Waltz with a Stranger

by Martha Lou Thomas

  Warrick, accompanied by Lady Guthrie, appeared in the hall in time to see Quintilla’s tears and her uncle’s comforting pat. Surely she has not formed an attachment for that ... that impotent! His thoughts raged as he bid a courteous farewell. On the ride back to the Albany, his gorge rose over Blumpton’s gaucherie in response to the amiable family’s gallant efforts at hospitality. Such shyness was not to be trusted. Petty tyranny often lay hidden underneath.

  In his bedchamber, he paced in front of the tall windows that opened to the courtyard below and the intermittent hum of City sounds beyond. He was barefoot. His ruffled shirt, half unbuttoned, bloused loosely over midnight blue pantaloons. Never before had he realised the few options open to women who did not inherit and did not marry. He recognised that Quintilla’s tears were probably those of pity for the inept dolt, but were they tears of desperation, too, over the lack of an opportunity for marriage and the financial support it brought? He recalled from his childhood the spinster cousin who had stayed with them, but was not one of them.

  A wild clatter of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels interrupted his ruminations and drew him to a window where he looked down on the calm courtyard. Summer lightning crossed the sky and flashed against the dark red walls of his chamber. Somewhere upriver there was rain. Was the good summer weather to last only a day?

  “ ‘Did Rousseau’s theories of child care influence you in the education of your children, Mr. Blumpton?’ ” Warrick quoted Quintilla’s eager query, and laughed. Rousseau—to capture a man’s interest? The little fool! The guileless chit! Her time would have been better spent reading The Virgin Unmask’d, or its ilk, but I wager she has not.

  He padded restlessly about the room. “The devil! I will marry her myself rather than see her—Whoa! Not this soldier!” Beware of sentiment! No desperate situation, this. Quintilla herself had no strong commitment to the widower plan of her family. Innocents, every one of them—for all their scientific knowledge!

  “I hereby declare the official end to the search for an agreeable widower,” Quintilla announced to the occupants of the Guthries’ rose room after Warrick’s departure.

  Dr. Jenner comforted her. “Your day will come. To everything there is a season, Miss Tilla, and a time to every purpose under the heavens.”

  “I grow impatient, Dr. Jenner.”

  “That will never do,” he gently admonished.

  “Do not be too hasty, my dear,” persuaded Lady Guthrie. Her voice grew firm; its gracious tones departed in the face of hard facts. “Mr. Blumpton might well prove acceptable enough when it comes to choosing between your own hearth and an unsettled life moving from hither to yon, living on the sufferance of family members both close and remote.”

  Her niece’s crestfallen face brought a happier suggestion from the aunt. “I think a game of whist is in order.” She began to unfold the carved mahogany card table at the far end of the large drawing room, readying its green baize top for the shuffle of cards.

  Dr. Jenner demurred. He had no liking for cards, and retired to sample the fruits of scientific labour in the reports accumulating on his bedside table. Sir Ian enjoyed winning at whist, but when the cards did not come his way this night, he promptly remembered the importance of research notes to be edited, and departed the card table.

  Lady Guthrie and Quintilla dealt the cards for piquet, but play was abandoned in a postmortem of the evening’s activities, prompted by Kitty’s desire to chat.

  Quintilla laid down her cards. “Do you suppose Mr. Lysons at the Tower would ever allow me to help them organise all their records—and pay me for the doing of it?”

  “Hardly to be considered for the great-granddaughter of earls—on both sides of your family, Quintilla.” Lady Guthrie’s pained look spoke even more zealously of a woman’s proper place.

  Quintilla was not to be put off. “If Uncle Guthrie and Dr. Jenner were to recommend me? The Records Office is sorely in need of help.”

  “I do not think the Records Office would have the money to recompense you, dear, even if they were persuaded a woman could do the work adequately.” Lady Guthrie’s reasoned reply temporarily put to rest Quintilla’s scheme for future employment.

  “Did you know Mr. Dhever has rooms at the Albany?” Lady Guthrie trumpeted her information, obtained during the garden walk with Quintilla’s new friend.

  “Yes,” Quintilla answered matter-of-factly.

  Lady Guthrie was momentarily disconcerted. Her pride in what she had assumed to be news of significance dissipated. However, she had learned more from the garden stroll. “His mother was a Beauchamp.”

  Her nieces looked at her expectantly. Lady Guthrie delved into family genealogy. “I believe Cousin Bledsoe Carr married a Beauchamp.” Lady Guthrie’s nieces gazed at each other in mutual failure to understand the import of this knowledge.

  Disappointed in the reaction to her successful search for further intelligence on Mr. Warrick Dhever, Lady Guthrie returned to what was already known about this acquaintance. “How touching that he wanted us to have his family’s music stand. Most generous. Such a handsome piece. I have not seen another like it.”

  “I have,” Quintilla averred. At her relative’s inquiring look, she confessed, “But I cannot remember where.”

  “Too bad he is not a widower.” Lady Guthrie smiled and reached out to place her hand on Quintilla’s to stop her fidgeting with the cards before her.

  “Do we know that?” Kitty asked, watching Quintilla’s fingers continue to move the playing cards in patterns on the green baize.

  “What makes you ask?” Quintilla’s eyes left the cards to question Kitty’s.

  “Well, we really know nothing about him—except his mother is a Beauchamp, and you met him in the library during the Storr ball. Cook heard there was a robbery in the library that night, and Lady Storr’s stepbrother, Lord Eysley—the one they call the Ice Baron—and his servant stalk the City to find the thief. Maybe the elegant Mr. Dhever is the thief.”

  “No.” Quintilla turned to her aunt for confirmation. Lady Guthrie agreed. “If his mother was a Beauchamp ... A man who would give so thoughtful a guest gift, that had belonged to his family ... um, it would be difficult to imagine his harbouring any criminal habits.”

  “Of course.” Quintilla left the card table to reexamine the music stand. “I would rather trust, and be wrong, than not trust when I should have.” Her hand covered the smooth surface of the Sevres china plaque. “Lovely, aunt.”

  “I shall treasure it—and see that you have it, Quintilla, at my death—no, upon your marriage, just as Kitty is to have the monk’s clock in the library.”

  With these bequests settled, Lady Guthrie and her nieces mounted the curving stairway to their bedchambers. Lady Mallow was to come for whist the next afternoon. Only a good night’s sleep gave one the stamina to cope with her ladyship’s erratic game.

  In Quintilla’s chamber, a package rested in the middle of the bed’s counterpane. Wrapped in silver paper and ribbon, with a rose of white satin on top, the package intrigued—and puzzled. Quintilla hurried to the bed and looked for a card.

  At that moment, Cook Hopkins’s daughter peeked around the door and excitedly entered the room. “A nice surprise for you, Miss Tilla.”

  “Betty, did you put this here?”

  “So you would notice it,” the maid explained.

  “Who is it from?” Quintilla opened it, then chuckled in surprise. It was her missing shoe, from the Tower jaunt. A card read, “With the compliments of the Tower staff,” and was signed “L.” Mr. Lysons? wondered Quintilla. Would he wrap it so beautifully? Suddenly, Quintilla held the card to her breast and fell back on the bed as she laughed delightedly. No! L for Lopez!

  Bafflement spread over Betty’s face. “Is that all, Miss Tilla, just your old shoe?”

  Quintilla brushed the hair from her eyes and sat up. She nodded. What fun to ... to have the notice of the elegant and witty Warrick Dhever. How happy she was. Filled wi
th happiness.

  Quintilla still revelled in the remembrance of Warrick Dhever’s “gift” when she climbed into bed. The satin rose protruded from a buttonhole of her sheer cotton nightdress. She plumped the feather pillows and fell face down on them, groaning with the memory of how she had failed, there in the carriage. She had trust in herself, in her charm—but not enough, evidently, and so the challenge in his eyes had not been met. She was left with regret—and a sleepless night.

  She rolled over on her back, eyes closed. Or did she not trust him, his response, were she to indicate where her affections lay? Unbearable, were he to flinch and turn away. She groaned again. He did not seem at all to mind her attempts at interesting conversation. Illogical that society insisted women avoid discussions on history, or politics, or ... spawning.

  Arms folded behind her head, she watched shadows from the candle’s light swirl on the walls. Must she marry to obtain a position as housekeeper? “No!” She was not willing to sacrifice passion for expediency. A foolish romantic, most would say. If the deep and abiding love she longed for never came her way, there were other interests in the world, and ways to support herself, and she would find them. Maybe even in America, where everyone was equal.

  The distant sound of thunder rumbled across the night and mixed with the flickering shadows in her room. Quintilla sighed in contentment and touched the satin rose. A hearth shared with Warrick Dhever—what a lovely dream. She was safe tonight from storms, with thoughts of Warrick Dhever’s hands holding hers as they danced in the library—among just such flickering shadows. She relived every delicious moment.

  “Oh!” Quintilla reared up from the lace-trimmed pillows, arms hugging herself to keep from shivering in the humid night. A logical explanation existed, she knew, but the last time she had seen the mahogany music stand now gracing the Guthrie drawing room was when she had waltzed around it in the corner of the Eysley House library, the night of the Storr ball.

  Kitty’s words echoed in her ears. “ ‘Maybe the elegant Mr. Dhever is a thief.’ ”

  8

  “Ah, yes. Lord Eysley. We have been expecting you,” declared the bookstore’s owner, anticipating a lucrative relationship developing.

  “Oh?”

  “We were informed of your search for a particular rare book, and take great pride in our ability to obtain the unique, the extraordinary.”

  So that is the conclusion drawn, thought Warrick, recalling the many libraries visited during his emphasis on social functions. His wry expression gave pause to the book dealer’s assurance, causing the merchant to amend his expectations as he waited for the distinguished customer to state his need.

  “I contemplate collecting books, possibly early works on the United States.”

  “I think we can start you off quite respectably. Then, of course, we would begin to search for items of special note.”

  The bookman led Warrick down a twisting trail around counters to the back of the shop. After he had browsed through a few frayed volumes, he cast aside the one he perused. “Bah!” He wanted no part of old books, except when Miss Quintilla Davenant spun her tales about them. He hastily departed the establishment, leaving behind a disappointed proprietor.

  At Warrick’s next stop, a more satisfied tradesman was happy to sell Warrick a flute to replace his old one—definitely lost—a clarinet, and a recorder, all to be sent to Eysley Court. Warrick, encouraged to believe mastery of the new woodwinds presented no problem for a competent flutist, envisioned melodious winter evenings in the Court’s grand salon. Odd how the image of Miss Davenant, seated at the pianoforte once his mother’s, crept unbidden into his picture.

  The morning’s primary mission—discussion with Lord Boringdon on Quintilla’s Dr. Jenner and his proposed legislation—still needed attention. Accordingly, Warrick headed for his club on St. James Street to ascertain how his money’s influence might help her good doctor’s cause.

  Rain presaged by last night’s thunder had not moved downriver. A June sun, as bright as the old and radiant emblem of the House of York, shone gloriously. His discontent dispelled, Warrick once again viewed life as the adventure it was meant to be. He would see the chit successfully launched on the road to matrimony, and then he would embark on some new sea.

  When he reached White’s, the favourable outcome of one of Lord Alvanley’s wagers—Coates did indeed die before Swynden—had prompted enough toasts to Alvanley’s betting acumen to render a number of members in almost the same state as Coates. Warrick peremptorily ignored drinking invitations to seek Lord Boringdon. Blessedly, that gentleman made use of a quiet room, where Warrick joined him. Taller than Warrick, and older by four years, the solemn member of the House of Lords agreed to Warrick’s interruption. In the subdued decor of the club room, the two somberly dressed aristocrats conversed rationally, independent of the celebration.

  “What are the chances for passage of Dr. Jenner’s proposed legislation, Lord Boringdon?”

  The legislator drew a deep breath. “I believe there is very little chance.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh. The usual reasons. Dr. Jenner will not compromise, which is political naiveté leading to political suicide, as you well know.”

  Warrick nodded in agreement.

  “Money.” Lord Boringdon added to the list of usual reasons.

  “Money?” Warrick repeated, alert to any occasion where infusion of funds might mean victory.

  “Too many can make nice livings as inoculators, and they have influential friends. The bill, you see, outlaws inoculation as a preventative of smallpox.”

  Warrick’s confusion showed on his face. “Perhaps you should explain to me the difference between inoculation and vaccination.”

  “Inoculation, while offering safety from smallpox, is perilous. Because smallpox venom itself is introduced into the body, death is possible, and the disease can spread from the one inoculated to others not inoculated, quickly becoming an epidemic.”

  Warrick listened intently. A servant of mournful visage intruded with the offer of drinks from a silver tray, but both gentlemen declined, too involved for amenities. “And vaccination?” Warrick reminded.

  “Vaccination, using the milder cowpox matter, gives equally effective immunity without the danger of death, or of epidemic.”

  “Then, why is Grosvenor’s son, having been vaccinated, dying of smallpox?” Warrick asked, “or so I hear.”

  “Umh. Dr. Jenner cannot explain it. Thinks he might have used impure matter in the vaccination ten years ago. But if the lad dies, it will be a tragedy not only for his family, but for the nation. Dying with him will be any chance for passage of the vaccination.”

  Lord Boringdon shook his head, and offered further details. “Jenner is crushed, of course, but cannot even see Master Grosvenor to assist in a possible recovery. He must be called in by the doctors dealing with the case, and they have not done so.”

  Warrick recalled Dr. Jenner’s rueful admission in the Guthrie library. His aid had not been solicited. How demoralising for the dedicated physician.

  Lord Boringdon added even more poignancy to the tale. “Dr. Jenner lost his son only last year. The boy had defective understanding, but that does not make the loss any the less grievous.”

  “But if Grosvenor’s child recovers?” Warrick asked.

  “Then there might be a chance, a slim chance for passage. That this nation would not take advantage of the better procedure is unconscionable—unless you understand politics.”

  “Where does Lord Montagu’s wife fit in the story?”

  “In the last century, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu brought inoculation to this country from Turkey. Lord Montagu was ambassador there. Commendation is due her, for when inoculation was all we had, it was an acceptable gamble. But the nation advances, and Dr. Jenner wants to make the practice as outmoded legally as it is in fact.”

  Again, silence enveloped them, each engrossed in his own contemplation, until Lord Boringdon asked, “H
ave you encountered any vaccination mobs?”

  Warrick frowned. “There are mobs now?”

  “Yes. Quite well-organised opposition. Chanting against vaccination.” Lord Boringdon shuddered. “I have not encountered any yet, but I heard they roam the City in the last few days, with my name and a caricature of my face on some of the signs carried.”

  “Will the addition of money into the coffers help?” Warrick enquired. “For a countermob, perhaps?”

  “I doubt it, given all the obstacles we face at this time. Should the Grosvenor boy survive, Baron—there will be another year. That is the beauty of parliamentary governments—another year, another day, another chance.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Were you in the City a decade ago, during hearings to establish the true discoverer of vaccination?”

  “Some, but my thoughts were on other problems,” said Warrick.

  Lord Boringdon’s faint smile signified recognition of the conflicts Warrick faced then. “A surprising number of claimants came forward to dispute Dr. Jenner’s rights. Would we had an equal number of supporters now.”

  Lord Boringdon asked for Warrick’s future legislative support, and for his company on the drive to that stretch of the Thames River dominated by the Houses of Parliament. Warrick agreed to both requests, which is how he found himself in an open landau behind an aged family coachman when suddenly a mob emerged from out a narrow London street and headed on a collision course with their carriage.

  “Vaccination is for cows, not people! Vaccination is for cows, not people!” came the exuberant yells. “Mooo! Moo!”

  Initially, there was a sense of revelry amongst the two dozen individuals carrying placards denigrating Lord Boringdon’s name and competence as well as Dr. Jenner’s. Masks depicting a cow’s physiognomy hid the faces of two or three, while a crude papier-mâché cow’s head covered the shoulders and head of one prancing man in the forefront.