Cygnet

by Hiatt, Brenda

  * * *

  CHAPTER 3

  The term "card-party" had suggested to both Celeste and Deirdre a small, informal gathering, but they found immediately upon their arrival at Lady Thumble's that they were far off the mark. The small ballroom had been set with numerous tables for four, as whist was to be the order of the evening, but many more people had obviously been invited than the card tables would accommodate. A lavish buffet was laid out in the supper-room adjoining the ballroom, with additional tables intended for the diners.

  Althea, considering herself jointly responsible with the Baroness for launching Celeste successfully, had invited every eligible bachelor she could think of, as well as a few literary types for Deirdre's sake. As this was not to be a formal dinner-party, she cared not if the numbers came out evenly and there was a preponderance of gentlemen as a result.

  "Mama, are not Althea's decorations lovely? And did you ever see such an elegant crowd?" exclaimed Celeste after nearly thirty seconds of unwonted speechlessness at the scene. Indeed, Lady Thumble had outdone herself by having the tables laid with cloths of every colour of the rainbow. Paper flowers of similarly varied hues hung from hooks along the walls as well as from the sconces, and adorned each table so liberally as to almost certainly interfere with card-playing.

  Deirdre thought the total effect rather overpowering, but could not be surprised that it met with her sister's approval, as Althea and Celeste shared a preference for vivid colours. Celeste herself looked like a princess from a fairy-tale in her sky-blue satin evening gown with a pink gauze overdrape. Flowers of brighter pink and blue were woven through her gleaming gold tresses, which were piled intricately on top of her head, save for a cloud of ringlets arranged artfully about her winsome face.

  Deirdre, on the other hand, bore an unfortunate resemblance to an upper servant in her plain, silver-grey gown ornamented only by narrow ruffles of silver lace at wrists and hem, at least according to their mother. But the contrast between her sister's attire and her own bothered her not at all. She looked about eagerly at the gathering guests, wondering if Lord Byron might have been invited.

  "Oh, Althea, everything is simply beautiful!" cried Celeste as their hostess approached to greet them. "And I'm simply dying to meet some of the gentlemen —and ladies, too, of course," she added quickly, catching her mother's frown. "We have been introduced to no one in Town thus far and I am like to die of loneliness!"

  Althea gave her a quick hug, with a smile for Deirdre and their mother. "Well, we certainly cannot have that, sweetheart. That is why I made sure to invite so many eligible partis. Now, Lord Linley over there is merely a viscount, but wealthier than many more highly titled gentlemen, and he has already expressed a desire to meet you. Fear not, though, for I also intend to bring you to the attention of a duke or two...."

  She and Celeste went off arm in arm to meet the gentlemen, Lady Penrose and Deirdre following more slowly. "I vow, Althea has not changed a bit, and Celeste is so very like her," the Baroness murmured, smiling fondly after them. "Come, Didi, I shall introduce you to Lady Heatherton, who was my dearest friend some years ago. I believe she has a daughter your age making her come-out this Season, as well."

  It was a successful evening all round. Lady Thumble had the satisfaction of knowing that her card-party would be described as the first crush of the Season, graced as it was by nearly every political, literary and fashionable person of note already residing in the Capital. Lady Penrose had the pleasure of renewing several acquaintances, as well as that of seeing her darling Celeste surrounded by eligible young men like a flame by moths.

  Deirdre was equally pleased to see Celeste so universally admired, and had the added thrill of making the acquaintance of Mr. Walter Scott, who listened with apparent delight to her comments on The Vision of Don Roderick and Rokeby, and of Robert Southey, whose poetry she found unpleasantly macabre, but whose style she admired. He was an intimate of Samuel Coleridge and William Wordsworth, neither of whom were in London just then, and he mentioned their names with a casualness which Deirdre could only envy. What must it be like, she wondered wistfully, to live always in such circles, communing with such great minds as an equal?

  "You have a keen talent for critique," commented Southey after she had mentioned what she considered the high and low points of his The Curse of Kehama. "Do you write poetry as well?"

  "I... ah, yes. Yes I do, though of course it is nothing to—" She broke off, becoming aware that Althea was at her elbow, introducing another gentleman to her, a tall young man with a thin, clever-looking face and an astonishing pink-and-gold waistcoat.

  "Didi, my dear, this is the Honourable Jonas Flinder, son of Lord Mallencroft. I mentioned in his hearing that you dabbled in poetry and he immediately insisted upon meeting you. Mr. Flinder, my sister, Miss Deirdre Wheaton."

  Deirdre began automatically to say what was proper, but Mr. Flinder interrupted by seizing her hand without warning and exclaiming, "Have I at last found a lady who can appreciate the finer points of the highest art yet attained by man? How fortunate for us both that we have found each other! Pray let me hear one of your offerings to the Muse, Miss Wheaton!" Althea giggled uncertainly as Deirdre gently withdrew her hand, saying, "I am sorry, sir, but I never recite my own poetry. I much prefer speaking aloud that of others, my particular preference being the sonnets of William Shakespeare. Whose work do you most admire, Mr. Flinder?"

  This effort to put the conversation on a more conventional footing was successful and Althea left them deep in a discussion of the relative merits of Milton, Spenser and Dryden, feeling very pleased with herself.

  "Mama," she whispered to Lady Penrose a few minutes later, "I believe I have discovered just the man for little Didi. Look over there." She indicated the corner table where Deirdre and Mr. Flinder had retired to continue their conversation.

  "Who is he, my dear?" asked the Baroness with a lift of her brows.

  Althea told her, adding, "He is only a second, or perhaps third, son, to be sure, but I'm told his income is tolerable, and will increase somewhat upon his father's demise."

  Lady Penrose nodded her approval. Having Deirdre so easily settled would make the Season vastly more enjoyable for her, allowing her to concentrate all her energies on seeing that Celeste made the best possible match. Judging by her success tonight, her fond mama had begun to believe that even a duke might not be beyond her reach.

  With all so agreeably occupied, the evening passed swiftly for Lady Penrose and her daughters. Deirdre quite forgot her disappointment at Lord Byron's absence in the pleasure of the various literary acquaintances she had made. It was a thrill, hitherto unknown in her experience, to be included in their conversations and to have her opinions listened to as attentively as if she were an equal. Her discussion with Mr. Flinder was enjoyable as well, if not on so high a plane.

  It must have been near eleven when Deirdre looked up from the card-table where she was playing a hand of whist with Julia Heatherton, Mr. Flinder and a Mr. Miller, to see a gentleman who had apparently just that moment arrived. As he stood surveying the crowd from the far side of the room, Deirdre felt her heart give a sudden, unsettling thump.

  He was handsome, to be sure, with carelessly arranged dark hair and chiselled features, his athletic frame easily topping six feet; but there were any number of handsome gentlemen present tonight, none of whom had affected Deirdre in the least. It was not merely his face and figure, fine as they were, which caused Deirdre to misplay her hand, eliciting a crow of triumph from Miss Heatherton at her easy victory. There was something about him which seemed to call out to her, irresistibly drawing her attention. The man turned his head slightly and Deirdre felt as if an invisible hand squeezed her heart within her.

  "Excuse me," she said absently, rising abruptly from the table, to her companions' surprise. "I must speak with my sister."

  As if in a daze, still uncertain what was possessing her, Deirdre sought out Lady Thumble, who was giving one of the se
rvants instructions regarding the lobster patties. "Althea?" she murmured as soon as her sister had finished speaking. "Who is that man? No, the one over there, by the door."

  Lady Thumble turned to look. "He is come after all!" she exclaimed in obvious delight. "That is the Marquis of Wrotham, Didi, without a doubt the most sought-after bachelor in London these several Seasons past. I had not heard that he was in Town yet, though I sent him an invitation just in case. His being here is quite a coup for me, for he is extremely selective about the entertainments he attends. I must count myself lucky, I suppose, that nothing else of importance is taking place tonight."

  At another time, Deirdre might have remarked that the gentleman's late appearance showed a lack of regard for his hostess, but just now she was too distracted to think of it. Having read of the symptoms in hundreds, nay, thousands of love sonnets over the years (not to mention a few that she herself had written), Deirdre was beginning to realize what had befallen her: she had been smitten by that cherubic archer himself, Cupid. The shaft had struck with all the force and unexpectedness the little deity was famous for, and undoubtedly would be as impossible to extract.

  "... Is Celeste?" Althea was saying. "I must try to introduce her to his notice, though I can't in honesty expect that much will come of it. He has shown himself incredibly adept at avoiding parson's mousetrap thus far." If Deirdre had been attending, she might have suspected from her sister's aggrieved tone that Althea had been one of the ladies so disappointed.

  Just then Lady Penrose came hurrying up, Celeste in tow. "Althea, you sly thing! You said nothing about Wrotham being here tonight!"

  "Indeed, Mama, I thought he was still abroad," replied Lady Thumble, clearly still in a high state of excitement. "I must go greet him, of course. Celeste, if you would care for an introduction, I suggest that you accompany me."

  Deirdre hung back as her sisters and mother swept across to where the Marquis of Wrotham stood conversing with two other gentlemen. She was fully conscious, perhaps for the first time, of how drab and, well, mousy she looked compared to Celeste. And much of it her own doing! This was not the first impression she wanted to create in this man who affected her so profoundly. Besides, she realized, no one had so much as mentioned introducing her to him.

  She watched, from her position near the buffet tables, as he inclined his noble head, first to Althea and then to the Baroness, before taking Celeste's hand and bowing over it. Deirdre was vaguely relieved that he did not actually kiss it, as many of the other gentlemen had done. She could detect no particular warmth in his expression as he looked at Celeste, though she admitted to herself that she was likely seeing only what she wished to.

  He turned away soon to speak to others about the room, and Deirdre watched him closely, willing herself in vain to see him as no different from any other distinguished, handsome gentleman in the house. It was no use. The more she tried to convince herself that she was merely tired, or that he simply reminded her of someone she had once known, the more certain she became that she was in the grip of the poets' most exalted emotion.

  I shall simply ignore it, she told herself finally. There are such things as fleeting passions, as well as lasting ones. Perhaps this is one of the former; indeed, it must be, for I don't even know the man. Surely it is not possible to form a true attachment to someone without so much as speaking to him!

  Having resolved this, Deirdre sought out Miss Heatherton again. Although she had discovered her to be a frivolous, insipid girl, in whose company she found no particular delight, she also suspected that she was not particularly bright, and perceptiveness was one thing Deirdre wished to avoid until she had herself completely in hand.

  "Shall we finish our rubber now, Didi?" asked Julia as she came up. Deirdre winced, wishing fleetingly that her mother had not introduced her by the family nickname, but assented readily.

  "Let us try to find our partners again," she suggested. During the search, Julia chattered cheerfully about last Season's scandals, the present one being too new to have yet generated any gossip worthy of note. Deirdre felt her emotions settling as she listened to the other girl's prattle; what she had felt before had doubtless been a simple affliction of the nerves, she decided.

  Catching another glimpse of Lord Wrotham as they attempted to locate Mr. Miller, however, she was dismayed to find her pulse behaving much as it had at her first sight of him. Firmly, she looked away, determined to control such unseemly emotion.

  They had scarcely begun to play again when Lady Penrose motioned Deirdre to her side to inform her that they would be leaving shortly. Looking around, Deirdre realized that the company had thinned noticeably already.

  "Well, we're sure to see each other about, Didi," said Julia brightly. "I shall come to call one day soon, or you may come to see me. Good night!"

  As the Penrose party took their leave, at least a dozen gentlemen begged Celeste's permission to call on her the next day, and she took her time deciding which one most merited the privilege of taking her out driving in the Park the day following that. She finally settled on Sir Malcolm Digby— only a baronet, but easily the handsomest of the lot. Lord Wrotham, Deirdre noticed, was not among the throng about her sister, having apparently left within an hour of his arrival.

  Mr. Flinder hurried up at that moment. "Miss Wheaton!" he said urgently, "might I call on you tomorrow?"

  Deirdre smiled her assent, glancing at her mother for confirmation. Lady Penrose obviously had no fault to find, smiling even more broadly than her daughter before turning back to Celeste and her throng of admirers.

  "I...I have a favour to ask of you as well," he continued, suddenly appearing self-conscious.

  "A favour?" Deirdre was intrigued.

  "Might I...that is...would you mind looking over a bit of my poetry? I was much impressed by your insights on the masters of the art and would greatly value your opinion of my talents. If you would be so kind?"

  Deirdre was flattered, but made haste to be honest. "Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Flinder, but I warn you that I am apt to be frank in my criticism. I would not wish to risk offending you and thus losing a friend."

  Mr. Flinder bowed. "I am deeply honoured to be numbered among your friends, Miss Wheaton. And I would never ask you to be anything but frank about my work. Pray, feel free to be as harsh as is necessary. If your criticism induces me to improve, I can only be indebted to you."

  "In that case, Mr. Flinder, I would be pleased to see your work. I look forward to receiving you tomorrow." As she spoke, Deirdre was conscious of a fervent hope that Mr. Flinder's poetry might show more depth and intelligence than his analysis of the great poets had, for she would hate to offend one of the few friends she had made during her first week in London.

  Throughout the carriage ride home, Lady Penrose happily reviewed the evening, totting up Celeste's noble conquests with relish. "I dare swear we should make up a list, ranking them from most to least desirable as husbands, my dear, if the idea were not so absurd," she tittered at one point, quite giddy with her daughter's success on her first evening out.

  "Why would it be absurd, Mama?" asked Celeste practically. "It seems an excellent idea to me. I fear I shall have an impossible time choosing between them, else."

  They chattered on in this vein for most of the way and Deirdre largely ignored them, as she was obviously not expected to take part in the discussion. Instead, she took the opportunity to relive the earlier part of the evening, when she had enjoyed conversations with so many literary luminaries— until she was abruptly jarred back to the present by the mention of Lord Wrotham's name.

  "For he would undoubtedly have to go at the very top of the list, my dear," continued Lady Penrose playfully.

  "He may be very wealthy, Mama, but I found him not nearly so pleasant as many of the other gentlemen I met tonight," returned Celeste, taking the game more seriously. "The man scarce spoke two words to me! Besides, did he not once raise Althea's hopes, only to dash them? I would not wish to be t
reated so, I vow!"

  "Still, if the opportunity arises, you may as well be pleasant to him. There is no point at all whistling such a fortune down the wind, you know, and he is so highly placed in Society that it would never do to offend him," Lady Penrose cautioned quickly.

  "Oh, I shall not be rude to him, Mama, but I shan't set my cap for him, either. Now what of Glovington? He is an actual duke, but you don't mention him."

  "Because he is already married, miss! His duchess resides in the country...." Deirdre allowed her attention to wander again, though in a different direction.

  Lady Penrose suddenly recalled her presence in the carriage as they pulled up to the steps of Penrose House.

  "By the bye, Didi, you seemed to enjoy yourself as well," she said cheerfully. "But if you wish to attach young Mr. Flinder or any other of the gentlemen you met, you really must take more pains with your appearance."

  "Perhaps I shall, Mama," she murmured thoughtfully. "Perhaps I shall."

  Lady Penrose smiled knowingly at this evidence that Deirdre apparently returned Mr. Flinder's regard. How neatly things were working out, she thought, before returning her attention to the question of the relative eligibility of her other daughter's suitors as the footman opened the carriage door and let down the steps.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 4

  That of the dozen or so gentlemen who came to call the next morning, only one asked for Miss Deirdre Wheaton, surprised no one, least of all Deirdre herself. Celeste, upon descending to breakfast, was greeted with the welcome news that no fewer than fifteen bouquets of flowers had been delivered already, with more undoubtedly to follow.

  "And I'm certain I don't know where I'm to put them all, miss," continued the aggrieved housekeeper. "Every level space in the drawing-room is already filled, and the morning-room, too."