Improper Advances (21 page)

“Do I have a reason to stay, Oriana?”

“Vauxhall,” she murmured.

“What?”

“Meet me there, after my concert. You’ll get your answer then.”

When he left her, she opened the desk drawer in which she’d placed his geological treatise. Turning up the oil lamp, she sat down to read the introduction again.

The chief portion of the Isle of Man, perhaps three quarters, consists of a barren soil overlaid
upon graywacke slate and on clay slate. In the northern portion, light sand rests upon a bed of
common clay. The mountainous areas are formed of clay slate strata
—
with veins of quartz
—
upon mica slate overlaying granite. The slate is chiefly gray in color, weathering to brown, light
green, deep blue, or black. These appear to be sedimentary rocks formed in a deep ocean bed by
compacted silts, mud and sands. The layered nature of this material is clearly visible at Maughold
Head, and elsewhere, in the folds and fissures created by subterranean events. The granite is
primarily composed of feldspar, mica, and quartz.

By hiding away in Glen Auldyn, she’d deprived herself of the natural wonders he described—mountains, rivers, beaches, entire towns. Perversely, she wished she could see them, but doubted she ever would.

In just a few days, she would either send Dare back to the Isle of Man or accept him as her lover.

If only she could give him all that he desired from her—and she from him—without losing anything essential to her contentment. Could they perhaps find a compromise, reach an accommodation, that might bring them together?

To find it, they needed time. He was a very impatient gentleman, and she was a very cautious lady.

She stared thoughtfully across the square to the Banks residence. The lights were still on.

Bounding up from her chair, she hurried into the hall. Sam, an apron tied over his clothes, was coming down the stairs with items from the dining room.

“After you’ve carried those dishes to the scullery,” she said, “I want you to deliver this pamphlet to Sir Joseph.”

It wasn’t until Sam had embarked on his impromptu errand that Oriana’s qualms surfaced. Her effort to justify her act continued through the long night.

Dare had printed his arguments and distributed the copies to geologists in Edinburgh—how could he object to a review by the most prominent supporter of scientific discovery? He deserved recognition, not only by Sir Joseph, but all the members of the Royal Society, and every other person who learned enough to appreciate his diligent work. If they could hold him here in London to explain his theories about Manx rocks, so much the better for her.

Promptly at eight o’clock, the conductor bobbed his wig-covered head at the other musicians. The opening bars of the concert drew Dare—and Vauxhall’s music-loving visitors—closer to the gothic-styled orchestra stand. Swags of colored lamps hung from the structure, and a multibranched chandelier threw a soft light upon the rows of powdered heads and glanced off the towering organ pipes at the back of the pavilion.

All walks of life were represented in this crowd: common prostitutes, shopgirls, prosperous merchants, members of the gentry and nobility. Like the rest of them, Dare had crossed the River Thames and paid two shillings to enter the gardens. But he felt infinitely superior, for he had been bidden there by the soloist they had come to see and hear.

His tour of the grounds earlier had taken him to the vast Rotunda, the site of masquerades and musical entertainment during inclement weather. Before tonight, he’d never imagined, much less seen, two thousand glass lamps blazing at once. They hung in festoons from the sheltering colonnades and the semicircular dining pavilions, and the effect was impressive. He’d promenaded along the stately elm-lined Grand Walk, and the Cross Walk, and the Italian Walk-spanned by three triumphal arches—and the Hermit’s Walk.

At the farthest reaches of the park was an unlit Lover’s Walk, and he hoped to stroll there later with Oriana.

This place, beloved by Londoners and greatly admired, struck him as an odd combination of the tawdry and the tasteful. He could have dispensed with the
trompe l’oeil
paintings, sham ruins, transparencies, and other stagecraft illusions. The beauties of nature required no such adornments; he preferred to contemplate them in solitude. He might have appreciated Vauxhall’s magnificence more if there weren’t so many people getting in his way.

A foursome nearby talked over the music, so loudly that he could hear every word of their conversation. The pair of young ladies—first-time visitors—marveled at the splendor of the orchestra pavilion. Their gentlemen, more interested in flirtation than in a concert, tried to entice them away from the throng and into the shadowy avenues of trees.

“Oh, do come along, Hetty,” said one impatient swain.

“Not till I’ve seen the gown she’s wearing.”

“Makes no matter,” said Hetty’s confidante, “for neither you nor I could afford one like it. We haven’t rich lovers like
she’s
got.”

Both young women cast critical glances at their escorts.

“Remember, Miss Hetty, I purchased your entrance ticket and I’ve another shilling yet to pay for your dinner.”

“All for a paltry shaving of meat,” the other gentleman complained, “and a roasted chicken no bigger than a sparrow!”

“If you think you can find a lover who’s richer than me,” Hetty’s chap said bitterly, “give it a try. I’ll be on the watch for a girl who’ll appreciate a hardworking brewery clerk.”

“Don’t be cross, Ralph,” Hetty pleaded. “We can wander through the Dark Walk after I’ve heard a few songs. I promised Aunt not to stray from the Grove, and I fear she’ll quiz me about the concert.”

“Willy and I will stay for the first part and tell you what you missed,” her friend offered, “and we’ll amuse ourselves while you listen to the second half.”

Ana St. Albans came to the forefront of the pavilion balcony as Ralph and Hetty, hand in hand, threaded their way through the throng unnoticed. She acknowledged the calls and applause by inclining her glossy auburn head, decorated with pale, glittery flowers. The tiny brilliants sprinkled across her transparent overskirt twinkled in the light, and her jade green petticoat shimmered. The gold brooch engraved with the St. Albans crest gleamed upon her breast.

A pledge of better times,
that was her family motto. Exactly what he hoped to win from her tonight.

When her audience’s enthusiastic welcome faded, she smiled at the conductor to indicate her readiness, and his musicians provided a few introductory notes.

The words of her first song were incomprehensible to Dare, but her magical voice created notes of perfect clarity and piercing sweetness. Ignorance of the stylistic differences between Italian and English singing couldn’t hamper his enjoyment. He knew what he liked, and he liked what he heard. The rest of Oriana’s listeners were similarly enthralled, judging from their rapt, upturned faces and approving smiles.

She retired from view during an orchestral piece. On her return, she performed a selection of the Manx songs she’d learned from Ned Crowe, resulting in a request for an encore. When she withdrew from the stage a second time, a bell rang, signaling the nine o’ clock intermission.

The crowd pushed and shoved its way along the path leading to the Grand Cascade. Dare, curious about this celebrated and highly regarded spectacle, let the sea of humanity bear him toward the viewing place.

A decorative curtain rose upon a miniature stage and revealed a painted landscape, artfully lit, which contained a small house, watermill, and a road. Cheers rose from the onlookers when a mechanical waterfall began to pour forth with sufficient force to revolve the little mill wheel. The substance used to simulate the stream spilled and foamed with astonishing reality. Tiny automatons-pedestrians, riders, animals, and a mail coach—traversed the bridge spanning the waterway.

Dare questioned a bystander about the mechanics involved.

The man shrugged. “Stage trickery,” he muttered before shuffling away.

After a ten-minute interval, the concert resumed. Oriana sang a lengthy aria, and with a deep curtsy she bade her admirers farewell. A quartet of male glee singers took her place.

Dare had positioned himself near the door through which the performers entered and exited. As he expected, Oriana soon darted out, swathed in dark velvet.

She raised the hood of her cloak to cover her flowery head. “Let’s move away, I don’t care to be recognized,” she explained, taking his arm.

“Quite a large crowd,” Dare observed. “Is this usual?”

“For a Saturday night it is. Drury Lane’s season ended earlier this week, so this is the first night Vauxhall doesn’t compete with Mr. Sheridan’s
Pizarro
for an audience.”

The supper boxes and alcoves were already crammed with persons eager to sample Vauxhall’s famous thinly sliced ham and cooked chicken. A regiment of waiters moved about, vigilantly performing their duties. A band of pipers and flutists was playing, and a party of roving musicians wound its way through the gardens, pausing to entertain the diners when requested.

“Did you see the Grand Cascade?” asked Oriana. “It fascinated me when I was a girl, and the magic wasn’t spoiled when I was shown the clockworks that make the figures move. The moving-water effect is created by very thin strips of tin. Very ingenious.”

“I preferred the music.”

A bald-pated gentleman, overhearing him, came up to say, “Our attendance always rises, sir, when Madame St. Albans performs. Mr. Barrett and I wish we could afford to have her sing for us every week rather than fortnightly.”

Oriana presented Mr. Simpson, Vauxhall’s master of ceremonies. He welcomed Dare to the gardens, shaking his cane so excitedly that the silver tassel dangling from its knob bobbed up and down. “Do you dine here this evening?” he inquired. “I can secure one of our finest supper boxes for you both.”

Guessing that this plan was at odds with Oriana’s preference for privacy, Dare responded, “Would it be possible to take away a selection of food in a hamper, and a bottle of your excellent champagne?”

“Permit me to make all necessary arrangements for you, Sir Darius; it would be my pleasure. Anything else I can do to make your enjoyment of Vauxhall complete, I shall. Madame St. Albans will tell you that we pride ourselves upon the quality of our entertainments.” Mr. Simpson tucked his
chaapeau bras
under one arm and bowed so low that his shirt frills grazed the knees of his tight fitting breeches. He marched away, waving his cane to signal an attendant.

“Your refreshments won’t be ready for quite some time,” said Oriana.

“Our
refreshments.”

“Vauxhall portions are scandalously meager; you’ll not get enough food to share.”

“Then you shall have all—you must be ravenous. I’ll be too busy to eat.” Tugging at his hat brim, he added, “I’m your oarsman tonight.”

Eyeing him from head to foot, she commented, “I’ll wager you didn’t ferry yourself across the Thames—not in those clothes.”

“No. The man who rowed me over was so industrious and entertaining that I tripled his fare. He said I might have the use of his craft for the rest of the night, and took a carriage home.”

“Dare Corlett, you’re a madman.”

“A Manxman.”

“One and the same, as far as I can tell. Why would you want to row a boat all the way across the Thames, when you can hire someone else to do it?”

“I’ll get you safely to the other side, I promise—I’ve been around boats all my life, and salt water flows in my veins. But before we take to the river, you can show me the Lover’s Walk.”

“I’d be glad of some fresh, cool air,” she told him. “The stage lamps are hot and bright, and they smoke so badly that my eyes water. Did you purchase more furniture yesterday?”

“No, I visited another Bond Street tailor, at Wingate’s insistence.” He cast a rueful glance down the open front of his double-breasted evening coat, adorned with rows of shining gold buttons. “I asked him whether he’d prefer working for a town gentleman, someone who would do him greater credit. He thought about it for a while, before replying that he intended to make
me
more creditable, but it might take rather longer than he expected. He was vastly disappointed when I postponed today’s fitting with a hat maker to visit the British Museum. The collection in the Mineral Room is immense—fossils and gems from around the globe, and the representative rocks of England, Scotland, and Ireland.”

“Were there any from the Isle of Man?”

“No—a glaring omission. I must donate some choice samples of galena, quartz, and calcite. Rock specimens, too. Manx slate, Peel sandstone, Castletown limestone, basalt from the Stack of Scarlett.”

“What about pyrite? And granite—isn’t that the most common of all the rock types?”

“Madame St. Albans, did you perchance read my description of the island’s geology?”

“Every word,” she declared triumphantly. “I daresay you didn’t think me clever enough to make sense of it.”

“I didn’t think you’d be
interested,”
he admitted.

“It’s worthy of being published by the Royal Society.”

Laughing at her naive but flattering opinion, he said, “I’m not so certain of that, although I’d like to think my theories would interest the membership. Now that I’ve conversed with Sir Joseph Banks, perhaps I’ll feel more comfortable inaugurating a correspondence with him. But for the time being, I’ve abandoned my geological research to complete a study of animal behavior.”

“Really? What sort of animal?”

“An exotic female of the human species. I’m keenly interested in learning how the subject of my investigation will respond when separated from her pack and isolated in a dark, remote area,” he said—for they had left behind the colonnades and gaudy illuminations, and were entering the shadowy alley where amorous couples roamed.

The overhanging branches of densely planted trees formed a leafy canopy, thick enough to block out the sky and stars.