by Sandra Heath
“Oh that I will agree with you.”
Sylvia smiled then. “And I hope that you will agree with me on everything else before much longer. Miss Wyndham, would it be too much to hope that you and I might become friends? Or am I being too presumptuous?”
“You aren’t being presumptuous at all, Miss Parkstone. I would very much like us to be friends.”
“Then let us begin by continuing our walk together, and then perhaps you would take tea with my father and me at our house in Cavendish Square?”
“Cavendish Square? You live so close to me?”
“Yes, that’s how I found out who you were. I’d already seen you going to and from your house in Henrietta Street, so when I saw you with Max I knew exactly how to find out about you.” Sylvia looked a little rueful then. “I don’t often go around poking and prying into other people’s affairs, you know; it’s just that I’m determined to one day expose Max Talgarth for the monster he is. Still, enough of him for the moment…. Shall we continue our walk?”
Charlotte smiled and nodded.
* * *
The Parkstone residence was a fine, balconied building on the eastern side of Cavendish Square, facing Henrietta Street. It was a house Charlotte had often noticed before, having many times walked past its jutting stone porch.
The grand drawing room on the first floor had rose brocade walls and a ceiling decorated with very ornate gilded plasterwork. The satinwood furniture was upholstered in gray figured velvet, and there were gold-fringed velour curtains at the tall windows overlooking the square. Dominating the room was the immense white marble fireplace, above which hung a portrait of Sylvia by Mr. Hoppner. Charlotte was silently critical of the portrait, which she did not consider to be a particularly good likeness.
Admiral Henry Parkstone was a tall, personable gentleman of military bearing. His brown hair had not receded or even faded, and his face was that of a man much younger than his sixty or so years. He dressed plainly but fashionably, and he walked with the aid of a stick, having been wounded in the leg at the battle of Trafalgar. There was something very agreeable about his smile, and Charlotte took to him as easily as she had to his daughter.
Sylvia poured the tea from an exquisite Sevres porcelain teapot, and the admiral settled himself comfortably, leaning his walking stick against the sofa. “Tell me, Miss Wyndham, are you by any chance one of the Wyndhams of Kimber Park?”
“Yes, at least we were of Kimber Park. Mr. George Wyndham was my father.”
“Ah, yes, a very sad loss indeed. Such a terrible accident.”
Sylvia abruptly put the teapot down. “Accident?”
Her father looked warningly at her. “Sylvia, this is neither the time nor the place—”
“Maybe it isn’t, but I cannot sit meekly by accepting your description of Mr. Wyndham’s death as an accident.”
The admiral was appalled at such an indiscreet statement. “Sylvia, that’s quite enough! Your private views must be kept private, and certainly should not be aired in front of Miss Wyndham.”
“Miss Wyndham already knows what I think.”
“Which can only mean that you wasted no time at all in telling her. I’m quite ashamed of you, my girl, and I think that you should apologize to her immediately for causing her unnecessary distress.”
Charlotte was embarrassed. “Oh, please, there’s no need.”
He looked apologetically at her. “You’re being too kind, Miss Wyndham. I’m afraid that Sylvia is quite unreasonable where my son-in-law is concerned.”
Sylvia flushed then. “He isn’t your son-in-law,” she said stiffly.
“He was married to Anne, and as far as I’m concerned, that makes him my son-in-law.”
She pointed at the portrait above the fireplace. “Anne would be with us now if it wasn’t for Max Talgarth, and she’d still be the happy, laughing person we once loved so much.”
Charlotte stared at the portrait. So that was why it wasn’t a good likeness; it was a picture of Anne Talgarth, not Sylvia.
The admiral took a long, patient breath. “Sylvia, I’ve had quite enough of all this. I forbid you to say anything more on the subject, is that quite clear?”
Sylvia looked rebellious for a moment but then lowered her glance. “Yes, Father.”
“I suppose I’ve this duel with Lord Westington to thank for your renewed enthusiasm for blackening Max’s character?”
“The duel merely proves that I was right about him all along.”
“Does it? Come now, Sylvia, you no more believe Georgiana Westington’s tale than I do; you’re simply saying you do because it suits you. She’s one of the most immoral and conniving women in London, and has invented the whole story out of spite. What her foolish nonentity of a husband chooses to believe is his business, but I know that I believe Max’s side of it.”
Sylvia said nothing more, but the defiant set of her chin showed only too clearly that she did not accept her father’s point of view.
The admiral turned to Charlotte. “You must forgive us, Miss Wyndham, for we are very wrong to foist our family disagreements upon you like this.”
“Please don’t apologize, sir, for there isn’t any need.”
“But there is, my dear, there is. However, let us talk of something more agreeable—our summer ball in July perhaps? I do hope that you will be able to attend, or will you still be in mourning then?”
“July? No, we will not be wearing black then, sir.”
“We?”
“My mother and I.”
“The invitation will naturally extend to include your mother as well.”
“Thank you.”
“We like to pride ourselves on our summer balls. They are considered to be quite important social occasions.”
“I know, sir, although I’ve never been fortunate enough in the past to attend.”
“We’ll make up for that sad omission this year,” he said, smiling.
She looked at the long-case clock standing against the wall between two of the windows. “Goodness, is that the time? My mother will be wondering where I’ve got to.”
“Allow me to escort you home, Miss Wyndham.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir, but please do not trouble yourself.” She glanced at the walking stick.
“My dear young lady, you cannot spare me, for my leech has instructed me to walk as often as possible. I shall take a stroll this afternoon with or without your company to make it more agreeable.”
She smiled. “Then I should be glad to make it more agreeable, sir.”
Sylvia assisted him to his feet, and when the two young women had made arrangements to see each other again the following day, the admiral and Charlotte left the house in Cavendish Square and walked the short distance to Henrietta Street.
Just as Charlotte was about to go inside, her mother happened to look out of the drawing-room window. The admiral’s tips parted in surprise. “As I live and breathe, it’s Sophia Pagett! Miss Wyndham, your mother was Miss Pagett, wasn’t she?”
“Why, yes, sir. Are you acquainted with her?”
“I was, my dear.”
“Then please come inside, sir, for I’m sure she would be delighted to see you again.”
Mrs. Wyndham was indeed delighted. “Henry Parkstone,” she declared. “I thought you’d long since gone to perdition.”
He grinned, drawing her hand to his lips. “My dear Sophia, you haven’t changed a bit; you’re still horridly cruel to me. I’ve a good mind not to pay my respects.”
“You wouldn’t be so ungentlemanly.”
He looked fondly at her. “Well, well, after all these years…. I had no idea at all that you married George Wyndham. To tell the truth, I thought you’d married some high-up in the East India Company and had gone to live in Madras.”
“Good heavens,” she replied, “what a terrible thought! Still, our paths wouldn’t have crossed, would they, not when you had the poor taste to be related to the Earl of Barstow. How is the ol
d wretch? His gout is making him suffer, I trust?”
“As much as ever.”
“Good.”
“You always were a heartless creature, Sophia.”
She smiled. “Oh, Henry, do say you can stay awhile, for we have so much to talk about.”
“Stay? I’d be honored.”
Charlotte left them to reminisce. Going up to her room, she took some sheets of paper and a pencil and settled down at the dressing table. She gazed at the blank paper for a moment before beginning to write the first sentence of her secret exposé of Max Talgarth.
Chapter Seven
It was a matter of conjecture what Max Talgarth would have said had he known about the odious alter ego Charlotte created for him over the next few weeks, but she doubted very much if he would have appreciated his other self. Rex Kylmerth was too obviously meant for him, from the deliberately similar name to the scarred cheek and flash of gray in his hair, and he was very wicked indeed, carving his way through the pages, seducing, dueling, cheating, and murdering with ruthless abandon. The whole thing was an extremely libelous parody of Max’s supposed career, and Charlotte knew that what she was doing was very reprehensible indeed, especially as anyone happening to read it would know straightaway that Rex and Max were one and the same. But she was very careful to keep the book a secret, hiding it away at the back of her wardrobe where no one would find it.
Max himself was very much in the public eye, the Westington duel having divided society into two very distinct camps, those who sided with the injured husband and those who believed Max. The affair excited interest among the general public as well, and the gentlemen residents at the exclusive Albany were much irritated by the noisy crowd that gathered outside on the eve of the duel.
The duel itself took place one fine June morning on Putney Heath, and from all accounts the whole of the beau monde traveled there at dawn to watch. The great attendance meant that the confrontation was very reliably reported, so that Charlotte was left in no doubt that of the two protagonists, only Max came out of it with any credit. He had again declared himself innocent and had requested his opponent to call a halt to the proceedings, but Lord Wellington had not only refused, he had also been far too precipitate, turning to fire before the command was given. Fortunately his shot had missed its mark, but he had then had to summon every last vestige of courage to stand there while Max slowly and at his leisure took aim for his heart. The watching crowd had held its breath, giving a loud gasp when at the last moment Max had fired his pistol into the air before tossing it scornfully to the ground and turning away. Lady Westington, who had been unable to resist the temptation to be present, had received a very reproachful and accusing glance from Max as he walked to his carriage, and those who saw her exceedingly guilty reaction had no doubt at all that her whole story had been a fabrication, invented out of pique. That night Lord Westington, much reviled for having fired early, had taken his erring wife away to their country seat in Northamptonshire, intending to stay there until the whole sorry incident was forgotten. For the moment, however, it was talked of in all the drawing rooms, including that at the Parkstone residence, where a very reluctant Sylvia had in the end to admit to her father that she had been wrong about Max and Lady Westington and that Max had conducted himself very well indeed throughout the whole affair.
Charlotte’s friendship with Sylvia became very firm over those weeks, and they were frequently to be found in each other’s company. The renewed friendship between Mrs. Wyndham and Admiral Parkstone flourished too, the admiral often taking tea at Henrietta Street, at which occasions he and Mrs. Wyndham sat chattering for hours, driving their respective daughters to the point of ennui with their recollections of events long since past and people long since gone.
Of Richard Pagett there was unfortunately still no sign. The house sparkled like a new pin in readiness for him, and poor Polly was dispatched each morning to clean his waiting bedroom anew.
Richard’s arrival was not the only event toward which Charlotte was looking forward; there was also the Parkstones’ summer ball. Her enthusiasm for it took her completely by surprise, for in the past such functions had never appealed to her, but now it was somewhat different. However, it was one thing to eagerly anticipate it; it was quite another to feel entirely happy about what she would wear. Her wardrobe was very sorry now, lacking all the beautiful gowns created for her by Madame Forestier, that most-sought-after of couturieres, and even if she had still possessed them, they would have been two summers out-of-date. Only one of the gowns she had retained offered any possibilities, and that was a plain white muslin with a fairly high neckline and long, puckered sleeves. It needed a great deal of alteration to be suitable for a ball, and so in the evenings she divided her time between writing Rex Kylmerth and attending to the gown, which soon sported a desirably low décolletage and a shortened skirt with a stiffened hem. She adorned it with hundreds of tiny silver sequins, some taken from a rather ornate reticule which had somehow been overlooked when she had sold her things at Kimber Park, and some purchased from Messrs. Clark & Debenham at considerable cost to her small allowance.
Planning the ball and making all the arrangements naturally occupied a great deal of Sylvia’s time, and when she was with Charlotte, it was a frequent topic of conversation. It was to discuss some minor catering difficulty that she called one afternoon at Henrietta Street, and was shown through to the sunny garden, where she found not only Charlotte and Mrs. Wyndham seated on the white-painted, wrought-iron furniture beneath the cherry tree, but also her father, who was paying yet another of his lengthy visits.
While they were talking and sipping their tea, a carriage drew up at the front of the house. It was a post chaise, dusty from the long journey from Falmouth in Cornwall, and as the postboy dismounted and began to unload the many trunks, a young gentleman alighted, pausing for a moment to glance up at the house. He was elegantly attired in a pale-green coat and white trousers, and there was a handsome gold pin in his voluminous neckcloth. His hair was the same dark red as Charlotte’s, and his eyes the same gray, and at just twenty-nine Richard Pagett could have been taken for her brother, not her uncle. He had a very agreeable face, with laugh lines at the side of his mouth and eyes, and there was something about him that made others always feel at ease in his company. As he looked up at the little house, remembering the grandeur and style of Kimber Park, he decided that he would attend to the matter of more suitable residences as quickly as possible.
When he knocked at the door, Mrs. White came immediately, her face lighting up with a smile. “Mr. Pagett?”
He was a little taken aback. “Yes, but how—”
“How do I know you, sir? Oh, I’d know you anywhere, you’re so very like Miss Charlotte. Please come in, and I’ll take you through to the garden.”
He stepped inside and followed her. “Don’t announce me, Mrs.—?”
“Mrs. White, sir, I’m the cook and housekeeper.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. White. I’d like to sunrise them, so please don’t let them know I’ve arrived.” His voice bore traces of an acquired American accent, and it was very pleasant, soft and unhurried.
“Oh, of course, sir, if that is what you wish. If you just go through that door there, you’ll see them in the garden.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like some refreshment, sir?”
“That would be most agreeable.”
The cook beamed and hurried away, determined to give such a winning gentleman the very finest repast she could muster.
Richard pushed open the door and looked down the garden at the little group beneath the cherry tree. They were completely unaware of his presence, so he could observe them at leisure. His sister, Sophia, did not seem to have changed a great deal, except perhaps that she was more plump. It suited her, he thought, for she now had that round rosiness that can be so very becoming. He surveyed Charlotte next. Ah, Charlotte, as pretty as a picture still, and with that s
plendid smile he remembered so well. How rueful she had always been that her mouth was too wide; she had never seemed to realize that it gave her a smile so glorious that she could seem the most beautiful of creatures. Had she been less independent, less determined to indulge in her virtual worship of the printed word, she would undoubtedly have long since have made an excellent match, but it was her misfortune that her would-be suitors had been a timid bunch, too lily-livered to dare take on a wife who might have the temerity to think for herself and speak her mind.
He glanced at the admiral, wondering who he was. A military gentleman, that much was for sure, for he had the bearing that spoke of either the army or the navy. Whoever he was, Sophia was most certainly well disposed toward him, for she positively dimpled at every word he uttered.
At last his glance rested on Sylvia, lingering appreciatively on the dainty figure in its peach lawn dress. How beautiful she was, with her pale, flawless complexion and delicate profile, and how lustrous her dark hair was in the afternoon sunlight. His gaze was so intense that at last she sensed it, looking around directly at him, her face framed by the mock-Tudor ruff adorning the neckline of her dress.
Charlotte saw her glance and turned as well, her face breaking into that wonderful smile he had missed so much as she got quickly to her feet and ran across the grass, flinging herself gladly into his open arms, “Richard! Oh, Richard, you’re here at last! I’ve missed you so! You’re never to go away like that again. Never.”
He laughed, hugging her tightly. “I’ve no intention of going away again, sweetheart,” He kissed her warmly on the cheek. “How are you?”
“Well.”
“I can see that you are.” He took her left hand and inspected her fourth finger. “So you’re still unattached. I’ll have to see what I can do about that. I can’t have spinster nieces cluttering up my grand new house.”
She laughed. “Come on, Mother’s been in a positive lather ever since your letter arrived.”