughed. “I daresay, your lordship, your witty cousin is getting the better of the poor vicar’s son. He may wish to switch partners after all, despite his views on the parallels between making hays and holy matrimony.”