Double Masquerade

by Lucy Muir

“Have you ever heard that Woodforde keeps a mistress?” Catherine asked her aunt as they retreated to the small drawing room, the marquess’ comment from dinner sticking in her mind.

  Lady Manning gave her niece a shrewd look. “Does the thought displease you? Not that he would find it any concern of yours, given that you have turned down his offers to share his bed through marriage.”

  “When I think upon it, Woodforde has never shown by any action that he finds me of interest in that way,” Catherine admitted. It was not a flattering thought, although it added credence to her conviction that his frequent offers for her hand were made in jest. “Perhaps his tastes go to those women who are dark, as was his lady wife, or as is Miss Louisa Ellsworth.”

  “Perhaps,” Lady Manning agreed, “although I do not believe it our place to speculate upon his preferences.”

  Catherine, lost in thought, did not regard her aunt’s admonition. Long accorded a fair beauty, Catherine had become accustomed to admiration from the masculine sex. She did not think herself conceited, but the idea that Lord Woodforde might find Louisa or other darker beauties more comely than herself was unsettling. Well, she thought, at least Lord Edgecombe must find her fairness to his taste, or he would not have shown such interest in her.

  The members of the local Blue Stocking Society began arriving at Rosemont shortly before seven o’clock on the day of their meeting. Given that the purpose of their gatherings was educational and intellectual, it had long been the custom of the members of the Society that they did not dress formally for their meetings, and for the same reason they served only beverages and cakes or biscuits rather than making a dinner or supper the focus of their meetings. The women were quite serious about remaining true to the aims of their society, and all made an effort to arrive on time and pay close attention to the speakers.

  Mrs. Stillington-Fyfe arrived at Rosemont first, bringing her eldest daughter, and she was soon followed by Mrs. Turner and her mother, Lady Ashe. Lord Woodforde, Miss Amy Applequist, and Mrs. Bateman arrived next. Miss Ellsworth alone of her family had any interest in the meetings, and she arrived shortly after Mrs. Stone, the vicar’s wife, who was accompanied by her husband. Lady Manning, plainly gowned and wearing her mob-cap, introduced Mr. Cowper to each of the members as they arrived, after which they sat talking in small groups while they waited for the meeting to begin.

  Directly after the hour struck, Catherine looked around the large drawing room, and seeing that everyone was present, called for attention. The members moved their chairs to make a large circle and quieted. Catherine introduced their guest and Mr. Cowper stood and bowed to the room in general.

  “Your lordships, ladies, and gentlemen. As I have informed Miss Trevor, I have been invited to speak at meetings of the Blue Stocking Society before, but never to address one about my hares, and I am both delighted and honoured to do so.

  “One might be pardoned for thinking that hares are among the most insignificant, timid, and valueless creatures, or worse, pests. Yet, after spending time with hares and observing their true nature, one might find, as I did, that they are intelligent, capable of expressing gratitude, and are the most joyous of God’s creatures.

  “It was after a time of deep melancholy in my life that a small leveret, who had been a plaything to the daughters of a neighbor, chanced to come into my life. Knowing I needed an interest to absorb my thoughts, I took on his care, and soon had that of two others of his brethren. I named them Puss, Bess, and Tiney.

  “Let me assure you, dear listeners, that despite their names all three were in fact males, for if they had not been, I soon should have been overrun with specimens of their kind, given their fabled fecundity,” Mr. Cowper said with smile, and several of his listeners tittered in appreciation. He then went on to describe his own experiences with his hares Tiney, Bess, and Puss during the years he had shared his life with them while his audience listened attentively, bringing his talk to a close some twenty minutes later.

  “A gathering of such perspicacious listeners must have observed from my reminisces here this afternoon that the characters of my three hares were as distinct as those of any three persons. Indeed, I am quite certain than among a thousand no two would be the same.

  “Too often, perhaps, man sees the others of God’s creation as more separate than they are. All creatures have their place, and one must understand that animals are happy unless man interferes. Man should recall this and hesitate to harm the least of God’s creatures, even the hare, for God notes those who are cruel and will not show mercy to those who have none themselves,” he ended his talk with a warning.

  For a moment after Mr. Cowper ended the members of the society sat in appreciative silence, and then began to ask questions that had occurred to them as they listened. Mrs. Stillington-Fyfe, who prided herself on always being among the first to ask questions of a speaker, began. “Mr. Cowper, from your observations of your hares, what would you say is the dominant sense they use? Hearing?”

  “A most intriguing question, madam,” Cowper answered. “One would think it would be hearing because of a hare’s large ears. Or perhaps sight, when one observes the location of the eyes in the head. Yet, from my observations, I would consider it is smell that the hare uses most often in navigating and remembering his environment.”

  While other members also chimed in with questions, Catherine rang for coffee and tea to be served. Servants arrived to set out simple comestibles, while Lady Manning poured tea and coffee for those who desired it. Catherine took a cup of tea and returned to the circle around Mr. Cowper.

  “Do you not believe,” she heard the vicar ask as she rejoined them, “that it is acceptable to course hares?”

  “In truth sir, I do not,” Cowper answered forthrightly. “The knowledge that has come to me of their natures whilst sharing my home with specimens of these creatures has given me a peculiar abhorrence of the sportsman’s amusement. Little does he know what amiable creatures he persecutes.”

  “Mr. Cowper,” Miss Amy Applequist put forth timidly. “I did so enjoy your poem ‘The Diverting History of John Gilpin.’ Would you be so kind as to recite the poem you told us you composed in memory of your hare Tiney?”

  “I shall be honoured,” Cowper acceded to the request with a bow.

  While Mr. Cowper recited his poem “Epitaph on a Hare,” Catherine reflected on the vicar’s question and the answer Mr. Cowper had given with some heat of speech, remembering that Lord Edgecombe prided himself on his beagles, which were bred specifically to course hares. Yet, perhaps the marquess had simply not had the opportunity to, as Mr. Cowper put it, understand and appreciate the true nature of the creatures he persecuted. Perhaps she could demonstrate it to him. She must seek an opportunity to do so, for she had no intention of deserting William should she be successful in bringing the marquess to an offer.

  The arrival at Rosemont of her brother and his family from London was not a happy occasion for Catherine. She had never been close to her brother John, thought his wife a vapid uninteresting person, and considered his disorderly children a trial. Still, she managed to get through the first evening passably well, without a single sharp word to her sister-in-law or the children. The next morning she was not quite so fortunate.

  “La! Traveling is too fatiguing,” Mrs. Trevor said affectedly as she dropped onto the drawing room sofa the morning after their arrival. “I am afraid I am not recovered in the slightest from the journey. Where has John got to? He knows I am too invalidish to supervise Roberts about the children.”

  Judith’s three young children ran in three different directions about the drawing room; the nursemaid, only able to follow one, chose to chase after the girl, who skipped out of the room and down the hallway. Catherine silently congratulated herself for having once again locked her hare in the walled garden, this time to protect him from her niece and nephews.

  “Sister, order me a cup of tea, I am perishing of fatigue and need reviving,” Judith ordered Catherine, pass
ing the back of her hand over her dark hair in a dramatic gesture as she leaned against the sofa back.

  Lady Manning and Catherine exchanged commiserative glances as Lady Manning rang the bell to summon a footman. The oldest boy, realizing he was no longer under the supervision of his nursemaid, stretched his arm as high as possible trying to reach an interesting object on the mantelpiece. Unable to reach it, he jumped, fingers outstretched, and the Meissen horse crashed to the hearthstones, startling everyone. While Lady Manning once again rang the bell, this time to summon a maid to clean up the shards, the youngest boy busily dug inside his nose and smeared the results of his excavations on the silk damask sofa seat. The little girl, having escaped the nursemaid, ran back into the drawing room. Discovering a potted plant near the window, she began digging the earth out of the pot onto the fitted Wilton carpet. Catherine, feeling her patience wearing thin, glared at her sister, trying to convey the message that she should reprimand her brood. But Judith studiously ignored her children and their depredations on the room, and the nursemaid was now nowhere to be seen. Catherine, viewing the unruly children and her affected, discontented sister-in-law, was convinced Roberts had taken the opportunity to escape northward back to Scotland.

  Two maids arrived, one bringing tea and the other a dustpan for removing the shattered Meissen figurine. Lady Manning seated herself behind the service to pour a cup of tea for Judith, and the little girl, seeing a new opportunity, ran over and stuck her earth-covered finger into the pitcher of milk.

  “Marie, take your finger out of the milk,” Catherine ordered, exasperated. Marie, unused to reprimands, began to cry and ran to her mother.

  Judith roused herself enough to gather her crying daughter to her breast and looked reproachfully at Catherine. “Sister, you must not be so harsh to young children. You do not have children of your own, and do not understand their delicate natures. Marie, I am certain your aunt did not mean to upset you.”

  “Catherine, do you not have duties to attend to?” Lady Manning suggested as she rang the bell yet again to order a fresh pot of milk. Sensing Catherine’s patience was reaching its limits, she added, “I believe you have not yet checked the brew house to see how this year’s cider is progressing.”

  “Yes, aunt, thank you for reminding me,” Catherine said with a grateful look at Lady Manning. “If you will excuse me, sister,” she said with a nod to Judith and quit the room.

  Desperately needing some peace and quiet, Catherine let herself into the walled garden. Spending time with William always soothed her. There was something about his quiet nature that called the same from her. In her rush to escape her relatives, Catherine had forgotten to take the time to obtain a piece of fruit as a treat for the hare. Seeing some choice grass growing near the wall, she plucked it and held it out. Within moments William came up to take it, and to Catherine’s great delight, when he finished eating the handful he sat back upon his haunches and surveyed her form, after which he settled on the ground in a loaf-shape, front feet tucked under his chest, content in Catherine’s company.

  “Mr. Cowper was correct, it will just take time, and we shall be the best of friends,” Catherine whispered to her hare.

  When she had stayed away from the guests as long as she dared, Catherine exited the garden and pulled out the key to lock it.

  “What’s in there?” a high voice asked, and Catherine turned to see her oldest nephew standing behind her.

  “Nothing to interest little boys,” Catherine answered, turning the key.

  “Why not? I want to see.”

  “You may not see,” Catherine answered shortly, not disposed to humour her nephew after his unruly behaviour.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you may not.”

  “I will tell Mama.”

  “You do that if you wish,” Catherine said, losing patience. “Go find your mama and tittle-tattle if you will. I have things I must attend to.”

  Changing her mind about returning to the drawing room, and leaving Lady Manning to deal with Judith and her children as best she might, Catherine ran up to her bedchamber and asked Flora to help her change into riding dress. Slipping outside unseen, Catherine ordered her horse saddled and headed down the drive, away from Rosemont. As Damask walked slowly along the drive, Catherine mused that the presence of her brother and his family was only too urgent a reminder of the reasons she had originally decided to bring the Marquess of Edgecombe to a proposal of marriage. Truly, life would be intolerable if she were still to be single when her brother inherited Rosemont and the title. She must succeed in bringing the marquess to the point.

  But how to do so when there was so little opportunity to speak to him? Lord Edgecombe spent most mornings hunting on various estates, everyone being anxious to share their birds with the noble visitor, and Catherine knew this custom was unlikely to change, as hare, deer, and fox-hunting would succeed the birds. Balls and dinners held afternoons and evenings provided Catherine with her only chances to see the marquess, and even at those her opportunities were limited. Truly the masquerade ball the Ellsworths were holding the coming week would be her best hope to fix the interest of the marquess, and she must make the most of it.

  Catherine’s horse suddenly picked up his speed, and she realized they had neared Woodforde Park, which her mount remembered as a place with a comfortable stall and good food. As long as she was so near, Catherine decided to stop and visit Lord Woodforde. Anything to delay returning home.

  A groom came out to take Damask’s reins and help Catherine dismount when she rode up the drive. Catherine ran up the wide steps to the entrance doors, which swung open at her approach, and entered the large tiled entrance hall. A footman showed her into the library, where she found Woodforde at his desk, poring over a book. He looked up at the announcement of Catherine’s name and smiled in pleasure.

  “Good morning Miss Trevor,” he greeted her, rising with a bow. “What brings you to Woodforde Park?”

  “My brother,” Catherine said forthrightly. “He and his family arrived yesterday.”

  Woodforde gave her a commiserating glance as he sat back down. “Ah! I understand. Please sit down and stay as long as you like.

  “Tell me Miss Trevor,” he added in a thoughtful voice as he closed his book. “In all honesty, my daughter Anne does not behave as do your nephews and niece, does she? I do not think she does of course, but it could be my fondness for the child of my loins that keeps me from seeing the truth. I would not wish to have a child from whom others felt they had to hide.”

  “No,” Catherine assured Woodforde as she took a seat on the lyre-backed chair before his desk. “Anne is a delight. She has been taught well.”

  “I am pleased you think so, Miss Trevor. And you are welcome to escape here anytime you please while your brother is at Rosemont, or any other time for that matter.”

  “Woodforde Park is wonderfully soothing,” Catherine admitted, looking around the spare, elegant lines of the library. The former Lady Woodforde had had the house redecorated by Adam during the early years of their marriage, and the delicacy and order of the architect’s arrangements and decoration appealed strongly to Catherine. As she surveyed the room her eyes came to rest upon the portrait of Lady Woodforde, painted by Gainsborough, which was displayed above the fireplace. The painting depicted a woman of strength, character, and singular beauty, and Catherine felt a brief pang, remembering Lady Woodforde’s many kindnesses to her when she had been a young girl. Lord Woodforde’s glance followed Catherine’s to the portrait.

  “I would not have Anne forget the likeness of her mother. Children tend to forget if they sustain a loss at too young an age.”

  “You still miss Lady Woodforde,” Catherine said bluntly.

  “Yes, every day, but she will not be coming back. We must live life as it is dealt to us, Miss Trevor.”

  “Shall you truly marry again to give Anne a mother?” Catherine asked. “It is difficult to imagine another woman here as mistre
ss of Woodforde Park.”

  “Truly, Miss Trevor, it is my desire to marry again,” Woodforde said seriously, “and not only to give Anne a mother. Although I will always love Lucinda, I have no desire to live the rest of my life with shadows. I wish to enjoy life. There is much in my life that brings pleasure, but I have no one to share it with. And Anne deserves to have a mother. It is hard on her to be at boarding school so much of the year.

  “But those are only two of several reasons I wish to marry again, Miss Trevor, not the only ones,” Woodforde expanded. “I am a man, and have a man’s desires,” Woodforde continued, holding Catherine’s gaze.

  Remembering her speculations upon Woodforde’s sexual habits but two nights earlier, Catherine felt herself blush. Uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken, and not knowing how to reply to such direct speech, she rose from her chair.

  “I should return home, my father will find me remiss in my duties to my brother and his family,” she said, standing before Lord Woodforde’s desk, her right hand resting lightly on its edge.

  “A moment, Miss Trevor,” Woodforde said, reaching over and placing his hand over hers.

  A warm tingling sensation rushed up from Catherine’s hand and spread through her breast. “Excuse me, Lord Woodforde, I must go,” Catherine repeated, embarrassed at her awareness of Woodforde’s masculinity. Again she tried to pull her hand away.

  “Miss Trevor,” Woodforde repeated as he rose from his desk, still keeping her hand clasped in his, “I have not found you missish before. Plain speaking does not usually bring a blush to your cheeks.

  “But if speaking of my reasons for wishing to marry causes you embarrassment, let us speak of yours. I beg of you, think what you are doing, Miss Trevor, think what you are about with Lord Edgecombe. Marriage is not to be entered upon on a whim because your brother has ill-behaved children. Marriage is a contract between a man and a woman. Think what rights that contract gives a husband.”

  “I am not a fool, Lord Woodforde, and am quite aware of the rights a man may enjoy with his wife,” Catherine replied, no more at ease with the turn the conversation had now taken. She felt her blush deepen, but feared not to hold his gaze, and was disconcerted to see the gravity there.