Barbara Metzger (14 page)

“I am not sure, my sweet, but that was Lady Cheyne, one of the premier younger hostesses. Her husband, incidentally, was one of the greatest scapegraces I’ve ever known, until the army and then Lady Cheyne tamed him down.”

“I wonder if— Oh, there was another odd thing at the bookstore. While I was looking over the shelves, I kept thinking someone else was there, only I didn’t see anyone. I smelled something peculiar, like peach flambé, only with horse liniment mixed in. Then I took a book from the top shelf, and a man was looking at me through the empty space! He ducked away but kept popping out from behind stacks and around the corners of the aisles. I was quite relieved to see Lady Cheyne come toward me.”

Leigh frowned. “You should have come for me.”

“I was going to, if no one had come along. The creature seemed harmless enough.”

“Still. What did he look like?”

“I never saw much of him, but he was very tall, with spindly legs. And he had a large nose.”

“Sounds like my cousin Percival, but it couldn’t have been. Not in Hatchard’s. He’s allergic to the printed word. No, must have been some lovesick suitor, rosebud.”

*

The Royal Academy was not meant to be seen in an hour, or even two, although most of the well-dressed connoisseurs had no trouble ambling through the major exhibit halls deep in conversation, occasionally pausing in front of a Lawrence portrait to discuss the subject, not the art. For Jacelyn, the place was overwhelming. So many paintings and sculptures in such a small space, and displayed so poorly! Why, one of Claude Lorrain’s landscapes in his new style was hung so high, on top of a cavalry-charge scene distinguished only by its immense size, that Jacelyn had to crane her neck nearly backward. Even then, she could only make out the wavery haze. The noisy, jostling crowds disturbed her, too.

“Why do they come, if not to see the art?” she asked. “They aren’t paying any attention to the paintings at all, only to each other.”

“That’s why they come, my dear,” Claibourne said, hurrying her past an undraped statue to which she was giving more than enough attention. “It’s the same as Hyde Park and the Opera and the endless teas. They wish to be seen in the right places, with the right people.”

“Is that what you want, Leigh?”

He turned her toward him, away from yet another full-length Apollo on a pedestal, and straightened the bow tied against her left cheek. “Today I only want what pleases you, pet, and the rest of the world can go hang.”

“Well, it might please me to study those Greek sculptures, but I won’t embarrass you, Leigh, so shall we admire the Gainsborough over there? Did you notice the portrait of my mother at Treverly? It’s very similar in style….”

Still, Jacelyn glanced over her shoulder. Yes, it was the same tall, gawky man from the bookstore, acting just as peculiarly. Now he seemed to disappear in back of one of the Greek gods, beakish nose emerging seconds later from a marble armpit.

“Leigh, do you see that strange person behind us?”

When Claibourne turned, there was no sign of anyone following, of course, just the naked statue in its full glory, without even the decency of a fig leaf. He shrugged. “Odd lot, those Greeks. Didn’t care much for clothes.”

Jacey shook her head and walked on. She couldn’t resist one final look backward, though, so she just glimpsed boney fingers clutched around Apollo’s derriere, as if for support. The Greeks weren’t the only odd lot, it seemed.

*

“Why didn’t Lord Elgin just leave them in Greece? Papa says they really belong there.” They were in the vast exhibition hall, in a group of twelve, following a bald-headed guide. The lurker didn’t seem to be on the premises, so Jacey could relax, sharing her impressions with Claibourne.

The guide, overhearing, frowned in her direction. He interrupted his discourse on frieze-work bas-relief and impedimental statuary to announce that Lord Elgin had shipped the pieces of sculpture from the previously destroyed Parthenon temple to protect them from further vandalism, with the approval of the Greek government. Souvenir hunters, he said, thought nothing of bringing home a bust or a horsehead to put in a stairwell niche or in their gardens. In addition, he declaimed, the political climate was such that the ancient buildings had frequently been used as battlegrounds, and could be again. Finally, with an especially hostile look at Jacelyn, daring her to refute him, the guide cited Lord Elgin’s nobility, bringing these treasures home at great expense, “for the enrichment of the British peoples.”

“I believe he made a bit of profit, too,” the earl said in an undertone.

Without taking a moral stand, Jacelyn was free to absorb the grandeur of the pieces themselves, ignoring the guide’s lecture about Pericles and the Phidean style. Her first impression was depressing: all those noses gone, hands, feet, even heads missing, like a rose browning on the edges, a reminder of mortality. Seeing beyond that, especially in the larger-than-life piece of the three headless women, she could feel the grace and flow of their draperies, their perfect composition for the triangular cornice. They and the large reclining male figure were supposed to be gods and goddesses watching the birth of Athena from the head of Zeus, the guide was droning. They seemed fairly casual about such a remarkable event, a small portion of Jacelyn’s mind irreverently noted, while the rest stared in awe at the sheer majesty. Together with the less three-dimensional horsemen from the frieze and smaller pieces displayed on tables and in cabinets, the statues created a sense of the wondrous artistry achieved. One could not look on such masterpieces without wanting to touch an edge. They were cold, hard marble, not clay, which could be shaped, moulded,
moved
. There was no adding to stone, no repairing errors. Each fold of the gowns, each sinew of the god, had to be chiselled and hammered and honed.

“I’m sorry, but I’m selfishly glad these pieces are in London, right or wrong. At least until I get to Greece.”

Claibourne was holding her pelisse out for her. “Would you like to go to Greece someday, pet?” he asked, thinking bridal trip, warm beaches, long boat rides.

“Only if the men wear breeches,” she answered, grinning.

Her heart smiled too, at the sound of their shared laughter.

*

Next stop was the Tower of London: shuddering past the dungeons and torture chambers, eyes turned from the room where the young princes died, a quick peek at the Crown Jewels in their dusty closet.

“Don’t they ever polish them?” Jacelyn wanted to know.

Then they moved on to view the Royal Menagerie. Claibourne tried to warn Jacelyn beforehand, that the animals were in small, dirty enclosures, and the air was nigh unbreathable. She had to see them anyway, naturally.

Now here was a moral dilemma a lot worse than the Elgin Marbles represented. After all, the Greeks hadn’t been taking such wonderful care of their treasures, while the British were building a whole museum around them, for an admiring public. The Menagerie, however, had captured animals content where they’d been, she supposed, bringing them to live in deplorable conditions, for public amusement. She’d get to Greece sooner than she’d see India or Africa, most likely, and heaven knew when she’d see another giraffe, but oh, its big eyes looked so sad. Her first elephant, reaching that fire-hose appendage in her direction—

“Best step back, ma’am, the elephant be mean,” a uniformed guard warned her.

“You’d be mean too, standing in your own filth! Why aren’t these poor creatures given bigger areas and fresh air to breathe? We paid out admission; why isn’t the money used for the animals’ upkeep?” she demanded.

The attendant grimaced. Another bloomin’ do-gooder. “We do the best we can, ma’am. There ain’t enough money collected, ’n what there is goes for food. Prodigal eater, a elephant.”

Claibourne was trying his best to soothe her. His best wasn’t good enough, especially since it seemed to consist of reminders that he’d tried to warn her, which had nothing whatsoever to do with remedying the situation, as she told him.

“Do you mean to tell me the British government cannot afford to feed and house these unfortunate beasts, when there is a fortune in diamonds turning back into coal up there? When the Prince can fill Carlton House with every gilded geegaw that catches his eye? When the poor, mad king—”

“Watch the seditious talk, love,” Claibourne teased. “Remember the dungeons.” He was enjoying this hugely. Not her upset, of course, nor the gawping crowds, but Miss Trevaine on her uppers was better than Kemble doing King Lear.

“I doesn’t make those decisions, ma’am,” the guard was saying. “It’s not in me wage contract. You want to take it up with His Highness, be my guest.”

“If he’ll be at Almack’s Wednesday night I just may.” Ignoring Claibourne’s muffled snort and the guard’s bulging eyes, she turned away and marched out of the room.

She was still ruffled when the earl’s long strides brought him to her side. “Tell me now,” he said in the slow tones he used for play, “if I should join the Royal Navy tomorrow. Save Prinny the trouble of transporting me on Wednesday.”

She spared him a ha’penny’s worth of dimple, called him a gudgeon, and resumed her angry monologue. “It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is. I’ll bet the Prince spends more on one jacket than those animals get in care. Not enough money to go around, hah! I’ve a good mind to—”

She rushed off, back the way they’d just come. The earl took his time following, having a good laugh, which was not entirely
at
Jacelyn, but couldn’t be with her since she wasn’t laughing. He doubted she’d appreciate his humour this time.

Surprisingly, however, Jacey was all smiles when she returned. “There,” she announced.

“There? In two minutes you have paid off the war debt so the government can afford muckers for the Menagerie?”

“No, silly. I gave that man—his name is Lewis, incidentally—a crown to see to improving the conditions here. And I told him I would be back shortly with another, and so on.”

“Well, at least Lewis’s family will eat better, my little innocent.”

“Not on my crown, they won’t,” Jacey said, giggling. “I told him that if the pens weren’t clean when we get here the next time, I’ll have you use him for a mop.”

*

“It’s growing late, your aunt will worry. Perhaps we should ride home through the park so she’ll see I haven’t ridden off to Gretna Green with you.”

“If she weren’t afraid of the scandal, I’m sure she’d be relieved if you did!” At Leigh’s questioning glance, she explained: “She’s positively quaking that I’ll do something outrageous and give you a disgust of me. Then she’d have me on her hands forever. She’d rather be boiled in oil.”

Leigh vowed to tell Lady Parkhurst what a perfect lady her niece had been all day. Exemplary, in fact, if one omitted only a few minor details. “Indeed, you played propriety so well, I think you deserve a treat. I know I do. Would you like to go to Astley’s Amphitheatre this evening? There is an early performance, so your aunt won’t have to send the Bow Street Runners after us.”

Brown eyes shining, Jacey nearly danced in her seat. “To see the fancy riding? I’d like it better than anything!” Then she remembered her dignity. “That is, how kind of you, my lord. I would be delighted to attend if you feel it won’t be too, um, common.”

“Come down from your ropes, poppet. You look like you smell something bad. Astley’s isn’t too plebeian for my taste. There will be a lot of cits there, and youngsters, of course, but I’ve always enjoyed it. Perhaps I’ll ask Arthur to accompany us if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. Do you think I might invite Miss Endicott? You know, the young lady who led the singing so prettily last night. She didn’t appear to be friends with the other girls there, or to be having a good time. I promised her I would call soon.”

“Invite whomever you wish, sweetheart, but you ought to be aware that your shy little Miss Endicott is properly called Lady Rhodine. She’s Spenborough’s granddaughter.”

“The Golden Duke?” His nod affirmed it. “But Rhodine—Lady Rhodine—is not at all high in the instep. She never even mentioned a title. She didn’t put on airs like some of the other girls, either.”

“Her father’s the third son, so there’s no hope of the succession. Not much money there either, they say. Endicott gambles.”

“But her gown last night—”

“A fortune in fabric, a groat in glamour, right? Lady Tina Endicott is bringing the chit out this Season. That’s Endicott’s second wife. She’s less than ten years older than the daughter, and doesn’t want any comparisons, so she overdresses the girl in frills like an infant. The girl is too quiet to complain, or doesn’t have the sense to realise she’s done up like a wedding cake to make Lady Tina look better. Endicott only sees that the bills are high.”

“But if there is no wealth, why should they spend so much on her clothes?”

“First off, no one said Endicott’s actually been paying the bills. Second, it’s called baiting the trap. Your Miss Endicott is to be married off this year, no matter what it takes. They say she is to go to the highest bidder. Her father’s debts, you know.”

“How terrible! Won’t her grandfather help?”

“That’s the icing on the cake: Spenborough won’t tow his son out of River Rick, but he’s let drop hints that the girl is named in his will. No amounts mentioned, of course. The betting book at White’s is full of speculation. Anyway, that’s why the other young ladies stay away from Lady Rhodine. The competition.”

“It can’t be that awful, Leigh, so…so coldblooded and conniving.”

“Wake up, dewdrop, that’s what the debutante Season is all about: finding the richest husband or the highest title. At least now the girls have some choice, and the fellow gets to see what he’s buying before he steps into parson’s mousetrap. Not so long ago these things were arranged from the cradle.”

“Poor, poor Rhodine. It will have to be Arthur, after all.”

“Arthur and Rhodine? What notion are you hatching in that pretty little brainbox of yours?”

“At first I thought Mr. Sprague would do. He’s so very polite and refined, you know.”