Salt Bride

by Lucinda Brant

  She wished with all her heart that Salt was right and that there was no harm in his cousin, but there was something about Diana St. John that made her wary and fearful and these feelings could not be shaken off so readily.

  “There’s a dinner after the tournament,” Salt was saying. “It’s a bit of an ordeal, if you’re not used to sitting through thirty courses and political chit-chat. After that, there’s a recital. If you don’t feel up to it, if you’d prefer to retire early, I’ll make your excuses and Diana can step in and—”

  “No,” she said firmly and smiled. “I’ll be fine. Truly.”

  He lightly pressed her hand then turned to the court and put up a hand to Pascoe Church, who was swinging his hickory racket about in thin air as if ready to conquer the entire fraternity of assembled tennis players. He looked back at Jane. “They’re calling me for the match. Will you be all right sitting here alone?”

  “Yes. Perfectly. Now go,” she assured him and watched as he vaulted back over the barrier and jogged across the court.

  From the start it was a fast-paced, go-for-the throat match, with both men equally talented tennis players. The small solid ball was hit hard and fast and was spun in all directions, with the peculiar hazard of the tambour and the angle of wall and floor offering exciting placement options that kept Jane on the edge of her velvet cushion in anticipation of where the ball would land next. Salt was superior in anticipating the ball’s drop and being taller and longer-limbed than his opponent was able to stretch his racket and get to the ball more often. But Pascoe Church was lighter and faster on his feet and bounced about the court on his toes, reminding Jane of a rooster chased by a determined fox.

  There was plenty of vocal support for both players coming from the Gallery and Jane soon found herself clapping and cheering along with the rest of the noble spectators. At interval, it was time for the players to change sides and take a few moments of rest before resuming the game. Footmen brought the players hot towels and refreshments and lackeys ran about with cloths tied to the ends of long poles to wipe the tiled floor dry of sweat.

  Many of the Gallery boxes had pulled aside their netting to allow the spectators to lean across the barriers to exchange conversation with their fellow spectators in other boxes and to speak with the two players. This was a time of much loud conversation, toasting of glasses and footmen coming and going with bottles of claret and champagne. Then a huge cheer went up amongst the men, and such was the general uproar of cat-calling, giggling and female shrieking at the far end of the court where Salt and Pascoe Church stood catching their breath and chatting that even Jane leaned out of her box with the rest of the spectators in the Gallery to look down the length of the court to see what all the fuss was about.

  A number of articles of female clothing had been thrown in direction of the two players and had landed at their feet. At least three fans, a fichu, one mask, two reticules, a number of gloves and even a couple of stockings and garters littered the tiled court. Another glove sailed through the air and landed by the toe of Salt’s left shoe. But it was not this that he scooped up but a female stocking and garter. He draped these feminine articles over the stringed head of his racket then held the tennis racket out at arm’s length, not unlike holding a sword at the ready, and took a bow with an exaggerated flourish.

  Another cheer went up when he proceeded to return the stocking and garter to its rightful owner, several giggling ladies, undoubtedly drunk, denying loudly that such intimate objects were theirs and lifting up their petticoats above the ankles as if it was necessary for them to provide proof of their boastful denials. Jane could not see the female to whom Salt offered his racket with another bow, but there was no doubts as to the significance of the offering when one of the ladies in the box next to Jane’s, who was leaning so far over the barrier, fluttering her fan, that her big breasts were in danger of falling out of her low cut bodice, made an announcement to her companions that Jane heard above the laughing and the cheering further along the Gallery.

  “There you have it, Eliza! What did I tell you? Salt’s chosen Jenny Dalrymple and thus ends Elizabeth Outram’s reign as maîtresse en titre. They never last more than a year; never have.”

  “They’re lucky to last that long given his sword is rarely sheathed.”

  There was a series of unfeminine snorts and a burst of raucous female laughter.

  “Oh, Eliza! You have such a quaint vulgar way of expressing yourself!”

  “How ever does Diana bear with his infidelities?” enquired a third whining voice through the thin wall that divided Jane’s spectator box from the next.

  “She bears it as we all do,” was the haughty reply. “Selective blindness. It’s not our place to question a lover’s, and certainly not a husband’s, straying. It’s not as if these lapses mean anything.”

  “Mine certainly don’t.”

  “Eliza! Eliza! Do stop or I’ll burst my stays! You teasing girl.”

  “But what about his bride?” the whining voice asked. “Will she be as understanding as the rest of us? I mean, what do you know about her?”

  “You tell me, Susannah. What do any of us know about the little upstart?”

  “None of us know anything. Although, Diana did mention something about Salt marrying the little ninny to settle a gambling debt. God! What a waste of noble flesh. On a Bristol Blue Glass merchant’s daughter no less.”

  “There isn’t enough meat on her bones to satisfy a man of Salt’s strong appetites. He’s always fancied ’em plump-breasted and big-thighed.”

  “Is that such a surprise when he’s as solid as an ox and hung like one too?”

  There were gasps of laughter and girlish giggles until the one with the whining voice said, “For a man of Salt’s physical prowess it must’ve been a most unsatisfactory coupling.”

  “Most unsatisfactory.”

  “Particularly when a groom has a right to expect his bride to be untouched on their wedding night.”

  “Whatever can you mean?”

  “Diana says that if ever the truth got out… You must promise not a word—”

  “Not a word!” came the quick reply in unison.

  “It’s not something a man wants his friends, and certainly not his political enemies, to discover about the bride. It’s all to do with male pride.”

  “What? The pitcher was already cracked?”

  There was a horrified gasp. “She wasn’t a virgin on her wedding night!”

  “Oh, Eliza! Just when I begin to think your pretty little head is stuffed full of wool you surprise me. You clever cherub! Yes. Spoiled goods.”

  “How utterly vulgar!”

  “Yes. As vulgar as her lineage. What can one expect? Certainly this blue glass has imperfections.”

  “Clever!”

  “Salt’s gambling debt must’ve amounted to a pretty guinea indeed.”

  “And she isn’t even one of us.”

  “Definitely not one of us, my dear Eliza.”

  “Poor Salt.”

  “And poor Diana. Let’s not forget Diana. How she must be suffering. But such a brave face!”

  “Oh, yes! Susannah, you are so right. She’s been in love with Salt since forever.”

  “Yes, Eliza, we all know Salt is the great love of Diana’s life but we don’t say it out loud.”

  “What a pity St. John came between them.”

  “Not in all things, my dear Susannah. There is the rumor, which Diana has never denied, that her two brats—”

  “—are Salt’s?”

  There was a collective gasp.

  “Good God! How Extraordinary!”

  “But… Isn’t there also the rumor he’s barren?”

  One of the women made a sound reminiscent of a startled pheasant. “Salt? Barren? Don’t be a dolt, Eliza! A divine specimen of maleness who can go on and on and on, barren? Ha!”

  “Well, even if he isn’t barren, who’s to know? Diana’s friend Artemisia is always quick to put a stop
to any unwanted breeding.”

  “Indeed, Susannah? Interesting. Exceedingly interesting.”

  “Yes, I thought you would find it so. She helped me in a most difficult predicament.”

  “Arta who?” interrupted the whining voice.

  The explanation was given as if speaking to a child, or one who did not know the English tongue. “Artemisia. Syrup of Artemisia. Surely you’ve heard of it? Rids one of unwanted brats before they are formed.”

  “Oh! That Artemisia. I thought you were referring to Diana’s friend Artemisia.”

  “Yes, well we were! She is Diana’s particular friend. Comes in a bottle.”

  There was a collective giggle and then silence fell before one of the female voices returned to the question of the paternity of the St. John children.

  “He does dote on Diana’s brats.”

  “Yes, he does, Susannah. And quite rightly, too.”

  “Just like a papa should.”

  “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “No. Not from you.”

  “It makes perfect sense.”

  “Perfect sense,” two females voices echoed in awed unison.

  “The game’s afoot! I’ve thirty pounds on Pascoe Church to win!”

  “Eliza! I was wrong,” her friend announced with disgust. “Your head is full of wool.”

  As she sipped tea from a delicate porcelain dish in the Yellow Saloon, Jane was still wishing she had pulled away from the wall of the Gallery box and not listened to the rumor and counter rumors about the Lady St. John and her husband. Watching through the netting it was clear Diana St. John was infatuated with her husband. But did he know it? And were they lovers? She had no idea.

  Jacob Allenby had repeatedly lectured her about the hypocrisy rife within Polite Society. How the ruling class was riddled with vice in all its forms and that the Earl of Salt Hendon was just as guilty of the unspeakable sins of his class as the rest of the inhabitants of Gomorrah, as he continually referred to London, the environs of Westminster in particular. And his lordship had committed the most heinous crime of all amongst his wickedly depraved brethren: he had seduced a virgin and then abandoned her with child.

  He had preached this sermon to her so often that Jane became immune to his hellfire and brimstone prophesies. Living in a house in the wilds of Wiltshire where no pictures livened the walls, fires in the grate were permitted only every second day, and such vanities as looking glasses and feminine fripperies were strictly forbidden, the Earl of Salt Hendon’s nefarious lifestyle was another world away. Yet, now that she was the Countess of Salt Hendon, it mattered to her a very great deal, and that bothered her. It bothered her because she was in love with her husband. And because she was in love with him, the sooner she signed the document banishing her to Salt Hall, the better for her peace of mind.

  Loud laughter intruded into these musings and Jane remembered she was in the Yellow Saloon where the ladies had gathered to await the gentlemen who, having finished playing their games of Royal Tennis, were bathing and dressing in readiness to sit down to a good dinner. With their silk and brocade layered petticoats spread out around them, and painted and ivory fans fluttering on flushed upward thrusting bosoms, the ladies lounged about on the arrangement of sofas and wingchairs by the two fireplaces, chatting amongst themselves.

  Diana St. John presided over the tea things with all the aplomb of one used to the task. Of course she had made an elaborate display of refusal when the butler and four liveried footmen had arrived with the trolleys stacked with the Sevres porcelain tea service, plates of sweetmeats and a variety of cakes and pastries, and the teapot and coffee urn on their silver stands. But Jane, not knowing the first thing about playing hostess to a gaggle of sharp-eyed society matrons, was only too willing to allow Lady St. John the honor even if it did highlight her lack of social skills. Her calm capitulation to Lady St. John’s expertise won her a few nods of approval from the older matrons, but the close friends of Diana St. John were all smug smiles at their friend, as if she had won a small victory against the young Countess.

  Jane saw these looks of petty triumph but ignored them and unable to join in a conversation about politics and people she knew not the first thing about and, had she been inclined to be cynical, was deliberately kept steered in this direction by Diana St. John and her cohort for the specific purpose of excluding her, she drifted over to the window with its view of the square below. Here she sipped her tea and watched the traffic of sedan chairs, carriages and a bullock team with its drivers and dogs, maneuver comfortably about the wide streets of Grosvenor Square.

  She was studying the hive of activity that accompanied the arrival of a coach laden with luggage outside one of the townhouses, liveried footmen sent out into the cold to put down the steps and hand down the occupants as quickly as possible to enable them to dash indoors to the warmth of a good fire, when out from the corner of her eye she caught a flash of movement through the wide doors that opened into the dining room. More movement and laughter and Jane went and stood in the doorway in time to see two children, the son and daughter of Lady St. John, running up one side of a very long polished mahogany table that had been set with silver and crystal for upwards of thirty guests. They were being chased by a man in somber attire and behind him, walking at a brisk pace, a woman dressed in grey with a severe hairstyle.

  Several liveried servants were going about the business of arranging epergnes filled with fruit and flowers equidistant down the center of the table under the blaze of three candlelit crystal chandeliers. Others were placing warmers and silver servers on two very long sideboards that were up against one wall either side of a massive marble fireplace, all under the watchful eye of the eagle-eyed under-butler. None of these servants took the slightest notice of the boy and girl playing around the table, nor did they seem to mind, except when the St. John children directly affected their particular task, then they merely stepped aside and got on with things. The man, whom Jane now decided must be the boy’s tutor, and the girl’s governess were quick to come between the busy servants and the giggling children when necessary.

  Yet when the boy pushed aside two ribbon-back chairs and dived under the table, quickly followed by his giggling sister, the tutor and the governess lost all patience and hollow threats to their life were made if they didn’t show themselves immediately. These threats were naturally ignored by the adventurous children, who made threats of their own to stay under the table unless given sweetmeats and punch immediately. It was only when the tutor pushed up his sleeves and volunteered to thrash the life out of both of them if they didn’t surface forthwith that Jane bravely stepped forward and made her presence known.

  The tutor and governess took one look at Jane, recognized in her delicate beauty and embroidered petticoats that she was not a servant and dutifully, if reluctantly, stood aside from the table as requested. It took the under-butler whispering at their backs that they were being addressed by the Countess of Salt Hendon for the tutor to double over till his nose almost hit his knees and the governess to plunge into such a deep curtsey that she almost toppled over. But Jane saw none of this as she had carefully bobbed down, one hand holding the table edge to remain steady, to peek under the table.

  “Hello. Do you remember me from the Tower Zoo?” she asked with a friendly smile, the St. John children huddled between the turned legs of a couple of chairs.

  “Hello. You liked the lions best,” stated the boy, dark eyes wary, as if waiting for the inevitable lecture on bad behavior.

  “And your favorites were the elephants,” Jane responded.

  “I’d like to ride an elephant one day,” the boy announced.

  “I hear that in India they use elephants much like we use draught horses here.”

  The girl’s hazel eyes lit up. “Do they? Can I ride one too?” she asked Jane hopefully.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Merry!” her brother said with derision. “You’re a girl. Girls can’t ride elephants
.”

  The girl pouted. “If I go to India—”

  “Girls can’t ride elephants and girls can’t go to India. Girls can’t do anything.”

  Merry poked her tongue out at her brother and said sullenly, “I will! I will if I want to!” And looked to Jane for support and said more even-temperedly, “I can go to India if I want, can’t I?”

  Jane smiled at the girl, saw the mulish look on her brother’s face, as if he expected her to agree with him, and said placidly, “It’s not a matter of can’t, is it? It all depends on what happens when you are a grown up young lady. Of course it goes without saying that you’ll be a lady of fashion and marry a very handsome and important man—”

  “Just like Uncle Salt?” the girl said hopefully, and when her brother groaned showed him her tongue again.

  “Yes, just like your Uncle Salt,” Jane said evenly, trying not to smile. “If you marry a gentleman who decides to travel to India one day, then of course you’ll go with him.”

  “If he was important like Uncle Salt, Merry’s husband wouldn’t go to India,” the boy stated emphatically. “He’d be a nobleman and needed here to run the kingdom.”

  The girl opened her mouth to speak but Jane spoke first saying lightly, “That is very true, but perhaps your sister’s future husband might be a diplomat, like your other uncle Sir Antony, and travel to India on important business for his King?”

  The girl smiled triumphantly at her brother, who had to concede Jane had a point though he added haughtily, with nostrils aquiver that was alarmingly reminiscent of his Uncle Salt at his most scornful,

  “Mamma says diplomatists are failed political men. Or sent away because they’re an embarrassment to their family.”

  “But surely your Uncle Sir Antony is neither?” Jane asked, startled.

  “Mamma says Uncle Salt sent Uncle Tony away because he caught him making up to Cousin Caroline.” The boy rolled his eyes and crossed his thin legs adding, because this sort of talk made him uncomfortable and the beautiful lady was looking at him queerly, “Whatever making up to means. But that’s what I heard Mamma telling old Lady Porter, so it must be true.”