The Bluestocking's Dilemma

by Evelyn Richardson

  Catching a glimpse of herself in the looking glass. Caro had been forced to admit that Susan knew whereof she spoke. The effect of her costume and coiffure were perfect—young, but not youthful, and sophisticated enough in their simplicity to declare the wearer above the follies of a young miss in her first Season. “Of course you are right, as always.” She smiled at her Susan who turned pink with pleasure. “And I shall take great pains to remember what everyone is wearing, though I mistrust my ability to describe them to you, not being at all familiar myself with La Belle Assemblée and Ackermann’s Repository. I have not the least notion what to call everything.” She paused as a thought struck her. “What a nodcock I am! I shall subscribe to both of these arbiters of taste and give them to you. Then if I am fortunate enough to avoid attending any more balls, you will not be deprived of any reporting on the fashions there.”

  Susan was so overcome by this that she could only stammer her thanks, which her mistress brushed quickly aside. “Think nothing of it. You obviously have the interest and the skill. We must help you develop them. I am only sorry you have such a poor advertisement for them in me, but I shall try to do better. In the meantime, perhaps I shall be able to recall clearly enough to sketch things when I return.” And Caro was off, leaving Susan breathless with excitement and longing for the warm kitchen back at Waverly Court so she could share her good fortune with Mrs. Craw-ford.

  Thrilled as she was to be in London, the little maid did miss the sympathetic housekeeper and her own sisters, who would have been able to share in her excitement. To be sure, London and a mansion in Grosvenor Square were the height of her aspirations. Certainly there were few households in town as elegant as the Countess of Welham’s, but the servants were as supercilious as the mistress and would not lower themselves to sharing a cozy chat with a country bumpkin. But they shall do, Susan resolved to herself. In the meantime, she would throw all her energies into improving her skills and insuring that each time her mistress appeared in public she would be exquisitely turned out.

  Her resolve was not entirely selfish. For, despite Caro’s claims to the contrary, Susan firmly believed that her mistress would be happier were she to find a suitable partner-not just anyone, mind you, but someone as clever and kind and energetic as Lady Caroline herself. Susan had seen enough of marriage and childbearing not to believe that a woman of independent means might be a good deal happier free of such encumbrances as a husband and children. But Lady Caroline was so warm and so loving with her intimates that it would be the greatest of pities were she to spend the rest of her life as a solitary soul instead of being surrounded by the loving family she deserved. And if Susan could be instrumental in procuring this blessed state for her mistress, well then, she meant to spare no effort in doing so. Besides, little though she had seen of the Countess of Welham, Susan had taken an immediate dislike to the lady along with her hoity-toity abigail, and she had become possessed of a burning desire to outshine both of these self-satisfied and arrogant women. It was a challenge, to be sure, but one which she was more than eager to tackle. She made a vow that no matter what it took, she would look after her mistress so skillfully that both of these ladies would be forced to sit up and take notice.

  Meanwhile, Susan’s mistress was so intent on observing and remembering every detail of attire on every lady of fashion she saw, that she was not the least aware of the viscount until a genial voice boomed in her ear, “Why, I’ve A seen men purchase a coach and pair with less scrutiny than you are subjecting this room to. Whatever are you looking at?”

  Caro jumped. “I’m sorry Tony, I didn’t see you,” she squeaked.

  “That’s as plain as the nose on your face. Now, if you were my sister, I should say that you were thinking that Lady So-and-So is looking hagged or the Marchioness-of-Whatever appears quite dowdy in that outmoded gown, and that nobody in the room can hold a candle to the Countess of Welham, but I feel reasonably sure that none of those thoughts has crossed your mind.”

  “Well, no, I . . .” Caro blushed. “It’s my maid, Susan, you see.”

  The viscount looked blank.

  “She dreams of becoming a dresser of the first rank and though I am little enough proof of her ability, I believe her to have some talent. Such aspirations should be encouraged, so I am trying to remember every detail to relate to her,” Caro explained.

  “Beside which, you would be bored to tears with all this frivolity if you did not have some higher thoughts to occupy your mind.” A teasing smile lit up the viscount’s amiable countenance.

  “Well, yes,” she admitted slowly.

  “Now that you have fulfilled your duty, perhaps you will help me fulfill mine and dance with me.” Seeing that she was about to refuse, he pleaded, “Come, be a good fellow, Caro. If you won’t be my partner, Lavvy will see that I am not dancing and she will cast about for one of the many eligible young ladies she is forever throwing at my head and make me ask one of them—most likely Mary Throckmorton, who is the most platter-faced thing you could ever hope to meet. Squints, as well. But Lavvy says that such things are of no account. The Throckmortons go back to the Conqueror and they also hang on to their blunt—not like poor Fotheringay whose good name doesn’t seem to be impressing the duns.” A gusty sigh escaped the viscount. “Why does life have to be so difficult? All a fellow wants to do is keep a good stable, set a good table, and take in a mill or two with his friends, but people won’t let you alone,” he complained with such a darkling look in his sister’s direction that Caro burst out laughing.

  “Very well then. Tony, I shall be happy to have this dance with you. You can tell me all about the sweet goers you saw at Tattersall’s the other day.” She sighed enviously.

  “You should have been there, Caro. I’m not in the market for a hunter just now, but Farnham is selling up and you should have seen his bay—most powerful shoulders and chest I ever remember having come across. If you dance with me, I shall tell you more.” And excusing himself to Helena, the viscount led Caro onto the floor where he continued to regale her with descriptions of this thoroughbred and that hunter until Caro’s mind was reeling.

  “How lucky you are to be a man and go wherever you wish.” Caro could not hide the wistful note in her voice.

  The viscount was much struck. He had never thought a great deal about it because his sister seemed to enjoy the hours she spent dressing and parading before the ton at balls, routs, and other fashionable locales. It had always seemed a dead bore to Tony, but he had assumed that females enjoyed that sort of thing. Now, hearing his cousin’s tone, he began to realize how flat such an existence must be for women who were not like his sister. Lord, what if he had been born a woman and had been forced to have a come-out instead of being allowed to attend prizefights and race meetings? He shuddered at the thought and resolved to do more to make Caro’s stay in London more interesting.

  Not being precisely nimble-witted, the viscount had taken quite some time to arrive at these conclusions and the look of concentration on his face was so excruciating that Caro had not dared interrupt him until the dance had ended and they were in danger of being left the only couple on the floor. She coughed delicately to no effect. “Tony!” she hissed.

  “Eh, oh.” He came to with a start. “What?”

  “I am not accustomed to the fashionable world, but I can’t think it is very good ton to stand like blockheads after the dance is over,” she responded confidingly.

  “Oh, sorry. No, of course not. Thinking, you see,” he apologized.

  “I know,’’ she responded sympathetically, “but perhaps you had better do it somewhere else.” And they headed back to the alcove where Helena was seated with an amused expression on her face.

  “Well, what I mean to say is that I had thought all females were alike,” Tony replied, looking sheepish. Then, seeing the confusion on his partner’s face, he tried again. “Well, I mean, Lavvy likes these sorts of affairs, so naturally, I thought every woman did.”

  C
omprehension dawned. “So you thought that I would of course find the same amusement in the ton as she did.”

  “Yes. You see, well, I’m sorry for it. Should have known you were too much a right ‘un not to be bored to tears. Stands to reason. Well, what I mean to say is, if I find it a dead bore, so must you and though I can’t take you to a mill or to Tatt’s, I could take you to something more exciting than this.” The viscount dismissed the countess’s brilliant assemblage with a derogatory wave of the hand.

  Caro was hard put to it to stifle the spurt of laughter that rose up inside of her.

  His brow, wrinkled for a moment in intense concentration, suddenly cleared. “I have it, the very thing! We’ll go to Astley’s!”

  “Astley’s? Famous! Papa took me there once years ago and ever since I have been dying to go back. I should love it.”

  “That’s done then,” Tony replied, thinking as he looked down into her shining eyes that she looked like the little girl years ago who had clapped her hands when he had let her ride his pony. He felt so pleased with himself that he was even able to greet his sister upon her return with some enthusiasm and lead her onto the floor.

  Chapter 8

  In fact, everyone who attended the rout returned from it having enjoyed more than they had anticipated. Between Tony’s irreverent attitude and his insouciant remarks, Helena and Caro had been tolerably amused while Lavvy, expecting to be welcomed back after her enforced absence from the most fashionable haunts of the ton, had not been disappointed. Her encounter with Nicholas had been most gratifying. Really, his succession to the title appeared to have made a man out of him. It lent an air of distinction to his already dashing good looks. And he had seemed to recognize a change for the better in her, if the admiration she had read in his eyes was anything to go by. Truly, this promised to be a most interesting Season.

  In fact, Lavvy had not been a little put out when her only cicisbeo during her seclusion, Sir Evelyn Willoughby, arriving at the Countess of Mortmain’s, had immediately hurried over to beg her hand in the waltz and thank her profusely for allowing her sons’ tutor to lend him assistance. Mr. Welbeck was a brilliant young man—so clever of the countess to have acquired his services. Since this was precisely the reason Lavvy had hired the bibliomaniac tutor, she should have been highly gratified at the success of her stratagem. But all of a sudden, Sir Evelyn, his effusive thanks, and his undying appreciation were far less important now that the Marquess of Everleigh had appeared on the scene. After all, Sir Evelyn was taking up a dance she could have shared with Nicholas. Still, it would not do to appear too interested in the marquess, so she had bestowed a brilliant smile on the enraptured Sir Evelyn and allowed him to lead her to the floor.

  For his part, Nicholas had remained in a pleasant state of abstraction the rest of the evening. While he labored under no illusions as to Lavinia’s character, he had been unable to erase entirely the thoughts of his lost love. To discover her again, even more beautiful than he had remembered all those years he had spent abroad fighting Boney, had been something of a shock. Especially since she was so delighted to see him. She seemed so much more approachable now, so much warmer and more welcoming than ever before. Perhaps marriage and motherhood had softened her. It most certainly appeared so. A cynical voice in his head warned the marquess that spoiled beauties were likely to remain just that, but he silenced it by vowing to keep an open mind while letting his curiosity get the better of him.

  It was in the interests of furthering this inquiry that the marquess appeared the next day on the countess’s imposing doorstep, bearing an exquisite bouquet of hothouse blooms, ruthlessly plucked from the conservatory at Daventry House.

  Wigmore, finding himself in a quandary, hesitated when the handsome gentleman asked for his mistress. On the one hand, the countess never appeared before one o’clock. On the other, she never turned away an admirer of such obvious attractions as the marquess. The butler decided that it was better to err in favor of the gentleman and went off in search of Miss Crimmins who could share some of their mistress’s wrath with him should he have made the wrong decision. Before doing so, however, Wigmore led the marquess to the drawing room at a stately pace, bidding him wait while he went to alert the countess.

  It was some time before Nicholas, adjusting his eyes to the light streaming into the room, realized that he was not the only occupant.

  Her chair pulled up to a boulle table that more nearly resembled a sphinx than an article of furniture, Caro, with her chin propped in her hands, was absorbed in the latest issue of The Edinburgh Review. So engrossed was she that she was oblivious to the slight chunk of the doors as Wigmore closed them behind him, nor did she look up as the marquess quietly crossed the carpet to stand next to her.

  For his part, Nicholas was somewhat startled to discover his antagonist of the previous week so firmly ensconced in Grosvenor Square. Then considering Lavvy’s widowed state and her recent emergence from mourning, he supposed Caro’s presence there made perfect sense. Judging from what he had divined of the lady’s character and interests, the marquess felt quite certain that her appearance involved some duress. Hoping to confirm for himself the measure he had taken of her mind, Nicholas stole closer, trying to get a look at the article which was the object of such intense concentration. It was “Minutes of the Evidence taken before the Committee appointed by the House of Commons, to inquire into the State of Mendicity and Vagrancy in the Metropolis and its Neighborhood.” The marquess’s lip curled. He should have known that such a devoted bluestocking would not be reading anything less than a treatise on the causes of pauperism. However, in spite of his scornful attitude, he bent closer to read the opening sentence. Still Caro did not look up until he unwittingly leaned across the stream of light coming through the window. His shadow obscured the page. Caro jumped. “Good heavens! How you startled me! Do you always sneak up on a person like that?” she demanded crossly.

  Nicholas was indignant in turn. “I didn’t sneak up. I was conducted here in a perfectly respectable manner by Lavinia’s butler. It was you who took me by surprise.

  “Well, of all the unjust ...” Caro began. Then her eye fell on the enormous bouquet. It was her turn to look scornful. Really, men were dreadfully stupid. Here was the person who had been so obviously and callously rejected by her cousin six years ago, yet one dance with Lavinia and he was back on her doorstep like a hopeful puppy. Caro was glad she had never been in love, nor did she intend to be. It made ordinarily intelligent people behave in the most ridiculous fashion.

  Something of her train of thought revealed itself in her expressive face and Nicholas, feeling greatly at a disadvantage, was just about to embark on a long and tangled speech of self-defense when there was a commotion outside and the doors were flung open to reveal two mildly grubby little boys and Argos who, after his bath and some tender care, now more closely resembled the rest of the canine species.

  “Cousin Caro, Cousin Caro,” Cedric burst out. “Wigmore told us we would find you here.” He stopped, surveying the pile of books and magazines with distaste. “But whatever are you doing with those things when it is such a glorious day outside?”

  Caro laughed. “I was reading. Surprising as it may seem, sometimes the printed word can be very interesting.”

  A snort behind her brought to everyone’s attention the presence of a visitor. Clarence was the first to recover. “Excuse me, sir. If we had known Cousin Caro had a caller, we should not have interrupted,” he apologized while his younger sibling looked the marquess up and down.

  Unaccustomed to the bold scrutiny of a six-year-old, Nicholas was amused. He could see that his height and bearing were points in his favor, but the bouquet in his hands was definitely not.

  “Are those for Cousin Caro?” Cedric asked suspiciously.

  “No, they most certainly are not,” the marquess and Caro snapped in unison and then stopped, each one looking slightly conscious at the surprise on the boys’ faces.

  Anxi
ous to retrieve the situation before it deteriorated further, Caro continued, “But you were looking for me, were you not?”

  “Well, yes, but it is not all that important if you are busy,” Clarence demurred.

  “Yes, it is,” Cedric insisted. Then, seeing his brother’s hesitation, he plunged in. “Well, it’s about your horses. We were wondering if we might go visit them—that is, if Dimmock doesn’t mind.” Then, thinking that perhaps his new cousin might wonder that they were not on good terms with their own coachman, he added, “Of course, John is a very good fellow, but Mama’s horses . . .”He rolled his eyes.

  “That bad are they?” Caro was barely able to conceal her grin.

  “Couple of bone-setters—showy, though,” Ceddie acknowledged.

  “Well, in that case, I suggest we not only visit my horses, but that we try them out and see if they meet with your approval.”

  The boys’ eyes shone. “Thank you ever so much. Cousin Caro. It’s most kind of you.” Clarence smiled at her shyly. “Mama never lets us come with her when she goes out in her carriage.”

  He sounded so wistful that Caro felt an urge to march upstairs, grasp her cousin’s beautiful shoulders, and give her a good shake. But she suppressed it, contenting herself with, “What a pity. If only you could ride with me so you could get some exercise as well as some fresh air. But I had to send Tim back to Waverly for Xerxes.” The instant she uttered these words, Caro was sorry, remembering Cedric’s reference to Lavinia’s strictures concerning ponies. Hastily covering up this faux pas, she continued, “Come along then. I must fetch my bonnet and send word to have the carriage brought ‘round. I am sure the marquess will excuse us.”

  And with that, she quitted the room with such dispatch that she left Nicholas wondering if there was something wrong with him that she always dismissed him so precipitately or if it was just her manner with everyone. Whatever it was, he admitted reluctantly that he found it just the tiniest bit disconcerting.