A Highly Respectable Marriage

by Sheila Walsh

  Heron shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I leave all such details to my secretary.’

  ‘How fortunate you are in the excellent Mr Varley,’ she said archly. ‘I believe I shall go. London is growing quite tediously festive … white cockades everywhere, flags and bunting. And have you seen Carlton House? My dear … Prinny has got quite carried away! The whole place is festooned with fleurs-de-lys! Heaven knows to what lengths he will go for the Czar’s visit!’ She turned her restless azure blue eyes upon Pandora. ‘Do you not crave to visit Paris, Miss Carlyon? To see for yourself what changes the war has wrought. Of course, you cannot know how it was before. Why, I can scarcely remember myself.’ she added with a tinkling laugh. ‘I was a mere babe when I was taken there!’

  Pandora said stiffly, ‘I am not familiar with Paris, Lady Sarah, but I have seen enough of war to wish never to go anywhere simply to gloat over the miseries of a defeated people.’

  Lady Sarah’s delicately arched brows rose in faint hauteur.

  ‘Miss Carlyon has spent most of her life with the Army, Sarah. We cannot expect her to see things quite as we do.’

  ‘How very interesting,’ she said, sounding bored, and then, as she caught sight of a friend, ‘Forgive me, I must go. À bientôt, Robert ‒ Miss Carlyon.’

  ‘I daresay I should not have expressed myself so freely,’ said Pandora, still in the same stiff voice, as Heron picked up the reins without comment. ‘I fear I may have offended Lady Sarah.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said brusquely.

  Perhaps he was right, she mused, feeling rebuked. Perhaps she was too insignificant to merit so much notice. The thought kept her silent for some time.

  Heron was occupied with the traffic, but he was very much aware of the young woman beside him. In his mind’s eye he saw that trim grey-clad figure sitting quietly erect, the narrow brim of her bonnet not quite concealing a purposeful thrust to the delicate jawline which so graphically evinced a determination not to be put down. It was impossible not to compare her with Sarah ‒ the wild rose, its open-faced simplicity concealing prickles ‒ and the flawless lily.

  ‘Are you still set on your country cottage?’ he asked as they turned the corner into Brook Street.

  Pandora came out of her abstraction with a start. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘This afternoon has not, then, given your ambition a higher direction?’

  ‘Good gracious, no.’ She paused fractionally. ‘If anything, it has confirmed me in my resolve.’

  ‘How so?’

  Pandora smoothed each finger of her gloves carefully. ‘Oh, come, sir! You, of all people, must recognize that I could never fit into that world.’

  ‘Gammon!’ said the Duke as the curricle came to a halt outside the Hamilton house. Grimble climbed down and went to the horses’ heads, and Heron moved aside to face Pandora with a curious light in his eyes. ‘You are talking, my dear Miss Carlyon, out of the top of your exceedingly unfashionable bonnet! Plain and unadorned you may be, but you are not without style and I begin to suspect that you could hold your own in any company.’

  But she would only shake her head.

  ‘So be it.’ He secured the reins and leaped lightly down, turning to swing her expertly to the ground and walk with her to the door.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ She gave him her hand. ‘I would ask you in, except …’ She thought of Octavia possibly waiting to pounce on him.

  ‘No matter,’ he said, with the same thought. But still he lingered, retaining her clasp, his thumb moving absently in a circular caressing motion over hers. ‘If you wish it, I will instruct my agent down at Clearwater to keep his ears open for a cottage?’

  There was an odd singing sensation in her veins, a kind of breathlessness as she said, ‘You are very kind, but I could not put you to so much trouble.’

  ‘No trouble.’

  He released her abruptly, but the sensation remained. He smiled faintly, flicked her cheek with one careless finger and walked away.

  ‘No trouble at all.’

  Chapter Nine

  Lady Margerson’s ‘little evening’, as she called it, passed off very satisfactorily. She was delighted by the way her protégée was received. Everything was working out splendidly, she told herself, blissfully unaware of what Pandora was planning.

  It had not been Pandora’s intention to deceive Lady Margerson, but circumstances had conspired to force her to act more quickly than she had expected.

  Octavia was indeed at home on that day when the Duke brought Pandora back. She had, unfortunately, seen the carriage arrive at the door from the drawing-room window and rushed willy-nilly to change her gown, to chivvy her maid into perfecting her coiffure, her heart fluttering with the expectation that at last she was to have the accolade of receiving the nonpareil into her drawing room.

  Her fury upon learning that he had driven away without so much as setting foot over the threshold knew no bounds. The entire household was privy to her opinion that Pandora was ‘the most rag-mannered, selfish, ungrateful and conniving little upstart that I have ever had the misfortune to know!’ There was much more in a similar vein ‒ about Pandora, about her brothers, their parents, their way of life ‒ growing incoherent as it became punctuated with hysterical sobs until finally hysteria won.

  Pandora heard her out in stony silence, then turned and left the room, went straight away to pack her few belongings, and William’s, and asked Binns in a strained voice to summon a hack. This he did with obvious distress, and within half an hour she was at Lady Margerson’s door.

  ‘But of course, dear child! You may stay as long as you please!’ Lady Margerson, with the threat of William removed, was genuinely delighted to have her. ‘We shall deal most agreeably together, shall we not? And it will be so much more convenient,’ she added ambiguously, though Pandora knew very well what she meant.

  She ought to have told her then of her intentions, but could not face an argument at that precise moment and as time went on the old lady was so happy, so full of her forthcoming soirée, that Pandora doubted she would even have attended her.

  She managed to resist the more ambitious of Lady Margerson’s plans for her, pleading her state of mourning as excuse, but as this found favour rather than otherwise with her ladyship’s influential friends, she was invited, along with her patroness, to many of the more informal evenings, breakfasts and such that proliferated as the season progressed.

  Nor did it escape the notice of the gossip-mongers that Pandora was seen with ever growing frequency in the company of his grace, the Duke of Heron. Sir Henry Dalrymple, quizzed by a friend about the ‘girl in grey’, said with a fruity chuckle, ‘What? Don’t y’know? That, my dear boy, is Heron’s little puritan!’ The description caught the imagination and soon it was being confided behind fans in discreet parlours and bandied about in the less rarefied world of the clubs.

  Pandora continued in happy ignorance of what was being said, seeing the Duke’s interest in her as no more than a kindness, but appreciating it the more because she could talk to him about William. Lady Margerson uttered polite noises when she spoke of him, but clearly was not interested, whereas the Duke went so far as to ask after him and she needed no further encouragement.

  ‘I have had a letter,’ she told him one day when he called to take her out. ‘But I suspect that it was only accomplished with Mr Brearly standing over him the whole time! Still it is quite apparent that he is enjoying himself enormously. And Mr Brearly keeps me informed of his progress, which he vows is prodigious!’ There was an unconscious wistfulness in her voice.

  Heron looked down at her. ‘You are missing William badly still, are you not?’

  ‘Foolish of me, isn’t it?’ She managed a smile. ‘You would suppose that with so many people being nice to me, I should be content.’

  ‘Would you like to visit him?’

  The question was so unexpected, so abruptly asked that she did not at once take his meaning.

  ‘Mr Brearly did assure m
e that I could do so, but …’

  ‘I’ll take you,’ Heron said. ‘We can get there and back easily in the day.’ And as she stared at him, ‘In fact, I had meant to broach it sooner. My agent writes that he has found a cottage that might suit you ‒ if you are still interested?’

  It was clear from her reaction that she was. He found himself pondering upon why he had been so reluctant to tell her. Would he miss her so greatly if she were to leave town? A ridiculous notion, he told himself firmly, and dismissed it from his mind.

  A day was arranged for the end of the week and Pandora’s spirits rose accordingly.

  The evening prior to the trip, they were invited to a musical entertainment at Lady Sarah Bingly’s fashionable Mayfair house.

  ‘There now ‒ what could be more fortunate?’ exclaimed Lady Margerson who had been more than a little surprised to receive the invitation. She did not care for the elegant young widow who wielded so much power in society, but there was no denying that to be noticed by her would greatly enhance Pandora’s standing. She wondered fleetingly if Heron had arranged it, for she was not unaware of the relationship between them and of Lady Sarah’s expectations in that direction. It would be a relief to have Pandora satisfactorily bestowed, vowed Lady Margerson with a sigh. All this gadding about was proving a severe trial. She steeled herself to fresh enthusiasm.

  ‘To be sure, it is not a ball, but even a musical evening … well, my love, it is quite something to have been singled out! We must make a special effort. A new dress, I think … yes, certainly a new dress,’ she said more firmly as Pandora looked set to argue. ‘There was that very pretty lilac gauze we saw in Henrietta Street last week. It would become you vastly! Oh, I can see it now, with a ruched bodice and knots of ribbon ‒’

  ‘No, no, ma’am, I beg you!’ Pandora stopped her with a trill of laughter. ‘No frills and furbelows. And no lilac gauze, either. Truly, it would not become me.’

  In the end they agreed upon lavender grey silk with sufficient warmth of colour to be guaranteed not to turn the fading brown of her complexion to sallow. It was simply cut with puffed sleeves, the high-waisted bodice ruched a little to please Lady Margerson and ‘Just one flounce, my love … a narrow one an’ you will … across the bosom. And, only this once, do say that you will allow my Monsieur Henri to have the arranging of your hair!’

  How could Pandora refuse without appearing churlish? But it felt strange to have someone dressing her hair. ‘So soft! So fair! Like the finest gossamer …’ tutted Monsieur Henri, who was plump and garrulous and, she suspected, not French at all. ‘But of a straightness!’

  He shook his head and doubted that he could achieve the style ‘à la Greque’ upon which he had built his hopes. After what seemed an unconscionable length of time, during which she wilted and he grew ever more voluble, he succeeded in piling the hair on top of her head, securing it there and, with the aid of crimping irons and much perseverance, persuaded it to fall in an artless cascade of curls. Pandora very much doubted that they would last the evening, but Lady Margerson was content, and Monsieur so overcome by his own artistry that she could not bring herself to disillusion either of them.

  Heron, coming upon her in one of Lady Sarah’s crowded drawing rooms, frowned and stood back.

  ‘Good God! What have they done to you?’ he exclaimed, employing his quizzing glass to view her better.

  ‘Robert!’ chided the gentle Mr Chessington at his side.

  Pandora liked Mr Chessington enormously. His indolence rivalled Lady Margerson’s and his droll humour made her laugh, as did his preoccupation with the niceties of dress. And sometimes she surprised in his eyes an expression which seemed to suggest that it was all quite, quite deliberate.

  This evening he was peacock-fine against the Duke’s severe black and white, resplendent in a blue coat with a huge collar and mother-of-pearl buttons, and a cravat of marvellous intricacy. He smiled sleepily and made her a leg.

  ‘I beg you will not heed this rough fellow, ma’am. His manners, though in general quite distinguished, are apt to crumble upon the slightest provocation, as you have probably noticed. Permit me to inform you that you look charmingly.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Pandora looked challengingly at the Duke.

  ‘Did I say otherwise?’ he murmured, unabashed. ‘The dress is well enough, charming, in fact, as Fitz has already remarked.’ His glance travelled upwards. ‘But for the rest, I would rather have you as yourself.’

  ‘Plain and unadorned?’ she suggested. He lifted an ironic brow. ‘You are right, of course, but I could no longer deny Lady Margerson that for which she has long been hankering ‒ the opportunity to make me over to her liking!’

  ‘Where is her ladyship?’ he asked, amused approval glinting in his eyes.

  ‘Gone already to the music saloon. I believe she wished to find a comfortable corner where she might doze unnoticed through the concert.’

  He laughed aloud at this. Looking up, he surprised a shaft of fury from Sarah that came as something of a shock. In a moment it was gone and she was smiling, making her way towards them in an outrageously modish gown of sapphire blue spider gauze over a slip of pale satin which clung to her figure, revealing the curve of her thigh as she moved. Her brilliant eyes, like jewels, echoed the shimmering gauze. He began to wonder whether he had not imagined that look.

  ‘Come, everyone. It is time to take our places in the music room. The concert will begin in a short while.’ She spoke to the room at large, but it was Heron upon whose arm she hung as she led the way. ‘Did I tell you, Robert, that I have prevailed upon La Gianetti to perform this evening? She is in London, you know, to give a concert in honour of the Czar’s visit, but she had vowed she would not perform elsewhere. Am I not clever?’

  The Duke murmured something in reply and Mr Chessington gave Pandora one of his droll looks and offered her his arm as they followed.

  ‘I wonder if that lady seated on the couch near the door is quite well,’ she said as the room began to clear. ‘I have been watching her on and off and she has had recourse several times to her vinaigrette. Do you suppose one should mention her indisposition to Lady Sarah?’

  ‘Ain’t our affair, m’dear,’ advised Mr Chessington. ‘The lady has a friend with her. Let well alone, I’d say.’

  The woman, dressed all in black, must in ordinary circumstances have been quite pretty in a rather faded way, but there was a gauntness in her face that Pandora had seen many times in the faces of men who had gone beyond the limit of what was supportable. The thought troubled her, but she did not wish to appear officious, and said no more.

  Ahead of them Lady Sarah half turned, her voice floating back. ‘Miss Carlyon? Ah, there you are. I was just saying to his grace how pleasant it will be for you to hear La Gianetti. You will not have had many such treats, I daresay, in your travels with the Army!’

  The effect of her words was as startling as it was unexpected. The woman in black who had risen to join the stream of guests let out an anguished moan and swayed on her feet, a small square of cambric pressed to her mouth. The people about her hesitated and moved back uncertainly but already she was steadying herself, one hand grasping her companion’s arm with a desperate strength, her eyes staring about her wildly until they came to rest on Pandora.

  ‘It is you!’ she gasped. ‘You are his daughter, are you not? That murderer who robbed me of my boy … my Jack!’

  ‘No!’

  Into the silence that followed came a rush of sound ‒ exclamations, speculation ‒ Heron saying sharply, ‘Sarah, for God’s sake, stop this quickly’ ‒ the lady’s companion urging in a distraught whisper: ‘Mrs Ibbot, hush, do, dear! You mustn’t make a scene … not here!’ And turning in mute appeal to Lady Sarah, whose glance had moved briefly to observe Pandora’s reactions.

  She stood transfixed, her face ghastly beneath its fading tan, oblivious of everything, everyone, except this woman who had blackened her Papa’s name and roused so much bitterne
ss in her heart. Now, seeing her in all her grief, she could feel only a welling throat-aching pity. Instinctively she stepped forward, hand outstretched.

  ‘Ma’am, I do beg you will sit down!’ Her voice was thick with unshed tears.

  But her hand was dashed aside. ‘Don’t touch me, do you hear? Don’t even come near me!’ Mrs Ibbot’s voice rose alarmingly and, as oblivion claimed her, it was Mr Chessington who with unexpected presence of mind and agility caught and lifted her, laying her gently on the couch she had so recently quit.

  It was all over in a matter of moments. Lady Sarah was everywhere, reassuring, soothing, urging people towards the music room while Pandora still stood.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  It was the Duke, his fingers digging into her arm, shaking her and sounding harsher than she had ever heard him. Mr Chessington was moved to remonstrate, but the abrasiveness was exactly what Pandora needed.

  She shuddered, drew a steadying breath and nodded, the blankness in her eyes changing to concern as she saw that a small crowd of well-meaning people were pressing forward round the couch, arguing the rival merits of salts against burning feathers to rouse the inert figure.

  ‘Oh, no!’ she cried huskily, hurrying forward. ‘Please stand back so that the poor woman can breathe! My lord Duke.’ She half turned, appealing to him for help. ‘She must have air and complete quiet.’

  Lady Sarah, coming back at that moment, was not best pleased to hear Robert’s little nonentity giving what amounted to orders in her drawing room, but as the Duke, with Mr Chessington’s help, was already engaged in shepherding people towards the door, she was obliged once more to play the perfect hostess.

  Soon, everyone had gone and the room was quiet. Only Pandora and the lady’s companion remained, the latter staring at Pandora with open curiosity bordering on respect.

  ‘Forgive me, ma’am, but we must be brief,’ Pandora said, low-voiced. ‘It will be for the best if I am not here when Mrs Ibbot comes to her senses. You have her vinaigrette?’