by M. C. Beaton
To Mary’s inexperienced eyes, he looked a very grand young man indeed. His cravat was like a foot high snow drift, and his coat of Bath superfine had the highest, most buckram-wadded shoulders she had ever seen and was nipped in at the waist and very full about the skirt.
His waistcoat was embroidered with a whole covey of scarlet and gold pheasants and his very thin, very long legs were encased in lavender pantaloons ornamented down the sides with a multitude of vertical black silk stripes. His pale blue eyes held a calm contented look of absolute stupidity, and his sparse light brown hair was pomaded and curled and waved into an elaborate style. He had an eyeglass wedged in one eye so tightly that Mary could not help wondering if he ever managed to get it out. Mr. Trimmer had compressed his mouth into a tiny fashionable “O,” from which emerged a thin, ultra-refined fluting voice. He looked as if his governess had made him practice saying his prunes and prisms for years.
Mary was very impressed.
He made her a very low bow, pointing his left foot with all the elegance of a ballet master. “Charmed, Lady Challenge. Utterly charmed,” he said.
He sat down beside Mary on one of the new backless sofas, arranging his coat skirts very carefully. “And now, Lady Challenge,” he began, “you must tell me how you go on. Look here, interested in fine women, don’t you see. Ecod!”
Having made this speech, he relapsed into silence.
Biggs and two of the footmen entered, bearing trays of cakes and wine. Mrs. Witherspoon stared at the servants avidly as they thrust the trays in front of her with military precision. Then having seen that Mrs. Witherspoon and the other guests were served, they wheeled about, formed a line and filed out before Biggs, who stood grimly at the door as if taking a march past.
“Shoulders back! Heads up, men!” rapped Biggs, swinging into line behind the last of them.
“Well, I never did!” crowed Mrs. Witherspoon in amazement. “What odd servants!”
“They are all ex-soldiers,” said Mary gently.
“Oooh! You must be careful, my dear,” cried Mrs. Witherspoon. “These men come from the gutter. Very useful when there’s a war on but after all…”
“After all, I do not know what I would have done without them,” said Mary firmly. “I have never known such a loyal hard-working bunch of men before.”
Mary listened in surprise to the sound of her own voice. She had never taken a social stand on anything before. But she had just done it and, although Mrs. Witherspoon’s habitual leer seemed a trifle fixed, the heavens hadn’t fallen in. Suddenly Mary found that her new gown did not feel in the least strange, and she caught a glimpse of herself in a looking glass on the opposite wall and saw to her surprise that she actually looked quite fashionable. She realized that she had not answered Mr. Trimmer’s question.
“I have not been anywhere,” she confessed. “I have been putting things in order here and I had to arrange a new wardrobe since my old one was sadly unfashionable.”
“I think you are very fashionable,” said Mr. Trimmer. “I am accounted an expert in such matters, Lady Challenge. Permit me to be your escort and guide in society.”
Mary blinked and then recovered her composure. She had been about to point out that she was married but surely, this very fashionable young man was just the sort of person she needed to show her husband that she could attract a splendid member of the beau monde.
She smiled and thanked him, and then caught a little triumphant look that flashed between Mr. and Mrs. Witherspoon and wondered why.
She did not know that the acute social climbing Witherspoons had quickly divined Mr. Trimmer’s problem. He wished a young lady to squire around to save himself from the unfashionable stigma of effeminacy. Unfortunately, he had very little fortune, although he was related to a duke, and fashionable young ladies were apt to dislike his posturing. The Witherspoons had promised to find him just the young lady to suit his needs and of course, should his noble relative, the duke, ever consider inviting them to a little soiree or something of that nature, they would be grateful to accept an invitation. They decided to strike while the iron was hot.
“We are making up a little party tonight,” said Mr. Witherspoon. “A little evening at the opera and supper afterwards. Mrs. Godwin is our guest. Her husband is still in foreign parts.”
“Yes, indeed,” burst in his wife. “Poor little Mrs. Godwin. She does hang around us so. Of course, we did say to her not to feel under any obligation to us, although we did arrange for her to leave Brussels but, I declare, she loves us for ourselves alone.”
“Ecod! I say, who wouldn’t?” put in Mr. Trimmer gallantly.
Mary thought quickly. She did not want to go with the Witherspoons nor did she want to see Lucy again. But she did so long for a little gaiety. The monster she had created out of her husband lurked always in the back of her mind. Why should she pine alone, while he frolicked with the mademoiselles in Paris and did not even find time to write?
She accordingly said she would be delighted. Mr. Trimmer indicated to the less fashionable Witherspoons that ten minutes had passed since they had arrived and that to stay longer would, of course, be monstrous vulgar. He took his leave with many elaborate bows and great wavings of a scented handkerchief.
After they had all left, Mary ran lightly to her bedchamber to begin preparations for her social debut. She finally decided on a pale green lingerie gown cut fashionably low on the bosom, with an over-tunic of tobacco brown velvet trimmed with gold bugle beads. The hairdresser was summoned to brush her short curls into the style known as à la Titus. She debated whether to carry a lace muff, and decided against it, substituting a handsome painted fan with mother of pearl sticks. The hairdresser finished his art by placing a little coronet of gold silk roses on top of her shining curls. With great daring, she applied a little rouge to each of her pale cheeks.
When she descended the stairs that evening to where the Witherspoons and Mr. Trimmer were waiting, her heart misgave her. Her ensemble, which had seemed so elegant in the privacy of her bedchamber, now seemed shabby in front of the magnificence of her escort.
Mr. Trimmer was wearing a blue silk evening coat which was padded on the chest as well as the shoulders, and his waist appeared smaller than Mary’s own. His face was highly painted, and his hair gleamed with Rowlandson’s maccassar oil. His silk waistcoat was embroidered with brilliants, his knee breeches were skin tight and his white silk stockings had large clocks on the sides, and his legs appeared to have grown muscular calves, which indeed they had, his valet having arranged a false, wooden calf in each stocking.
His gaze, however, was more vacant than ever, and Mary finally realized that Mr. Trimmer was a trifle disguised, having resorted to the brandy bottle before leaving his apartments and therefore would not have noticed had she descended the stairs in sackcloth.
“Tol rol, Lady Challenge,” said that young gentleman, waggling his fingers at her by way of greeting. “Tol rol.”
Mrs. Witherspoon again crushed Mary to her bosom while her husband leered fondly on. “And if she isn’t my own sweet love,” cooed Mrs. Witherspoon. “I declare you are like a sister to me, so I shall call you Mary and you shall call me Marie. Little Mrs. Godwin is going to join us in our box. Now hant you got any jewels, dear?”
“I did not consider jewelry necessary,” said Mary, feeling that Mrs. Witherspoon’s personal remarks were the outside of enough. “I am sure you have enough for both of us.”
This indeed was true, Mrs. Witherspoon’s massive bosom being laid out with gems like a jeweler’s tray.
Mary felt suddenly depressed. Mr. Trimmer was surely very fine but the vulgar, pushing Witherspoons were a decided disadvantage.
Mr. Trimmer however seemed much struck with Mary, volunteering that he thought her “a deuced fine girl.”
And Mary, who was unused to receiving praise, blossomed under his flowery compliments and soon began to look forward to the evening after all. When she sailed out of the house on Mr.
Trimmer’s arm, her only regret was that her horrible husband could not see her at that very moment.
The short carriage ride through the cobbled streets was exciting, flambeaux blazing outside the mansions, carriage lights winking like fireflies, carriage wheels rumbling like thunder as polite society came awake for the evening.
The Haymarket Theater was ablaze with candles from top to bottom, and myriads of jewels flashed on bosoms and cravats behind the red curtains of the boxes.
Lucy Godwin was already waiting for them, escorted by a very aloof young man who volunteered the information that he was Giles Bartley. Bartley stared at the magnificent Mr. Trimmer through his quizzing glass, remarked loudly and rudely, “By God!” He paid them no further attention, flirting desperately with Lucy instead.
Lucy at last turned her attention to Mary. “Isn’t it fun with our husbands away?” she whispered. “This is our last evening of freedom, though.”
“What?” cried Mary.
“Shhh!” admonished several voices from the neighboring boxes for the opera had begun.
Mary sat in an agony of worry as Catalini’s shrill voice soared from the stage to drown out the chorus and the orchestra. Was he back already? Was that what Lucy had meant? She tried to concentrate her attention on the stage, but the colors swam and blurred before her worried eyes.
Lord Hubert Challenge strode into the hall of his town house and blinked in surprise. The tiled floor gleamed like a looking glass, the walls were painted Nile green, flowers glowed from vases on occasional tables, and a new turkey-red carpet climbed the staircase to the upper floors.
He then focused his gaze on the splendor of his butler, Biggs, who stood preening himself in his new livery.
“Am I in the right house?” asked Lord Hubert wonderingly.
“Indeed that you are,” beamed Biggs. “Missus—I mean, my lady—has put everything in order, including me.”
Biggs turned slowly so that his master could admire the effect.
“Very fine,” commented Lord Hubert dryly. “Where is my lady?”
“Gone to the opera,” said Biggs, running his stubby fingers through his powdered hair and sending a cloud of flour-dandruff onto the claret-colored shoulders of his livery.
“Not alone, I trust.”
Biggs shuffled in his heavy shoes. “Well, no, my lord. There was a kind of tailor’s dummy called Mr. Trimmer…”
“Good God!”
“Zackly. And a couple of mushrooms by the name of Witherspoon.”
“I think I had better change and join my wife, if I can tear her away from that man-milliner,” said Lord Hubert grimly.
He mounted the stairs two at a time and was bathed and barbered by his valet while he stared around at the splendor of his new apartment. His favorite hunting pictures had been cleaned and rehung on tasteful pastel walls. His ancient four-poster bed had been hung with new curtains, and when he sat gingerly down on the edge of it, he discovered it boasted a new feather mattress.
He was pleased with the transformation, but at the same time he felt Mary might at least have waited for his return. He had not thought of her much when he was in Paris. She was a woman, after all, and women were subject to all sorts of fits and tantrums. He had only behaved like a husband, and she had reacted like a typical wife. He had nothing to reproach himself with.
At last, resplendent in dark blue evening coat, exquisite cravat and knee breeches, he set out for the opera to find his wife.
As he was entering the theater, he met a doleful-looking Major Godwin who told him that he too, was in search of his wife.
“We’re a bit late,” said Hubert cheerfully. “We’ll take my box and then catch them when the performance is over.”
When they were ensconced in his box, he pulled aside the red curtains and, raising his quizzing glass, stared across the brightly lit theater. He could not see his wife at all.
“There’s Lucy!” suddenly whispered the Major. Lord Hubert followed his pointing finger and gave a start of surprise. For seated next to Lucy was a vastly attractive young lady who could not possibly be the pale, colorless girl he had married. But it must be! There were the Witherspoons and there, by all heaven, was that court card, Trimmer.
At the same time, Mary looked across the theater and saw him. Her eyes immediately darted away and he realized in some bewilderment that Mary did not want him to know she had recognized him. Then she turned and laughed over her shoulder to Mr. Trimmer—and there was no doubt about it. Mary was flirting! And she wanted him to know it!
He leaned lazily back in his chair, beginning to feel amused. What a naive girl she was, despite her new appearance! Did she honestly think he could be made jealous by a fool like Trimmer? Obviously she did.
Then he noticed Lady Clarissa, with a party in a box near his own. He decided to go and flirt with Clarissa and see how his little wife liked that. He still felt terribly amused by the whole situation. The fact that his flirting with Clarissa would hurt his wife never entered his head. Mary was a woman, after all, and women naturally did not suffer from the same deep and intense feelings as men.
Major Godwin was already rising to join his wife. “Don’t know what Lucy thinks she’s doing with that feller but I’m going to throw him out that box right now.”
“You would fare better if you threw your wife out,” retorted Lord Hubert lazily, but Major Godwin had already gone.
Lord Hubert made his way to Clarissa’s box where he received a very warm welcome indeed. Viscount Perry was not in evidence, and Clarissa quickly vouchsafed the information that her fiancé was abroad “on business.”
Across the theater, Mary tried not to stare. She felt shocked and miserable. She had built up a picture in her mind of her husband as a beetle-browed, sweaty, boorish soldier. She had forgotten he was so handsome, with those black wings of hair falling over his high-nosed, tanned face. She had forgotten he could look so elegant. Suddenly, Mr. Trimmer appeared silly, fussy, stupid and overdressed. When she had flirted with him, she had caught the amused and cynical look her husband had thrown in her direction and had blushed to the soles of her feet. She had hoped to make him jealous by becoming a fashionable young lady. How on earth could he find her fashionable, accompanied as she was by this fop, by two of London’s most vulgar Cits and that silly, fickle beauty Lucy Godwin, who seemed determined to torture her patient husband.
Mary sat miserably deaf to the music, learning one of her first hard lessons—that you cannot choose your friends for any reason other than friendship. Choose them for reflected glory, choose them to help you cut a dash, and in the long run you are left looking very silly—and friendless.
She saw Hubert’s handsome head bent over Clarissa’s beautiful one, and all her misery fled in a burst of rage and her courage came back. How dare he! How dare he, on his first night home, flirt with that… that doxy. How could she be so naive as to have ever believed there was one ounce of good in the beautiful Clarissa? Mary clenched her fan so violently that the sticks snapped.
There was further humiliation in store for her. Her handsome husband was, admittedly, waiting for her in the press in the theater foyer after the show.
Admittedly, he was alone.
But he treated her as if she were some tiresome little cousin up from the country. He bent his head and kissed her hand lightly, wished her the pleasure of her company of friends in a light mocking voice which bordered on insult, and said he was going to Watier’s for a rubber of piquet and would, no doubt, see her later.
There was worse to come. After her husband had melted off into the crowd, Mary heard a loud, carrying female voice declaring with awful clarity, “Did you see the new Lady Challenge? Pretty little thing, ain’t she, but no ton. And such company! Even Brummell couldn’t bring her into fashion now.”
That voice resounded in her ears even as she sat at her dressing table later that evening, after dismissing her maid. She had taken off her cambric wrapper and was sitting gloomily in a near
transparent Indian muslin nightgown. She might have felt less miserable had she known that the famous Beau Brummell, that arbiter of fashion and leader of the beau monde, had also heard the spiteful remark and had not liked it one bit.
There was a faint scratching at the door and she swung round. Her husband strolled into the room.
“God, I’m tired, Mary,” he yawned, beginning to tear off his cravat.
Mary turned back to the looking glass.
“Get out,” she said in an even tone.
The hand tugging at the cravat stopped. Hubert turned and looked at his wife. She certainly had become an amazingly pretty girl, he noticed, with her saucy brown curls peeping out from under a lacy nightcap, and tantalizing glimpses of her white body showing through the thin stuff of her nightgown.
“I know what it is,” he said with an indulgent laugh. “You haven’t forgiven me for that scene in Brussels. Well, I apologize. I kneel before you. I kiss your feet.” He suited the action to the words.
Mary jerked her feet under her chair and glared at him like an infuriated kitten. “I don’t like you, Hubert,” she explained in a maddening voice of weary patience. “Do get up and stop making a cake of yourself.”
Hubert rose, hanging onto his fast mounting temper. He tried to kiss her cheek, but she ducked her head and his kiss landed on the top of her cap.
“Look, Mary,” said Hubert, standing back apace. “I know you were trying to make me jealous this evening. But you must do far better than that idiot Trimmer.”
“I was NOT trying to make you jealous. ’Tis only your overweening conceit that makes you think so, sir.”
“By God,” he said. “I’ve a good mind to teach you a lesson.”
“Don’t you dare touch me,” cried Mary, leaping to her feet and backing to the other side of the room. She suddenly became aware that she was dressed only in the transparent nightgown, and a furious blush seemed to cover her whole body. “You have my money,” she shouted, goaded beyond reason by rage and embarrassment. “Must you rape me as well?”
“I wouldn’t need to,” he said, becoming as cold as he had been hot a minute before. “But I do not waste my talents on gauche, little schoolgirls who think they are cutting a dash by being escorted by the silliest fribble in London.”