‘Well, it’s not certain. Teddy likes Bulwer-Lytton but one gathers Alex isn’t so keen. You know, there’s a theatrical connection ‒ Bulwer-Lytton has had plays on at Covent Garden, and though Alex goes to the theatre, of course, she doesn’t like to mix with the theatrical crowd.’
Her sister-in-law explained all this to Jenny with the satisfaction of someone who knows all the latest gossip. Jenny, far off in the Borders, had nevertheless heard the rumours that the Prince of Wales was not a faithful husband to Alexandra. It was whispered that he had a weakness for actresses. So it would be quite understandable if Her Royal Highness found some good reason for not attending a party where actors and actresses might be among the guests.
Jenny also understood now why the Corvills would not want to arrive early. It was apparently Prince Edward’s habit to arrive late. People said it was because his wife liked to retire early, so that he felt he could then go out alone with an easy conscience.
In a word, the affair this evening was an opportunity for Teddy and his cronies to meet theatrical people, to relax in a way that would be impossible if Alexandra were with him.
Jenny couldn’t help being intrigued. She herself never met any actors, and though she had met one or two authors none had had the popularity of Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton, author of the amazing epic novel, The Last Days of Pompeii. He was in addition notable for his political work and for being Chancellor of Glasgow University.
Such a man was worth meeting, even if the Prince of Wales didn’t put in an appearance. Jenny reconciled herself to giving up the duets by Signorina Sinico and Signor Foli. Instead she dressed with particular care, putting on the sapphire blue velvet that showed off her brunette looks to perfection, and wore with it the necklace of enamel medallions on silver given to her by Ronald as a wedding anniversary present.
‘My!’ said her brother as she came downstairs to dinner. ‘I’ve never seen you look better, Jenny.’
‘Thank you, Ned. May I ask ‒ am I supposed to eat a hearty meal now, or shall we be offered refreshments at Audley Street?’
Lucy replied for him, coming into the dining room in a sweep of silvered satin and pale blue lace. ‘It depends on whether you want to be bothered with food at a party. Personally I think it’s such a risk to one’s gown, trying to eat canapés with one’s fingers.’
Canapés were a recent invention of party hostesses, little titbits on toast or biscuit intended to be eaten while sitting on a canapé or French sofa. Jenny abhorred them, so made a good meal from among the five courses Lucy thought obligatory at even the simplest occasion.
The Truscotts’ house in Audley Street already had carriages lined up as they arrived. Indoors Jenny found a scene of considerable grace and charm ‒ a lighter, airier decor than their own at Eaton Square. A pianist was playing Schumann as background music to the conversation. There were rather more ladies than gentlemen in the gathering, all very pretty or striking.
‘The tall fair one is Mrs Lander,’ Lucy whispered, after they had greeted their hostess and begun to glance about. ‘She’s in Elizabeth of England at the St James’. And the lady in shot silk is Mrs Newnes or Nownes, I forget which, she does the modelling of the portrait heads at Tussaud’s. And there’s ‒ oh, I declare, that’s going too far! That’s Madame Rowalla, the ballet-dancer.’
‘Point out Lord Lytton to me, Lucy.’
‘Who? Oh, of course. The man in the dark green broadcloth, talking to a naval officer. And there’s Berthold Tours, the songwriter. And there’s ‒’ the little whispering voice broke off.
Jenny turned to look over her shoulder at her sister-in-law. Lucy had just stopped short in her survey of the room and was gazing down at her silver fan.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Look, there’s a lady wearing one of the new embroidered opera mantles, Jenny.’
They made their way in among the gathering. Lucy made introductions here and there, or was in her turn introduced. Ned paused to join a group with Bulwer-Lytton, deep in politics. It seemed to Jenny that her sister-in-law was trying very hard to get rid of her, and in due course she succeeded. She left Jenny with a group poring over an album of illustrations by Gustav Doré.
She was listening with interest to criticisms of that artist’s dark humour when a voice at her elbow said, ‘Good-evening, Mrs Armstrong. I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.’
She turned. Harvil Massiter was at her side. ‘Good-evening,’ she replied. ‘I thought you were in the country?’
‘Oh, I was,’ he agreed. ‘But one can’t stay there all the time ‒ don’t you find? A certain amount of country discomfort is good for the character, no doubt, but after a week or two one bush begins to look much like another.’
Jenny, after smiling at the quip, turned back to the Doré album. ‘Would you like me to introduce you to the Prince?’ Harvil persisted, touching her gently on her gloved wrist.
‘I don’t believe His Royal Highness is coming ‒ it’s getting rather late.’
‘Oh, he’s here ‒ I came in the carriage with him a few minutes ago. We came on from Astley’s, don’t you know. Shall I take you across to him?’
‘I don’t think so, thank you, Mr Massiter. We have in fact already met on another occasion.’
‘Oh yes, Lucy mentioned it ‒ some rustic revelry in your home town, I seem to recall.’
Lucy? So they were on first name terms. Jenny frowned.
‘Is something wrong?’ inquired Massiter.
‘Nothing, thank you. Perhaps you should rejoin the royal party, Mr Massiter?’
‘No, no, he don’t need anyone to play guardian on him. Let me fetch you some refreshments, Mrs Armstrong.’
She shook her head, turning back as definitely as she could to the group with the album of illustrations.
‘I say, don’t waste your time on those dull things, dear lady,’ he urged. ‘Black and white engravings are dreary, I always think. The Truscotts have some awfully decent paintings in the library ‒ let me take you there ‒’
At that moment Lucy appeared from behind the crowd. ‘Harvil,’ she exclaimed, ‘I saw you come in.’
‘Good-evening, Lucy, how beautiful you look. Just like one of those enchanting silvery figures they put atop the Christmas tree.’
Lucy smiled, and then looked doubtful ‒ and in fact Jenny wasn’t quite sure the remark was entirely complimentary. The more she knew of Mr Massiter, the less she liked him. And yet Lucy seemed to find him irresistible. She was leaning towards him now, whispering close to his cheek so that the soft brown lock just above his ear trembled at her breath.
‘Shall we go and find something cool to drink?’ Jenny suggested brightly.
‘You go, Jenny, I have something I want to say to Harvil.’
‘To Harvil?’ Jenny echoed, not troubling to hide her astonishment.
‘I mean, it’s a message for Maud … his wife …’
Sighing, Jenny moved off. As she accepted a glass of chilled wine, she glanced back. The guests sauntered to and fro, obscuring her view, but from time to time she could distinguish Lucy and Massiter leaning close to each other in intimate conversation.
She knew she would have to go back and break up the tête-à-tête. It was very unsuitable, even in the relaxed atmosphere of a London literary party. People would notice ‒ or, she reminded herself wryly, perhaps not, because most eyes were turned towards the Prince of Wales. He was setting a very bad example by laughing uproariously with the dancer Rowalla.
Nevertheless, what was permissible to the Prince of Wales was not permissible to the young wife of a respectable Scottish wool manufacturer. Jenny braced herself to push her way through the crowd, a foolish excuse to go home ready on her lips.
Too late. A slight commotion at the open doors of the drawing room had caught the attention of the guests. They turned towards the newcomer.
It was Mrs Massiter, pink with anger and still with her outdoor wrap about her. And her gaze was fixed
in fury on her husband whispering secrets to Mrs Edward Corvill.
Chapter Five
Mrs Harvil Massiter moved forward, escorted by an anxious butler. The hostess, scenting trouble, came to greet her.
‘Maud! How delightful!’ beamed Mrs Truscott. ‘Won’t you let Lawson take your cape?’
‘No, thank you, Alice, I only dropped in on my way home from Baroness Tanbeck to collect my husband.’
‘You’ve been to Magda’s? How charming! Did Herr Ludwig play?’
Mrs Massiter was moving inexorably across the room towards her husband. Mrs Truscott was fighting a delaying action. Massiter saw it was time to intervene.
‘Maud my dear, how sweet of you to come for me. But I can’t go until the Prince decides to leave, you know.’
‘I’m sure if you tell him I have a dreadful headache and need your assistance, he’ll excuse you.’
He came close and spoke in a low tone, so that the words were for her alone.
She stiffened away from him, adamant. ‘I don’t need to be told that. It was the reason you begged off Baroness Tanbeck ‒ that the Prince wanted to talk to you. You didn’t mention who you wanted to talk to.’ Her angry glance went past him to Lucy, who was trying to shrink back into a small group of which Jenny was one.
Jenny felt it was time to restore things to normality, if she could. She came forward. ‘Allow me to introduce myself, Mrs Massiter. I’m Ned Corvill’s sister, Mrs Ronald Armstrong. We missed each other on my last London visit.’
Maud Massiter checked herself, took a deep breath, and gave Jenny a bow. ‘Charmed,’ she said. Then, after the introduction had sunk in, ‘I didn’t realise you were here as well.’
Jenny couldn’t hide her surprise. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mrs Culworth told me … she left just as the Prince was arriving … she told me Mrs Corvill was here …’
Jenny saw it all. Some busy gossip had hurried to the Baroness Tanbeck’s soirée on purpose to tell Mrs Massiter that her husband had arrived with the Prince of Wales at a party where Mrs Corvill was also present.
So it was talked of to that extent. Jenny said in a very calm tone, ‘My brother and his wife were so kind as to bring me to meet Lord Lytton. It’s a new experience for me. We don’t have this kind of literary party in my home town.’
Mrs Massiter understood very well what Jenny was doing. She was telling her that Lucy had been under her eye most of the time and that nothing untoward could have happened. Some of the indignation ebbed out of her.
Her husband, sensing it, said playfully, ‘My dear, do take off your wrap, it’s much too hot in here for sables.’
He was quite right, and if he had worded it differently she might have given in enough to accept a few moments’ hospitality and leave. But he made her aware of the spectacle she was making ‒ wrapped about with a cape of violet satin trimmed with sable and beaded edging in a roomful of women with bare shoulders. True enough, she was too hot. Perspiration stood on her skin, showing up the patches of rice powder.
‘I’m leaving!’ she said. ‘And if you want the money for that new horse you’ll give up the pleasure of chit-chat with your latest light-o’-love and come home.’
She turned and sailed out, her satin skirts dragging on the Aubusson carpet.
‘Maud dear,’ urged Alice Truscott, hurrying after her, ‘do stay and have at least a glass ‒’
But Mrs Massiter was out the door and going through the hall by that time.
Jenny felt her face must be scarlet with embarrassment. She took a little glance around. Luckily her brother was at the far side of the room where conversation was still going on in ignorance of the battle just played out.
But certain eyes had been watching. A tall gentleman approached. Jenny knew him to be one of the Prince’s aides.
‘I say, Massiter, bad form, eh? Raised voices in public! HRH don’t like it.’
Massiter managed a smile. ‘Can’t say I care for it myself, Prior.’
Mrs Truscott was back. ‘I do think, Harvil … Perhaps you had better … She’s very upset …’
‘But ‒’
‘Cut along, old man,’ said Prior, in a tone of cool sympathy. ‘I’ll explain to Teddy ‒ he’s a married man himself, after all.’
With an expression that showed he knew he was momentarily out of favour, Massiter made brief farewells to his hostess and took his leave. As soon as he was out of the room a buzz of talk broke out.
‘My dear Mrs Corvill,’ said Mrs Truscott to Lucy, with politeness but very little friendship, ‘let me take you to the buffet table. I’m sure you would like some negus.’
Lucy, pale and shaken, allowed herself to be led off. Jenny quietly sank back through the ranks of guests to a chair by the wall. She sat down, perturbed by what she had just witnessed.
‘She’s a dreadful woman,’ said the lady in the next chair from behind her fan. ‘Quite unreasonable.’
She was elderly, portly, in a fine gown and pearls. She waved her feather fan a time or two, then added: ‘That was very brave of you, to step between the lioness and her prey. It almost worked, too.’
‘I thought … I thought some natural conversation might calm her down.’
‘Splendid idea, but foolhardy. She’s quite liable to bite, Maud Massiter.’
‘You know her well?’
‘Oh, we see each other here and there. I’m Cecily Grimsdale, you know ‒ run the East End Charities events.’
Jenny murmured her name. Mrs Grimsdale hardly listened. ‘No, apart from that husband of hers, she’s quite an acceptable acquaintance.’
‘You don’t like Mr Massiter?’
‘Harvil? Oh, he’s a charmer! Of course I like him, he’s a scapegrace but he can twist you round his little finger. He’s losing the knack with Maud, though. What I meant was that she’s obsessed with him these days. She’s sure he’s off canoodling if he isn’t actually under her eye.’
‘And is he?’ Jenny inquired, out of need to know more about the situation.
‘Very likely. He’s a lot younger than poor Maud, you see. Married her for her money, of course. But, poor soul, what a howler that turned out to be.’
‘You mean, she has no money?’
‘Good lord, pots, absolutely pots! But you see, they married against Papa’s wishes ‒ Papa thought Harvil a bad lot, and when he died he left everything to Maud but tied up with trusts and managements so that Harvil can’t get at it.’
‘But surely a married woman’s property ‒’
‘Oh, Harvil gets a very comfortable income from her stocks but for any of the extras ‒ and poor dear Harvil likes the extras ‒ he’s got to ask her. And she has to go to the trustees. If she goes, they generally say yes, I believe. But that gives her the whip-hand, do you see? If she’s cross with him she won’t ask the trustees for extra funds. It keeps poor Harvil very jumpy.’
Jenny could well understand that. He didn’t seem the kind of man to enjoy being kept subordinate.
‘Will Mr Massiter fall in with his wife’s wishes?’ she ventured.
‘You mean about la petite écossaise? Shouldn’t think so. It’s clear he likes her. But you know, she’s outclassed ‒ too much of a provincial to play the game right.’ Here Mrs Grimsdale paused. ‘You’re a provincial yourself, aren’t you ‒ no offence intended. But London manners are different and that little creature simplydoesn’t understand the rules.’
‘You may be right.’
‘You know her well? A friend, relative?’
‘I’m her sister-in-law.’
‘Ah. Well, if you have any influence with her I’d get her back to the bonnie bonnie banks. Maud can be very unpleasant when she sets her mind to it. She showed that tonight, sailing in when she knew HRH was here. Your little mountain sprite is no match for her.’
Jenny nodded. ‘I appreciate your advice.’
‘Costs me nothing. Anyone’ll tell you ‒ Cecily Grimsdale likes to poke her nose in. But I’m right most o
f the time. It comes of dealing with committees of ladies trying to run a charity.’
A moment later Ned came along to say that he would introduce her to Lord Lytton if she wished. She excused herself to Mrs Grimsdale, but the old lady’s words stayed with her through the rest of the evening.
When at last the Prince of Wales took himself off and the rest of the guests could leave, it was close on two o’clock. A very light covering of snow had fallen. ‘I do hope,’ Lucy said, as they stepped down from the hackney in Eaton Square, ‘that it will melt before church time. I do hate getting my skirts draggled.’
‘We’re going to church?’ gasped Jenny. She was sure that when she got to bed she would sleep till midday.
‘Certainly.’ And as they went upstairs together while Ned supervised the locking-up, Lucy whispered, ‘I’m not going to let anyone say Maud Massiter scared me into staying at home!’
At home in Galashiels the Corvills attended the United Secessionist Church, chiefly to please the elder Mrs Corvill. The younger generation had no deep religious convictions ‒ Ned, in fact, had lost his faith under the onslaught of Darwin’s theories about evolution.
Here in London, Jenny found, her sister-in-law insisted they attend the church across the square, the fashionable St Peter’s. Here the Rev. Mr Wilkinson, later to become a bishop, preached entertaining sermons to the light-hearted Belgravians and the organist regarded the service as an opportunity to play Mendelssohn.
Heads turned when the Corvills came in. There was no doubt gossip had got abroad in the few hours since last night. Lucy, her face shaded by a scuttle-shaped bonnet of blue velour, stared ahead but could find no voice to sing the hymns. Afterwards, in the porch, there seemed some reluctance on the part of the ladies to pause for chat, although the men were friendly enough to Ned.
Jenny didn’t know how much to infer from this occasion. She didn’t know what the ladies of Belgravia believed about Lucy and Massiter, nor how much truth there was in it. One thing was certain ‒ discretion was the better part of valour. As they sat down to lunch she said, ‘If you’ll get packed, Lucy, we can travel back on Tuesday.’
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