Barbara Metzger (23 page)

“You’ll be interested in this, I’m sure: ‘I’ve been helping my friend Rhodine alter her gowns also. You’ll remember I wrote about her. She’s the overdressed girl with the sweet nature and the evil fairy-tale stepmother. Except Lady Tina is a real dasher! Anyway, I think dear Rhodine and Arthur will suit perfectly, and they seem to agree! He is very solicitous of her, and she doesn’t mind!’ Have you heard anything about this from your sister?”

“Yes, and she wasn’t best pleased at first, I can tell you. No money there. Endicott’s run aground, they say, gambling. The girl wasn’t much either, though Clothilda says she’s coming along, whatever that means. She wrote Mrs. Bottwick that rumour says Spenborough might come down heavy, if he likes the match. M’sister’s reconciled to it, she says, if Arthur’s set on having the girl.”

“It sounds like it: ‘Arthur now rides with us in the mornings, along with half the Corinthian set, so there’s no more riding astride’”—Squire snorted—“‘and he spars with Lord Claibourne at Cribb’s or Jackson’s, for the exercise. I can only hope this is to impress Rhodine, and is a good sign.’”

“Exercise, eh? That does sound serious. Does she say anything else about the girl? Part of the family, don’t you know.”

“Let me see…no. She did mention in her last letter that Lady Rhodine was coming out in the carriage most afternoons, and she was getting used to Penelope, but still had no liking for horses.”

“Pah! Trust that coxcomb of a nephew of mine to find a shrinking violet. But a duke’s granddaughter…What else does she say?”

“Hm, she writes that her Aunt Amabel took to her bed for three days after the dowager left.”

“Parkhurst’s mother? That old curmudgeon still around? Gads, she was a tartar when I was a boy on the Town! How did your spitfire deal with her? Like fire and ice, I’ll wager.”

“Quite the contrary. Lady Parkhurst introduced Jacelyn all around as her granddaughter, or as near as she’d get since that twiddlepoop Parkhurst never provided her with one.”

“That sounds like the old bat. You have to give your girl credit. An old besom like that would eat my girls alive. That Frenchie aunt of Claibourne’s didn’t seem any too accommodating either. How is that working out?”

“Seems ideal. Jacelyn has the fondest regard for her, and even her maid. We didn’t see the woman, but Jacey’s first letter had her carved in granite. Now they all rub along nicely. Mme. Aubonier has taken Jacelyn to tea with some of the old French aristocrats living in London, and she said I’d be proud of her French now. One old
vicomte
had the girl in alt, last letter. Didn’t I read that one to you? It’s right here. He was one of the wealthiest men in France; now he’s teaching music. Jacelyn was so impressed with his exquisite manners and his courage that she’s determined to have her friend Miss Montmorency ‘discover’ him to her musical friends.”

“So your girl seems to have found her feet. I’m glad, Elliot. Nasty business, that was.”

“I was worried myself. It seems to be going smoothly and yet…”

“And yet there’s still no betrothal notice.”

“Nor does she mention Claibourne much except by name. ‘We go to Covent Garden tonight with Claibourne,’ or ‘Today Claibourne and I saw the waxworks,’ like that, nothing more.”

“What do you think it means?”

“You’re the one with three daughters, you tell me!”

“It wouldn’t matter if I had twenty-three, I’d be danged if I’d understand a one of ’em. And that goes double for
your
daughter. Check.”

*

From rout to ridotto and from balloon ascension to Venetian breakfast, London’s newest star was busy every minute, mostly in Claibourne’s company, but never solely in Claibourne’s company. Mme. Aubonier or Aunt Amabel was always along, or Pinkie during the day, when a young lady was considered less vulnerable. Leigh and Jacey hadn’t been alone together since that morning after Almack’s, weeks before.

Neither mentioned that kiss, though both carried the memory like a bouquet. And neither mentioned the betrothal Lord Trevaine and Squire Bottwick were so troubled about. Aunt Amabel, Great-Aunt Simone, Pinkie, Lem, and Arthur could be added to the concerned list―and all of London to the curious. Claibourne swore he would give Miss Trevaine what was left of her first Season, to be a belle, to enjoy herself, and to reconcile herself to the marriage. He wanted so much more than that, but he would woo her and wait. Even if it killed him. It had to be her choice.

As for Jacelyn, it had to be love. It had to be mutual. The affection was there, she knew, and the attraction. The last was obvious. So many tiny sparks were kindled by even the most casual touch between them, she was surprised no one else noticed. But there was no talk of love. She thought of asking him outright, but even her candid nature quailed at the idea of hearing his affected London drawl say, “What’s that to the point, poppet?” or some such. There was no one else to consult, either. She resolved again, as she had almost every day, to accept what she had, his comfortable friendship and his charming company.

He spent so much time with her, doing the pretty as Squire would say, that one day she had to ask, “Leigh, haven’t you anything better to do with your time than escort me all over London?”

“You wound me, Miss Trevaine. Are you tired of my company so soon?”

“Silly. I mean, are you bored, or am I keeping you from something important?”

“What could be more important, rosebud? No, you see a man of leisure, your typical London loiterer at your service. Unless you’d rather I filled my afternoons with lewd women, in addition to my late evenings.”

“Gammon. Arthur says you go to your clubs with him at night.”

“You mean I really am a reformed rake? Arthur would know. Now that he’s
cap-à-pie
over Lady Rhodine, he’s become even more fusty.”

“If possible!”

“If possible. You know, kitten, I have been thinking of a worthwhile occupation for my time, now that I am become so upright. Not that Lady Cowper’s amateur theatricals, et cetera, aren’t worthwhile or anything, but I’ve been considering taking my seat in the House of Lords. Your uncle has mentioned it, and Sprague, of course. What would you think of going with me one afternoon next week to see the great statesmen of our time in action, so I might see if it’s too dull even to consider.”

When they approached Sprague, he was delighted to be of assistance. A friend of his, in fact, was giving a speech next week which Sprague had helped draught, and he would be pleased if Claibourne and Miss Trevaine would be his guests in the visitor’s gallery. Lord Medford Broome’s speech was in favour of a bill protesting the plight of child labourers in the mills, and it stood almost no chance of passage. Lord Parkhurst hadn’t felt he could sponsor such a doomed measure; therefore Sprague had worked with his friend Broome. Sprague mentioned to Jacelyn that he had been thinking of inviting Miss Ponsonby; what did Jacelyn think? She had to tell him, honestly, regretfully, that she didn’t think Priscilla would be interested, at all. He nodded in resignation. He didn’t think so either, unfortunately.

The gallery was almost empty when the two men, Jacelyn, and her maid attended. So was the floor of the chamber. The few members who’d bothered to appear wore robes and wigs. A few were asleep. Most were chatting among themselves like ladies at tea, or reading the newspapers, or writing notes. No one seemed to be listening as the earnest young man stood to address the assembly. Jacelyn, for one, was not impressed with Parliamentary procedure. She was, however, thoroughly impressed by what Lord Broome was saying, and soon forgot the rest of the audience.

Broome spoke of children working ten-hour shifts. Of tiny girls set to bobbins, because their hands were small. Of little boys sent to work underground, because the shafts needn’t be so large, then. He spoke of huge, deafening factories, where six-year-olds spent their short lives, without breathing any but poisoned air, without seeing the sun. The money they traded their childhoods for? It wouldn’t even buy them a piece of the fine linen they wove, much less decent, nourishing meals.

Pinkie was quietly weeping, thinking of her little brothers, who might have been forced to the mills too, if not for her wages. A muscle in Claibourne’s jaw twitched as Broome declared the situation a national disgrace, perpetuated by greed and indifference. Think of your own boys and girls, Broome said, for you are the fathers of all the nation’s children.

He bowed his head and took his seat. There were coughs and shuffled papers as the Upper House prepared for the next speaker, and the same undercurrents of muffled conversations. Then there was applause: a steady, determined clapping by a pair of small hands in tan York kid gloves. After a startled moment, Claibourne joined her, then Sprague and a tear-stained Pinkie. Some of the members on Broome’s side of the aisle took up the acclaim, and then those who hadn’t even heard the speech. The opposition even added to the ovation, and Lord Broome, red-faced, was being patted on the back and having his hand shaken.

Jacelyn turned to Mr. Sprague and congratulated him. “The speech was marvellous. I’m sure the bill will pass, if not today then soon.” She impulsively planted a kiss on his cheek.

As they turned to leave, the earl whispered for Jacey’s hearing only: “Were you just putting your mark on him for Samantha’s sake, or do I have to worry?”

“You have to see about taking your seat here,” she told him. “There’s so much to be done.”

Miss Trevaine was enjoying London to its fullest, and London was enjoying her. Her refreshing candour, her innovative styles, her seeming to do what no other woman had ever done—bring Rake Claibourne to heel—all were chewed over with the morning’s chocolate. Except in one house on Mount Street, where the new day began past noon, and where anything as sweet as chocolate was as foreign as a Hottentot. Here Jacelyn wasn’t considered delightful, effervescent as champagne, or an exquisite wild rose among London’s hothouse beauties, as reported in the papers. Here she was that damned interfering nobody, or Claibourne’s cream-pot connexion, or his two-bit tumble. Once she was established and accepted, it was worse. Claibourne would never throw her over now.

“You botched it, you bandy-legged boob. You could have shown the girl for an hysterical hoyden. Now we’ll have to go the other route, discredit Claibourne. And the demned cub’s been acting the saint, from what I hear.”

Percy was sprawled on the sofa as usual, dreamily contemplating the wine in his glass. “La Fleur.”

“Stop flogging a dead horse, boy!” Fenton didn’t even notice when Percy’s wince caused the wine to overflow down his shirtfront. “Claibourne hasn’t been next or nigh that jade in months.”

Percy was busy mopping at himself with his loosened cravat. When he finished, his hands automatically retied the now-splotched neckcloth into its usual crooked, droopy knot.

His father looked on in disgust. “Well,” he said, “what are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to see they meet again, Claibourne and La Fleur.”

“You slack-jawed jackanapes, it’ll take more than a meeting between the cub and his old doxy to get the Trevaine tart up in the boughs.”

“I know that, governor, I ain’t as stupid as you think.”

“You couldn’t be, boy, you couldn’t be.”

Percy ignored this. He smiled and went on: “They’ll meet at the theatre ’n everyone will see.”

“So what if they are seen together? You’ve got to show he’s a womanizer, a rakeshame, not that he’s polite enough to greet his ex-mistress. Besides, how do you know they’re going to meet at the theatre?”

“That fellow Kean’s doing Shakespeare Friday. You know, the one the toffs make such a fuss about.
Macbeth? Hamlet?
One of those, no matter. Claibourne will be going, mark my words. That chit’s bookish, remember. And Miss La Fleur has box tickets. I made sure of that.”

“Well, well. I didn’t think you had it in you. You mean you’re actually on terms with the woman, to know her engagements? Maybe we’ll come about after all, if she cooperates.”

“Not exactly. I’ve been standing her doorman a few rounds now and then, so I know what’s what.” Percy swallowed what was left in his glass, then undid the neckcloth again to use its ends as a napkin. He belched, then grinned. “She said good day yesterday, though. It’s a start.”

“Percy, your nursemaids didn’t just drop you on your head; they must have played Albert-Had-an-Apple, with you as the ball.”

*

Jacelyn was already disturbed on the afternoon of the theatre party, and it had nothing to do with Percy’s machinations, or even Claibourne. Strangely enough, it was concern for Priscilla Ponsonby that was discomfitting Miss Trevaine.

The afternoon’s carriage ride had seen Jacelyn and Rhodine riding with Mme. Aubonier and Monsieur Blanc, as the
vicomte
turned music teacher now called himself. Arthur and Claibourne rode alongside for awhile, until the flow of traffic forced than apart. Jacelyn saw Claibourne ride to pay his respects to Lady Tina, Rhodine’s stepmother, where that elegant auburn beauty was posed artistically in her pink-satin-lined coach under a stand of trees. Arthur had joined a group around a showy phaeton, where Priscilla was perched on the high seat next to the driver, Lord Anton-Fredricks. Priscilla was tittering shrilly, although whether her nervousness was real or put on for the effect, Jacelyn didn’t know. The phaeton was a spindly, fragile thing, no doubt fast, and assuredly dangerous. If Priscilla wanted to risk her neck in such a perilous contraption so the sporting gentlemen would admire her, well, that was Priscilla’s choice, wasn’t it?

Then Monsieur Blanc held up his looking glass. “That is Lord Malcolm Anton-Fredricks, from Lancashire,
non
?”

“Yes, it is,” Rhodine answered, “and the beautiful lady with him is Arthur’s sister, Miss Priscilla Ponsonby.”

“This Miss Ponsonby, she is very wealthy?”

Mme. Aubonier told him in rapid French, to save Rhodine’s blushes, that the family was respectable, the girl had a decent portion, but there was more pride than substance.