Undone - Virginia Henley

by Virginia Henley

  In the dining room on their last evening, the gentlemen lingered over their port and Irish whiskey, recounting tales of the great hunting and lamenting over the fish and game that had gotten away.

  "You're silent tonight, brother. Don't tell me this ill-begotten land has enchanted you."

  John Campbell smiled. "Just thinking of a rare bird I saw by the river--far too lovely to bag."

  "Speaking of rare birds," Michael Boyle interjected, "my cousin Lady Charlotte is to be presented to Will's father, the Viceroy, at Dublin Castle's drawing room next week. She's of high enough rank that she'll be able to sit on the dais with His Excellency. It will give you a damn good chance to look her over, Will."

  "Go over her fine points again," William Cavendish urged.

  "Let's see, a brother and sister died in infancy, leaving her the sole heiress of my extremely wealthy uncle, Third Earl of Burlington. She'll not only inherit the Piccadilly mansion and the Palladian villa by the Thames at Chiswick but will get the Boyle estates at Londesborough and Bolton Abbey in Yorkshire. Need I mention the vast tract of land in County Waterford, crowned by the magnificent Castle of Lismore?"

  "No, you needn't mention Lismore, 'tis the jewel of Ireland." Will's mouth curved with desire. "I think I'm already in love."

  "Love!" John Campbell mocked. "We all know there is no such thing. Love is a foolish fantasy indulged in by females only."

  "Well, let's hope my valet packed my ballroom shoes so that I may dance attendance upon Lady Charlotte and lure her into indulging her foolish fantasy."

  "Surely, in Dublin, it won't be all rigid formality?" Henry Campbell asked with dread.

  "I'm afraid it is patterned after the Court at St. James." Will's eyelid drooped in a wink. "However, since Father's vice regal appointment as Governor of Ireland is up, he'll turn a blind eye on the final night of his term. The champagne will flow and a saturnalia will prevail to ensure a successful reign."

  "Thank God for that! I wouldn't want a cold bed on my last night in Ireland," Henry jested.

  "You'll have your choice of attractive matrons, or the pretty daughters of solicitors or physicians who have little social rank, but the _debutantes_ who are to be presented are absolutely 'off limits' for dalliance. Marriage proposals are the only offers they may consider," John Campbell warned his younger brother.

  "Mother would run mad and Father disinherit me if I even thought of bringing home an Irish bride. Being the heir, your case is even worse, John. Sometimes I believe that none less than royal blood will be deemed good enough to mate with Argyll."

  "Ha! You don't imagine Hanover blood would measure up to His Grace's expectations, do you? Scots and Germans may share a battlefield but not a marriage bed, I can assure you."

  "My sister Rachel has a secret _tendre_ for you, John. You could do worse, you know--as the eldest daughter she'll come into a good deal of wealth and property," Will Cavendish pointed out.

  "Lady Rachel was being courted by Lord Orford last time I was in London," John Campbell demurred.

  "Well, she can't wait forever for you to declare yourself," William teased.

  "Our mother has a bevy of aristocratic ladies she is grooming as contenders to become John's wife. There's Mary Montagu, the Duke of Buccleuch's daughter, Dorothy Howard, the Earl of Carlisle's daughter, and Henrietta Neville, the Earl of Westmorland's chit."

  When his friends raised their eyebrows, questioning if there was a front runner, John laughed and shook his head. "There's safety in numbers, thank God!" Though he jested, he knew it was his duty to marry well, and his family was pressuring him to stop putting it off. Even Will was coming to terms with the fact that he must marry soon and beget heirs. Duty to family was paramount.

  Will stood up and stretched. "If we get an early enough start tomorrow we should make it to the Black Bull Inn. They have a large coachyard and hostlers aplenty to take care of our cattle."

  "The Black Bull gets my vote," Michael agreed, "they have a very good cellar and will even roast our own venison, if bribed."

  Thanks to the diligence of their servants, the travelers got an early start and the four companions were in the saddle before seven the next morning, galloping well ahead of their carriages.

  The high spirits of the Gunnings had drained away by the time they'd been on the road for six hours on the second day and weariness set in. The steady diet of turnips did nothing to lift their mood, and their slow progress, which made the journey seem endless, did nothing to soothe Bridget Gunning's irascible temper.

  Elizabeth felt so sorry for the mule with its heavy burden that she refused to ride in the cart. Instead she held its reins and walked beside it, encouraging it with soft words or sometimes a song. She'd known from the beginning that she'd be walking for most of the journey; it was the reason she'd put on her leather boots that first morning. In the afternoon, to make matters worse, the rain started. Once Irish rain began, it fell in a steady drizzle for days. With unwavering stoicism, Beth pulled her woolen shawl up over her head and patiently urged the mule to plod on to Dublin.

  * * *

  Long hours in the saddle had little effect on John Campbell or his brother, who were both military men. In the late afternoon, however, as the light faded from the leaden sky, they gladly joined their companions in seeking the comfort of their berline traveling coach as shelter from the bone-chilling Irish rain.

  Presently, however, the entourage found itself slowed by a plodding mule cart. The coach driver made several attempts to pass, by whipping up the horses, but the road simply wasn't wide enough. Finally, William Cavendish opened the window and gave instructions to the driver. "Get the damned fellow off the road while we pass. We haven't got all night, Bagshot."

  "Aye, my lord." Bagshot stopped the carriage and set the brake.

  Then he strode through the rain to the wagon. "My good fellow, your turnip cart is blocking the road. Their lordships are due at the Black Bull Inn and shan't arrive until midnight at this rate," he told the farmhand in the shabby coat and soaking cap.

  "My heart goes out to them," Jack Gunning replied cheerfully.

  "No, you don't understand. You must get off the road and let our carriages pass."

  Jack looked over at his daughter, who was patiently holding the mule by its harness and stroking its muzzle. "No, _you_ don't understand. _We_ have the right-of-way."

  Beth pulled her shawl closer and bit her lip to keep from laughing. Her father was enjoying himself at the driver's expense.

  "These traveling coaches belong to His Excellency, the Viceroy of Ireland. Surely, you will oblige him?"

  "The Viceroy is a generous man, I've heard tell, and wouldn't be averse to a little compensation for such a great favor."

  The coachman reluctantly reached into his greatcoat pocket for a coin. "What do you say to a shilling?"

  Jack took the coin and bit down on it. "A shilling sounds about right for me. Now, what are you willing to offer the mule here?"

  Purple in the face, the coachman handed over a sovereign and strode back to the carriage. He was subjected to laughter from the mule cart and laughter from the young lordlings in the coach. He cursed under his breath. "That cost me a bleedin' sovereign."

  "That's why we're laughing, Bagshot. You didn't even have the presence of mind to get us a turnip!"

  Within the hour the four gentlemen were seated around a roaring fire drinking mulled ale, while a haunch of their own venison turned on a spit in the inn's vast kitchen. The dozen carriage horses had been unharnessed and taken to a barn with dry straw. Their thoroughbreds were stabled, curried, fed, and covered with horse blankets. Their hunting dogs had been kenneled, and their servants were seated in the common room enjoying steaming bowls of mutton stew.

  It was more than two hours later that the weary mule plodded into the yard of the Black Bull. At the kitchen door Jack Gunning bartered two dozen turnips for a night's shelter in the barn, while his wife petulantly parted with tuppence for some hot roasted
potatoes. Jack unhitched the mule and brought it inside, then they all four sank down on the straw to eat their supper.

  Unlike the others, Elizabeth did not devour her potato. She held it in her hands, its heat seeping into her fingers. Then she lifted it to her nose and breathed in its delicious aroma. When her belly started to rumble and her mouth began to water, she allowed herself a small bite. She relished the earthy taste of the potato's soft white inside and saved the skin until last. She chewed slowly, savoring the thick roasted outside and sighed with deep appreciation as she swallowed the last mouthful.

  "There you are, my beauties, snug as bugs in a rug," Jack declared expansively.

  "More like drowned rats!" Bridget countered. While their mother angrily spread their soaked shawls to dry, Maria pulled the quilt from her carpetbag and crawled beneath it. Beth, dreading her mother's mood, went over to look at the carriage horses. Though their size dwarfed her, she felt no apprehension as she stroked their necks and whispered to them. She had an affinity for all animals, wild or domesticated, and they in turn welcomed her affection.

  When she returned, she was dragging a leather feed bag behind her, excited at the treasure she'd discovered. "Real oats! Would you believe they feed the carriage horses real oats?" She straggled to lift the bag over their mule's head.

  "Oats? Don't let the mule eat them, you thoughtless girl!" Bridget protested angrily. "We can have porridge tomorrow."

  "Oh, please don't take them away from her," Elizabeth begged. "There's plenty more over there. I'll fetch some."

  Jack stood up and brushed the straw from his behind. "Well, if you're all right and tight my beauties, I'll go and try my luck in the common room."

  "I'll have that sovereign before you go gaming, Jack Gunning!"

  Bridget took the gold coin and gave him a shilling in its stead.

  He winked at his wife. "It'll be like taking jam from a baby."

  "If that coachman's in there, it might be more like getting blood from a turnip," she taunted with exquisite sarcasm.

  Elizabeth shuddered. _Mother always gets the last word_. She took off her boots and slipped under the quilt beside Maria. She was asleep in minutes, far too weary to dream tonight.

  *Chapter Three*

  The four noble friends were given accommodation adjacent to the Viceroy's state apartments in Dublin Castle. Though it was neither picturesque nor had much architectural merit, at least they had good views of the Liffey and the Irish Sea. Though the castle was crowded to the rafters, they secured a dressing room where their valets could sleep, but their other servants had to make do in the Quadrangle situated in the lower castle yard.

  They were welcomed by the Viceroy himself, Will's father, the Duke of Devonshire. Before they even had a chance to unpack they were drinking his private stock of smoky Irish whiskey.

  "Your Grace, allow me to be among the first to congratulate you on your new appointment as Lord Steward of the Royal Household." John Campbell saluted William's father with his glass.

  "Why, thank you, John. Your grandfather, Argyll, was Lord Steward to King George I, if I remember correctly?"

  "That's right, Your Grace, and my father is Master of His Majesty's Household for the Kingdom of Scotland."

  "That's a heritable post that will come to you someday, isn't it, John? Appointments handed down from father to son are more advantageous by far." He drained his whiskey and continued, "We are in for some fun Friday evening--a command performance of David Garrick and Peg Woffington at Smock Alley Theater. The carriages leave at seven promptly. That Peg is a fine figure of a woman. She's staying here at the castle and, by God, if Garrick didn't watch her like a dog with a bone, I'd have a go, slap me if I wouldn't!" He reached for the decanter. "Then Saturday night, to finish with a bang, we're having presentations and the grand ball. Anything at all you need, just ask the Court staff."

  As they left the Viceroy, Henry Campbell jested, "I wonder what the staff would say if I asked for a strumpet on a crumpet?"

  "Wouldn't raise an eyebrow--they'd simply supply you with the address of the nearest brothel," William murmured with a wink.

  "Which happens to be the Brazen Bitch in Trollop Street

  ," Michael provided. "The Irish are so literal."

  "If we're not attending the theater until Friday, why waste tonight?" Henry asked. "I'm ready for a command performance now!"

  When the Gunnings finally arrived in Dublin, they made their way across O'Connell Bridge to the heart of the city that was dominated by Dublin Castle. They entered Temple Bar area, a maze of crooked, cobblestone nooks and crannies, and rented a room off Dame Street

  by the River Liffey. It had two beds, a wooden table and chairs, a wash stand with a tin tub, and most important, a small hearth.

  As the girls set their carpetbags on a bed, Jack carried in a stack of what looked like dried sod. "Now you see why I helped myself to the Black Bull's supply of peat. These streets by the river are damp even in August, but with a cookshop at one end and a pub at the other, we have everything we need. There's no shortage of water, and we'll even be able to heat it on the fire."

  "Well, what are you waiting for?" Bridget asked, thrusting a jug at Maria and a bucket at Elizabeth. "I noticed a pump up the street. You can use the tin tub to scrub yourselves, then we'll use the water for our clothes. Every stitch we own needs washing."

  "My love, the girls are exhausted," Jack protested. "Let them have a good sleep before you put them to work."

  "I want them to be spotless, with clean clothes and shining hair, when I take them to the theater. They'll never get work on the stage unless they are looking their very best!"

  "You are right as always, Bridget my love, but they won't look their best with pinched faces and dark smudges of fatigue beneath their lovely eyes. Why don't the three of you get your beauty rest, while I take the turnips to the market and get us our money? I've paid a week's rent and, when I come back, I'll pay for another week. You don't need to scrub clothes or wash their hair until tomorrow to prepare for their visit with your friend Peg."

  Two days later, Bridget Gunning ushered her daughters into the famous Smock Alley Theater and asked to be directed to the dressing room of the leading actress, Miss Woffington. The girls' dresses were freshly laundered, their beautiful tresses washed and curled to perfection, and their spirits high with expectation at meeting the greatest actress of their time. Their faces radiated pure joy.

  When Woffington's dresser opened the door to the visitors, Peg jumped up from her dressing table with a cry of delight. "Bridget Gunning, I'd know you anywhere--you haven't changed one iota!"

  Bridget preened at the welcome reception by her old friend and, taking her eldest daughter's hand, propelled her to the center of the room. "_This_ is Maria," she announced with overweening pride.

  "You are as tall as a man!" Maria exclaimed.

  Peg laughed with genuine amusement. "Well, I haven't grown since the last time I saw you, but you certainly have, child."

  Elizabeth blushed at her sister's inappropriate remark. Peg was strikingly tall and slim, and though she was not conventionally beautiful, she had vivid Titian hair, expressive green eyes, and a vivacious personality that captivated in such a compelling way it was hard to pull your gaze away from her laughing face.

  Peg held out both hands. "And you must be Elizabeth. What an enchanting poppet you were last time we met." She twirled her about to get a good look, then drew up a wing chair for Bridget and sent Dora, her dresser, for tea and cakes before she turned her attention back to the Gunning girls. "I simply cannot believe it! Cannot _believe_ it!" She threw back her head and laughed with delight. "It is rare when one is blessed with a daughter of exceptional beauty, but you have _two_ such exquisite creatures!"

  "I knew it was more than motherly pride, Peg, for people stare and gape at them in the street."

  "There are many beauties lauded in Society--and usually the larger the dower, the prettier the young lady in question--
but your daughters are true beauties, natural beauties, without the artifice of dress, makeup, or fortune. 'Tis no wonder people stare at them. They stand out like two Thoroughbred racehorses among a stable of cart horses. Nay, a better analogy would be fine crystal vessels amidst a table filled with thick glass jars."

  "I am very proud of Maria's hair. I've never seen more beautiful tresses in Ireland, or in London itself, for that matter."

  "Yes, she has the classic beauty of silver-gilt hair and oval face, giving her the angelic quality to which our society aspires, but Elizabeth I think has the more unusual and arresting beauty. Her hair is the color of molten gold, and her violet eyes in her heart-shaped face hint at a burning flame hidden deep within."

  "I want them to have the chance on the stage that I never had," Bridget said passionately. "They can both sing and dance and act. They practice a play every night before bed and each has prepared something from Shakespeare for you."

  "How ambitious. You fair take my breath away!" The dresser came back carrying a huge tray of refreshments. "Let's have our tea first, then you can both perform for me," Peg invited.

  Maria took a cake, ate it quickly, then reached for another. Elizabeth's eyes shone with delight as she gazed at the tray of confections. Simply looking at them brought her pleasure; choosing one added to her enjoyment. Finally, she picked one that was smaller than the others, but its pink icing and silver balls marked it as the daintiest. As she bit into it she raised her eyes and saw that Peg was watching her, and her cheeks turned the same delicate hue as the cake's icing and she lowered her lashes shyly. Her actions showed such vulnerability that Peg was enchanted.

  When she poured the tea and handed round the cups and saucers she saw that the Gunning daughters could have been taking tea in the finest parlor in England. Their manners would have done them credit at St. James's Palace, and Peg flashed her friend a look of admiration for teaching them how to acquit themselves well in company. When they were finished, Peg folded her napkin. "Now we are fortified, you may recite your Shakespeare, but pray don't think of this as an audition. Try to enjoy yourselves!"