by Joan Smith
“I believe you did, but, having entered it, you seem in some danger of beating me at my own game and I think we ought to join forces.”
“Why not? London requires a Queen of Fools as well as a King.”
“And as the Prince has two princesses, I shall have two queens,” Beau smiled.
“We shall share the honour at the Queen’s Drawing Room, Auntie,” Daphne said.
“Queen Charlotte runs the Drawing Room,” Effie pointed out, sitting perplexed in a corner. When Daphne became James’s daughter, she was incomprehensible.
“We are only funning,” Daphne consoled her.
Mrs. Pealing found no fun or sense in the discussion, and the Beau turned his charm on her, soon guiding her out the door to his carriage. But after tooling her through a few well-crowded streets, he returned to have a word with Miss Ingleside and to enquire whether she would do him the honour of accepting his escort to a showing of paintings at Somerset House that same afternoon.
She was delighted and added offhandedly, “And perhaps you will escort me to a tea party afterwards. Lady Elizabeth Thyrwite has invited us...“ She looked to Mrs. Pealing to see how the idea went down. She read stark horror.
“Not me!” Effie said loudly.
“I will be very happy to. I promised Lady Elizabeth to drop in,” the Beau said graciously and left, well pleased with his morning’s work.
His original aim had been to bring about a liaison between the Prince and Mrs. Pealing, but it would add a fine feather to his cap to show the world that while Prinney favoured the dull, stupid old lady, he had walked off under his nose with the young Beauty. They would be in each other’s company, he and the Prince, and he was honing up a few sharp aphorisms to stun the world.
When he had left the apartment, Mrs. Pealing asked, “What made you change your mind?”
“St. Felix particularly mentioned the tea party yesterday, Auntie, and I dislike to disappoint him when he is quite sure I, at least, shall attend.”
Effie took on the posture of receiving a feeling, but in somewhat diminished form. “What is it?” Daphne enquired. “Do you sense disaster? Pray tell me if you do and I shan’t go to the tea.”
“No, it was more an idea than a feeling. I was just thinking, wouldn’t it be fine if you could land St. Felix?”
Daphne turned a pretty shade of pink and declared there was nothing less likely in the whole world.
“Don’t say so, my child. His father was quite a fool over me, I assure you, and everyone who knew me in the old days says we are much alike. And what glimpses I have had of young St. Felix tell me he is not so very unlike his papa. It is a very good notion, and I think you should go to the tea party and be friendly to him if he is there.”
“Well, I don’t think he means to be there.”
“Why did he want you to go then? He will be there, depend on it. The whole clan stick as close together as peas in a pod. It is St. Felix’s doings that Larry is to be made a minister, you know. The head of the family always runs the show in that tribe.”
“Yes, I think he tries to in any case. Well, if he is there, you may be sure I shall say ‘how do you do’ to him.”
Chapter 8
After his fight with Miss Ingleside, St. Felix posted directly back to his sister’s house to enquire of her if she had ever heard anything of an affair between their father and Mrs. Pealing.
“Of course not. The idea’s ridiculous!” she declared. “Who is saying such a thing?”
“Pealing’s niece. She claims father asked the woman to marry him.”
“What nonsense!”
“I knew it could not be true. Father was always so—well, almost holy. He never looked at another woman for as long as I knew him.”
“Yes, he straightened out remarkably,” was the frightening response to this.
“What do you mean? He never ran around— there was never any talk of that sort attached to him. I don’t know of any gentleman of whom more good was spoken than Papa, unless it were Uncle Archie, the Archbishop.”
“Ages ago—oh, years and years ago, Dickie, when you were hardly born—he had a few affairs; nothing to signify. And your Uncle Archie, too, for that matter. But it was opera dancers with him, as a rule. Papa’s girl was an actress, I think, and some other woman. But I was very young myself and only remember listening to Mama and Papa fighting behind closed doors.”
“An actress?” he asked. She didn’t care for the little actress he kept on the side, he thought to himself.
“Yes, a redhead, I think she was, from the Theatre Royal; but it was the other one Mama was really concerned about. It was not Mrs. Pealing, for Mama called her Lady something or other. They even mentioned divorce. I remember lying in bed trembling lest it should happen. How selfish children are. I was due to make my bows in a year or two, and all I thought was that I would be disgraced, and never gave a thought to what poor Mama must be going through. And Papa, too, for that matter. I don’t suppose he relished the idea of divorce; and he must have been dreadfully in love to have even thought of it, for in general all he ever spoke of was keeping the family together, and everyone doing his part, and so on.”
“You don’t know who the woman was? Mrs. Pealing was once a Countess. Mama could have meant her.”
“It couldn’t have been Mrs. Pealing.”
“Why not?”
“Because they haven’t mentioned it to you, and they’d be demanding a couple of thousand pounds if they had such a story as that in their book.”
“Or a voucher to Almack’s,” he added, chagrined.
Elizabeth ignored this aside. “I don’t know what I am to do about that pair. They have sent in a refusal to my tea. They are clearly holding out for a larger party. And now with Prinney calling on them I daren’t refuse. I shall have to send tickets to my ball.”
She thought she would hear an argument against this plan, but Richard was sunk in some deep reverie from which there was no rousing him, and he hadn’t heard.
“Uncle Algernon!” he said, out of the blue.
“Yes, I asked him, but with his gout, you know, I don’t look to see him. He usually hobbles to my balls, but he won’t bestir himself for a tea party.”
Her brother arose and walked from the room in a brown study. Before many minutes he was sitting at his uncle’s bedside. Algernon Percival was his father’s younger brother by two years and presumably well aware of all the amorous history of the late Duke. Algie had always been a grouchy old fellow and no favourite of any of the nieces or nephews. He complained for a while of his negligent treatment at the hands of his family; then, giving the cap on his head a poke that sent it sliding at a rakish angle over one eye, he said, “And why are you come, eh? Run into debt, I suppose, and with I don’t know how many thousands a year coming to you. Don’t expect me to bail you out. I have two sons of my own to provide for. Not that I ever see hide or hair of them."
“I’m not here for money, and never have been, Uncle. That shot was unworthy of you. I want you to tell me something.”
"There’s a change, then, for you to let anybody tell you anything. What is it?”
“Who is the woman father was running around with thirty years ago?”
“Mrs. Robinson,” the uncle answered unhesitatingly.
“You can’t mean Perdita?” Richard asked, incredulous. The shock of the revelation was great enough to knock Mrs. Pealing temporarily from his mind. Though it had happened so many years ago, it was still spoken of as a legend, the Prince of Wales' first public affair with the pretty actress, Mrs. Robinson, who appeared at the Theatre Royal as Perdita in A Winter’s Tale and soon appeared in public with her Florizel, Prinney.
“She was over being Perdita when Arthur took up with her. She received pretty short shrift from that commoner of a Prince, if you want the truth of it.”
“I’m not sure I can take any more truth. You mean to say my father took that notorious whore for a mistress? The whole town must have been buzzi
ng with it.”
“I don’t care for your language, St. Felix. There was nothing wrong with Mrs. Robinson. The town was talking, all right, but it didn’t last long. Your father found someone he liked better. He wasn’t always the cardboard character he was after you were born. I guess having a son to keep an eye on him smartened him up.”
“Oh, that is what I am really come about,” Richard said, recalled to his business. “I knew about the actress, though I didn’t know it was Perdita. My God... But who was the other one?” His fists were clenched in dreadful anticipation of what he would hear.
“I don’t know,” his uncle said.
“You’ve got to know!” Richard shouted in frustration. “Think! Try to remember.”
“Keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll have you shown out. I ain’t senile. I haven’t forgotten. I never knew. He kept it close as an oyster, to protect the woman’s name. Though from what I remember, she didn’t have much name to protect. Reputation, I mean. He was afraid of making bad worse was what he actually said. Something to that effect.” He gave the cap another clout that sent it off his head entirely.
“A divorcée, by any chance?” Richard asked.
“It wasn’t Richmond’s wife, if that’s what you mean. She was run well to seed by then. I wondered at the time if it wasn’t Lady Standington. You wouldn’t know her, but she was..."
“I know her. What makes you think it was she?” he asked through clenched jaws.
“Everyone in town was trailing after her, and that old fool of an earl so busy raiding everyone else’s nest he didn’t see what was going on in his own. I knew her a little myself, and I know George used to call on her; but he might have done it to throw me off the scent. He knew I was trying to find out what he was up to, and wouldn’t I have keel-hauled him if I’d managed to discover it. Something gave me the idea it was Lady Standington.” He sat frowning, trying to recall.
“Who would know for sure?” Richard asked.
“Nobody except your mother. If I didn’t find out, you may be sure no one else did. And I trust you are not proposing to pester her with your questions. Oh, it was no secret he was one of her court, but I don’t know how far it went.”
“I have to know.”
“Why? Why the devil do you want to go raking up that scandal? George settled down and behaved himself for close to thirty years. Seems to me you could show a little respect for your father’s memory. Your maternal uncle an Archbishop—another reformed character.”
“I am depraved on both sides,” Richard said, sunk in gloom.
“Ho, depraved! Archie has become holier than the Pope, I’ll have you know, and never did have any bit of fluff worth a second look either. He’d have been glad enough to take up with Lady Standington.”
“Oh, my God! How did she find time to juggle so many lovers.”
“She was quite good at it!” Algernon laid his head back on the pillows and laughed in happy memory. “What a girl she was. But not too bright. I often thought if she’d had half as many brains as she had looks she could have nabbed one of the royal dukes, and for a husband, not a lover. All she lacked was a tupporth of brains, poor girl. But they never have both, worse luck.”
“She has, worse luck,” Richard said, but in such a low tone that it escaped his uncle’s failing ears.
“How does Larry’s promotion go on? Any word of that?” Algernon asked.
“Nothing definite has been announced. Wouldn’t anyone know about father’s lover except Mama?”
“Yes, the lady herself, whoever she is."
“I can hardly go about asking every lady over fifty if she had the honour to be my father’s mistress.”
“What difference does it make who she was? He had one, and that’s what you wanted to know, ain’t it?”
“No, I must know who she was.”
“If you ever find out, give her my compliments, for she was a real lady.”
“Then she can’t have been Mrs. Pealing.”
“Lady Standington was the name I mentioned.”
“Now Pealing. She has remarried twice and been widowed. Why do you say she was a real lady?”
“Lord, boy, she could have had your father for the snapping of her fingers. He was mad for her; and where would you be now if she had, eh? He told me himself he meant to divorce Agnes and leave the country with his lover. Felt he had to tell me that much, for I was to be in charge of looking after everything while he was gone; but he never told me her name, just in case she wouldn’t go through with it. Well, maybe he didn’t mean to divorce your mother—but leave her anyway, which is possibly even worse. But whoever the woman was, she had the sense and breeding and charity to turn him down. And did it in such a way that she made him ashamed of himself. He went back home and straightened out. You had something to do with it. Your being a son pleased him no end, and I daresay he took pains to give you no notion of his scarlet past. He was always afraid you might have developed his streak of foolishness.”
“It can’t be that damned Pealing creature!”
“I see no reason for you to traduce Lady Standington’s name. She was a very nice girl. If that fool of a Standington had stood by her and run Ansquith through instead of dragging his wife through the divorce court... He was a fine one to take exception to her having a cicisbeo. He was after everything that wiggled, so long as it wore a skirt. An awful man he was. Jealous as a green cow, and proud, too. I just remembered something that might help you.”
“What?”
“That lady George was after—she liked blue.”
“Oh, God! Why did you have to go and remember that.”
“He had a ring he was trying to give her. I don’t believe she ever accepted it. Well, I know she didn’t, for I saw it sitting on Bess’s finger on her next birthday; but it was a sapphire, and he said in a fit of poetry that it matched the lady’s eyes, and it would match her gowns, for she wore a deal of blue. Lady Standington wore a lot of blue. Now that’s what it was made me think it was her. That’s what it was,” he repeated, triumphant at this feat of memory.
St. Felix arose, feeling an old man. His father— that cardboard saint he had been revering all these years—was just flesh and blood like the rest. But mixed with his anger and disappointment was a little pity. Poor father, to have met Daphne after he was married and saddled with a nurseryful of children. Countess Standington, he corrected himself! But everyone said they resembled each other in Mrs. Pealing’s youth. He could not say, never having yet met Mrs. Pealing.
“Thank you, Uncle. I think I’ve discovered what I came to. I hope the gout isn’t too painful.”
“Bah, pain. I care nothing for that. It’s this damned lying around in bed that kills me. It’s what you’ve got to look forward to, my boy. Runs in the family. Got your father and it’ll get you.”
This reminder of mortality naturally did nothing to lighten St. Felix’s spirits. “Do you come to Bess’s party?”
“Not her tea party. I don’t much care to hear geese cackling, but you can tell her I’ll be at her ball, if I ain’t dead. She might drop around to see her old uncle once in a while. It wouldn’t kill her.”
“I’ll tell her.”
He left, to consider how to silence the blackmailers, for in spite of the recent shaking of his world, he did not wish to see the family name trailed through the mud. He was now rather eager to meet Mrs. Pealing. He had glimpsed her in her carriage but had no idea of her face. He frowned, imagining Daphne Ingleside’s face grown old and fat. He began to feel it might not be impossible to procure a voucher to Almack’s for the young lady, as the Prince Regent and Beau Brummell were both on visiting terms with her. In any case, he felt that it was imperative to see her; and for this reason he came down off his high horse and went to his sister’s tea party the next afternoon.
He went early and immediately asked his sister, “Has Miss Ingleside not got here yet?” His quick view of the six persons present had already told him the answer.
“She isn’t coming. I told you I had a note turning it down.”
“She’s coming.”
“Have you been to see her again, Dickie? I thought we agreed that you would have nothing more to do with her.”
“Complications. It is now imperative that I have a great deal to do with her. I’ll speak to you later, and if any of the patronesses from Almack’s are to be present, butter them up well. We have a favour to request.”
“Lady Sefton is coming. I asked Lady Melbourne, but she is throwing a do herself tonight and is sending her daughter, Countess Cowper, in her place.”
“Good. I’ll give Emily a go. She is always susceptible to flattery.”
“Especially from handsome gentlemen.”
They parted, and for the next three-quarters of an hour, St. Felix’s eyes only left the entrance way to scan the crowd for patronesses from Almack’s. He was polite to Lady Sefton and fawning towards Countess Cowper, who took very well to his buttering up.
Bess went to him once and said, “I don’t believe she can be coming. And Brummell stayed away, too. He told me he would be here, the beast.”
There was a little ripple of excitement, and several heads turned to the door. Beau Brummell sauntered in, a picture of sartorial elegance, though he wore the simplest outfit possible, with no jewelry except a plain gold ring. His well-cut coats and carefully tied cravats were the envy of every aspirant to fashion. He dressed with care and style, and once he was dressed he forgot his clothing and turned his mind to being entertaining.
“Thank God, he is come,” Bess said, breathing easier. “Who is the ravishing creature with him?”
“Miss Ingleside,” her brother replied.
“Dickie, you never told me she was an Incomparable! If that is how the Pealing looked in her youth, I shouldn’t blame Papa if he did succumb to her.”