The Earl lowered his sword – or so it seemed to her. ‘Unless you would prefer to see Blackader himself, and give him your commands?’
Miss Taverner, with a chilly haughtiness that concealed her inward gratitude, accepted this offer.
Peregrine looked over his shoulder, and said belligerently: ‘I shall be sending to Yorkshire, for certain of my horses, but we shall be needing others, and a carriage for my sister.’
‘Surely you can buy a carriage without my assistance?’ said Worth in a weary voice. ‘You will probably be cheated in buying your horses, but the experience won’t harm you.’
Peregrine choked. ‘I did not mean that! For sure, I don’t need your assistance! All I meant was – what I wished to make plain –’
‘I see,’ said Worth. ‘You want to know whether you may set up your stable. Certainly. I have not the least objection.’ He came away from the secretaire, and walked slowly across the room to the fireplace. ‘There remains, Miss Taverner, the problem of finding a lady to live with you.’
‘I have a cousin living in Kensington, sir,’ said Miss Taverner. ‘I shall ask her if she will come to me.’
He glanced down at her meditatively. ‘Will you tell me, Miss Taverner, what precisely is your object in having come to London?’
‘What is that to the point, sir?’
‘When you are better acquainted with me,’ said the Earl, ‘you will know that I never ask pointless questions. Is it your intention to live upon the fringe of society, or do you mean to take your place in the world of Fashion? Will the Pantheon do for you, or must it be Almack’s?’
She replied instantly: ‘It must be the best, sir.’
‘Then we need not consider the cousin living in Kensington,’ said Worth. ‘Fortunately, I know a lady who (though I fear you may find her in some ways extremely foolish) is not only willing to undertake the task of chaperoning you, but has the undoubted entrée to the world you wish to figure in. Her name is Scattergood. She is a widow, and some sort of a cousin of mine. I will bring her to call on you.’
Miss Taverner got up in one swift graceful movement. ‘I had rather anyone than a cousin of yours, Lord Worth!’ she declared.
He drew out his snuff-box again, and took a pinch between finger and thumb. Over it his eyes met hers. ‘Shall we agree, Miss Taverner, to consider that remark unsaid?’ he suggested gently.
She blushed to the roots of her hair. She could have cried from vexation at having allowed her unruly tongue to betray her into a piece of school-girlish rudeness. ‘I beg your pardon!’ she said stiffly.
He bowed, and laid his snuff-box down open on the table. He had apparently no more to say to her, for he turned to Peregrine, and called him away from the window. ‘When you have visited a tailor,’ he said, ‘come to me again, and we will discuss what clubs you want me to put your name up for.’
Peregrine came to the table, half sulky, half eager. ‘Can you have me made a member of White’s?’ he asked rather shyly.
‘Yes, I can have you made a member of White’s,’ said the Earl.
‘And – and – Watier’s, is it not?’
‘That will be for my friend Mr Brummell to decide. His decision will not be in your favour if you let him see you in that coat. Go to Weston, in Conduit Street, or to Schweitzer and Davidson, and mention my name.’
‘I thought of going to Stultz,’ said Peregrine, making a bid for independence.
‘By all means, if you wish the whole of London to recognise your tailor at a glance,’ shrugged his lordship.
‘Oh!’ said Peregrine, a little abashed. ‘Mr Fitzjohn recommended him to me.’
‘So I should imagine,’ said the Earl.
Miss Taverner said with an edge to her voice: ‘Pray, sir, have you no advice to offer me in the matter of my dress?’
He turned. ‘My advice to you, Miss Taverner, is to put yourself unreservedly in the hands of Mrs Scattergood. There is one other matter. While you are under my guardianship you will, if you please, refrain from being present in towns where a prizefight is being held.’
She caught her breath. ‘Yes, my lord? You think, perhaps, that my being in such towns might lay me open to some insult?’
‘On the contrary,’ replied the Earl, ‘I think it might lay you open to an excess of civility.’
Five
THE EVENTS AND IMPRESSIONS OF HER FIRST WEEK IN LONDON left Miss Taverner with her brain in a whirl. On the very afternoon of the day she and Peregrine called on their guardian he not only brought Mrs Scattergood to see her, but later sent Mr Blackader to discuss the question of servants.
Mrs Scattergood took Miss Taverner’s breath away. She was a very thin lady of no more than medium height, certainly on the wrong side of forty, but dressed in an amazingly youthful fashion, with her improbably chestnut-coloured hair cropped short at the back, and crimped into curls in front, and her sharp, lively countenance painted in a lavish style that quite shocked the country-bred Judith.
She was dressed in a semi-transparent gown of jaconet muslin, made up to the throat with a treble ruff of pointed lace, and fastened down the back with innumerable little buttons. Her gown ended in a broad embroidered flounce, and on her feet she had lace stockings and yellow kid Roman boots. A lavender chip hat, tied under her chin with long yellow ribands, was placed over a small white satin cap beneath, and she carried a long-handled parasol, and a silk reticule.
Her twinkling eyes absorbed Judith at a glance. She stepped back as though to see the girl in perspective, and then nodded briskly. ‘I am charmed! My dear Worth, I am quite charmed! You must, you shall let me have the dressing of you, child! What is your name – oh no, not that stiff Miss Taverner! Judith! Worth, what do you stay for? I am to talk of fashions, you know. You must go at once!’
Miss Taverner, who had intended politely to decline Mrs Scattergood’s services, felt powerless. The Earl made his bow, and left them together, and Mrs Scattergood immediately took one of Judith’s shapely hands in her own tightly-gloved ones, and said coaxingly: ‘You will let me come and live with you, won’t you? I am shockingly expensive, but you won’t mind that, I daresay. Oh, you are looking at my gown, and thinking what a very odd appearance I present. You see, I am not pretty, not in the least, never was, and so I have to be odd. Nothing for it! It answers delightfully. And so Worth has taken a house for you in Brook Street! Just as it should be: a charming situation! You know, I have quite made up my mind to it you are to be the rage. I think I should come to you at once. Grillon’s! Well, I suppose there is no more genteel hotel in town, but a young lady alone – oh, you have a brother, but what is the use of that? I had better have my boxes packed up immediately. How I do run on! You don’t wish me to live with you at all, I daresay. But a cousin in Kensington! You would find she would not add to your consequence, my dear. I am sure, a dowdy old lady. She would not else be living in Kensington, take my word for it.’
So Miss Taverner yielded, and that very evening her chaperon arrived at Grillon’s in a light coach weighed down by trunks and bandboxes.
Mr Blackader, who sent in his card at about four o’clock in the afternoon, was much more easily dealt with. He was a shy young man, who looked at the heiress with undisguised admiration. He seemed to be extremely conscientious, and most anxious to oblige. He frowned over the credentials of at least a dozen servants, and fluttered over the leaves of a sheaf of papers, until Miss Taverner laughingly implored him to stop.
Mr Blackader’s solemnity disappeared into something remarkably like a grin.‘Well, do you know, ma’am, I think if you was to let me settle it all for you it would be quicker done?’ he suggested apologetically.
So it was arranged. Mr Blackader hurried away to engage a cook, and Miss Taverner walked out to take a peep at London.
She turned into Piccadilly, and knew herself to be in the heart of the fashionable quarter. There was so much to see, so much to wonder at! She had not believed so many modish people to exist, while as for the c
arriages, she had never seen any so elegant. The shops, the buildings were all delightful. There was the famous Hatchard’s, with its bow windows filled with all the newest publications. She could almost fancy that the gentleman coming out of the shop was the great Mr Scott himself, or perhaps, if the author of the Lady of the Lake was in Scotland (which was sadly probable), it might be Mr Rogers, whose Pleasures of Memory had beguiled so many leisure moments.
She went into the shop, and came out again after an enchanting half-hour spent in turning over any number of books, with a copy of Mr Southey’s latest poem, the Curse of Kehama, under her arm.
When she returned to Grillon’s her chaperon had arrived, and was awaiting her. Miss Taverner entered in upon her in an impetuous fashion, and cried out: ‘Oh, ma’am, only to think of Hatchard’s at our very door! To be able to purchase any book in the world there, as I am sure one may!’
‘Lord, my dear!’ said Mrs Scattergood, in some dismay. ‘Never say you are bookish! Poems! Oh well, there may be no harm in that, one must be able to talk of the latest poems if they happen to become the rage. Marmion! I liked that excessively, I remember, though it was too long for me to finish. They say this young man who has been doing such odd things abroad is becoming the fashion, but I don’t know. He was excessively rude to poor Lord Carlisle in that horrid poem of his. I cannot like him for it, besides that someone or other was telling me there is bad blood in all the Byrons. But, of course, if he is to be the fashion one must keep an eye on him. Let me warn you, my love, never be behind the times!’
It was the first of many pieces of worldly wisdom. Miss Taverner, led from warehouse to warehouse, from milliner to bootmaker, had others instilled into her head. She learned that no lady would be seen driving or walking down St James’s Street; that every lady must be sure of being seen promenading in Hyde Park between the hours of five and six. She must not dare to dance the waltz until she had been approved by the Patronesses of Almack’s; she must not want to be wearing warm pelisses or shawls: the lightest of wraps must suffice her in all weathers; she need extend only the barest civility towards such an one; she must be conciliating to such another. And above all, most impor tant, most vital, she must move heaven and earth to earn Mr Brummell’s approval.
‘If Mr Brummell should not think you the thing you are lost!’ said Mrs Scattergood impressively. ‘Nothing could save you from social ruin, take my word for it. He has but to lift his eyebrow at you, and the whole world will know that he finds nothing to admire in you.’
Miss Taverner’s antagonism was instantly aroused. ‘I do not care that for Mr Brummell!’ she said.
Mrs Scattergood gave a faint scream, and implored her to be careful.
Miss Taverner, however, was heartily tired of the sound of the dandy’s name. Mr Brummell had invented the starched neckcloth; Mr Brummell had started the fashion of white tops to riding-boots; Mr Brummell had laid it down that no gentleman would be seen driving in a hackney carriage; Mr Brummell had his own sedan chair, lined and cushioned with white satin; Mr Brummell had abandoned a military career because his regiment had been ordered to Manchester; Mr Brummell had decreed that none of the Bow-window set at White’s would acknowledge salutations from acquaintances in the street if they were seated in the club-window. And Mr Brummell, said Mrs Scattergood, would give her one of his stinging set-downs if she offended his notions of propriety.
‘Will he?’ said Miss Taverner, a martial light in her eye. ‘Will he indeed?’
She was annoyed to find her brother inclined to be impressed by the shadow of this uncrowned king of fashion. Peregrine went to be measured for some suits of clothes at Weston’s, escorted by Mr Fitzjohn, and when he debated over two rolls of cloth, unable to decide between them, the tailor coughed, and said helpfully: ‘The Prince Regent, sir, prefers superfine, and Mr Brummell the Bath coating, but it is immaterial which you choose: you must be right. Suppose, sir, we say the Bath coating? – I think Mr Brummell has a trifle the preference.’
Peregrine’s days during that first week were quite as full as his sister’s. His friend, Mr Fitzjohn, took him thoroughly in hand. When he was not being fitted for boots at Hoby’s, or hats at Lock’s, he was choosing fobs in Wells Street, or riding off to Long Acre to look at a tilbury, or knowingly inspecting carriage-horses at Tattersall’s.
The house in Brook Street, somewhat to Miss Taverner’s annoyance, proved to be admirable in every respect, the saloons handsome, and the furnishings just what she liked. She was installed there within three days of seeing Mr Blackader, and a number of her new gowns having been delivered in neat band boxes, her hair having been fashionably cut, and her maid taught to dress it in several approved classical styles, Mrs Scattergood declared her to be ready to receive morning callers.
The first of these were her uncle, the Admiral, and his son, Mr Bernard Taverner. They came at an awkward moment, Peregrine, who had spent the great part of the morning in a brocade dressing-gown, while the barber and a breeches-maker waited on him, being at that moment engaged in trying to arrange his starched neckcloth.
His sister, who had walked unceremoniously into his room to demand his escort to Colburn’s Lending Library, was an interested and rather scornful spectator. ‘What nonsense it is, Perry!’ she exclaimed, as with an exasperated oath he threw away his fourth crushed and mangled cravat. ‘That is the fourth you have spoiled! If only you would have them made more narrow!’
Peregrine, his face and head quite obscured by his turned-up shirt collar, said testily: ‘Women never understand these things. Fitz says it must be a foot high. As for four spoiled, pooh, that’s nothing! Fitz says Brummell has sometimes ruined as many as a score. Now try it again, John! Fold my collar down first, you fool!’
Someone knocked on the door. Peregrine, with a neckcloth a foot wide round his neck, and his chin to the ceiling, shouted: ‘Come in!’ and in doing so produced a crease in the neckcloth which he felt could hardly have been bettered by the Beau himself.
The footman entered, and announced the arrival of Admiral and Mr Taverner. Peregrine was too much engaged in making further creases by the simple expedient of gradually lowering his jaw, to pay any heed, but Judith jumped up at once. ‘Oh Perry, do make haste! It is our cousin! Beg the Admiral to wait, Perkins. We will come directly. Is Mrs Scattergood downstairs? Oh then, she will see to it all! Perry, will you never have done?’
The cravat had by this time been reduced to more normal proportions. Peregrine studied it anxiously in the mirror, tried with a cautious finger to perfect one of the creases, and announced gloomily that it would have to do. It was still too high to permit of his turning his head more than an inch or two either side, but this he assured Judith was nothing at all out of the way.
The next business was to get him into his new coat, an elegant blue creation made of the prescribed Bath coating, with long tails, and silver buttons. It fitted him so exactly that the services of the footman had to be engaged to assist in inserting him into it. It seemed at one time as though not even the united efforts of two able-bodied men could succeed in this, but after a grim struggle it was done, and Peregrine, panting slightly from his exertions, turned to his sister and proudly asked her how he looked.
There was a laugh in her eye, but she assured him he was quite the thing. In any other man she would have ruthlessly condemned so absurdly waisted a coat, so monstrous a cravat, such skin-tight pantaloons, but Peregrine was very much her darling, and must be allowed to dress himself up in any dandified way he pleased. She did indeed suggest that his golden locks were in considerable disorder, but upon being informed that this was intentional, and had taken him half an hour to achieve, she said no more, but took his arm and went down with him to the saloon upon the first floor.
Here they found Mrs Scattergood seated on a confidante beside a stout flushed-looking gentleman with grizzled hair, in whom Miss Taverner had no difficulty in recognising her late father’s brother. Mr Bernard Taverner occupied a chair opposite t
o them, but upon the door opening to admit his cousins, he immediately got up, and made his bow. There was a certain warmth in his smile; his look seemed to approve, even to admire. Judith could only be glad to think that she had chosen that morning to put on the jonquil muslin dress with the lace trimming, and the new kid shoes of celestial blue.
The Admiral had got up ponderously from the confidante, and now came forward with his hand held out and a look of decided relish upon his florid countenance. ‘So!’ he said. ‘My little niece! Well, my dear! Well!’
She had a moment’s fear that he was going to kiss her, a circumstance she could not look forward to with any equanimity, since he smelled strongly of spirits. She put out her hand in a decided way, and after a moment’s hesitation he took it, and held it between both of his. ‘So you are poor John’s daughter!’ he said with a somewhat gusty sigh. ‘Ah, that was a sad business! I was never more shocked in my life.’
Her brows drew together slightly; she bowed, and withdrew her hand. She could not suppose him sincere, and while determined on showing him all the observance which their relationship demanded, she could not like him. She said merely: ‘My brother Peregrine, sir.’
They shook hands. The Admiral clapped his nephew on the shoulder, supposed him to be come to town to cut a dash, did not blame him, but begged him to be careful of his company, else he would find himself without a feather to fly with. This was all said with a great air of joviality, while Peregrine smiled politely, and inwardly consigned his uncle to the devil.
Mr Taverner had moved over to stand beside Judith, and now put a chair forward for her. She took it, reflecting that he did not in any way favour his father.
He drew up a back-stool, and sat down on it. ‘My cousin is pleased with London?’ he said smilingly.
Regency Buck Page 6