The evening was a success. Lady Cammerby’s acquaintance including numerous fashionable members of the ton, young and old, her drawing rooms were soon filled with splendid company, including several handsome and eligible gentlemen who had come—or so her hostess congratulated herself—prepared to admire Miss Breckinridge. Lenora had the felicity to sit out only one dance, and that with a gentleman who had begged her hand for the dance and then genially complied with her entreaty to instead provide her refreshment and a breath of air. Her mother watched with complaisance as Lenora bloomed under the attention of so many amiable gentlemen of address, and she was grateful to observe that the damsel never seemed anxious to consider if her actions were worthy of a romantic heroine.
Mrs. Breckinridge, finding among the company many old friends, was herself honored by multiple requests to dance, the most surprising of which was from Sir Joshua Stiles. He had claimed Lenora’s hand for the cotillion, and Mrs. Breckinridge had watched their very graceful progress with pride. But when he had relinquished his fair partner at the end of the set, to her astonishment, he had come to stand by her, and had engaged her in conversation.
“I must own to disappointment, Mrs. Breckinridge,” he said.
Having fulfilled her promise to him faithfully, as she had supposed, she answered in no little surprise, “I can only say I am sorry, sir, though I hardly know why.”
“You will pardon my not reposing any faith in your ability to meet me without emergency, ma’am. I steeled myself for an eventful evening.” He flourished a hand to indicate the relatively peaceful state of the room. “I feel a trifle let down.”
Her mouth twitched treacherously, but she said with admirable gravity, “Please accept my apologies, sir, for keeping my word so unexpectedly. I trust you have learned your lesson?”
“Only that I am glad you did not lay me odds.”
Collecting that Lady Cammerby had grossly misjudged her brother, Mrs. Breckinridge barely managed to control herself enough to say, “Just so, sir.”
After receiving a negative to his offer to procure her some refreshment, Sir Joshua said, “I trust your first month in London has been satisfactory, ma’am?”
“Satisfactory is too tame a word, sir. I would say, rather, intoxicating.” He looked askance at her but she went on, unabashed. “Your sister is a most generous and energetic hostess, and we have enjoyed ourselves far beyond what we deserve, to be sure. Indeed, while I am most grateful to Amelia for her hospitality, I cannot help feeling the concern that Lenora will go into a decline in the quiet of the country after all this dissipation.”
“You must not despair if she does, ma’am. It is not uncommon for young girls to be overcome by the pleasures of London.”
A faint flush came into her cheeks. “That I know too well, sir. But you may rest assured that I shall do all in my power to forestall her.”
“I have learned to have faith in your powers, ma’am.”
She acknowledged this tribute with equanimity, and they were silent for some time, watching the dance. Mrs. Breckinridge expected him to draw politely away at any time, but he suddenly said, “Your daughter dances delightfully, Mrs. Breckinridge. You must be very proud.”
“Thank you, sir, but I must own I have never seen her dance so well before tonight. She had not the benefit of masters, you see, and her brother has not much patience for teaching.” She smiled archly up at him. “I was her partner more often than not.”
He looked down at her with raised brows. “But you said she had not the benefit of a master. You surely must be a master to know both the men’s and the women’s steps.”
“What a pretty compliment, sir,” she said, warily gratified. “I hope you do not find it a waste, for you cannot be sure that I know the women’s steps. Perhaps I know only the men’s after all.”
He looked away to survey the room. “Some men would take that as a rather clumsy attempt to extort an invitation to dance.”
She was taken aback, and was deciding whether to give him a set-down or to retort in humor, when he looked back down at her and continued, “But I hope I know you better than that, ma’am. I have been watching you very gracefully execute the women’s steps all evening, and long since resolved to try if I may enjoy the benefits of your skill myself.” He held out his hand and bowed. “May I have the honor, ma’am?”
It was Mrs. Breckinridge’s turn to raise her brows, for she felt as much surprise as pleasure at this speech, and she took his hand, letting him lead her into the new set that was forming. He was a fine dancer, as she had earlier observed, and seemed truly to enjoy the dance as he had intended, so much so that his lips turned up in a smile once or twice.
It was not surprising, from the success of the ball, that the ladies in Hill Street enjoyed a flood of invitations and visits from that date on. No morning passed without the introduction of another young lady or gentleman into one or another of Lady Cammerby’s saloons, and very few afternoons were spent idly, unless through design. One unexpected visitor was the Honorable Mr. Gregory Ginsham, whose full title burst upon the ladies with quite startling effect, rendering at least Lenora speechless. As his card was brought in while they were entertaining Miss Chuddsley, that damsel was obliged to bite her tongue on her curiosity, for no sooner had they exclaimed over him than he entered the saloon.
“Good day to you, Mrs. Breckinridge, Miss Breckinridge. I hope you will forgive the tardiness of my visit, for I was detained on business on my father’s estate.” Sweeping off his hat, he bowed gracefully over their hands, and then turned to allow Mrs. Breckinridge to present him to Lady Cammerby.
“You are the kind gentleman who attended my friends when the post-chaise wheel shattered!” she cried, smiling graciously while taking in his coat of blue superfine and pale-yellow pantaloons.
“Ah, yes, it is on the strength of such a long acquaintance that I impose upon you today, your ladyship.”
He turned to greet the fourth lady in the room and was arrested by his first full vision of the blue-eyed, golden-haired Miss Elvira Chuddsley. Lady Cammerby performed the introduction and Elvira, a naturally modest girl, held out her hand to him in artless unconcern for the spell under which he seemed to have fallen.
“How do you do, Mr. Ginsham?”
Bid by her voice, Mr. Ginsham flowed into movement again, bowing over her fingers and returning her greeting as if he had never frozen at all. He disposed himself in a chair nearest Lenora, but with an exceptional view of Elvira, and smoothly initiated a lively discussion of the merits of the Metropolis as opposed to the virtues of the country, only the younger ladies unaware of the adroitness with which he drew certain personal details from them. His half-hour went comfortably by, and put him happily in possession of several facts which he no doubt intended to put to good use in the near future, and when he had gone, both Lady Cammerby and Mrs. Breckinridge thought they knew in which quarter the wind lay, though Lenora merely pronounced him a most amiable man, and Elvira that he was excessively conversable.
Satisfied of Lenora’s social success, Mrs. Breckinridge abandoned herself to the enjoyment of London society, the pleasures of which she had been denied these many years. As Lenora enlarged her acquaintance, her mother renewed her own, sped on by the services of Lady Cammerby who, thrilled by the triumph of launching a hitherto unknown into the ton, kept up her momentum by hosting as many card parties and soirees as her schedule would allow.
It was at one of these that Mrs. Breckinridge was reacquainted with Caroline Tenningbury, a rival from bygone days, who had become Lady Wraglain, but who now seemed less than inclined to air past offenses, and rather more likely to become a bosom friend. This somewhat surprised Genevieve, who had been persuaded that the former Miss Tenningbury, who at two years her senior had openly rankled at Genevieve’s success, would rejoice in whatever misfortunes had afflicted her erstwhile competitor; however, it was borne in quickly upon her that just as
the vicissitudes of life had altered her, so had they altered Caroline, and each found herself more and more satisfied with the other.
Sipping tea together while some dozen other guests played at cards, their reacquaintance began cautiously enough, with the usual polite inquiries into the separate events of the last twenty years of their lives. But when Lady Wraglain offered her sympathy regarding the loss of her husband, Genevieve responded with perfect unconcern, “You are very kind, but I assure you, I do not consider Bertram’s passing a loss.”
There was a stir at a nearby card table, and Genevieve glanced that way to see Sir Joshua frowning over his cards. She had the distinct impression that he was frowning at her, and she could not refrain from adding to Lady Wraglain, “You may think me monstrous, but I gained more that day than on any day of our marriage.”
Her ladyship took a meditative sip of tea. “We all of us would have given our eyes to be in your place, once.” Setting her cup back on its saucer, she shrugged gently. “I suppose we all make mistakes.”
To be met with so much compassion from a woman she had expected to cordially dislike affected Genevieve with enough gratitude as to determine her upon fixing Lady Wraglain’s friendship. She accordingly confided various details of her struggles since her husband’s death, and was rewarded with complete understanding.
“I am glad he left you with at least the house and the land, my dear,” commented Lady Wraglain, “Poor Valeria Pynnstone, who married that no-account Langford, you know, was still in mourning when the bank took possession of Langford House.”
“Yes, Bertram very thoughtfully neglected to sell off the cottage as well, though I cannot say he should not have recollected himself had he lived a month or two longer. Letting the house and land has brought us enough income to pay off the mortgages, and perhaps we may actually live in our proper home again soon.”
“Which is more than Lady Langford can boast. She’s now the drudge of her odious sister Lucretia.”
“Poor Valeria,” Genevieve sighed, in true sympathy. Aware of someone’s eyes upon her, she turned and caught Sir Joshua just looking away. It occurred to her that if he listened, it was to find fault, and she pointedly turned away from him, unapologetically continuing her conversation. “At least she esteemed her husband, which must have sustained her during her embarrassments.”
Lady Wraglain looked askance at her friend. “If Lord Langford had respected Valeria even half so much as she esteemed him, he would have left her provided for, rather than lining his worthless friend’s pockets with the proceeds of his mortgages.”
Genevieve smiled wryly. “One does not often respect another when one does not respect oneself, Caroline. I have often thought that if men made friends of their wives more than they did of other gentlemen, they might get on better with themselves.”
“Ay, and the world would be a better place. Indeed, if females had charge of society, I daresay all problems would be at an end, would they not?” She sipped the last of her tea and set down her cup. “How did Bertram die, Genevieve? One hears rumors, of course, but one can rarely place one’s dependence upon their veracity.”
Feeling Sir Joshua’s eyes upon her once more, Genevieve airily answered, “It was the hunt, Caroline. He took a toss into a gravel pit and broke his neck. He was killed instantly, which was distressing, to be sure, but imagine my relief when we found his hunter entirely uninjured; I sold the horse for enough to purchase another month’s solace from the cents percent!”
Lady Wraglain, by this time, had observed Sir Joshua’s interest in their conversation, and lifted her nose in his direction. “That gentleman seems disturbed by what he overhears.”
“I have been given to understand that that gentleman does not approve the tone of my mind,” replied Genevieve sapiently.
Her friend huffed, remarking loudly, “Anyone who cannot take truth with the bark on it is unwise to listen in on what don’t concern them.”
Genevieve nearly choked on her tea, but with great presence of mind, she safely deposited the cup and saucer on a side table without upsetting its remaining contents while she succumbed to an attack of coughing. After some judicious slaps to her back, obligingly administered by Lady Wraglain, she recovered sufficiently to beam upon a rapt audience consisting of all persons in the room.
“All is well, I assure you!” she said with ragged throat and streaming eyes. “Beg pardon for the disturbance; pay me no mind, pray!” The room resumed its low hum and, her shoulders shaking gently, Genevieve turned once again to her companion. “Caroline, how glad I am to have met with you again. You will think me selfish, but I wouldn’t give you up for the world!”
There was another old acquaintance, however, that Genevieve did not value, and he most painfully obtruded himself upon her notice at a rout party held some days later in the home of a new acquaintance. The room being hot, Genevieve had drawn herself apart into a small alcove with an open window, and stood there, breathing in the cool night air and fanning herself. All at once, the fan was plucked from her grasp and employed by an unknown hand, and a lazy voice drawled in her ear, “My dear Mrs. B, you haven’t aged a moment from when last I saw you.”
She turned quickly, dreading that the person who addressed her so familiarly was who she thought, and found herself uncomfortably close to a finely-dressed gentleman of medium height, whose handsome face showed all the signs of a life of dissipation, paid for, Genevieve knew all too well, by her husband’s addiction to gaming. She stiffened, and her disdain could not be hidden. “Lord Montrose.”
She put up a hand for her fan, but he held it out of reach. “What luck to finally meet!” he said, pressing closer to her. “I’ve long suspected you to be in town, but with no sure knowledge of your whereabouts, I have despaired of renewing our acquaintance, never having found myself in the same room with you these many weeks. And yet here we are.” His eyes flitted down and up her person, and his lips curled in a smile she could not like. “Yes, you are looking well, Mrs. B.”
Momentarily paralyzed by revulsion and fear, she could only gaze speechlessly at him, memories of his inhuman unconcern for her family pulsing through her brain. How dared he approach her, much less speak to her, after his merciless actions during the years after Bertram’s death? Anger at last freed her from stupor and, stepping quickly to the side, she retrieved her fan and, under the pretext of placing it back in her reticule, found time to recover herself, and she was soon able to smile upon her unwelcome companion.
“The years, I am grateful to say, have been kind to me, since last we met. But you, my lord! Forgive my inability to return the compliment, for you are so altered that I confess at first I did not know you.”
Instead of offense, appreciation flashed in his eye, and he possessed himself of her hand. “You always did have such engaging manners, Mrs. B. But you must allow me to call you Genevieve.”
He bent to drop a kiss on her fingers but she snatched her hand away, her smile unabated. “I must do no such thing, my lord.”
He stepped back, affecting a wounded look. “Surely, with all our history, we must not stand upon ceremony, you and I.”
Glad of the space, Mrs. Breckinridge took the opportunity to slip around him as she said, “On the contrary, my lord, our history requires that we stand very much upon ceremony. You will excuse me.” With that, she slipped from the alcove, back into the safety of the crowded and stuffy room, and presently found an excuse to leave the party.
But many days passed before she could rid herself of the perturbation of their exchange, for she met him again, and again. Lord Montrose seemed after that to be everywhere, at this card party or that museum, with a box at the theater just opposite Lady Cammerby’s, or astride a showy chestnut in Hyde Park—despite Genevieve’s forsaking the fashionable hour of the Promenade and driving there at very different times. He did not attempt such cavalier treatment as previously, however. Now, he
was unfailingly polite when he met her, but insistent upon a greeting, no matter how she slighted him. And though she took care not to seem to regard it, their meetings invariably left her shaken, for she did not know what he meant by it.
Not once did she deceive herself that Carlisle Dupray, Lord Montrose, had any honorable interest in her. He had never cared two straws about her before, whenever he had come to entice her husband away “for a game or two, among friends,” which never ended before many hours and several hundred pounds had been lost. Even at Bertram’s death, he had shown no consideration, only coming to Branwell to retrieve a pistol which he had lent some months previously, and expressing brief and trite condolence while in the act of presenting her with a stack of Bertram’s vowels. These she had paid as quickly as possible, though it had taken many months to scrape up the money, only to get the vile reminders of him out of her sight. And she had never heard of him since.
Genevieve could not think why he would be courting her acquaintance now, when she had nothing of value to tempt him. Her fortune he had stolen, through Bertram, years ago, and her society she owed entirely to Lady Cammerby, so he could not hope to further himself in any way by her association. This sudden, public claim to her acquaintance worried the widow exceedingly, for he must have some end in view, and all her experience of Lord Montrose had taught her it would be only to his benefit, and to her detriment. But she could not find out what he wanted, and though she affected to not regard it, a shadowy, insubstantial foreboding haunted her.
Two consolations only did Genevieve find in spite of his unwelcome attention: that he had not been introduced to Lenora—and likely didn’t even know of her existence—and that he was never to be found in Hill Street.
“I quite detest the man,” cried Lady Cammerby, after she and her guest had met him in Hyde Park. Common civility had obliged them to pull up and exchange greetings, but the gentleman received no encouragement from either of the ladies in the barouche, and both parties directly moved on. “Such vulgar manners, to press his acquaintance upon you, Genevieve, when all the world knows he almost single-handedly ruined Bertram. I know not how you bear it, my love.”
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