The Birth of Blue Satan

by Patricia Wynn

  Hester knew she should stay to dissuade her aunt from whatever plot she was hatching, but she hadn’t the heart for it now. Whatever plan Mrs. Mayfield had for Sir Harrowby, she was sure he deserved Isabella. He was not the one who merited her pity tonight.

  How could Sir Joshua have been so stupid as to suspect St. Mars of killing his father? Had the world gone mad?

  She seemed to be the only person who could see St. Mars for the gentle man he was. Friendless as he seemed, she could not reprove herself for these feelings, even though it had become fairly clear to her that she suffered more on his account than she would have for another man in his predicament. She could not fool herself any longer on that score.

  Desperately she asked herself what she could do to help him. But there was nothing. There would be a trial. She did not know when the Kentish assizes were held, but she doubted she would be allowed to attend them, unless Mrs. Mayfield managed to secure Sir Harrowby for Isabella before the issue of St. Mars’s innocence was resolved.

  Which raised another question—how could her aunt be so certain that St. Mars would not win his release when the justices heard his case?

  They would have to hear it. And the assize judges could not all be as foolish or as vengeful as Sir Joshua Tate.

  Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face,

  For life predestined to the Gnomes’ embrace.

  These swell their prospects and exalt their pride,

  When offers are disdained and love denied:

  Then gay Ideas crowd the vacant brain,

  While Peers, and Dukes, and all their sweeping train,

  And Garters, Stars, and Coronets appear,

  And in soft sounds, Your Grace salutes their ear.

  ‘Tis these that early taint the female soul,

  Instruct the eyes of young Coquettes to roll,

  Teach Infant cheeks a bidden blush to know,

  And little hearts to flutter at a Beau.

  Oft, when the world imagine women stray,

  The Sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way,

  Through all the giddy circle they pursue,

  And old impertinence expel by new.

  What tender maid but must a victim fall

  To one man’s treat, but for another’s ball?

  The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away,

  Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day.

  Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,

  And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire.

  “O wretched maid!” she spread her hands, and cried,

  (While Hampton’s echoes, “Wretched maid!” replied)

  “Was it for this you took such constant care

  The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare?

  For this your locks in paper durance bound,

  For this with torturing irons wreathed around?

  For this with fillets strained your tender head,

  And bravely bore the double loads of lead?

  CHAPTER 11

  In the morning, Mrs. Mayfield sent a note to Harrowby, inviting him to call. Then she and Isabella sat down to wait. Hester tried to carry on with her duties, but heavy at heart, she worked through the morning’s tasks at a burdened pace.

  Harrowby sent word that he hoped to wait upon them later in the day, but that events had occurred which might rob him of that pleasure. Mrs. Mayfield nearly fretted herself into a panic at the thought that he might not come at all.

  She was hardly relieved when a different caller appeared—Mr. Letchworth, his face covered over with a thick coating of white paint, punctuated with the bright red traces of Spanish paper.

  At least his arrival provided a diversion from the tedious wait. Isabella’s greeting revealed her relief, which made her seem warmer towards him than usual. She had never shown any particular liking for Mr. Letchworth, although her manners towards him, as to other men, were calculated to keep him hanging on the hook. His habitual references to his enormous wealth had the power to captivate her attention.

  Unfortunately, no degree of fortune could make him attractive in anyone’s eyes. His physique was good enough. He was tall and long-limbed, though his high, knobby shoulders gave him a clumsy appearance that belied the vigour in his stride. He had dressed with more care today, in a puce silk suit that sat better with his long black wig. His bamboo cane, which he carried in place of sword, was very fashionable. But the paint he persisted in wearing, undoubtedly to cover up some bad scarring from the smallpox, had already begun to flake. His complexion resembled nothing so much as an unfinished bit of crockery left out in the sun to dry.

  Previously, Mrs. Mayfield had discouraged his calls, using an ensemble of practiced excuses. Today, however, although the announcement of his name first annoyed her, she took comfort from the sign of his continued interest. Hester surmised that her aunt realized she could not afford to despise anyone with Mr. Letchworth’s wealth, when Isabella’s nobler suitors seemed to have vanished. She wondered how long it would be before her aunt came to understand that she had thrown the best one away.

  Not today, it appeared, for no sooner had Mr. Letchworth taken a chair, his acquisitive stare appraising Isabella’s beauty, than Mrs. Mayfield asked, “Sir, have you heard the shocking news about my Lord St. Mars? They say he has indeed murdered his papa!”

  “I heard the gossip in the street. It would seem our fair young lord could not wait to inherit his father’s estate.”

  “Well, as to that . . . “ Mrs. Mayfield put on a coy look. “I am sure you have heard why he was become so desperate.”

  “Indeed I have.” Mr. Letchworth had taken his eyes off Isabella when her mother had spoken, but he turned them back to her now. She blushed as if on cue, and a light as hard as diamonds lit his eyes.

  Hester fancied she could see Isabella’s reflection in the small, black spots that were his pupils.

  Her aunt went on, “You will say I should be flattered that the heir to an earldom should be so deep in love with my Isabella, but I do not hold with murder, Mr. Letchworth, and I will not bestow my daughter on a gentleman who would attack his own papa.”

  This attempt at piety missed its mark. Their visitor, who had never seemed to have the slightest sense of humour, gave an unexpected twist to his lips. “You do not think that it is better to kill for a woman than to die for one?”

  “Oh, how shocking you men are! If you must, I suppose you will have your silly duels and your quarrels! But we ladies do not wish to hear of them, I assure you. Our sensibilities are much too refined for that.”

  “You prefer us to hide our passions . . . . Very well.”

  He engaged Isabella in awkward small talk. Sitting in her quiet corner, Hester observed how he tried to draw her cousin out. Mr. Letchworth’s conversation held little art. If indeed he possessed a sense of humour, it was once again invisible. He made no silly jests of the type favoured by Harrowby or double entendres like Lord Kirkland’s. Instead he preferred to tell her of his recent purchases, offering to take her for a ride in his new carriage, which he seemed to have bought with no better intention than to impress her. Isabella’s eyes grew round at his talk of silk upholstery and wheels trimmed in gold.

  She was far from immune to the excitement most girls felt for precious metals, jewels and silks. But this morning her responses were almost mechanical—nothing like the breathless passion she had revealed last night.

  Hester worried that her cousin might have formed her first real attachment to an ineligible man. Up until now, Isabella had seemed willing to let her mother choose her husband. But what would happen if she decided she wanted Lord Kirkland, who had no fortune?

  Mr. Letchworth’s visit ran longer than any of them liked, and he gave no sign of remarking their fidgets. Anxious—undoubtedly that Harrowby would be offended by his presence, should he come—Mrs. Mayfield eventually stood and told their guest that they must wish him a good day.

  He scowled at her interruption, but immed
iately said, “If I might have a few words with you in private, Mrs. Mayfield.”

  For once, Hester’s aunt was nonplussed. She had nothing to say to discourage him, but a proposal from Mr. Letchworth just now would surely destroy her plans.

  She could not afford to offend him, however, so she stiffly acquiesced, asking him to accompany her to the smaller of the two parlours.

  Before they departed, he bowed over Isabella’s hand, and pressed it with a kiss. This was more than a polite brushing of his lips. Instinctively, Isabella tried to free her fingers, but he held fast to them, not relenting until she relinquished control. An edge in his smile revealed his displeasure at her reluctance, and two knots in his neck reddened and bulged above his neckcloth.

  As he and Mrs. Mayfield disappeared behind the door, Isabella collapsed into a chair. For the first time in Hester’s memory, she seemed distraught. And who would not be, with a greedy mother negotiating her future with a man as unappealing as Mr. Letchworth.

  Up until now, Bella had seemed unaware that reality awaited her after the flurry of suppers and balls, but after all, hadn’t these amusements been designed expressly to conceal the truth from their innocent guests? Yesterday, she might have entertained an offer from Mr. Letchworth with no more notion than a butterfly of the obligations marriage would entail, but last night, at Lord Kirkland’s hands, she had received her first inkling.

  Hester was moved by sympathy to say, “I would not worry, Bella. Your mother would rather see you wed to someone other than Mr. Letchworth. She will know what to say.”

  Isabella threw her the glance of a startled doe. “She said I must catch Sir Harrowby or we will lose everything. What if he doesn’t come? What if he doesn’t want me?”

  Then, your mother will sell you to the highest bidder, were the words that ran through Hester’s mind. But loath to frighten her cousin, she kept this thought to herself. “There are many other gentlemen who would give a fortune to marry you. You must not despair.”

  But clearly Isabella believed that her choices had narrowed to Harrowby or the unattractive man closeted with her mother.

  An angry voice from behind the parlour door startled them both but was soon silenced. In another moment, they heard Mr. Letchworth’s heavy steps in the hall, accompanied by the sound of his cane striking the floor. Isabella clung tightly to the arms of her chair, but his footsteps passed by the withdrawing room and proceeded to the stairs. Hester and she had barely taken a new breath when Mrs. Mayfield came back to join them.

  “Well!” She entered on a triumphant note, though the lines on her face were strained. “I have something wonderful to tell you, my dearest. What will you say when I tell you that Mr. Letchworth has made me a very pretty application for your hand? I cannot tell you how much he has offered, for I have not yet accepted, and it remains to be seen if we cannot do better. But I will tell you that it is a very handsome offer indeed, and you should feel very proud.”

  “You will not accept it, Mama?” Isabella’s anxiety was strong. “I thought you wanted me to get Sir Harrowby.”

  Her mother’s features hardened. “I do want you to get him, and you will get him if he comes. But if he does not, I expect you to do as you’re told. That is understood.”

  “But—”

  “Do not argue with me, child!” Mrs. Mayfield’s voice rose on a note of hysteria. “I will not abide disobedience. We have spoken often enough of your duty. And, God knows, I’ve done everything in my power to see you handsomely wed. But if, in spite of everything, you fail, you will have no one but yourself to blame. So do not anger me with your tears.”

  Isabella shrank back, stunned by a tone of voice that had never been directed at her before.

  Even Hester was shocked. And if she could be shocked, knowing her aunt for her greedy self, what must Isabella’s feelings be?

  “Go upstairs now and lie down on your bed. That’s a good girl,” Mrs. Mayfield added weakly, as Isabella, with a fearful glance, nearly ran from the room. “I will call you when Sir Harrowby comes and you will do as I have taught you.”

  “If you do not need me, aunt,” Hester said, “I shall go up, too.”

  Mrs. Mayfield turned blindly towards her. She seemed to be talking to herself when she said, “He’s demanded an answer when he returns from Bedford at the end of the week. He was furious when I would not give my consent immediately.

  “But she almost captured a duke! I should have done something else to help her get his Grace. If Sir Harrowby fails to come, I shall have to give her to him.”

  Her reasoning made Hester feel sick. It would be useless to point out that Isabella could never come to love Mr. Letchworth, no matter how wealthy he was. “I should go up and make sure she gets the rest she needs.”

  “Yes,” her aunt said, beside herself. “Do go up and make sure her eyes don’t turn red. Tell her it won’t matter—tell her she can have any man she wants—just not until after the wedding night.”

  As Hester climbed the stairs, she vowed that she would never repeat such cynical words, no matter who had said them. Undoubtedly, they had been true of Mrs. Mayfield. And they were also true of many an aristocrat Hester had met.

  But they would not be true for Isabella, were she so unfortunate as to marry Mr. Letchworth.

  They had almost despaired of Harrowby when, late that night, a knock sounded at the door, and a few moments later, he entered the drawing room with an unsteady gait and a happy, flushed face.

  “I am sorry to appear at this inconvenient hour, and I will not stop. I should have come sooner, had I not been occupied all day with the most astounding business.

  “My cousin—Gideon, you know —has escaped his constables and fled. It’s assumed he’s gone to the Continent, although they searched for him at Deal with no success. And the devil of it is that Bolingbroke is missing, too. He was to be called to account for his traitorous activities, but no one has been able to find him since he left the play a few nights ago. And now with poor ol’ Gideon—St. Mars, don’t you know—vanishing—well, they are saying that he must be embroiled with the Pretender, too, and likely the pair of them have gone to join him. There is a motion before Parliament to strip my cousin of his honours, and they say it has every likelihood of passing.”

  As Hester gave a distressed gasp, Mrs. Mayfield uttered a cry. “Oh, my dear Sir Harrowby!” Revived, she could hardly contain her elation. With an adoring gaze, she dropped into a profound curtsy. “Forgive me, I should say, ‘Lord Hawkhurst’, for such you will surely be. My most ardent prayers for you have just been answered.”

  She turned a beaming face to her daughter. “Isabella, is it not wonderful that our dearest friend in the world should have come by such wonderful fortune?”

  Indeed, Isabella was so overcome that tears sprang into her eyes. “Oh, my dear Sir Harrowby.”

  “You must not call him that now, foolish girl. He must be ‘my lord’ now.”

  Harrowby beamed, with no trace of emotion that remotely approached either guilt or humility. He did not notice that Hester refrained from adding her congratulations to theirs. All she could think was that St. Mars would be unjustly deprived of his rights and possessions.

  The travesty made her furious even as she accepted that his flight might have spared him a much worse fate. He would not have to languish behind bars, as she had pictured him half the night. He would not have to face execution, as fantastic as that possibility had seemed. The news that he was gone, however, was very painful. She could never hope to see him again. But at least he was free.

  Harrowby—for Hester promised herself never to think of him as Lord Hawkhurst—accepted their praises, then made as if to go.

  “No, no!” Mrs. Mayfield quickly stopped him. “You would not be so cruel as to leave us before we have drunk a toast to your good fortune. Let me call for a bottle of champagne. We must be allowed to celebrate.”

  Hester observed that he had probably drunk a round or two with his friends before c
oming, but she would not interfere with Mrs. Mayfield’s plans. Whatever her aunt had in mind, it could not be as horrible as the thought of Isabella’s marrying Mr. Letchworth.

  Isabella had embraced the role her mother had designed for her. She urged Harrowby to take a chair, then sat on the floor to worship at his feet. She leaned against his knee while, with an engaging innocence, she clutched his hand to her cheek.

  With Isabella smiling up at him and occasionally drawing his dangling fingers near her modesty piece, it was no wonder that colour began to infuse his cheeks.

  Mrs. Mayfield pressed a glass into his free hand. She watched him drink, then made certain he was poured more and more. Mother and daughter kept up a lively chatter, wanting to hear about his plans for taking over Rotherham Abbey, wondering when he would move into Hawkhurst House, asking him what sort of entertainments he would give. And throughout the merry talk, both women gave him the impression that he was a hero to be adored.

  Before long he forgot that he had intended to leave. He stared dazedly into Isabella’s eyes with a happy, half-satiated smile. Isabella alternated between shy, downcast glances and eager gazes filled with rapt admiration and a soft, seductive charm. Taking an occasional sip of her own champagne for courage, she laughed unrestrainedly at Harrowby’s addled jokes, no matter that they were becoming more suggestive with every passing minute.

  Gazing on them with a look of indulgent approval, Mrs. Mayfield suddenly turned to Hester. “I would like you to fetch my fur tippet. It is all the excitement, I make no doubt, but I’m getting gooseflesh on my limbs. I left it upstairs in my wardrobe. You should have no trouble in finding it.”

  Aside from the unusual degree of courtesy in her aunt’s request, there was nothing in it to take Hester by surprise. She was used to Mrs. Mayfield’s demands. On this occasion, she was even glad for the opportunity to escape from the parlour, for she had never enjoyed the spectacle of intoxicated persons, and it appeared that Harrowby and Isabella were both headed that way.