by M C Beaton
He awoke on the outskirts of London. Emily cheerfully commented on the weather—cold—the suburbs—quaint—and the state of the nation—confused, to which he replied, “Indeed, odso,” and “really,” until she lapsed into uneasy silence.
They were nearing his town house in Clarence Square in the West End of London, when the bandbox lid began to move. Too frightened to do or say anything, Emily sat as if turned to stone.
A large, furry head poked out, and one green eye surveyed the Earl of Devenham and his stricken lady.
“I am glad you will have company in London, my lady,” said the Earl of Devenham, looking at the cat, “for you will have little of mine.”
Chapter Nine
London was different from the London Emily had known. The West End was a world away from the bustle and commerce of the city. At first, there seemed to be a certain monotony in the view: the pavements wide and smooth; every door with its stone steps, its iron railing, and its lamp; each house exactly the same as its neighbor, except for the number on the door and the name of the occupant. At night, the straightness of the streets was made more so by a long line of lamps set out in regular order.
Even the dusty squares were set about with buildings, as neatly as a child’s toy, facing a railinged square of cropped trees, cropped bushes, and cropped grass.
Any hope of spring seemed to have died. The days were cloudy and foggy, of a uniform gray. Sometimes a ray of sun would pierce the perpetual mist, making it float at the end of the streets, bathed in a golden hue, but all too soon the brief light would be extinguished as the fog rolled across the sun again.
The air was loaded with small flakes of soot, a sort of sooty snow, which fell gently on the clothes of the fashionable, sticking to clothes and linen. Under its modern title of influenza, the malady the French called catch-cold had recently swept London.
The Thames did not divide London as the Seine did Paris, that is, with half of the city on one side and half on the other. The other side of the Thames, that is, the Surrey side, was only an extensive suburb dotted with depressing warehouses and manufactories.
Emily thought that London, had she been able to fly above it, would present a patchy black and white appearance, like the hide of some huge, sleeping animal. The buildings were mainly constructed of Portland stone. Smoke blackened the white walls, and the rain washed only certain parts of them. Here there would be a whole column as white as chalk, and there, its neighbor, as black as the soot which darkened it.
It was in the evening, when what little light there was began to fade, that London became a magic place with carriages rolling over the cobbles and houses ablaze with lights. Then the shops came into their own, with many thousands of candles lighting up silverware, engravings, books, clocks, glass, pewter, paintings, women’s finery, gold and precious stones, and endless coffee houses and lottery offices. Each street looked as if it were lit up for a fair. The apothecaries harlequinned the streets with the light from their display glasses filled with spirits, purple, yellow, and verdigris-green. Most dazzling of all were the confectioners with their candelabra and their hanging festoons and Spanish grapes and pineapples, their pyramids of apples and oranges, their rich cakes and tarts, all served by exceptionally pretty girls with silk caps and white arms.
And the noise! The din, clatter, and hum of thousands of tongues, the clamor of bells in the church towers, the postmen, organs, fiddles, the hurdy-gurdies of the mountebanks, and the cries from the street vendors selling hot and cold food.
To Felice, it was an unending delight, and Emily sometimes went on shopping expeditions only to buy things she did not want, in order to lighten the burden of her own misery in watching the maid’s enjoyment.
The earl was hardly ever at home. Emily received callers and invitations but was too timid to venture out on her own, so the stiff gold cards piled up on the mantelpiece, invitations to balls and routs and theaters, all to be answered with a polite excuse.
There were the perpetual beaux, all too ready to attach themselves to a pretty, married lady with an absent husband, but Emily hardly noticed any of them.
She contented herself by reading, sewing, and talking to the cat. Sometimes she loved the cat and sometimes she hated it. That was the trouble with cats. They often had an almost human reaction to things, whereas dogs were uncomplicated, jolly, undemanding, and affectionate.
“I will sell you and buy a dog,” Emily would threaten, and Peter would flatten his ears, lash his tail, and then begin to purr, for he did not believe a word of it.
The earl had paid calls on the fair Cordelia, but he could not bring himself to be intimate with her again. He was aware she had gossiped excessively, and that set her down in his eyes to the ranks of the Fashionable Impure. Unaware of his change of heart and thinking he was being discreet because of his wife’s presence in town, Cordelia continued to hope for his divorce and the subsequent marriage to herself.
At last, a warm spring wind blew the fog to shreds. A pale, duck-egg blue sky stretched over London, and young leaves fluttered bravely from the branches of trees in the park.
The earl was riding with his friend, Arthur Chester, on this first fine day. He could not quite remember why he had suggested coming to London in the first place and was longing to return to the country to see things grow.
After an energetic gallop, they reined in under an oak and dismounted, strolling over the new, springy grass.
“You know,” said Mr. Chester, “it do seem odd, though I don’t suppose I should mention it.”
“Then don’t,” said the earl, barely listening. He had all at once remembered that the night when Emily had spurned his love-making had been the very night when she had revealed she had heard of Cordelia.
“Well, it is damned odd,” pursued Mr. Chester. “Gettin’ to be the talk of the town, and the Season ain’t even begun. Beginning to say you’re a sort of bluebeard.”
“What?” The earl’s head jerked round.
“Well, Lady Devenham don’t go anywhere. Jerry Banks was telling everyone he took her flowers and a book the other day. Said it was fit to break a man’s heart, all that wonderful beauty hidden away.”
The earl frowned. His first thought was one of amazement that Emily was actually considered beautiful. He thought her beautiful by country standards, but then he had grown accustomed to her appearance.
“And young Guy Fox sent her a poem, but she didn’t really like it. Must have been a bit warm, for she returned it with a little note saying she felt the sentiments were too strong and, as your wife, she could not accept the poem.
“And Jack Delancey …”
“Now you are talking about strong meat. Delancey’s the worst rake in town.”
Mr. Chester poked at the turf with his whip. “‘S matter of fact,” he said cautiously, “that’s what they’re saying about you.”
“I give them no reason.”
“Cordelia talked fit to beat the band.”
“Useless gossip.”
“She wouldn’t have had anything to gossip about had you not gossiped to her.”
The earl flushed. He could not believe that he was the one who was wrong. He had behaved nobly. He had gone ahead with the marriage. He had not forced his attentions on her. All he had done was … hold her up to ridicule? Damn Cordelia! Her tongue was as loose as her … never mind.
“As a matter of fact,” said the earl, striving to introduce a light note into the guilt-ridden atmosphere, “I do have a rival for my wife’s affections. Peter. She’s in bed with him every night, stroking and caressing him.”
“You amaze me. I don’t believe a word of it. Why, Lady Devenham is an angel. The sweetest, purest lady of the ton.”
“I was merely joking,” said the earl mildly. “I was referring to her cat. But I did not know you had been calling on my wife.”
“Least I could do,” muttered Mr. Chester. “Poor, lonely thing.”
“May I remind you you are speaking about my
wife.”
“We all thought she was as good as wasn’t,” said Mr. Chester. “What with Cordelia blabbing about divorce and you being absent. Fellows are even whispering that Lady Devenham is a virgin.”
“Enough!” cried the earl. “We will not discuss my wife any further, and you may spread the word that anyone else doing so will be asked to name his seconds.”
He turned abruptly on his heel and strode off, leaving Mr. Chester looking sadly after him.
The earl was prey to the most terrible feelings of remorse. For all those long years in the army, he had disciplined his thoughts. He felt he had behaved wisely and fairly with the men in his command. The image of Mary Anstey waiting faithfully for him had kept him from the excesses of his fellow officers. He had been appalled to find, on his return, that his feelings for Mary were exactly nothing. He had not been able to believe it and had felt it was all the fault of the Ansteys for having sullied such a pure and tender love. It had been their fault that it had withered and died. Emily posing as her sister had seemed part and parcel of the Anstey behavior.
But you wanted her, his conscience nagged him. The truth is it was Emily Anstey you really wanted, but your pride would not let you admit it to yourself.
He shook his head as if to clear it. He felt like an old and depraved tyrant. No wonder she clung to that ridiculous animal. She was lonely.
It was midafternoon, and fashionable London was just cautiously beginning to poke its long nose out of doors.
He recalled guiltily that he had hardly spent any of the daylight hours in his own home. He had breakfasted at coffee houses, dined in pastry shops during the day, and then at one of his clubs in the evening, returning home only at dawn.
It was not too late to make amends, he thought. He felt such a tender rush of affection for his young wife as he strode into the hallway of his town house that, if she had come out to meet him, he would have kissed her on the spot.
He laid his hat and whip on the hall table and straightened his cravat in the looking glass.
With an unusual feeling of anticipation, he turned away from the looking glass to go in search of his wife.
Crash!
A vase sailed past his ear and shattered into fragments of red and gold on the floor.
He looked up.
Peter the cat looked smugly back from a ledge next to the glass. The earl extended a threatening hand, whereupon Peter sat up on his hind legs and batted at the hand with his paws.
It was at this point that Emily came running out, and the earl forgot all about his own guilt, about his warm feelings toward her, and glared down at her wide, startled eyes.
“That animal,” he said, “has just smashed a Ming vase.”
Emily signaled a footman to pick up the pieces. “It was not Ming, Devenham,” she said mildly. “It was rather an awful thing that Lord Brockenham gave me. He made it himself. He was so proud of it. He threw it, you see. I put it on that ledge because Peter usually sits there, and I hoped the cat would knock it off so that I could tell Lord Brockenham in all honesty that the cat had broken it.”
He watched her silently, and Emily felt nervous. He looked so stern. Actually, the earl was seeing his wife with new eyes, noticing the gold luster of her hair, the perfect bloom on her cheek, and the exquisitely trim figure shown to advantage by a morning gown of finest muslin. The he noticed the shadows under her eyes and felt a pang of compunction. He was about to apologize to her for his absences, when she said, “I must return to my callers, Devenham,” so he contented himself by saying: “Then I shall join you.”
His black brows snapped into a frown as he entered the room. There were at least six gentlemen, including that notorious rake, Jack Delancey. There were no ladies present.
He was so frigidly austere that he soon drove away the guests.
Emily felt a pain at her heart. It was useless trying to hang on to this marriage-in-name-only. Somehow, she must find courage to give him his freedom and send him on his way.
He flicked through the card rack and pulled out a silver-ornamented invitation. “I see Lord and Lady Foss are giving a ball,” he said. “They have a vastly pretty villa in Kensington.”
“It is tonight,” said Emily timidly. “I sent a note of refusal.”
“And what excuse did you give?”
“I said you were indisposed, Devenham.”
“Perhaps I was,” he said with a sudden laugh. “Would you still care to go?”
“Oh, Devenham, I have never been to a ton ball.”
“Then I will send a footman to say we will be there.”
“I haven’t a ball gown grand enough, Devenham.”
“That gown you are wearing is new. Surely you ordered something in the way of evening wear.”
“Well, I did,” said Emily timidly, “but when it transpired, as I thought that we were not to go anywhere, I cancelled it. Papa always said that, although we had money, we should not spend it uselessly.” She hung her head.
“I am sure you can find something,” he said anxiously, his voice slightly gruff. “Fetch your bonnet and call Felice. I know a dressmaker who will be able to find you something.”
“Imagine you knowing dressmakers, Peregrine,” said Emily with a gurgle of laughter. Then her laughter died, and a shadow crossed her face.
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her bent head. “There is no other lady in my life … now, Emily,” he said.
“But there was?” said Emily, raising her eyes, which glittered with tears.
“Yes, there was. But not any more. Do you trust me?”
“Oh, yes,” said Emily, suddenly happy.
“Then get your bonnet,” he said.
Mary Anstey and her parents sifted through the information they had collected on Emily’s marriage and found it added up to disaster. “It’s all about town,” said Mr. Anstey gloomily. “Devenham don’t want her.”
“I think we should call,” said Mary firmly. “All this cloak-and-dagger business is ridiculous, and it is all your idea, Mama. You keep clinging to the hope that Emily will remain Countess of Devenham.”
“Divorce,” wailed Mrs. Anstey. “The shame. The disgrace.”
“I think our daughter’s happiness must come before all else,” said Mr. Anstey. “Mary has the right of it. We must simply go and ask Emily if she is happy. Our scouts say she never leaves the house in Clarence Square.”
It was nine in the evening when the Anstey carriage rolled up to the Earl of Devenham’s town house. Three dismayed faces looked at the butler when he announced my lord and my lady were not at home.
“We’ll wait,” said Mr. Anstey firmly.
Emily was in seventh heaven as she trotted happily along on the arm of her tall husband, with Felice and a footman following behind. Now the shops were magic places full of wonderful things. The London shopkeeper prided himself on the neatness of his shopfront. His little portico and the pillasters and cornices were imitations of Lydian, Serpentine, porphyry, and Verdes antique marble, and the shopkeepers who had the good fortune to serve any branch of the royal family immediately placed large sculptures of their several arms and supporters over their doors, and their own names and businesses in gold characters.
Wooden highlanders stood outside the snuff and tobacco shops, staring militantly, with painted eyes, at the fashionable throng.
“Our prince regent is much enamored of the highlander,” ventured Emily, timidly trying out a little harmless piece of London gossip on her husband.
“His Royal Highness sometimes goes a little far.” The earl laughed. “At a ball given by the Duchess of York for Princess Charlotte, Prinny caused quite a commotion. All of a sudden, in the middle of a dance, he heaved his huge bulk up from the couch and called for a Highland fling. Charlotte must be taught the steps, and he himself would teach her.
“A space was cleared in the center of the room for the regent to take the floor. With the princess dutifully following his capers, he pointed
his toes, flung out his arms, and jigged and hopped, emitting Gaelic shrieks, until one more hop sent him sprawling.
“Charlotte, choking back her giggles, flew to his assistance. His gentlemen, preternaturally solemn, hoisted him up and bore him off to bed. Poor Prinny!”
Emily laughed delightedly, but more because her handsome husband was making an effort to entertain her than over amusement at the prince regent’s discomfiture.
They stopped outside a jeweler’s and looked at the trays of gems in the dim window. “Let me see your wedding ring,” said the earl suddenly.
Emily twisted nervously at the heavy gold band. “It will not come off, Peregrine,” she said. “Why do you want it?”
“I never had it inscribed,” he said. “Put your glove on again. Perhaps another time. It is a sentimental notion. I thought of one of the old Jacobean rhymes, something pretty. Do not worry. I have no intention of emulating the Bishop of Salisbury.”
“What did he do?” asked Emily, happy again, for she had had a sudden stab of fear that he meant to take the ring from her.
“Well, Dr. John Thomas, bishop of Salisbury, was married for the fourth time in 1753, and the wedding ring he gave his wife was engraved with the legend: ‘If I survive/ I’ll make it five.’ “
“How terrible, Peregrine. I hope his wife had it changed.”
“I do not know, my sweeting.”
Emily blushed at the endearment. How gay and brilliant London now seemed, with the ladies in their thin, fluttering muslins and the stately dandies walking stiffly by in their buckram-wadded coats. She stole a sideways look at the earl. He was wearing a blue morning coat with brass buttons, and, as usual, his cravat was sculptured perfection, and yet he looked at ease in his clothes. She was glad he did not affect the slovenliness of the Corinthians who considered it “quite the tippy” to slouch along looking as much like coachmen as possible.
Few men donned the tricorne these days; most of them wore tall silk hats. Strange to think that only a short time ago, the London haberdasher who designed and wore the first silk hat caused such a commotion that he was charged with a breach of the peace, for it was alleged that the “tall structure, having a shiny lustre, was calculated to frighten timid people.” The St. James’s Gazette reported that several women fainted at the sight, children screamed, dogs yelped, and a small boy broke his arm.