The Second Lady Southvale

by Sandra Heath

  His black hair was disheveled, and his blue eyes tired. He wore an indigo coat, white cord breeches, and a grey-and-white-striped marcella waistcoat that he hadn’t bothered to button. His frilled shirt was undone at the throat, and his crumpled neckcloth hung loose. He hadn’t been sleeping because of all that was on his mind, and it showed in his pallor and the shadows beneath his eyes. The candles illuminated only the desk, and all around him, the library was in shadow. He stared unhappily at the sheet of vellum. This letter was the very last he’d ever wished to write, but he had no choice in the matter. He glanced at the glass and half-empty decanter of cognac he’d placed nearby, then he got up to pour himself some more, for it helped to dull the pain he felt inside.

  Swirling the liberally filled glass, he went to unshutter a window and look out. He could just see the lights of London in the distance, but a mist was rising, rolling from the sea as the temperature of the autumn night slipped below freezing. His breath touched the glass, and he turned away with a shiver, crossing to the fireplace to toss another log on the dying fire. As he pressed it firmly down with his boot, a cloud of brilliant sparks fled up the chimney, and new flames began to lick around the dry wood.

  Shadows leapt over the library, and his glance was drawn inexorably to a framed pencil sketch on the wall nearby. It was the preliminary drawing for a full-length portrait of his first wife, with a view of Greys itself in the background. The finished portrait now hung in the drawing-room at Southvale House, his London residence overlooking Green Park, but he’d liked the pencil sketch so much that he’d had it framed.

  He gazed at the lovely figure, and especially at the face, so magically beautiful that it hurt even now to look at it. Celia, with her lustrous dark curls, flawless skin, heart-shaped face, and incomparable lilac eyes. The gown she’d worn for the portrait had been made of delicate pink satin, and the artist, having a great admiration for Mr Gainsborough, had placed his subject against a leaden, thundery sky. It was a dramatic portrait, vivid and lifelike in the finished article, ethereal and dreamlike in this preliminary pencil sketch.

  He raised his glass. ‘Oh, Celia, how could I have forgotten you?’ he murmured, draining the glass and grimacing as the fiery liquid burned his throat.

  The clock on the mantelpiece began to strike midnight, and he turned away from the sketch. Midnight. The witching hour. He thought of the Fourth of July ball in Washington and the moment when he’d seen Rosalind in her ice-green silk gown. It had been just after midnight when he’d danced that minuet with her. Oh, the witching hour indeed … Sweet, innocent Rosalind.

  He looked at the writing desk again and the sheet of vellum that he had to apply himself to. He’d already sent a brief note, so brief that it had almost been terse, and now a fuller explanation was due. He wished the cognac had had more effect, but it hardly seemed to have touched him tonight.

  With a heavy heart he returned to his chair, putting down the glass and taking up his pen. He did no one any favors by putting off the inevitable. Fate had dealt him a bitter hand, and he had no option but to play it.

  10

  The mist lifted at dawn in Falmouth, and by the time Dr Trenance came to see Hetty again, the sun was shining on another fine autumn day.

  Rosalind waited by the window as he examined the maid. She wore the same apricot wool gown she’d had on to disembark from the Corinth, and her golden hair was simply brushed loose about her shoulders. Some children were playing in the alley below the window, and Signora Segati was again singing her interminable scales. A fresh fire crackled in the hearth, and another stagecoach rattled out of the yard, its horn wavering as it proceeded up the steep hill out of the town.

  Drawing her white wool shawl more closely around her shoulders, Rosalind turned to watch the doctor as he examined Hetty. The maid seemed much better this morning, encouraging the hope that she’d recover before the two weeks he’d predicted the day before.

  Dr Trenance straightened. He was a thin, foxy-faced man with a pointed nose, and the black he wore made him seem thinner than ever. He came to Rosalind. ‘There is very slight improvement,’ he said in a qualified tone.

  ‘More than slight, surely?’

  ‘I’m afraid that the laudanum masks a great deal.’

  Her lips parted anxiously. ‘Are you telling me that she’s…?’

  ‘A little worse than I anticipated? Yes, I fear so. She will recover, have no fear of that, for it isn’t a fatal fever, but it will take longer for her to recuperate than I at first believed. There is a weakness there, a quivering of the pulse, and the malaise appears to have taken much more of a toll of her reserves than was apparent yesterday.’ He glanced at the maid, who appeared to be asleep again.

  Rosalind looked at him in dismay. ‘Is there anything else we can do to aid her recovery?’

  ‘We can only wait, madam.’

  ‘So, she won’t be able to travel to London in two weeks?’

  ‘Indeed, no. I would not wish her to undertake a journey like that for at least a month, and even then it would not be wise for her to resume her duties.’

  ‘I see.’ Rosalind was disheartened, for there always seemed to be something to force her to again postpone her plans. First it had been two weeks before they could leave Falmouth, now it was a month or more.

  The doctor went to pick up his bag. ‘I hope to be able to cease the administering of laudanum in about a week’s time, and after that, I will prescribe Mrs Penruthin’s lavender infusion, which I have always found to be a sovereign remedy for such debilitating fevers. I will call again in two days’ time. Good day to you, Miss Carberry.’

  ‘Good day, Dr Trenance.’

  As the door closed behind him, she turned to look out of the window again. Perhaps she should write to Philip and explain where she was. He could then come to her, and at least they’d see each other before another month was out.

  There was another tap at the door, and Mrs Penruthin came in. ‘I’m so sorry your maid isn’t as well as we’d hoped, my dear.’

  ‘So am I,’ replied Rosalind. ‘But at least she’s going to get better.’

  ‘Do you wish to stay here until then?’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘A month is a long time.’

  ‘I know.’ Rosalind closed her eyes as Signora Segati soared to a particularly high note.

  Mrs Penruthin came closer. ‘My dear, you don’t have to stay here, for we’ll gladly take care of your maid.’

  Rosalind turned. ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly consider—’

  ‘You’ve come all this way to be with Lord Southvale, my dear, not to languish in Falmouth because your maid is ill. We hold his lordship in very high regard, and if we can be of any assistance, then we’re more than happy to help. Signora Segati has hired a post chaise to leave for London tomorrow morning, and only she and her maid will occupy the carriage. I know that she would welcome the company of another lady, and if you wish me to approach her on your behalf …’

  Rosalind was tempted, but shook her head, for her conscience wouldn’t allow her to desert Hetty, not even if she’d be with people as kind and considerate as the Penruthins. ‘I’d prefer to stay.’

  The Cornishwoman smiled understandingly. ‘Well, if you change your mind, you have only to tell me. It could all be arranged in a few moments, and you could be with his lordship again in days, rather than weeks. Just you think about it.’

  As the landlord’s wife withdrew, Hetty spoke weakly from the bed. ‘Please go without me, madam.’

  Rosalind turned a little guiltily. ‘I thought you were asleep.’

  ‘I heard everything. She’s right, you should go with the signora.’

  ‘And leave you on your own?’

  ‘I’ll be all right. Miss Carberry, I’ll feel very bad if you stay just because of me.’

  ‘Oh, Hetty …’

  ‘Please tell her you’ll go with the signora, Miss Carberry, and when I’m better, I’ll follow you to London.’ The maid’s eye
s were lackluster, but the earnestness she felt could still be made out in them. ‘Please, Miss Carberry.’

  Rosalind hesitated.

  Hetty pressed her again. ‘I’ll get better more quickly if I know I haven’t stopped you from being with Lord Southvale.’

  Rosalind smiled. ‘Very well, Hetty, I’ll go, provided, that is, that the signora will agree.’

  The signora was delighted at the prospect of someone to converse with during the journey, and gladly consented when Mrs Penruthin put the matter to her. That night the two prospective travel companions dined together in the crowded inn dining-room, and Rosalind emerged from the experience knowing that the following few days were going to be anything but restful. The signora was a very voluble, plump, olive-skinned woman with shining black eyes and black hair that she wore in a rather too youthful tumble of ringlets. She liked to wear rouge and had a predilection for lace, flounces of which sprang from the ample bodices of her gowns. She also liked wide-brimmed hats sporting waving plumes, items of apparel that didn’t bode well for a journey in the confines of a post chaise. The signora’s favorite topic of conversation was herself, and Rosalind knew that by the time they reached the capital, every detail of the singer’s life would have been related time and time again.

  The chaise was set to leave just after first light the next morning, and it arrived promptly in the yard.

  The luggage of both Rosalind and the signora was carefully loaded in the boot, and as the boot was closed, the two women emerged from the inn, followed by the signora’s maid. Rosalind wore her fur-trimmed cloak over the apricot wool gown, and there was a straw bonnet on her head. Her hair was pinned up in a plain knot, with a soft edging of curls framing her face. It had taken her a long time to achieve the style, but at least she didn’t look untidy next to Signora Segati.

  Rosalind settled back in her seat and barely had time to wave farewell to the Penruthins before the chaise lurched forward on the start of its two-hundred-and-fifty-mile journey east to London. The horses’ hooves struck sparks from the cobbled street as the postboys urged them up the hill out of the town. As the buildings on the outskirts of Falmouth faded swiftly away behind, Rosalind looked out to see the anchorage of Carrick Roads shining in the sunshine below. The ships looked like toys, far too fragile for the rigors of the open sea, and she tried to make out the Corinth, but the chaise swept over the brow of the moor before she could.

  The air was fresh and sweet, a mixture of heather, gorse, and moorland grass, and there were sheep and goats nibbling at the tips of the gorse. Sea gulls soared white against the blue sky, and somewhere beyond the rattle of the chaise she could hear the lonely cry of a curlew. But already the signora was talking, her heavily accented voice commencing the history of her Milanese family.

  In spite of the signora’s endless chattering, it was still possible to enjoy the journey, for there was so much to see. England was very different from America, and seemed very small and intimate after the wide open spaces she’d always known. The towns and villages were very old, with idyllic thatched cottages, fine medieval churches, rambling inns, and ancient market squares, some of which had been in use since before the Norman Conquest. Centuries-old farms nestled on hilltops, and watermills straddled racing streams. Windmills caught the breeze, orchards were heavy with fruit, and fine mansions presided over noble parks; there was prosperity all around, and little evidence at all of the war against France that had been in progress for so long now.

  By the morning of the last day of the journey, Rosalind was beginning to wilt under the endless sound of the signora’s voice, but took comfort in the knowledge that it would all be over in a matter of hours now. They’d stayed overnight at an inn in Newbury, and she chose her clothes very carefully for the final part of the journey, because at the end of it, she’d see Philip again and she wanted to look her very best.

  She put on a primrose sprigged muslin and matching pelisse, and a wide-brimmed primrose muslin hat tied on with green satin ribbons the same color as her eyes. She struggled again with her hair, combing and pinning laboriously until she’d achieved the style she wanted, a loose knot at the back of her head, with a single heavy ringlet tumbling from it.

  The chaise set off for the last time, and it wasn’t long before the close proximity of the capital became evident. By midday there was much more traffic on the road, fewer country wagons and carts, but many more private carriages drawn by blood horses. Stagecoaches drove swiftly to and from the capital, outpaced by the occasional mail coach, and both were easily outstripped by the light phaetons, curricles, and gigs driven by dashing young gentlemen dressed in the very tippy of high fashion.

  The towns were closer together now, and more prosperous than ever. Fine villas lined the highway, and gentlemen’s residences were set in neat grounds, agreeable without being too grand. There were still elegant mansions and great parks, and Rosalind was reminded that Philip’s country seat, Greys, was only five miles outside the capital.

  Shadows were lengthening as the chaise drove across Hounslow Heath, once the haunt of highwaymen, and then they were on the last turnpike into the city. Spires and domes appeared on the eastern horizon ahead as the short autumn afternoon drew to a close, and the final slanting rays of the sun fell across St Paul’s itself, making it gleam like a beacon.

  There was little left of the sun, except a blaze of crimson in the west, as the postboys urged their tired horses past the royal palace of Kensington, turning briefly off the main highway to leave the signora and her maid at an address in Knightsbridge. Her luggage was unloaded, and then Rosalind waved good-bye to her as the now quiet chaise drove on toward St James’s.

  Hyde Park loomed on the left, leafy, spacious acres that in daytime saw the parade of fashionable society along Rotten Row. St George’s Hospital, its windows dimly lit, swept by on the right, and then she saw the grand façade of Apsley House, standing on the corner of Park Lane and Piccadilly. Daylight had gone completely now, and the chaise lamps were lit, as were the lamps of all other vehicles on the crowded city roads. Shop windows were illuminated, and streetlamps kindled, so that all was light and bright in Piccadilly, the thoroughfare that took the chaise eastward toward exclusive St James’s.

  Piccadilly was one of the noisiest and most exciting streets that Rosalind had ever seen. The southern boundary was taken up with the wall and trees of Green Park, but the northern side was a long line of shops, inns, stagecoach ticket offices, clubs, lodging houses, and impressive private residences. Wonderful displays of goods were shown off in shop windows, to be gazed at by the elegant ladies and gentlemen who strolled with leisurely ease in the early evening.

  Just before the junction with Bond Street, the chaise turned south into St James’s Street, at the end of which stood St James’s Palace itself. It was a gentlemen’s street, containing all the most superior clubs, from White’s and Boodle’s, to Brooks’ and the Thatched House. In nearby King Street she knew she would find Almack’s, that most select temple of high fashion, from which it was a disaster to be excluded.

  But the close proximity of Almack’s meant little to her as she toyed nervously with Philip’s signet ring through her glove. She was only a minute or so away from her destination now, and her pulse had quickened in anticipation. Oh, how she longed to see him again, to be in his arms with his lips over hers.

  The chaise turned again, this time westward into St James’s Place, at the end of which stood Southvale House. By the light of the streetlamps she could see superb town houses on either side, while directly ahead it was just possible to make out the autumn foliage of the trees in Green Park. Tall wrought-iron gates loomed on the left, at the very end of what proved to be a cul-de-sac, and as the chaise drove through them into the courtyard, she looked up to see stone griffins standing fiercely on the tops of the post.

  Southvale House itself was larger and more magnificent than any other building in the street. Its roofline was marked by a stone balustrade on top of which w
ere placed statues of gods and griffins, and the two upper stories boasted handsome pediments supported on Doric columns. A double flight of steps led up to the door, which opened immediately the chaise was perceived in the courtyard.

  A rather superior butler emerged, dressed very grandly in a brown coat with velvet lapels, beige knee breeches, and a powdered wig. He was accompanied by two footmen in fawn-and-gold livery, who positioned themselves very precisely on either side of the door while the butler descended the steps. One of the postboys had dismounted and came to open the chaise door for Rosalind, but as she alighted, the butler spoke to her. ‘I think you may have called at the wrong address, madam. This is Southvale House.’

  ‘I’m well aware that this is Southvale House,’ she replied a little coolly, disliking his manner. ‘It’s upon Lord Southvale that I’m calling.’

  ‘His lordship is not at home.’

  Not at home? Her heart sank, for that hadn’t been a possibility she’d even thought about. ‘Then perhaps Lady Eleanor is at home? Or Miss de Grey?’

  ‘No, madam, they both have a dinner engagement this evening.’

  ‘When do you expect someone to be at home?’

  ‘I really cannot say, madam,’ he replied evasively, for she was a complete stranger. ‘Perhaps if you call again tomorrow …’

  ‘I haven’t come all this way simply to call again tomorrow,’ she replied shortly, disliking his manner more and more. ‘My name is Miss Carberry.’

  ‘Madam?’ He looked blankly at her, the name evidently meaning nothing to him.

  ‘Hasn’t Lord Southvale mentioned me?’ she asked, an uneasy finger touching her heart.

  ‘No, madam, I fear he has not.’

  She stared at him, totally taken by surprise. But why hadn’t Philip said anything about her? What on earth reason could there be for such a glaring omission?