‘And you are not?’ asked Alethea, bluntly.
‘Oh, I have a tendre for Vivyan, I admit; but I expect I shall recover from it, like the measles,’ replied Lydia, airily.
‘As long as you are certain.’ Alethea said no more, but stared out of the window at the fields and hedges slowly slipping past. Lydia picked up a copy of the Lady’s Magazine which she had brought with her, and soon appeared to be immersed in its pages. When she did speak again presently, it was to ask Alethea’s opinion on the style of a gown described there.
Evidently the previous topic was at an end.
As things turned out, it was quite easy to avoid any mention of Devenish or Allerton, because Mrs Manbury’s questions about their visit were solely concerned with her daughter Eleanor and the two grandchildren. Having satisfied herself that they were all well, she quickly changed the conversation to the arrangements for the forthcoming ball. It was quite a relief to Alethea to be able to escape from endless discussions on this subject for one evening at least when on the following day she attended the soiree at Montagu House with Miss Hannah More.
She was again received by Mrs Montagu with great kindness. The room was very full of company and they had some difficulty in finding seats; but two gentlemen made way for them, and they were soon drawn into a group surrounding a very lively lady whom Miss More introduced as Mrs Vesey.
‘She is a particular friend of Mrs Montagu’s,’ Miss More explained to Alethea in an aside, ‘and gives similar parties herself. They call her “The Sylph”, but I cannot think such a nickname altogether suitable for one who is the wife of an M.P. and the daughter of a Bishop.’
But Alethea was far too interested in the conversation which was going on in the circle surrounding Mrs Vesey, to trouble her head about such a triviality as the lady’s nickname.
She became so deeply absorbed that a light touch on her arm made her jump. Turning, she saw Elizabeth Montagu standing there with a younger lady at her side. Alethea rose at once, and to her delight found herself being presented to Miss Frances Burney, the celebrated authoress of Evelina and Cecilia.
‘Miss Newnham is perhaps in something the same situation as your heroine in Evelina,’ said Mrs Montagu to Fanny Burney, with a smile. ‘She, too, is being introduced into the Polite World after having been brought up in the country. On that account, I am sure I can recommend her to your kindness.’
She then thoughtfully drew Miss More away with her to another part of the room, so that Alethea could enjoy a few moments alone with the novelist.
It was quite a surprise to Alethea to find that such a well-known author, who had been lionised by society in general and made much of by eminent figures such as Dr Johnson and Edmund Burke, should be so modest and retiring by nature. Miss Burney seemed reluctant to talk about her writing at all; but gradually she responded to Alethea’s intelligent, informed interest, so much more to her taste than the fulsome extravagant praise to which she was so often subjected by people who had only skimmed through her books because it was the fashion to have read them.
‘You must have been beyond anything elated when you knew, ma’am, that your novel was accepted for publication,’ said Alethea after a time.
‘You may not credit it, Miss Newnham, but I was at once elated and terrified! I hardly knew how to believe it real; and when I succeeded in convincing myself that it was indeed so, and that my poor scribblings were to be offered to the world, terror was the predominant sensation I experienced.’
‘Yes,’ replied Alethea, ‘I think I can understand that. You must have felt rather like a mother exposing her new-born infant naked on a mountain top.’
‘Exactly so! From the first, I always felt that my writing was an unworthy pastime. I strove to keep it a secret, and only my sister Susan was allowed to share in it. Indeed, when I was fifteen years old, I made a bonfire of everything I had so far written.’
‘Oh, what a shame! But I can perfectly comprehend your feelings — you were too modest.’
Miss Burney shook her head. ‘I always had a horror of exposing my work to the critical gaze of others. I wrote Evelina without any notion of publication, solely for my own private recreation. It was my brother Charles who persuaded me to try and get it into print. I only agreed for a frolic, for I was curious to see how a production of my very own would look in that author-like form. I insisted, though, that it should be offered to a publisher anonymously. And I did not even let my own father into the secret!’
‘But he would know about it eventually, of course. Was he as pleased with it as all the rest of the world, ma’am?’
‘Yes, he saw a review of it in the periodical Monthly Review, and at once sent round to the publisher’s for the book. I was so relieved when he told me that he had read it, and I need not blush for it — his praise I value far beyond that of the professional critics.’ She broke off as Miss More came to rejoin them. ‘But I must not fatigue you, Miss Newnham, with such talk. There must be many other people here whom you are desirous of meeting.’
‘On the contrary, Miss Burney, meeting you has been an event for which I scarcely dared to hope, and one which will be envied me by all my friends, I assure you.’
They exchanged bows and parted. Alethea, her face pink with pleasure, turned to Miss More.
‘Who would suppose, ma’am, that such a celebrated authoress would be so modest and unassuming? I had the utmost difficulty in persuading her to speak to me of her work, but I am beyond anything glad that I managed it at last. Only wait until I tell them at home — they will be envying me prodigiously!’
It was while the refreshments were being served that Mr Tracy appeared at Alethea’s side.
‘Have you been here long, ladies?’ he asked. ‘I — um — have been watching out for you, but — er — um — there is quite a large company here this evening, is there not?’
He gave the apologetic little laugh which always made Alethea feel sorry for him. It must be a great trial to be so shy, she thought, and she could not help contrasting him with Devenish, just for a moment. Then she resolutely closed her mind to such thoughts and set out as usual to put him a little more at his ease, so that he might do justice to himself in conversation. She told him that she had been fortunate enough to speak with Miss Burney, and this led on to a discussion of the merits of her novel Evelina.
‘As to novels in general,’ remarked Hannah More, ‘one cannot wholly approve the reading of them as a rational occupation for young, unformed minds. But the high moral tone of Miss Burney’s novels must exempt them from this criticism. A young girl who models her conduct on that of Eveline cannot but find benefit.’
‘No, indeed, ma’am,’ agreed Alethea, ‘for I can’t help feeling that at times Miss Burney’s heroine is almost too good to be true. She is exceptionally beautiful, virtuous, dutiful and compassionate — a model of all a young female ought to be. I must say, the mere notion of trying to emulate her example casts me into a fit of the dismals, for I know I can never succeed!’
Miss More gave an austere smile. ‘Well, my sisters tell me you had always a lively wit, Alethea, so I know better than to take what you say in earnest. But I would not like to think that you are giving a false impression of your character to Mr Tracy.’
‘Um — as to that, Miss More,’ stuttered Tracy, ‘Assure you — um — er — nothing Miss Newnham says can — um — in any way — er — alter the very high esteem — um — in which I hold her.’
His earnest look as he said this made Alethea feel a little uncomfortable; and she was not sorry when some other people joined in their discussion, which gradually drifted on to other literary topics. He remained at their side, though, throughout the remainder of the evening, leaving when they left, and attending them to their carriage.
‘We shall — er — meet again, Miss Newnham, at your — um — at Mrs Manbury’s ball on Thursday,’ he said, in parting. ‘I am — um — not much of a dancing man, but — er — um — will esteem it a great favour
if you — er — will be so good as to — um — reserve me a dance, ma’am?’
Alethea promised, wondering as she did so if on this occasion she might be asked to dance by Devenish.
Chapter XXI
Thursday was a day of great activity in Curzon Street, with tradesmen coming and going busy delivering goods to Mrs Manbury’s house. Long before noon, a red carpet had been laid down the steps and an awning erected which extended from the front door to the street. Inside the house, the staff worked in an atmosphere of organised bustle. Those who had been responsible for making ready the ballroom stood waiting with bated breath while the butler slowly surveyed the results of their labours with a keenly critical eye. A combination of polish and elbow-grease had brought the floor to such a state of perfection that the three handsome chandeliers suspended above it, their lustres gleaming, were plainly mirrored in its surface; hangings, cheval glasses, chairs and sofas all reached the same high standard. He nodded austerely, satisfied, and a sigh of relief went up from his minions.
Mrs Manbury was occupied in carrying out an inspection of her own in Alethea’s bedchamber. Her eyes showed warm approval as they rested on the gown of cream silk which so well set off her niece’s fair skin and the brown hair burnished with red-gold tints, which was dressed with one large ringlet falling on her neck. The only jewellery Alethea wore was a pair of dangling earrings in amethyst and pearl; this, too, her Aunt approved, as she considered it in bad taste for a young girl to be loaded down with jewels.
‘You look charmingly, my dear,’ she said, pleased.
Lydia, who was looking as bewitching as ever in a gown of buttercup yellow trimmed with white, also added her tribute to this; and Mrs Manbury, well satisfied with the appearance of both her charges, led them to join her husband at the reception area.
Receiving the guests was a long and tedious business, thought Alethea, who did not know very many of them. The Allertons arrived early in the proceedings; Alethea noticed that although Vivyan Allerton gave her cousin an eloquent glance as he bowed over her hand, Lydia herself was several degrees cooler towards him than of late. Evidently this did not escape him, either, for he frowned, as he passed on into the room with the rest of his family, continuing to look back at intervals as though he would dearly have liked to be able to have a private word with her.
The Allertons were followed by a great many people whom Alethea did not know; so it was with some relief that she recognised Mr Tracy hovering on the threshold, looking as if he almost wished he had not come. She bestowed an especially warm smile on him in an endeavour to cheer him up, then turned away to discover that the next person waiting to greet her was Beau Devenish.
She caught her breath. He looked so very handsome in his coat of crimson and white striped taffeta; his carriage was so assured, his bow so graceful, that a comparison with Paul Tracy was inevitable. She wrestled with her feelings to such good effect that she managed to produce for him a polite, cool smile in direct contrast to the one with which Devenish had just seen her distinguish the poet. A half-rueful, half-amused expression came into his eyes as he walked away to join the rest of the company in the room.
Arrivals now came thick and fast. From time to time, Mrs Manbury confided to her husband’s reluctant ear her misgivings as to whether the Duke of Bedwyn would come or not. She had almost given up hope and Mr Manbury had nearly lost all patience, when the long-expected name was announced and the Duke was making his bow to them.
Alethea’s eyes at once turned towards him in lively curiosity, for she had heard so much talk of this nobleman that she could scarcely wait to see what kind of husband her cousin had chosen. He was a short, portly man well into his sixties with a florid complexion which the puce coat he was wearing only served to accentuate. He was fashionably dressed and had an air of consequence consistent with his rank; but Alethea, watching his proprietorial air as he greeted her cousin, suddenly felt deeply sorry for Lydia. To choose such a man instead of Vivyan Allerton — surely it was an impossibility?
The Duke remained at Lydia’s side until the reception party dispersed, and then led her into the first dance, a country dance of the longways progressive style. As Alethea herself was partnered by her cousin Caroline’s husband, George Fothergill, no great demands were made on her conversational powers, so she was at liberty to observe the other dancers. She noticed that Allerton had at first hung back, obviously wanting to approach Lydia; but when he saw Bedwyn take her on to the floor, he turned away as if unwilling to dance at all before recollecting himself and leading out a young lady in pink who was chatting to his sister Clarinda. And very heavy going he seemed to be making of it, thought Alethea, as she watched the false starts he made from time to time because his attention was fixed on Lydia and her partner rather than on his own movements.
As soon as the dance was over, he started across the room towards the Manburys’ party; but by the time he had reached Lydia’s side, she had already engaged herself for half the evening. Alethea was close by and heard her cousin tell him so with a regret that was patently insincere.
‘I can save you the cotillion before supper,’ Lydia offered, in a tone of indifference.
‘Not until then?’ he asked, in some indignation. ‘Egad, Lydia, I would have thought you might have reserved an earlier one for me!’
She gave an affected laugh, ‘You forget, Vivyan, that we are such old friends people think of us as brother and sister; and it does not do to be dancing with one’s brother when there are other gentlemen in the room wishing to partner one, does it?’
He stared at her for a moment as if he had been struck in the face. Under his scrutiny, Lydia reddened slightly. Then he gave a stiff little bow.
‘Very well, then, madam, keep me the cotillion, if you please.’
He turned on his heel, almost falling over Devenish, who had come up behind him. He apologised brusquely and passed on, ignoring his friend completely.
‘Dear me, it would seem that Allerton is in the deuce of a hurry,’ remarked Devenish to the two girls. ‘Can it be that one of you ladies is in urgent need of refreshment? Or possibly both? Though after only one dance such an eventuality would appear unlikely.’
Lydia shrugged and attempted a nonchalant smile. ‘Oh, he’s gone off in a miff,’ she said, carelessly, ‘because I’m engaged for the next few dances. It’s of no consequence — he’ll soon get over it.’
Beau Devenish put up his quizzing glass and surveyed her through it for a moment with a mocking glance. ‘I wonder? But you must allow me to compliment both you ladies on your looks tonight. I dare say many a man present will feel chagrined if he must wait too long before being able to have the inestimable pleasure of leading you out. I take it that there is no hope for me at present, then? Doubtless you are both engaged until after supper? Possibly, even, for the rest of the evening?’
He addressed them both equally, with no special look or smile for Alethea. Her heart sank, and her answering smile felt rigid, as though glued to her face. She told herself severely that she had been hoping too much, expecting too much from what had gone before. Why must she be so foolish? The man was a flirt of the most accomplished kind — everyone had told her so, and there had been ample opportunity for her to confirm it for herself. Only, there had been a few moments on the day of the thunderstorm, when she had caught a glimpse, or so it seemed at the time, of a vastly different Beau Devenish.
She was about to tell him untruthfully that he had guessed aright and that she was indeed engaged for the entire evening, but Lydia forestalled her.
‘Oh, you must certainly dance with my cousin, for the ball is in her honour,’ she said. ‘I believe she promised the next dance to Mr Tracy, did you not, Alethea? But I dare say she can manage to squeeze you in somewhere,’ she added, condescendingly.
Devenish’s lips twitched at this blatant set-down, but he applied gravely enough to Alethea for the favour. Although she despised herself for her weakness, she found she was unable to refuse
him altogether, and promised him the dance after Paul Tracy’s.
She was soon to discover that when Paul Tracy had told her he was not much of a dancing man, he had not been over modest. His steps were scarcely less halting than his speech, with the result that the other dancers on the floor were constantly having their movements impeded by his awkwardness. Alethea did her best not to appear put out by his mistakes; but the consciousness of Beau Devenish’s eye upon her from his place in the set close by, did succeed in bringing a little colour of embarrassment to her cheeks. The worst moment came when Mr Tracy trod on the hem of her gown. Fortunately, it did not tear; but the accident threw them so completely out of step that they were forced to retire from the set.
To avoid crossing the room while the dance was in progress, they made their way to a sofa in an alcove, and here they sat while Alethea listened to Paul Tracy’s profuse apologies. She tried her best to reassure him; no harm had been done to her gown, and he was to think nothing of it.
‘But — um — er —’ he stuttered helplessly, ‘I cannot help — um — feeling — er — deeply distressed. To — to appear so f-foolish, so maladroit — um — er — to you, of all people! To you, to — to whom I — um — er — would wish to — to appear in — um — er — the most favourable l-light — um — possible!’
Alethea looked at him in dismay. All too well she saw what was coming, and did her best to avert it; first of all by laughing the incident off, and then, when that failed, by trying to introduce another subject. All her efforts were in vain, however. Made bold by desperation, Mr Tracy seized her hand and poured out a halting, though affecting, avowal of love. In spite of his unfortunate impediment, his command of words was such that she could not remain totally unaffected, even if her compassion had not been touched by his obvious sincerity. Tears came to her eyes as she drew away her hand and explained gently that she was quite unable to reciprocate his feelings.
The Beau and the Bluestocking: Romantic intrigue in Regency London Page 15