“I believe so. You will have the bills sent to me, of course.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind. My house, isn’t it? My ball? My idea? Very well then.”
He did not argue the point further, but Marianne noted, with amusement, a tiny glint of determination in his eye. It would be interesting to see who won. But she had her own protest to make. “I cannot let you do it,” she said. “And, besides, I have no clothes ...”
“Just what I said. We are going to be busy, you and I. Are you up on the latest fashions, John?”
He laughed. “I’m afraid not.”
“Wretched boy. Well, do you know if Madame Breguet is still making?”
“Yes. I heard two ladies complaining most bitterly of her bills only the other day.”
“Good. Send a message to her for me, John. I will see her, here, at five o’clock. And now, to bed with you; you’re out on your feet. And, to tell truth, we’re not much better. Do you think the admirable Melton will have our rooms ready yet?”
“I’m sure of it.”
Marianne was still trying to protest as the housekeeper led them upstairs, but the Duchess made short work of her. “Haven’t paid you any wages, have I, all the time you’ve been with me? Doing the work of an entire staff, too. What do you pay your servants, John? All of them? No, no, never mind, no need to work it out. Marianne takes my point. She’s not stupid. Besides”—a brown hand rested, for a moment, lightly on Marianne’s—“I shall enjoy it. Never had daughters ... never had children, come to that. It’s a lot to miss. Let me dress you, my dear.”
This was unanswerable, but Marianne addressed a last protest to the Duke. “But the ball ... Sir, you cannot wish to be involved in such a proceeding. As your aunt says, I may be anything...”
He smiled down at her very kindly. “Why, so you may, and you surely cannot be so brutal as to deprive me of the pleasure of finding the answer to your mystery. I am sure my aunt is right; this is the way to do it. Besides, you know as well as I do that she always gets what she wants. My only stipulation is that you save me the first dance at your ball.”
It was too much. Marianne fought down tears and retired hastily into the bedroom that had been allotted to her, only to be overwhelmed all over again by its luxury. Strange to think of the Duchess leaving all this for the cottage in the valley. Or—not so strange. Velvet curtains, linen sheets, down pillows—she settled luxuriously on the bed—what was the use of them after all? The Duchess was kind; her nephew was wonderfully so, but what good was that? Mauleverer would be asked to the ball, no doubt—and dance all evening with Lady Heverdon. Luckily for her, she was too exhausted to be kept awake, even by tears.
The session with Madame Breguet was exhausting too, and dazzling. The voluble little Frenchwoman began by welcoming the Duchess back to London, almost with tears in her eyes. “The belle of her day,” she explained to Marianne in her strongly accented English: “Ah, the costumes we have designed together, Her Grace and I. And now, we begin again, is it not?” The black eyes flashed knowingly. “A ball dress for a jeune fille who makes her first appearance? Silver tissue over white satin, sans doute? Caught up, here and there, with pure white roses. Or will there be jewels, perhaps?” The black eyes were asking the Duchess a question.
“No, no”—she sounded amused—“no jewels, Madame Breguet. Just a young girl at her first ball. How I detest these puffed sleeves, but they will suit you, Marianne. And a white rose for the headdress, too. Is it Isidore, these days, Madame Breguet, or Nardin?”
“You have not lost touch, I see, Your Grace! Either is excellent. Myself, I prefer the effects M. Isidore achieves; specially for a very young lady like Miss here.”
Very well, Isidore it shall be. Remind me, Marianne, to make the arrangements. And as for me, I shall be the complete dowager in black velvet—and diamonds.”
The two weeks that followed were strange ones for Marianne. At Lundy House, preparations for the ball went apace, and the Duchess entertained herself and her visitor with the daily roll call of acceptances. “Of course, it’s curiosity in the main,” she explained. “They’ve all heard about me; I expect they want to see if I wear Hessian boots to dance in. Not that I shall dance, of course. I shall leave that department to you, my dear. Which reminds me: Can you dance?”
Marianne laughed. “I think so.”
“I hope so.” And she took advantage of the Duke’s early return, that night, from the House of Lords, to make him lead Marianne through the steps of a few of the most popular dances. “Yes”—she nodded approval at last—“you can dance. But you do not remember London?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“It’s very strange. I cannot understand how a well-brought-up girl like you should have missed coming here. But you don’t know the people either.” She had tried firing off the names of her prospective guests suddenly at Marianne, in the hope of getting a reaction, but without the slightest success. Some names of course, Marianne knew. She was frightened to think that the Duke of Wellington was coming—“No need to put yourself in a pucker about him, my dear; he’s an old friend of mine. But you don’t remember Melbourne, or D’Orsay, or Alvanley?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“It’s very strange. But depend upon it, someone will remember you. In the meantime, we’ll go nowhere. I wish you to come as a complete surprise.”
“But, poor Miss Lamb,” intervened the Duke. “You cannot, surely, intend to keep her locked up in the house here for two weeks?”
“Oh, no. I’ve no objection to her going out, so long as she does not go into society. It’s hardly the weather for riding in the Park, though. I do not see why Miss Lamb should want to go out.”
“No reason to go out? With all of London to be explored? You do Miss Lamb less than justice, aunt. Now, I was considering inviting her to come and see the new printing presses Mr. Barnes has put in at the Times newspaper with me. And then there’s the Mint, and the Tower of London and the new London Bridge and all kinds of things that I am sure she would like to see. I do not suggest the Houses of Parliament, though I suspect it is what she would like best, because there, unlike the other places I have named, we might perhaps meet someone in society.”
The Duchess laughed. “You might indeed. But, for the rest of it, if it will amuse you, my dear, I have no objection. And if you should meet anyone, John, you must just suffer from a temporary lapse of good manners and fail to introduce Marianne. Pretend you have forgotten her name—anything.”
He laughed. “I could hardly forget what I have never known. Very well then, we start tomorrow, Miss Lamb. What shall it be? The Times or the Tower?”
“But, surely, you have so much to do—”
“Nonsense.” She had already learned that he could be quite as dictatorial as his aunt. “I have nothing to do that I shall enjoy half as much as this. And, besides, who could wish to stay in this house, in the state of chaos to which you ladies have reduced it.”
The Duchess rapped his knuckles sharply with her paper knife: “You are an ill-conditioned, ill-mannered boy, John. When did you hear of a ball being given without a little preliminary chaos? You should be grateful that we do not leave the organizing of it to you.”
“I am, aunt, believe me, I am. I’d rather organize a General Election than a ball.”
“And so you may be doing any day soon, by the sound of things. Thank goodness, Parliament will be in recess by the night of the ball—and I hope without rioting this time. I find the town quieter than I expected.”
“It’s the news of the cholera, I think. It’s not good, you know. And, that reminds me, I do not wish to interfere in your arrangements, aunt, but I do suggest that you do not serve either fruit or water ices.”
As bad as that, is it?” she looked at him sharply. “Very well. It will be a saving, at all events.”
“A drop of frugality in your ocean of extravagance?”
She threw her snuff box at him. “And to think I told Maria
nne here that you were a mild and biddable man. Why didn’t I know how you’d come on? I should have been back here long since.”
He had caught the box neatly and now opened it and took a pinch, saying reprovingly: “A deplorably outmoded habit, my dear aunt. I am glad you thought me mild and biddable—once.”
He was still the easiest and most courteous of cavaliers, and Marianne was amazed at how much she enjoyed her series of sight-seeing excursions with him. Indeed, it seemed almost ungrateful that all the time her eyes were at a stretch, willfully turning one stranger after another into the familiar figure of Mauleverer. If only they could have gone to the House of Lords; but she had to admit the sense of the Duchess’s prohibition. The old lady had also dealt ruthlessly with Marianne’s timid suggestion that she would like to call on Mrs. Mauleverer. “No, no. You are not here. Practically speaking, you do not exist until the day of the ball. I’ll not have you spoiling everything with your sentimental pilgrimages. Mrs. Mauleverer and her son have accepted my invitation—and so, by the by, has Lady Heverdon. You must just wait till then to see them. After all, you are not too desperately bored in the meanwhile, are you?”
“Far from it. The Duke has been wonderfully kind.”
“He is kind. I told you that, long since. Afraid you’re taking advantage of him, eh? I wouldn’t worry, if I were you. Not many girls would, anyway, but I like it in you. Pining all the time after that bad-tempered Whig of yours, aren’t you? Never mind; won’t hurt John if he does break his heart a little; good practice, if you ask me. Get over it, find another girl; you wait and see. And in the meantime, just don’t worry: it’s a bad habit.”
Marianne laughed. “Of course you are right, as always, ma’am, but I wish it were as easily done, as said.”
“And you’re thinking I’m a fine one to talk of getting over broken hearts, aren’t you? But, remember, I was married to my James. Quite another matter. Besides, you might change your mind yourself. I’m sure John would think the chance worth taking; if he thought about it at all, which I’m sure he doesn’t. No need to frown like that; you may surprise yourself yet. Look at the way he’s carrying on with Lady Heverdon.”
All too clearly this last “he” referred to Mauleverer, or rather to the new Lord Heverdon. Unluckily for Marianne’s peace of mind, his behavior in first refusing and then taking his title for political reasons had caught the public’s fancy, and there were almost daily paragraphs about him in the newspapers. The ones reporting his speeches in the Lords gave her much pleasure. He was losing no time in making a name for himself. But the others—and there were many more of them—were a misery. Hardly a day passed without his being reported as appearing at this ball or that rout in attendance on “his cousin, the beautiful Lady Heverdon.” To add piquancy to the situation—for the gossip columnists—all the world, apparently, knew that Lady Heverdon had another devoted slave in her cousin, Ralph Urban, and the chances of the two suitors were discussed in terms reminiscent of the race track or the stables.
These mentions of Ralph Urban gave Marianne some hope, for she remembered the affectionate terms in which Lady Heverdon had spoken of him long ago at Maulever Hall. But a Visit to Covent Garden plunged her once more into despair. She had persuaded the Duchess to let her and the Duke make a surreptitious visit to the pit, where no one was likely to know them, in order to see Fra Diavolo, but her evening was ruined by the spectacle of Lady Heverdon flirting outrageously with Mauleverer in a stage box. And—he showed every sign of enjoying the languishing glances so lavishly bestowed upon him by those huge blue eyes. To see him for the first time, after all this misery, and to see him thus! It was almost more than Marianne could bear. She pleaded headache and they went home before the end of the performance.
But at least the day of the ball was almost upon them, and though she could not quite share the Duchess’s conviction that someone would recognize her and solve all her problems for her, at least she could look forward to seeing Mauleverer—Heverdon, she must remember to call him. Neither he nor Lady Heverdon had seen her at Covent Garden, having been far too much absorbed in each other to spare so much as a glance for the pit, and since her name was not mentioned in the invitations, their surprise at her unexpected appearance should be complete. Sometimes, she managed to get pleasure out of the prospect of her butterfly transformation, but mostly it was anxiety and fear that haunted her. When she tried on her ravishing dress of white and silver it was possible, faced with her reflection in the glass, to imagine some Cinderella happy ending, but at night the terror was back, and time after time she woke sweating from dreams of pursuit, to which, now, was added the new terror of fire. Or—oddly—was it the oldest of all? Sometimes, in her dreams, she was convinced, with dream logic, that this threat of fire, in which she could not get out of her room to wake the others, was merely the repetition of an earlier terror.
It was all nonsense, of course, but she came down to breakfast tired and heavy eyed, and for the last few days before the ball the Duchess vetoed any more sight-seeing excursions, insisting instead that the Duke take her for early morning walks in Hyde Park. Warmly wrapped in the Duchess’s sables, she felt her spirits rise at the brisk exercise in clear December air. Suiting his stride to hers, the Duke walked beside her in companionable silence and she let herself think what good company he was. If only ...
Meanwhile Lord John Russell had introduced a revised version of the Reform Bill in the House of Commons and it had been triumphantly carried by a two-to-one majority very early on a Sunday morning in mid-December. “Thank goodness for that,” said the Duchess. “Now they are in recess at last we can be sure of our guests.” Even the Duke, deploring it, considered the Bill as good as carried, and his aunt teased him unmercifully about the failure of his Tory party to hold back the tide of progress. She liked to quote Sydney Smith’s Taunton speech about Dame Partington and her broom at him, and Marianne was constantly amazed at how sweetly he bore it. Imagine teasing Mauleverer when the world was going against him.
“Anyway,” said the Duchess, “town should be quiet for a while and we need not fear that our guests will be pelted with mud, or paving stones, when they arrive tomorrow. What shall we worry about instead? The hothouse flowers being killed by frost? The musicians getting drunk? Or a case of cholera among the guests?”
Marianne shuddered. “Do not joke about it, ma’am, I beg you.”
“Or if you insist upon worrying,” suggested the Duke, “why not choose some really probable subject, as for instance my going mad in white linen at the confusion of the house. When I met my steward in the study this morning, we found ourselves forced to confer between a potted palm tree and a half-erected bandstand. I go in hourly terror of finding that my bedroom has been converted into a retiring room for the ladies.”
“An excellent idea,” said his aunt. “Why did we not think of that, Marianne?”
In fact, she was an admirable organizer, and the evening of the ball arrived without any worse disaster than the discovery that the moth had got into the red carpeting for the front entry. And that, as the Duchess lost no time in pointing out, merely proved that her nephew had been grossly remiss in the discharge of his social duties. “As if it needed proving. I am convinced our enormous number of acceptances are as much out of curiosity about you as about me, John. I am sure a misanthropic Duke is quite as much of a phenomenon as a mere Mad Duchess. It is going to be a terrible crush I am afraid.”
“Yes, I am certainly misanthrope enough to wish it were well over. We shall be lucky if we do not have several faints and a case or two of the vapors. Which do you propose to indulge in, Miss Lamb?”
“I shall wait and see,” said Marianne.
XIV
The Duchess refused to let Marianne take any part in the final preparations for the ball, but sent her firmly to bed for the afternoon: “I want you in looks tonight. You are not to get up until Isidore arrives to do your hair. Here; this just arrived.” She handed Marianne the latest volume
of Sir Walter Scott’s Tales of My Landlord. “That should keep you quiet.”
The whole house smelled of hothouse flowers and echoed with the manifold noises of last-minute preparations. Someone was hammering in the room below Marianne’s; farther away, a violinist was trying out a few bars of his music; the caterer’s men were bringing chairs and tables for the supper, and, apparently, dropping most of them. And, above, in the servants’ quarters, there was a constant scurrying of feet as they, too, made their last-minute preparations. The very idea of sleep was an absurdity; Marianne lay down on her bed and opened her book.
She was waked by Fanny, the maid the Duchess had insisted on engaging for her. It was dark already, and the girl’s candle made flickering shadows on the ceiling.
“Good gracious, Fanny. Is it very late?”
“No, no. Just time to eat this.” Fanny put down the tray she was carrying, removed the candle to a place of safety, and crossed the room to draw the heavy blue-velvet curtains. “It’s a fine bright night,” she said. “There won’t half be a squeeze. Everyone’ll come, I should think. You should hear the questions they ask one about Her Grace—and about
you, too, miss. Ain’t you excited?”
“Yes, I rather think I am.” She made herself eat some of the cake and milk the Duchess had ordered for her. “Is Isidore here yet?”
“Yes, he’s with Her Grace.” Fanny took the silver-and-white ball dress out of the closet and shook out its folds before laying it lovingly along the full length of a small sofa, where it looked, Marianne thought, almost complete in itself. “Isidore will want to see it,” the girl explained. “We’d best be getting you into your underdress now, miss, if you’re ready.”
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