The Birth of Blue Satan (23 page)

Lord St. Mars had been arrested for his father’s murder
.

Isabella gave a shocked gasp. But Hester could not utter a sound. Her heart seemed to have stopped inside her chest. She felt no air in her lungs, no blood in her veins. Nothing but a terrible stillness and an ache that seemed to stem from her head.

Aware that she could not give in to distress here at the theatre, she forced herself to breathe. The stale scent of perfumed bodies nearly choked her, but she pulled herself outside, past Sir Harrowby’s friends who were congratulating him on his certain inheritance of the Hawkhurst title and lands.

He seemed dazed, whether by good fortune or grief, she could not tell.

Outside the air was hardly better with the stench of refuse and coal smoke, but at least it was free of the heavy perfumes the ladies and gentlemen wore. Hester declined Lord Kirkland’s improper invitation to show them his collection of curiosities and insisted that he call chairs to carry them home, pleading an indisposition of her own.

Leaving him to deal with the quarrelsome chairmen, she saw Isabella into one chair, before taking another. With her curtain closed, Hester could finally relinquish her pretense of calm. She buried her face in one hand and tried to weep, but her stunned mind denied her that relief. The tears that might have soothed her remained painfully lodged in her throat.

They were still there when she and Isabella arrived at Mrs. Mayfield’s house. As Hester descended, she saw that Lord Kirkland had used the unchaperoned minutes to his advantage. He had walked the whole way beside Isabella’s chair. Whether or not he had kept his hands outside the curtains, which Hester doubted, he had somehow managed to provoke more breathless blushes from her cousin. Still feeling stunned, Hester could hardly muster the strength to be annoyed, not when she desperately wished for the privacy of her own room to reflect on what could be done to help St. Mars.

Mrs. Mayfield had been waiting to hear a report of their evening. She intercepted them at the top of the stairs.

“Well, my dearest,” she said, palely anxious now that the Duke was out of play. “Did you enjoy yourself? Did you meet with any interesting gentlemen?”

“Oh, yes, Mama.” Isabella concealed the excitement that had aroused her that evening. “Everyone was there. Sir Harrowby paid us a visit to Lord Kirkland’s box, and he brought two very handsome gentlemen with him. Their clothes were as fine as anything I’ve ever seen.

“And Lord Kirkland was so good to us. You would have enjoyed yourself, Mama. I am certain I did.”

Mrs. Mayfield missed the subtle hint. She ignored the reference to their host and fixed instead on her intended target.

“Sir Harrowby paid you a visit? Did he seem well? Had he any recent news from Rotherham Abbey?”

Hester had hoped to conceal the news from her aunt, at least until tomorrow. She did not think she could bear to hear her speculate on how this would affect Isabella’s chances. But Isabella was quick to latch on to the change of subject.

“Oh, yes! He had a message from there just as we were leaving. A man must have ridden all the way from Hawkhurst to tell him. Lord St. Mars has been taken up for murder, Mama!”

Hester found she couldn’t tear her gaze away from Mrs. Mayfield’s face. Where there should have been shock, she revealed a sense of deeply felt relief. Suddenly, her pallor was gone, along with the pinched look she had worn of late. In her glowing eyes, hope triumphed again.

“Thank God,” she said, not bothering to hide her greed. “First thing tomorrow, I shall write Sir Harrowby a note. We will invite him to call on us immediately. Isabella, you must wear your most becoming gown, the Pudsway silk with the silver lace. I will dress your hair myself. We must be ready to receive him at any hour.”

Hester couldn’t bear to hear her aunt’s plans now. “If you will excuse me,” she said, “I will leave you both. Good night, Isabella . . . Aunt.”

“Come into my room,” Mrs. Mayfield said to her daughter, ignoring Hester. She pulled Isabella through the door behind her. “I will tell you what you need to do.”

They disappeared inside.

Hester knew she should stay to dissuade her aunt from whatever plot she was hatching, but she hadn’t the heart for it now. Whatever plan Mrs. Mayfield had for Sir Harrowby, she was sure he deserved Isabella. He was not the one who merited her pity tonight.

How could Sir Joshua have been so stupid as to suspect St. Mars of killing his father? Had the world gone mad?

She seemed to be the only person who could see St. Mars for the gentle man he was. Friendless as he seemed, she could not reprove herself for these feelings, even though it had become fairly clear to her that she suffered more on his account than she would have for another man in his predicament. She could not fool herself any longer on that score.

Desperately she asked herself what she could do to help him. But there was nothing. There would be a trial. She did not know when the Kentish assizes were held, but she doubted she would be allowed to attend them, unless Mrs. Mayfield managed to secure Sir Harrowby for Isabella before the issue of St. Mars’s innocence was resolved.

Which raised another question—how could her aunt be so certain that St. Mars would not win his release when the justices heard his case?

They would have to hear it. And the assize judges could not all be as foolish or as vengeful as Sir Joshua Tate.

Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face,

For life predestined to the Gnomes’ embrace.

These swell their prospects and exalt their pride,

When offers are disdained and love denied:

Then gay Ideas crowd the vacant brain,

While Peers, and
Duke
s, and all their sweeping train,

And Garters, Stars, and Coronets appear,

And in soft sounds, Your Grace salutes their ear.

‘Tis these that early taint the female soul,

Instruct the eyes of young Coquettes to roll,

Teach Infant cheeks a bidden blush to know,

And little hearts to flutter at a Beau.

      Oft, when the world imagine women stray,

The Sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way,

Through all the giddy circle they pursue,

And old impertinence expel by new.

What tender maid but must a victim fall

To one man’s treat, but for another’s ball?

The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away,

Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day.

Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,

And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire.

“O wretched maid!” she spread her hands, and cried,

(While Hampton’s echoes, “Wretched maid!” replied)

“Was it for this you took such constant care

The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare?

For this your locks in paper durance bound,

For this with torturing irons wreathed around?

For this with fillets strained your tender head,

And bravely bore the double loads of lead?

CHAPTER 11

In the morning, Mrs. Mayfield sent a note to Harrowby, inviting him to call. Then she and Isabella sat down to wait. Hester tried to carry on with her duties, but heavy at heart, she worked through the morning’s tasks at a burdened pace.

Harrowby sent word that he hoped to wait upon them later in the day, but that events had occurred which might rob him of that pleasure. Mrs. Mayfield nearly fretted herself into a panic at the thought that he might not come at all.

She was hardly relieved when a different caller appeared—Mr. Letchworth, his face covered over with a thick coating of white paint, punctuated with the bright red traces of Spanish paper.

At least his arrival provided a diversion from the tedious wait. Isabella’s greeting revealed her relief, which made her seem warmer towards him than usual. She had never shown any particular liking for Mr. Letchworth, although her manners towards him, as to other men, were calculated to keep him hanging on the hook. His habitual references to his enormous wealth had the power to captivate her attention.

Unfortunately, no degree of fortune could make him attractive in anyone’s eyes. His physique was good enough. He was tall and long-limbed, though his high, knobby shoulders gave him a clumsy appearance that belied the vigour in his stride. He had dressed with more care today, in a puce silk suit that sat better with his long black wig. His bamboo cane, which he carried in place of sword, was very fashionable. But the paint he persisted in wearing, undoubtedly to cover up some bad scarring from the smallpox, had already begun to flake. His complexion resembled nothing so much as an unfinished bit of crockery left out in the sun to dry.

Previously, Mrs. Mayfield had discouraged his calls, using an ensemble of practiced excuses. Today, however, although the announcement of his name first annoyed her, she took comfort from the sign of his continued interest. Hester surmised that her aunt realized she could not afford to despise anyone with Mr. Letchworth’s wealth, when Isabella’s nobler suitors seemed to have vanished. She wondered how long it would be before her aunt came to understand that she had thrown the best one away.

Not today, it appeared, for no sooner had Mr. Letchworth taken a chair, his acquisitive stare appraising Isabella’s beauty, than Mrs. Mayfield asked, “Sir, have you heard the shocking news about my Lord St. Mars? They say he has indeed murdered his papa!”

“I heard the gossip in the street. It would seem our fair young lord could not wait to inherit his father’s estate.”

“Well, as to that . . . “ Mrs. Mayfield put on a coy look. “I am sure you have heard why he was become so desperate.”

“Indeed I have.” Mr. Letchworth had taken his eyes off Isabella when her mother had spoken, but he turned them back to her now. She blushed as if on cue, and a light as hard as diamonds lit his eyes.

Hester fancied she could see Isabella’s reflection in the small, black spots that were his pupils.

Her aunt went on, “You will say I should be flattered that the heir to an earldom should be so deep in love with my Isabella, but I do not hold with murder, Mr. Letchworth, and I will not bestow my daughter on a gentleman who would attack his own papa.”

This attempt at piety missed its mark. Their visitor, who had never seemed to have the slightest sense of humour, gave an unexpected twist to his lips. “You do not think that it is better to kill for a woman than to die for one?”

“Oh, how shocking you men are! If you must, I suppose you will have your silly duels and your quarrels! But we ladies do not wish to hear of them, I assure you. Our sensibilities are much too refined for that.”

“You prefer us to hide our passions . . . . Very well.”

He engaged Isabella in awkward small talk. Sitting in her quiet corner, Hester observed how he tried to draw her cousin out. Mr. Letchworth’s conversation held little art. If indeed he possessed a sense of humour, it was once again invisible. He made no silly jests of the type favoured by Harrowby or double entendres like Lord Kirkland’s. Instead he preferred to tell her of his recent purchases, offering to take her for a ride in his new carriage, which he seemed to have bought with no better intention than to impress her. Isabella’s eyes grew round at his talk of silk upholstery and wheels trimmed in gold.

She was far from immune to the excitement most girls felt for precious metals, jewels and silks. But this morning her responses were almost mechanical—nothing like the breathless passion she had revealed last night.

Hester worried that her cousin might have formed her first real attachment to an ineligible man. Up until now, Isabella had seemed willing to let her mother choose her husband. But what would happen if she decided she wanted Lord Kirkland, who had no fortune?

Mr. Letchworth’s visit ran longer than any of them liked, and he gave no sign of remarking their fidgets. Anxious—undoubtedly that Harrowby would be offended by his presence, should he come—Mrs. Mayfield eventually stood and told their guest that they must wish him a good day.

He scowled at her interruption, but immediately said, “If I might have a few words with you in private, Mrs. Mayfield.”

For once, Hester’s aunt was nonplussed. She had nothing to say to discourage him, but a proposal from Mr. Letchworth just now would surely destroy her plans.

She could not afford to offend him, however, so she stiffly acquiesced, asking him to accompany her to the smaller of the two parlours.

Before they departed, he bowed over Isabella’s hand, and pressed it with a kiss. This was more than a polite brushing of his lips. Instinctively, Isabella tried to free her fingers, but he held fast to them, not relenting until she relinquished control. An edge in his smile revealed his displeasure at her reluctance, and two knots in his neck reddened and bulged above his neckcloth.

As he and Mrs. Mayfield disappeared behind the door, Isabella collapsed into a chair. For the first time in Hester’s memory, she seemed distraught. And who would not be, with a greedy mother negotiating her future with a man as unappealing as Mr. Letchworth.

Up until now, Bella had seemed unaware that reality awaited her after the flurry of suppers and balls, but after all, hadn’t these amusements been designed expressly to conceal the truth from their innocent guests? Yesterday, she might have entertained an offer from Mr. Letchworth with no more notion than a butterfly of the obligations marriage would entail, but last night, at Lord Kirkland’s hands, she had received her first inkling.

Hester was moved by sympathy to say, “I would not worry, Bella. Your mother would rather see you wed to someone other than Mr. Letchworth. She will know what to say.”

Isabella threw her the glance of a startled doe. “She said I must catch Sir Harrowby or we will lose everything. What if he doesn’t come? What if he doesn’t want me?”