Waltz with a Stranger

by Martha Lou Thomas

  Warrick regarded her dubiously. Where was her chaperon? No one admits to this! Dryly, he observed, “If you would flutter your fan more and talk about smallpox less, you would have no problem acquiring dance partners.”

  Again she exhibited that enchanting smile. “I cannot use a fan without laughing. I think the moment one has any sensible thoughts, one becomes too old for a fan, and must be content only to watch, philosophising over the foolishness of the young.”

  “Oh, one is never so ponderously old, Miss Davenant, as one is at—twenty?” Warrick commented.

  “Appearances deceive, Mr. Dhever. I am four and twenty, truly at my last prayers. And I limp, decidedly. When dancing is featured, conventional wisdom insists I am unable to dance. Rarely does anyone bother to test the accuracy of the hypothesis.” Once more she scrutinised his face. “Did you think me an able dancing partner, Mr. Dhever?”

  Warrick nodded. “Very much so.”

  “You see!” she exclaimed with a triumph Isaac Newton must have known when he could explain the apple’s fall from the tree. “Your verdict is welcomed, Mr. Dhever.” Two pairs of smiling eyes silently acknowledged a mutual pleasure. For a few moments, there was only the sound of the dying fire snapping and hissing.

  But Quintilla had not finished. “I come from a long line of naturalists, more interested in what can be viewed through a microscope than what can be gained through investment. The size of my dowry is not enough to persuade the average suitor to court an antidote. So, a fan and a saucy smile are not enough to plug the leaks in my social dike.” Her eyes were a little too bright. Pausing only briefly, she continued. “I hope you are not a widower.”

  “I am not.” Warrick was perplexed by her question, but relieved of the need to comment on her problem—an insurmountable one in the London society of 1811. “Why?”

  “My well-meaning family wishes to see me cared for in marriage. They have decided that a widower who has already experienced great passion with his first wife will a second time overlook a limp and lack of dowry to settle for one who will be a good mother to his children and maintain a well-run house.” She stopped, suddenly uncomfortable babbling about a plan where she would play the supplicant. Doggedly, she completed her summation. “I visit the London branch of our family, with presumably greater access to widowers than is available in the country town where I reside. My aunt and her physician husband, Sir Ian Guthrie, house me.”

  “Who better to know the latest addition to the male ranks of the bereaved?”

  “Exactly, Mr. Dhever! How perspicacious you are!” Her enjoyment of his sarcasm dispelled any uneasiness; her lilting laugh triggered Warrick’s hearty chortle.

  “Perspicacious!” He remembered the conversation with Miss Woodville. “Miss Davenant, I see no impediment to the successful conclusion of your family’s widower strategy.” Warrick found it impossible to preserve his usual aloof stance in the face of this wild bombardment of candour. “Since I am not a widower, do you allot me any more time, or does our conversation end now?”

  “If you were a widower, Mr. Dhever, I should become ill at ease, in the role of petitioner, seeking your ... approbation, and doubting my right to it. Since you are not a widower, I speak as one who seeks nothing, but offers an exchange of ideas.” She smiled. “I am pleased you are not a widower, but I am enjoying our exchange.”

  “Exchange! Is this what it is? I would call it more an oration, a Davenantian Oration.”

  She chuckled, unintimidated by his arrogant tone of voice. “I know. Perhaps the shadowed room encourages me. I always seem to have too much I need to say.”

  “What do you need to say now?”

  An impish gleam in her eyes supplanted the earnestness as she tried to preserve a serious mien. “Oh, the military strategy that beat the French at Barrosa, the list of Whigs capable of leading the party back to power—!”

  “You, Miss Davenant, are a minx.” She did not need a fan, he thought. Her unconventional conversation intrigued—that was her lure, whether she knew it or not. “Tell me, is it a good year for widowers?” he asked.

  “Fortunately, the campaign has not yet begun.”

  “But you have agreed to the strategy?”

  A sweet sadness diffused over her face. “It is difficult not to when I know my family schemes because of concern for my future. I will meet their widowers, though I am enough of a romantic to dislike abandoning the idea of ever experiencing la grande passion, hoping for a white knight on a shining horse.” She studied her hands folded in her lap, and then almost defiantly averred. “But, married or not, I am determined to have an interesting life—and I do enjoy London visits. This time, without fail, I must ride down the Thames to see the Tower’s Traitors’ Gate. I want to imagine what the young Tudor Princess Elizabeth must have felt when she was conveyed there, without the promise of help from anyone. What courage she had.”

  “And you admire courage?” Warrick probed.

  “To face up to what one does not want to face up to is—sometimes difficult.”

  “Like marriage without la grande passion?”

  She smiled. “Have you ever experienced it, la grande passion?”

  Warrick remembered the exuberant two years in America—staying longer in Charleston than originally planned—and what was the name of the woman from the Iroquois tribe north of Pittsburgh? “Perhaps it is overrated.”

  “Perhaps.” She turned to stare into the fire, which gave Warrick the opportunity to study her profile—straight nose, high cheekbones. Shining waves of light brown hair hid all but the tip of her earlobe.

  “Shall we do it, then?” Warrick asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Visit the Tower,” he said. “I will pick you up tomorrow.”

  5

  At number seven, Sloane Crescent, only the butler witnessed Quintilla’s glow of excitement when Warrick called for her at midmorning. Sir Ian was already out on patient calls, while his lady had capitulated to the numerous rituals of toilette now essential to the maintenance of her status among those in the first stare of fashion. Ensconced in his bed amidst down pillows, Dr. Jenner allowed himself the luxury of reading the latest proceedings from the Royal Society, whose initial opinion had labeled “impossible” his report of success with smallpox vaccination. Kitty, in spite of every intention to meet Quintilla’s him, was a slumbering mound in the middle of her bed.

  “I am not to be kept waiting?” Warrick feigned surprise, handsome in his buckskin breeches and single-breasted blue superfine coat with claw hammer tails.

  “Not when I so anticipate our journey.” Quintilla was grateful no one was present to invade with hollow cordiality or subtle interrogation their comfortable but fragile familiarity.

  She hastened out the door before Warrick could take her arm. “I have been wanting to do this for ages, but no one—” Suddenly remembering, Quintilla stopped and waited for her amused escort to observe established etiquette. She smilingly acknowledged the glint in his eyes as he conducted her to the maroon and black coupe waiting in the drive that circled the front of the Guthrie’s Georgian residence. A spirited pair of matched blacks with arched necks switched their tails and snorted, seeming as eager to start as Quintilla.

  “I suppose it would be ridiculous of me to question the absence of a chaperon or maid to accompany you,” Warrick asked sternly, assisting her into the carriage.

  “Yes. Society sees no need for those with physical anomalies to adhere to its strict rules of decorum,” Quintilla airily informed him.

  “Shall we prove them wrong, Miss Davenant?”

  “I do not think we could, Mr. Dhever.”

  “Oh?” There was a quizzical look on his face. He raised his eyebrows.

  “Everyone would stare, then pretend not to see me. You, on the other hand, would be praised for your tolerance and good nature in such company.”

  “You think your charm and your beauty count for so little?”

  Quintilla regarded him wi
th astonishment. “Do you think I am beautiful?”

  Warrick looked at the young woman who carefully studied his face. A dark blue velvet spencer with standing collar topped her high-waisted white muslin dress sprigged with dark blue. Nesting atop waves of ash-brown hair swept back from her face was a saucy, narrow-brimmed hat of medium crown matching the colour of the spencer. Her hands, in blue kid gloves, held a silk reticule embroidered with roses. Her eyes, ah! Warrick could detect sense behind those bright bits of summer sky.

  “You are quite lovely.” His voice caught, unaccustomed to revealing his thoughts so openly. He had been playing his cards close to his chest for too many years.

  Her eyes sparkled wickedly above a wry smile before she turned to look out the carriage at the lowering skies still plaguing the spring season. He sensed his response had only confirmed her doubts.

  “Truly beautiful, Miss Davenant.”

  “Thank you. It was ill-mannered of me to ask, but your objective opinion interests me.”

  “Are you so unsure, then, of your quality?”

  “No,” she said positively.

  “Then, you think others lack the ... perspicacity, Miss Davenant, the perspicacity to know what you know? Rather insulting, is it not, to the discernment of others?”

  “Well ... perhaps. I never thought about it from the point of view you suggest.”

  Warrick reached over to brush his finger down the bridge of her nose. “Take care, Miss Quintilla Davenant, not to lump all of humanity together.”

  “Never will I lump you, kind Mr. Dhever, with any but the most admirable of gentlemen. However, it is often difficult to find the raisins in the porridge...”

  The coupe halted, interrupting their banter. With the groom’s assurance that he would be waiting as they exited the Tower, Quintilla and Warrick alighted into the hubbub of the watermen.

  “Oars ! Oars!” they shouted, official badges prominently displayed on their coatsleeves. “Sculls! Oars!” Quintilla followed Warrick along the passage accessing the River Thames as he charged through the boisterous competition for fares. His strong arms guided her firmly down worn stone steps into one of the sturdy craft bumping against the landing.

  The clamour receded, replaced by the creak of oar and the slap of water against the hull. The pungent odour of pitch and coal smoke permeated the still air. Smoke-darkened buildings onshore were suspended between grey river and grey sky.

  “This is a perfect day to go downriver with a sense of doom,” Quintilla announced, smiling happily at her companion. “It was raining the day Princess Elizabeth was conveyed to the Tower.”

  “And you know this because—?”

  “Because I read it,” Quintilla answered Warrick’s query.

  “I thought you had been preserved in Madeira wine after your first trip, My Lady, and had only recently been revived to go again.” Her exuberance challenged him.

  “You will please refer to me as Your Highness.” Quintilla’s voice was imperious.

  “Since your half sister Mary already views your future ambitions with great suspicion, you would be wiser and more diplomatic to use ‘My Lady,’ My Lady,” Warrick instructed his boatmate. “After all, you want to leave as well as enter the Tower.”

  “You are right, as always, Dr. Lopez,” Quintilla graciously acceded, and glanced at Warrick. “Do you want to know who Dr. Lopez was?”

  “I was certain you would tell me, My Lady.”

  Warrick’s dry response pleased her. “Dr. Lopez was Elizabeth’s physician, accused of conspiring with the Spanish to poison her. He was sent to the Tower and executed.”

  “I see. So, this is to be merely a one-way journey for me?”

  “Unfortunately, yes, Dr. Lopez. If it is any consolation to you, I have enjoyed your acquaintance.”

  “Perfect consolation, My Lady.”

  There was little breeze to ruffle Warrick’s dark hair. Holding his beaver hat between his muscular thighs, he peered downriver. “I have never been an admirer of the medical profession, Miss Davenant.”

  “A judgement you share with many. We no longer wear togas, yet we still follow Greek and Roman thought in medical practice. And where there is little knowledge, charlatans and quacks can flourish. In the midst of such confusion, when loved ones die, resentment against those who let it happen is only natural.” Recognising her increasing fervour—something no lady indulged in—Quintilla stopped, and observed the river’s borders. She sighed before continuing her reasonable analysis. “But the worst part is when an important medical discovery demands change, and people jeer instead of shouting hallelujah.”

  Warrick was listening carefully. “Your family’s friend, Dr.—ah—.”

  “Dr. Jenner.”

  “Dr. Jenner is currently in this position?”

  “Yes.” Quintilla shook her head. “We were such innocents, all of us at home who knew of his work. When he first came to London, so excited, ready to share the wonder of vaccination, no one was even interested.”

  “No entries in his dance programme,” Warrick remarked sardonically.

  “Now there are many who, refusing to dance with him, want to boot him out of the ballroom. Transferring matter from a cow to a human being is against God’s law, they would have it ... Other countries revere Dr. Jenner’s work, but in his own country—. Once, one of the royal dukes—Sussex, I think—was terribly ill, and insisted only Dr. Jenner treat him. After staying at His Grace’s side for three long weeks, the caring doctor was rewarded with a water pipe, a—hookah—from Turkey—and nothing more!”

  “The Duke of Sussex is a fool. Warmhearted, but a fool,” Warrick commented. “Your Dr. Jenner has no money to continue?”

  “His Parliamentary grant enables him to send pure vaccine all over the world—constantly—and vaccinate—sometimes hundreds of people each day. He never charges a fee, wanting no financial profit from benefiting mankind... I think he desires official recognition. Friends and supporters believe prize money would not be amiss—especially when £5,000 was recently awarded a Mr. Stephens for an absolutely worthless solvent for the stone!” She caught herself. “I do not mean to harangue.”

  “You are a passionate partisan, Miss Davenant, and one I would want on my side in any debate.”

  Masts rising from a prodigy of ships stood at attention beyond London Bridge. Shooting under its arches, their wherry was part of the teeming activity on the broad river. Freight barges, skiffs, and scuttling punts passed among the anchored ships. Looming in the background were turrets of the White Tower, centre of bastions, gateways, towers, and protective walls built by a succession of English monarchs to withstand the mightiest attack.

  Tower Wharf was crowded with warehouses and workshops that sheltered Ordnance Office activities of a nation battling Napoleon and his allies. Barricades blocked Traitors’ Gate, where inside a steam engine propelled the mechanism for manufacturing guns.

  Warrick watched for Quintilla’s response to the modern world’s trading and military turbulence, ready to discount her disappointment.

  “I believe we stayed too long in the Madeira, My Lady, and are a few centuries too late.”

  She did not answer, but stared silently at the archway once entered by the young Elizabeth. “No, Dr. Lopez. I am satisfied with our trip. This is a forbidding place, and Traitors’ Gate is ominously dark.”

  “Shall we persist on going to prison, via the mundane public entry?” Warrick questioned.

  Quintilla nodded. They mounted the water stairs west of Traitors’ Gate to penetrate the stronghold past the stench from the antiquated moat’s dark waters and the occasional roar of lions in the Royal Menagerie. Quintilla extracted from her reticule a note of introduction that Sir Ian Guthrie had written Mr. Samuel Lysons, Keeper of the Records, to whose office in the Wakefield Tower they were immediately ushered.

  Mr. Lysons’s silver-white hair was a beacon in the poorly lit room, which was cluttered with papers covering every available space. A sturdy
length of wood propped up the worst spot of a severely sagging ceiling.

  “Miss Davenant. It is always my pleasure to welcome a fellow citizen from Gloucester.” The archivist spoke cordially. “Sir Ian writes that Dr. Jenner visits also. I wish he had come with you today.”

  “He works on legislation favouring vaccination, but his colleague, Dr. Lopez, accompanies me.” Quintilla’s eyes challenged Warrick’s as the scholarly archivist turned to greet him.

  Shaking Warrick’s hand, Mr. Lysons said earnestly, “Dr. Lopez, we from Gloucester are eternally grateful to our Dr. Jenner for eliminating the Red Death from amongst us. What has been your role in aiding him?”

  “I work with poisons,” Warrick replied.

  “How very interesting.” Puzzlement crossed Mr. Lysons’s face before a light of understanding appeared. “Yes. The poison of the pox as related to...?”

  “The poison of vipers.” Warrick’s eyes returned Quintilla’s challenge.

  Mr. Lysons blinked as the light of comprehension faded a bit from his face. “Umh. Just so. Now, if you will excuse me, I will ask my chief clerk, Mr. Lemon, to show you about before you wander on your own. Many of the buildings and towers in the compound are used by the military, with little evidence of history’s past remaining. A pity, but there it is.”

  “Mr. Lysons.” Warrick had moved to stand by the thick wooden prop supporting the overburdened ceiling. “Is it safe to work in an office in danger of having the ceiling collapse?”

  “The weight of history, my dear sir, threatens us all. The room above overflows with archives dating back to—oh—the receipt for William the Conqueror’s trip from Normandy to Hastings.” Mr. Lysons smiled with satisfaction over his little exaggeration. “The papers seem to multiply faster than we can put them in order. We use an ancient place, after all, much of it sadly in need of restorative work. The storage of records is not important to those concerned with guns.”