by M. C. Beaton
“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.
“Where shall we begin?” asked the earl.
Emily all at once did not want to go straight to the dressmaker—this dressmaker whom the earl obviously knew so well. Had he taken his mistress there? “Perhaps we could find some place where I might buy a few feathers for my bonnets,” she said. Gypsy bonnets embellished with lots of feathers were all the rage.
“Very well,” he said, turning toward Oxford Street. Emily wished he did not have so very great a knowledge of where to buy ladies’ apparel.
They went to Nicholay’s Fur and Feather Manufactory at 82 Oxford Street. Although Oxford Street was not as fashionable as Tottenham Court Road, Nicholay’s was considered the plumassier. But even here, his lordship was obviously well known. A shadow fell on Emily’s sunny face.
“In my youth,” murmured the earl, waving a long ostrich plume to and fro and studying Emily’s downcast face, “I was a frequent customer here. I found it a useful place to buy presents for my lady relatives.”
Emily brightened immediately and bought three splendid plumes for herself, and three to send home to Mary. He had, after all, more or less told her she was the only lady in his life. Emily found herself looking forward to the visit to the dressmaker.
The dressmaker’s rooms were at the top of a winding flight of stairs in Piccadilly, that fashionable thoroughfare named after the peccadilloes—those lacy cuffs worn by the cavaliers. Madame Dupont, the dressmaker, did not betray by even the flicker of an eyelid that she had seen the earl before. Naturally, a ball gown could not be made, especially at such short notice, said madame with a deprecating spread of her long, thin hands, but it so happened that a certain Lady of Quality had commissioned a splendid ball gown, but had had to leave the country before it was delivered.
Emily looked doubtful. She did not like the idea of buying a dress that had been made for someone else, but on the other hand, there was no other way she could get a new ball gown so quickly. Her doubts fled when Madame Dupont’s assistants carried in the gown. It was a slim underdress of blond silk with an overdress of blond lace. Madame Dupont led her to another room to try it on. It would only need a few pins and tucks to make it a perfect fit. Saying that she would have the gown altered and sent round to the Countess of Devenham’s address, Madame Dupont left her assistants to help Emily back into her own clothes.
When Emily quietly entered Madame Dupont’s salon some fifteen minutes later, the earl gave her a quick, almost embarrassed look and thrust what looked like a bill into his pocket. Emily’s doubts and fears swooped back to plague her again. Madame Dupont would never dream of presenting a bill for the new ball gown so quickly; therefore, it must be some outstanding bill. Whose bill? What woman? Made pettish by anxiety, Emily refused her husband’s offer of tea at Gunters, saying she wished to go home and rest before preparing for the ball.
The earl looked at her downcast face and inwardly cursed Cordelia Haddington. How could she be so vulgar as to order gowns from Madame Dupont and then tell the dressmaker to present him with the bills? He longed to say something to Emily to remove the worried, disappointed look from her face, but anything he could think of saying would, he was sure, only make matters worse.
Emily went to bed as soon as they returned home, but she could not sleep. On the one hand she longed to believe her husband was now faithful to her, but a nasty little voice in her brain kept insisting he was lying.
Felice was in good spirits as she helped prepare her mistress for the ball. She had felt Emily’s failure to attract her husband reflected badly on the expertise of Lady Devenham’s lady’s maid. She was almost prepared to forget about the charms of her beloved footman, if only her mistress would take her rightful place in society.
There was a lazy Miaow from behind Felice as she heated the curling tongs on the spirit stove. That cat! Felice, like the other servants, was all too aware of my lord’s views on Peter. It was unnatural for my lady to dote on the animal so. On the other hand, any further attempt to get rid of the animal would, Felice was sure, result in her instant dismissal. With expert fingers, she teased and arranged Emily’s hair into a mass of carefully disarranged curls.
“Felice,” said Emily, looking blankly at her own reflection in the mirror. “London is a very wicked place sometimes.”
“Indeed, my lady?” said the maid. “It is like other English places, I think.”
“No. I have noticed that the gentlemen consider it quite the thing to have … to have mistresses.”
“La.” Felice rolled her eyes. So that was the way of it. She, Felice, had heard of Mrs. Haddington. “That may be, my lady,” she said cautiously, “but the gentlemen are fortunate in that no gently-bred English lady would admit to the existence of such a creature.”
Emily looked up quickly at the guarded expression on the maid’s face and sighed. So even Felice knew. If only she could believe Peregrine—believe that the other woman in his life was now gone forever. There was that bill.
She stood up so that Felice could put her ball gown over her head and tie the tapes. “We must be quick, my lady,” urged Felice. “My lord already awaits you.”
Emily looked at the clock. Eight! She had thought they would not leave for at least another hour.
“It is very early, Felice.”
“I think my lord he plan to make the other calls.”
Emily frowned and bit her lip. That meant, like most of society, the earl had decided to call for ten minutes at several routs and parties before going to the ball. She had hoped to arrive at the ball, fresh, rested, and looking her best. But various jostlings and crushings beforehand would mean arriving fussed, nervous, and already tired. Not guessing that her husband meant to demonstrate to as many members of Polite Society as quickly as possible his good relations with his wife, Emily went downstairs feeling cross and worried and already prepared to find fault with him.
When she saw him waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, with candlelight shining on the thick waves of his black hair, and when he smiled up at her in a heart-wrenching way, Emily’s doubts began to melt. The earl noticed the glow in his wife’s eyes and how the beauty of her golden hair was highlighted by the gold of her gown, and he cursed himself for having ignored her for so long.
“Do we have many calls to make, Peregrine?” asked Emily. “I had hoped to go directly to the ball, you see.”
The earl hesitated. It would be romantic, be wonderful to drive with her through the parks in the old gold light of the setting sun and watch the London sky turn pale green and then purple and look at the ghostly boughs of th
e apple trees laden down with blossom. On the other hand, he must, for her sake, demonstrate to the polite world that he loved his wife and no other woman.
“It will not take us long to make a few calls,” he said, draping her Norfolk shawl over her shoulders.
London had just recovered from an influenza epidemic. The illness or the fear of it had kept the ton at home. Now, with this first glorious spring evening and with the spectre of illness fled from the social scene, the fashionables were out in force. The first rout was a nightmare for country-bred Emily. Where was the joy in dressing up in order to fight one’s way up a narrow staircase, to be jostled and pushed and pulled, and then, after ten minutes, to fight one’s way back down? The earl’s broad shoulders and steadying arm protected Emily from the worst of the buffets, but other ladies screamed and fainted, gentlemen swore and punched, and outside the coachmen came to blows trying to find the best place for their masters’ carriage.
After two more such calls, even the earl was forced to notice his pretty wife was beginning to look nervous and jaded. He was used to such affairs himself and used to the company of Cordelia, who, like the rest of society, never rated a rout a success unless one had been nearly crushed to death in the crowd. He smiled ruefully at Emily. “We will go to the ball now, my love. I am sorry I put you to so much discomfort.”
Again, Emily’s spirits soared. Those two little words “my love” went straight to her heart, and she smiled at him shyly.
It was wonderful to leave the smells and rumble and jostle of London behind as they rolled past the toll at Hyde Park and then out on the road to Kensington, which was scented with the fresh smell of flowers from all the nurseries on either side.
Kensington nurseries supplied fruit, flowers, and vegetables for the London market, and the only people who did not enjoy the pleasure of the old court suburb were the huntsmen. The Berkeley hounds hunted right up to Kensington Gardens. Lord Alvanley complained that the melon and asparagus beds in the market gardens made the going “devilish heavy … up to our hocks in glass all day.”
Lord and Lady Foss had moved from town to Kensington, claiming the more salubrious air did wonders for the spleen. They had a very pretty villa not far from Brompton Gardens. As they drew up under the shadow of the portico and Emily heard the thud of feet and the scraping of the fiddles, she found herself hoping there would not be quite so many people as there had been at the routs in London.
But as the earl helped her down from the carriage, she could hear more carriages arriving, and the villa already seemed to be full. The ton called themselves The Exclusives and went to great lengths to invent shibboleths and taboos to exclude the mushrooms and Cits. Nonetheless, thought Emily dismally, there seemed to be a horrendous number of people in London society, and all of them, if not already in the villa, were on the point of arrival.
As she went into an anteroom to leave her shawl and repair the damage to her hair, she wished she had brought Felice along. Felice, with her sharp eyes and sharp elbows, would soon have found a place in front of the mirror for my lady. As it was, Emily had to compete with seasoned hands who thrust her aside quite rudely.
Feeling cross, hot, and disheveled, she made only minor adjustments to her appearance by standing on tiptoe and craning her neck to see her reflection in the glass.
The earl did not seem to notice her ruffled manner and appearance as he led her into the ballroom. No sooner had Emily made her curtsy to her host and hostess than a young man came up and begged for the honor of a dance. The earl had already half turned away to talk to someone, so Emily allowed herself to be led away. It was an energetic country dance which went on for at least half an hour. When it was over, she promenaded with her partner. There was no sign of her husband. She was then surrounded by a court of admirers begging for the next dance. Emily was a success. She was vowed the most beautiful woman of the evening. But her success meant nothing to her. All she understood was that all these irritating men with their heavy gallantries were keeping her from the arms of her husband.
The earl had removed himself to the card room after noting his young wife’s success. He was very proud of her and, although it hurt to see her dancing with other men, he judged that any lady must be thrilled to be the belle of the ball, and he felt that by leaving her for a short while to enjoy her success, he was in some way making amends for his previous neglect, not realizing that to Emily his present behavior was simply an extension of that very neglect.
Her smile grew more fixed. Her sharp ears began to pick up snatches of gossip, until she became so hypersensitive that she began to wonder whether she was in fact hearing gossip which had never been spoken. “The Countess of Devenham is in looks,” a shrill voice said, floating across the musk-laden air. “It is a pity, when one thinks of it …” And then the music rose to a crescendo, blotting out the rest of the words.
What is a pity? thought Emily. That he is unfaithful to me?
Her husband appeared suddenly to claim her hand for the next dance. If only it had been the waltz! But it was a lively Scotch reel, which afforded no opportunity for conversation.
Here I am, thought Emily, somewhat hysterically, craving the chance to speak to my own husband. It is ridiculous. And above and below the energetic fiddling came snatches of gossip. “Tis said that Devenham …”
“… in looks tonight … the first time I have seen her … never takes her anywhere and of course one knows why….”
And so by the time she found herself promenading on her husband’s arm, Emily felt too demoralized to utter a word. The earl looked anxiously at her downcast face and then to where the long windows at the end of the ballroom were open to the calm night. He was just about to suggest they take a stroll in the garden when Lord Brockenham, fat and cheerful, came bouncing up to solicit Emily’s hand for the waltz. The earl bowed gracefully and withdrew.
Lord Brockenham was in high alt. He had formed a tendre for Emily and he was glad to see her on such evidently good terms with her husband, for Lord Brockenham delighted in forming hopeless passions. Had Emily liked the vase he had sent? Emily bowed her head and murmured it was beautiful, but unfortunately it had fallen by accident and was now broken. Lord Brockenham vowed cheerfully to “throw” her another.
Dying to lay the latest piece of London gossip at the feet of his adored, Lord Brockenham chattered on. Had Lady Devenham ever heard the on-dit about the Duke of Wellington’s marriage? What had happened, Lord Brockenham continued, not waiting for an answer, was that the Iron Duke had received a great shock when he saw Kitty Packenham, the lady who was to become his duchess. She had been pretty Kitty when she rejected his suit in 1793, but her appearance in 1806 when he wed her was another matter. “She has grown ugly, by Jove,” the Duke had whispered in the ear of his clergyman brother, Gerald, who was to marry them. “So much for all those endearing young charms,” laughed Lord Brockenham. “Not so endearing after all. “
“It must have been a very great shock to him,” said Emily softly, although she was thinking of her husband. “He must have loved her very much to have waited for her for so long.”
“He wasn’t in love with her,” said Lord Brockenham.”He was talked into it. People said she had waited for him and so he felt obliged to marry her.”
Was that how Peregrine felt about Mary? Emily wondered. But his welcoming kiss that had been meant for Mary was not that of a cold man who had fallen out of love a long time ago. Oh, dear, perhaps he loved Mary still! Perhaps he had not had a mistress. Perhaps that shadowy woman she had sensed in his life was his longing for Mary. And thus her thoughts went round and round like a fire dog turning the spit.
When the earl at last came to claim her and suggest a walk in the garden, Emily, near to tears, snapped that she was hungry, had had practically no food all day, and did he mean to starve her? Looking into her angry, troubled eyes, the earl felt depressed and sad. It was all hopeless. There was no way Emily was going to fall in love with him now. He led her into su
pper and treated her with aloof courtesy.
Emily thought he would surely notice her misery and at least ask her what was wrong. She did not know that she merely looked sulky, since a young and beautiful face is not made to reflect tragedy.
Out in the ballroom, as if to mock her, the band began to play Thomas Moore’s beautiful song written to celebrate the Duke of Wellington’s marriage to his Kitty. “Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms” seemed to pound against her ears.
Like Emily, the earl felt so sick and miserable that he thought she might have at least asked him what the matter was. But Emily simply thought he looked bad-tempered and bored.
By the time they were in their carriage and heading homeward, they had both given up any attempt at conversation. The earl was thinking that it was a dismal state of affairs when a man comes home to an empty bed while his young bride sleeps with the cat.
But when they reached their town house, his courage had somewhat returned. Emily looked so beautiful, so fragile in the swaying light of the carriage lamp. He would take her in his arms and kiss her. If she rebuffed him, then that would be the end of that. But at least he could try.
It was like a douche of cold water to find the Ansteys sitting there waiting for them. The earl bowed stiffly and begged to be excused. He muttered something about seeing them at a more respectable hour and took himself upstairs to bed, leaving Emily to comfront them alone.
The Ansteys assumed Emily had heard all the gossip about Cordelia Haddington. Therefore, a bewildered Emily found herself being hugged and kissed and mourned over as all the burning, malicious on-dits about Cordelia rose and fell about her ears.
She put up one little hand as if to ward off the clamor. “Enough!” said Mary to Mr. and Mrs. Anstey, noticing her sister’s white and stricken face. “I feel we have done a terrible thing. Poor Emily did not know anything of this.”