Quintilla could not speak. Did he tell her she was only a scholar, minus a woman’s appeal? She glanced out the carriage window to conceal her pangs. He had not enjoyed the jaunt with her.
She turned back from the window. A lost smile had not yet found its way to her eyes. “If I were wise, Warrick Dhever, I would not be dining in a few hours with the family’s first widower candidate.”
“Ah. This explains your Quaker-like sobriety.” He had seen the stricken look that crossed Quintilla’s mobile face. “Considering what happened to your present escort, My Lady,” he teased, “I think I owe it to your widower to be there, looking out for his well-being.”
“We dine unfashionably early—and there will be music, not exquisitely beautiful, but music we play. Sometimes we sing.” Quintilla watched him from the corner of her eye.
“Forewarned is forearmed. I accept your very reluctant invitation.”
“Oh, I am pleased to invite you.” She was again at ease, and able to look at him. Eyes dancing, she saucily rhymed, “Mister Dhever, from under his beaver, is enjoined to leave her alone. He’s invited to dine on sweetmeats and wine, no need to gnaw on her bones.”
Warrick reached over to her, his finger gently tracing the line of her jaw, “And a fine set of bones they are.”
She was almost certain he found pleasure in her company! A joyous glow spread in her eyes and seemed to light the coupe’s shadowed interior.
Muffled peals of laughter reached the groom, who must have sensed the special aura. Reins held firmly in his hands, he slowed the pace of the horses.
The swaying carriage turned Warrick’s thoughts to indolent days at sea during his Atlantic voyage, when he had learned to play the flute. Its sounds had soared along many a wilderness trail in America. He would bring the instrument, if he could find it, and play it tonight—with the widower.
This dauntless sprite in his carriage, when had it become important to him that she marry well—in happiness? It was as if he wanted to deposit with her the trust he had been storing in his soul for so long ... but it was too soon. She had come too close too swiftly.
6
Under the beaming eye of Sir Ian Guthrie, Quintilla lovingly displayed on his library worktable some of the treasures from his book collection for Mr. Warrick Dhever and Mr. Henry Pomfret-Page. The latter seemed so ardent a bibliophile, Quintilla’s sense of discomfort at being on display herself quickly abated.
“Here is an illuminated incunabulum published in Florence in 1478,” Quintilla told her listeners. She opened the small folio to a page glistening with delicate blues and lavenders in a floral design surrounding words from the cradle days of printing. Leaves of pale green entwined with shining gold scrollwork completed the border.
Mr. Pomfret-Page, really quite distinguished-looking, carried his slim body as erect as his heavily starched cravat. Silky grey hair in a Brutus cut, genial smile—was their shared enthusiasm an encouraging sign? Of course, at times he stood a little too close to her, the sleeve of his smartly tailored plum-coloured coat brushing against her bare arm as he leaned nearer, the better to examine what she pointed out. No, she reacted like a skittish colt. The gentleman just showed his eagerness to learn, which she could understand. She, too, often forgot that society considered enthusiasm to be vulgar.
Evading the shifting positions of Mr. Pomfret-Page kept Quintilla’s mind off the inscrutable Warrick Dhever, who leaned against the wall by the worktable with his arms folded across his chest. Whenever she glanced at him, he was watching her, not the books she was parading. Her dashing companion had disappeared behind his tiger’s mask.
Quintilla’s fingers stroked the string of small pearls almost hidden by the ruffles at the neck of her lilac organza gown as she moved aside for Mr. Pomfret-Page to more closely inspect the Florentine folio. The thought of occupying the tower embrasure of that morning with this gentleman caused a frown to crease her brow for a moment. She glanced at Warrick Dhever, and detected a mocking gleam in that worthy’s eyes. He had not missed the instant of true feeling escaping from behind her facade of politeness.
“Have you showed them the Celsus?” asked Dr. Jenner, entering from the soft air of the garden at twilight.
“Yes. Just now.” Quintilla walked over to the gentle crusader and pressed her cheek against his in welcome. Turning around immediately to face the others, she surprised Mr. Pomfret-Page in close observation of her imbalanced gait. He frowned briefly.
“Ah, Edward. Here you are,” Of a height and breadth with Edward Jenner, the host’s more imposing carriage and figure, comfortably garbed in a richly embroidered coat, suited his considerable reputation as an accurate diagnostician.
After introducing Jenner to Dhever and Pomfret-Page, Sir Ian enquired, “What does Boringdon think?”
Jenner shook his head. “He cannot tell,” and explained to the guests, “Lord Boringdon shepherds my bill to secure the prevention of smallpox by vaccination through the House of Lords.”
Sir Ian moved to put his hand against Dr. Jenner’s back, and spoke gravely. “The Grosvenor heir has been diagnosed now as having smallpox. It seems likely to prove fatal. I believe you vaccinated him a decade ago. Have you seen him?”
“No,” replied Dr. Jenner sorrowfully. “I want to, very much, but Farquhar and Halford, who treat him, have not called me in for consultation. I must stay out of it until they solicit my aid.”
Mr. Pomfret-Page broke the sympathetic silence that followed. “Miss Davenant, can you show us anything to match this Italian jewel? I vow, Sir Ian, your lovely librarian has so intrigued me, I wish to begin collecting rare books tomorrow.”
Quintilla darted to the bookshelf, uneasy when the widower’s eyes followed her so carefully. I should trot once around the room, so he might calculate my soundness of limb and heart, she thought to herself, and was unable to suppress her laugh at the vision. So she was smiling broadly as she hawked her next library gem. “We have the definitive treatise on the cuckoo by the noted Gloucester physician from Berkeley, Dr. Edward Jenner!”
“I was thirty-seven, gentlemen, when that report was accepted by the Royal Society,” Jenner told them. “I thought at the time I had reached the apex of my life, and wondered what on earth I would do with the rest of it.”
Warrick commented, “And instead of being the end, the cuckoo marked only the end of the beginning.”
“Exactly!” Dr. Jenner forcefully punctuated his moral. “Remember the cuckoo, young man.”
“I intend to, Dr. Jenner,” replied Warrick.
“This is the work?” Mr. Pomfret-Page followed Quintilla, his fingers sliding across hers as he took the book from her hands. “I prepare a report for the Friends of Education of the Poor, Sir Ian, and would hope, someday, to see it repose in your library, as handsomely bound in Moroccan leather as this one.” Mr. Pomfret-Page’s smile wanted sincerity, Quintilla decided, smiling in return. Courtesy demanded she bury her resentment at his forward behaviour, which she now recognised as such. Oh, no, she scolded herself. Rather pity him losing his wife. Had he loved her dearly?
“Hallo.” Kitty stood in the doorway and queried the group. “Are any of you willing to substitute roast pig for rare books?”
One of the coral ribbons dividing puffs in the mameluke sleeves of her peach dimity dress had come untied. “Aunt Margaret sent me to see what happened to Dr. Jenner, whom she had sent earlier to suggest we all gather in the rose drawing room.”
“Here is our Kitty Fairfield,” Sir Ian fondly announced to the guests. “When she is awake, which is never before noon, she is always trying to hurry us along.”
Kitty pouted prettily at her teasing uncle. Mr. Pomfret-Page, wordlessly handing to Quintilla the bound report on the cuckoo, took wing towards the newcomer’s affable smile. During the immediate exodus from the library outbuilding to the house, he put Kitty’s hand in the crook of his arm, resisting all her efforts to withdraw it.
Kitty had inspired Dr. Jenner in the composit
ion of another poem, and he proceeded to regale the company during the amble back through the garden.
“The joy I felt I cannot utter
When I beheld thy charming flutter;
Heard thy voice upon the tree
And saw thee look and look at me:
But I must chide thee little bird,
Indeed I must upon my word.
Well, welly it shan't be now—but then
You must not climb that tree again.”
Beneath the sound of the good-natured raillery greeting Dr. Jenner’s versification, Warrick’s low voice caressed Quintilla’s ear as he spoke to her. “I fear your lean-shanked friend is no longer a candidate, Miss Davenant.”
“I believe you may be right, Mr. Dhever,” she answered ruefully, and thought, I wish he did not witness how well I qualify for ape-leader. “One less raisin in tonight’s porridge, however, will not matter ... when the remaining ones are so delicious.” Head high, eyes shining wickedly, Quintilla entered the rose drawing room to the sound of Warrick’s hearty laughter, impossible to stifle. Dr. Jenner appreciated what he took to be a rousing response to his rhyme, which was recited again during the progression to the dining room.
The conversation flowed up and down and across the highly polished mahogany table during the family dinner, over which Lady Guthrie presided. Her skill and success as a hostess were in direct contrast to her impotence at whist. A small rope of white pearls the colour of her hair gleamed in the candlelight against her rose silk tunic over a pink muslin sheath.
Lady Guthrie’s cook was as adept as her mistress. Silver platters held oyster sausages and rice apples. Rivulets of molten brown juices meandered down hillocks of crisp-edged slices of succulent roast pig to the baked pears which decorated the rim of a large silver tray. The onion with egg-cream sauce, surrounded by tender asparagus tips, was sprinkled with heavily buttered toast crumbs, and the poached turbot’s lobster sauce was generously laced with wine.
“The exhibition from the Society of Painters in WaterColours opens tomorrow at eight in the morning,” the hostess announced. “I want us to attend.”
“At eight in the morning?” her spouse jested at the other end of the table.
Graciously, she smiled in response. “Do you esteem paintings, Mr. Pomfret-Page?” She asked, addressing the guest of honour on her right.
“Caring for my wife during her last illness severely restricted my time to note achievement in the arts, Lady Guthrie. I hope now to gain a greater awareness of the City’s activities.” The widower threw a meaningful look at Kitty, who sat across the table between Mr. Dhever and Dr. Jenner. She chose to ignore the look and its intimation of the merriment that could be hers in the future.
Warrick, seated at Sir Ian’s right, caught Quintilla’s eyes before directing his gaze to the evening’s guest of honour. “How many children in your household, Mr. Pomfret-Page, have been left motherless?” he enquired.
“Four, four lively ones at home. I know they need a firmer hand, but since their mother’s passing, I have not had the heart.” Again, Mr. Pomfret-Page pointed his remarks in Kitty’s direction. She, in turn, concentrated on a covert scrutiny of Quintilla’s legendary waltz partner from the Storr library.
A formidable managerial undertaking awaited the next Mrs. Pomfret-Page, thought Quintilla. “What are their ages?” She addressed Mr. Pomfret-Page seated next to her, wishing she could institute an immediate game of puss-in-the-corner until Mr. Dhever became her dinner partner. No doubt Mr. Pomfret-Page would enjoy the game, if it settled him into the chair next to Kitty.
“Arthur is ten. The girls are ... seven ... and four, and five. My oldest son is fifteen, and away, at school.”
The Guthries’ son, their only child to survive infancy, was away, serving as a naval surgeon with the fleet. After a brief dialogue on the wrenching pain when children first leave home, Surgeon Guthrie’s latest letter, with firsthand news of the struggle to contain Napoleon, provoked a discussion on the nation’s future directions, given the cessation of hostilities, which surely would be soon. Fortunately, no list of potential Whig leaders was compiled, though there had been a unique opportunity for doing so. Only a quelling look from Warrick in response to the flash of devilment in Quintilla’s eyes prevented it.
A discussion on expenditures for the Regency Fete could not be avoided. Kitty quoted the astonishing figure of fifty thousand pounds, which was quickly reduced by Mr. Pomfret-Page, who gained great amusement from her exorbitant claim. His deceased wife’s money left him in the felicitous position of being able to laugh at extravagance.
After outrage was expressed over the reappointment of the Duke of York as commander-in-chief, considering all the scandal over the sale of military commissions, talk turned to the theatre. It was accompanied by a cut-glass bowl of smooth lemon cream made from the Duchess of Marlborough’s own recipe. A royal raspberry cake was moist enough to effect memories of a mouthful of warm and juicy berries picked under the hot summer sun.
“What plays have you seen recently, Mr. Dhever?” Lady Guthrie had not learned much from Quintilla’s attractive addition to the dinner party. Intelligent, imperious, but was he eligible? Quintilla had a habit of bringing home questionable creatures.
“I witnessed an intense performance earlier today at the Tower of London, Lady Guthrie.”
“At the Menagerie?” his astounded hostess demanded.
“When your niece portrayed Queen Elizabeth as the young princess.”
The glee that hailed Warrick’s answer led to a catalogue of Quintilla’s past dramatics for the elucidation of the guests. “Tilla always tells the greatest stories,” Kitty contributed to the reminiscences. “When we were younger, and all visiting in Berkeley, she would have us be druids, or charging horses. In the summer, when we swam, Tilla would say we were a school of fish. She could stay under water longer than any of us when she led us to our spawning ground.”
A general intake of breath circled the table at Kitty’s remarks. Warrick’s eyes glinted with restrained laughter. The physicians had sucked in their cheeks to maintain the expression usually used only in the most serious of medical emergencies. They looked to Lady Guthrie, who found it necessary to use her fan. One could quite naturally expect the young in a family with leanings towards scientific enquiry to have an acquaintance with nature’s reproductive processes. It was, nevertheless, unexpected to hear the profession of such knowledge introduced into polite conversation at the dinner table. Obviously, Kitty required further applications of town bronze.
“But you were always the best with horses, Kitty.” Quintilla led a conversational charge to new and safer ground.
All returned to the topic of the Tower, requiring further details of the visit there. A description of its cold cells and dark rooms omitted any account of the temporary imprisonment in one of them.
Kitty, however, would not be satisfied until a general agreement was reached that the stage missed a great actress when Quintilla was born to a family of naturalists instead of to the Kembles. Maybe now Mr. Pomfret-Page would redirect his glances, thought Quintilla’s loyal relative—but in vain.
Over cherries and grapes, nuts and cheese, the charmed widower gave further evidence of his interest in Kitty. “So you like horses, Miss Fairfield?”
“Yes.” Kitty was wary. “Tilla does, too.”
“Not particularly, Kitty,” Quintilla promptly demurred.
Her cousin glared. Doesn’t she see what I am trying to do? thought Kitty, getting no cooperation in attempts to withdraw from the lists she did not know she had entered.
Inexorably, Mr. Pomfret-Page continued. “I understand there are magnificent horses at Astley’s in the spectacle Tyrant Saracen and Noble Moor, Miss Fairfield. I am persuaded you would enjoy it.”
“Perhaps,” answered the beleaguered young girl.
Bouquets of pale pink roses in thin porcelain vases graced mahogany tables in the Guthries’ beautifully proportioned rose room where t
he company gathered after dinner for the promised musical exercises. Open French doors permitted the perfume from roses in the garden to mingle with those in the room.
Kitty sat with Quintilla on the bench at the pianoforte, ready to turn pages at a nod from her cousin. Sir Ian adjusted his violin under his chin, prepared to mark the timing with his bow whenever needed. Dr. Jenner, master of both flute and violin, offered Warrick his choice of flutes. Lady Guthrie captured Mr. Pomfret-Page’s arm and led him to sit beside her near the musicians on a rose velvet Queen Anne settee with cabriole legs and trifid feet. She gave the count and the group began. To everyone’s delight, all finished at the same time.
Warrick summarised the elation. “We pose no threat to the Royal Society of Musicians, ladies and gentlemen, but that was a creditable execution.” He could not remember when last he played the flute, but it had been so long ago, he had forgotten the pleasure it brought him.
Spurred on to greater triumph, the players trotted through some Handel and Bach. Beethoven’s work did not escape, nor Mozart’s. Their sound grew more powerful when Lady Guthrie joined Quintilla at the pianoforte and four hands made music from the keyboard. Kitty stood beside them in her official role as page-turner. With Warrick to play the flute’s assigned notes, Dr. Jenner improvised additional harmony.
When the instruments’ capacity for error began to increase, the instrumentalists turned to song. Quintilla accompanied, and Mr. Pomfret-Page was drawn into the group. His clear tenor voice lamented the loss of Lady Greensleeves and celebrated the trip to Scarborough Fair. The raggle-taggle Gypsies were delineated, and a lover and his lass were hey-nonnied and hey-noed melodiously.
“Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss within the cup and I’ll not ask for wine...”
they all sang, none willing to extinguish the glow of their harmonious companionship.
Waltz with a Stranger Page 7