“I believe I heard him in the breakfast room,” Kitty said.
Clarissa went straightaway downstairs, her heart still beating fast. There she found her father just finishing breakfast. He gave a great yawn as the butler took away the coffee things. “You down here to escape those girls, too?”
“Papa, I must speak to you.” Clarissa said.
A thumping overhead, and the faint sound of shrill voices caused him to say, “We will repair to the book room.”
She followed him to his own chamber, about which the odor of cigars hung. The room was dark, and backward-facing, not that Lord Chadwick cared for that. Against one wall stood a bookshelf of untouched volumes, and the other walls were decorated with sporting prints. Dominating the room was a green baize-topped table with four deep chairs set around it.
Lord Chadwick sank into one and Clarissa took a stance before him. “Papa, I have just parted with Lord Wilburfolde.”
“In the schoolroom? Where’s he gone?” Lord Chadwick swiveled his entire body around so as not to crease his shirt points.
“I am no longer to be married.”
Lord Chadwick gave what in a lesser man would be termed a vulgar whistle. “Not just a tiff, eh?”
“I am sorry, Papa, but I do not believe we would suit.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then grunted. “I’d begun to wonder if it would be a good thing, after all.”
“What, Papa?”
“T’other day, at luncheon. Young Wilburfolde said he wasn’t used to the chatter of girls, and I thought, of what use is it to have one of you married, if you can’t fire off the rest of your sisters? I’d thought Hetty would do that, but she’s already increasing, and sicker than your step-mother was. And a fortnight past I invited him to a snug little card-party, thought I’d do the fatherly, and he mouthed out long periods about how iniquitous card playing is.”
Clarissa found her emotions in that uncertain balance between amusement and exasperation. “Why did you not speak up, Papa?”
He blinked in honest surprise. “Thought you might have approved. Never seen you gambling.”
“I have no interest in such things, but I have no objection to others who do.”
“Well, you’ve always known your own mind. Fact is, the more I saw of him, the more I wondered how it would be. But there’s also the fact,” he added, “that a girl your age don’t hand a fellow his hat without some reason. Nobody’ll offer now, so I expect you’re back on my hands for good. Which is as well for the younger girls. Try as she might, your aunt seems to have no influence over them.”
Clarissa then took her leave, and with a great sense of lightness, turned her mind to enjoying the afternoon before readying herself for Almack’s that night.
Those sensations of lightness resolved into gratitude and determination. So she was destined for a life of single blessedness. She was aware of a qualitative difference between isolation and connection to others. Cousin Philip’s concern, her grandmother’s rough sympathy, and above all Kitty’s steady friendship, all had contributed to bolstering her courage.
With the idea of repaying Kitty in mind, Clarissa sat down and determinedly read through the rest of the manuscript pages while Kitty was out walking with the younger girls in the park.
On her return, they sat down to dinner, and Clarissa was able to say to Kitty, “I have finished reading.”
Kitty’s eyelids flashed up. She said nothing before the family, but Clarissa perceived her strictly controlled excitement.
Directly following dinner, the two repaired to Clarissa’s bedchamber, where she returned the pages to their author. Kitty clasped the manuscript to her bosom and said breathlessly, “What did you think?”
“I think it is as good as any I have read, and in some ways I like it better, because there are some things which made me laugh,” Clarissa said slowly.
“Are there too many dramatic scenes? Carlisle once said he feared that I might have too many abductions, but I did not know how else is she to get about!”
“These sorts of stories always employ such devices as abductions. There must be excitement, I perceive, and I do not know how else to get it in except by such methods. I have only two suggestions, and I offer them without confidence. I am no writer.”
Kitty ducked her head, her eyes wide in mute appeal.
“The first you have acknowledged yourself. The clothing and some of the expressions need alteration to make them more modish. But I also think you might consider a bit more description of the mysterious Duke whom I gather is to be Andromeda’s savior and lover. The text repeats many times that he is the handsomest of men, and the best at whatever he does, but I get no sense of him. What kind of a man is he, besides the best? What does he look like, other than the most striking of men?”
Kitty’s hands had tightened on the pages until she became aware she was crushing them. She was so afraid Clarissa would tell her it was impossible. Kitty could see no other way to a fortune, and somehow she must help her brothers. She set no store by Carlisle’s promise not to smuggle anymore. She was afraid he would take any risk if it were to benefit St. Tarval.
Clarissa went on to praise many of the scenes, but Kitty heard the kindness in her voice, the effort to please, and her thought stayed with the criticisms, which she had to acknowledge were just.
This went on until a scratch on the door was followed by Rosina reminding them it was time to dress. Kitty thanked Clarissa profusely, and returned to her room to ready herself for Almack’s.
They departed soon after, and so deep was the need for reflection that the only person talking was Amelia, who surprised everyone by twice pointing out the historical significance of the street they were riding along. “It is such a strange thing to think of,” she commented. “It seems as if London has always been the way we see it. But even our grandmothers saw a different London, when there was no Almack’s, or rather, it was different. No one would go to Ranelagh now, but not so long ago it was all the crack.”
“Amelia!” Mrs. Latchmore scolded. “Where have you been hearing such language? You do us no credit by employing vulgar expressions.”
That effectively silenced conversation, as the coachman jogged the carriage into the long line. Each of the young ladies fell into reverie, and Mrs. Latchmore sat back in triumph, feeling that she had carried her point.
Ahead of them in the long line was the Bouldestons’ carriage. After some conversation with the baronet, Lady Bouldeston had sent an invitation to St. Tarval and his brother as well as to Mr. Aston, inviting them all to a family dinner, and to ride with them to the Wednesday ball at Almack’s as neither Mr. Aston nor the Decourceys kept a carriage.
This invitation had been settled upon by Sir Henry and Lady Bouldeston as the surest means of indicating their approbation of the prospective connections. Mr. Aston’s tendency to interrupt the dinner conversation with somewhat ponderous effusions of his poetic afflatus were disconcerting, but a reflection upon his family’s wealth enabled the elder Bouldestons—neither of whom had the least interest in poesy—to look upon his efforts with complacency.
As for the marquess, though they would rather see their daughter married to a man of wealth and influence, there was no doubting his rank, the extent of his lands, nor the fact that he looked well at their table.
Lucretia was cognizant of the fact that a marquess joining their party at Almack’s would appear well. Carlisle himself was prepossessing enough, though he hadn’t the modish elegance or the chiseled features of Mr. Devereaux.
And that was the trouble, she thought as they entered the establishment, trading the odors of horse and coal smoke from the street for the scents of beeswax candles, perfumes, and pomade. What was the use in being married to a marquess if you were consigned to a tumbledown barrack in which you could not afford to entertain properly, so there was no one to give way before you but a pack of servants?
Her mother, as always, had brought them early that they might sec
ure the best place from which to observe the arrivals. Lucretia took care to keep a little distance from Carlisle, so that when Mr. Devereaux arrived—and last year she would not have expected him to look in at Almack’s but once—he might see them near one another, but not too near. She wanted to inspire jealousy, not hopelessness.
There was another reason to station herself at an advantageous position, to witness Carlisle’s expression when Miss Harlowe arrived, for that family always attended the balls.
Catherine’s obviousness in her desperation to throw herself at any man could be understood and pitied. Less understandable was Mr. Devereaux’s tolerance, for he was known to be a high stickler, but of course he would be forbearing to his cousin’s friend. However, what could possibly inspire Carlisle to study Miss Harlowe so intently? Men were such simpletons, they did not know where they would be at.
Selfish simpletons, Lucretia thought as she spied Miss Fordham, and ascertained that she was not wearing that hideous lilac gown that clashed so with her own delicate pinks. It was always better to walk about with a friend.
She greeted Miss Fordham, and was just beginning a walk about the room when the Chadwick party arrived. Lucretia, on the pretence of adjusting her hem, turned so that Miss Fordham’s curious eyes would be safely otherwhere, and glanced past her shoulder at Carlisle, whose head came up. He stilled.
Lucretia sought Miss Harlowe, whose sallow cheeks flew two spots of color as she met his gaze and then looked away.
What could that possibly portend? Nothing good.
And not five minutes after, Mr. Devereaux appeared. Miss Fordham said insinuatingly, “I trust the gentlemen at Watier’s have not wagered on his making an appearance so many times this season. In what quarter sits the wind that draws him hither, do you suppose?” Her tone was decidedly mocking. Odious girl!
Lucretia put down her spleen to jealousy, for Mr. Devereaux had never asked Sophia Fordham to dance. He could be harboring no secret inclination for so sour a female. Safe in the recollection of that never-to-be-forgotten dance at Lady Castlereagh’s, Lucretia cast down her eyes modestly, and said, “I have no idea.”
As she continued to walk arm in arm with Miss Fordham, she was busy turning over plans. Not only did she need to help along the gossip about Catherine’s desperation to insure a disgust in high sticklers such as Mr. Devereaux, but an end must be put to Carlisle’s disloyal propensities. Could she tie the two together, and perhaps prompt Mr. Devereaux to action at last?
TWENTY-SEVEN
In the Harlowe household, the only persons who habitually read the newspapers were Lord Chadwick, who never paid any attention to personal announcements, and Lady Chadwick, who occasionally did, when there were no letters to be read. That usually meant during winter.
Clarissa seldom read newspapers, especially while in town. She did search the morning paper following the breaking of her engagement, noting with satisfaction that Lord Wilburfolde had indeed inserted the notice. She went about her day feeling as if she had woken from deep winter and here it was, spring. She and Kitty went to exchange books at the lending library, returning scarce moments before the rain moved in.
Two days of heavy rain followed, preventing many from going out. Miss Gill had caught a cold, and so Clarissa supervised the younger girls, with Kitty’s willing aid.
They were confined inside, but our heroes were not. Mr. Devereaux had gone to Bath, and St. Tarval had to ride home to see to pressing estate matters.
The marquess arrived back in Grosvenor Street late at night. The next day the weather began to show signs of clearing, but the rain was sufficient to keep many at home. St Tarval and his brother used the opportunity to go over the entire house with the elderly butler who escorted them from room to room, reminiscing about past events.
The marquess had begun this tour with an idea of seeing what must be done in order to sell the place, but as old Mathews related stories about doings of past Decourceys back in Queen Anne’s time, and even during the time of Charles, when the house was first built—St. Tarval discovered in himself a regret, even the stirrings of family-feeling. What might it be like to live in London for a time each year, if he had his own family? If he was side by side with someone like Clarissa Harlowe, with whom he had only to exchange a private smile to discover a shared sensibility?
How would it be to attend the theater with her, and to voice their opinions without the constraint of bored relatives, or the earnest lectures of...
He must not permit that direction to his thoughts.
“Phew, the dust,” Edward said when the tour was ended. He brushed his arms vigorously. “There’s a deal of work to be done, first, or we won’t get twopence. Should we look into that while we are here?”
“Let us wait,” St. Tarval said.
Edward observed his elder brother’s thoughtful brow, and hoped he wasn’t thinking of Miss Harlowe. Edward could see no good ending there. That Wilburfolde fellow was not likely to throw Clarissa over for anyone else. He was far more likely to stick like a burr.
What a sorry world, Edward thought as he went down to the dining room, where had been laid a cold collation for the midday meal.
On the sideboard the newspapers had stacked up unread, along with a pile of bills and invitations. Not being a reading man, Edward left the latter to his brother to deal with, and picked up the first of the newspapers. As always, he glanced at the political news—Mr. Fox, Pitt, more about Boney and something or other having to do with the West Indies—and went straight to the personal announcements. The first thing that met his eye sent him straight upstairs again.
“Carl!” He burst in on his brother, who sat at his desk, frowning over accounts. Edward stabbed his finger at the news item. “There’s some sorry news about how Lord W— and Miss H—are no longer to be entered in the Hymeneal rolls. What does that mean, Hymeneal? No, don’t tell me.”
St. Tarval had thrown down his pen. “Let me see that.” He turned his eye to the print below his brother’s pointing finger, and indeed, the words he had never let himself hope to see were there for all the world.
“What are you waiting for?” Ned declared.
“Ned. I cannot possibly force myself on her a day after this notice appeared.”
Ned glanced at the top of the paper, then tossed it aside. “Actually two days. This one came out the day you rode down to Tarval Hall. But I take your point. You ought to go to Brook Street and spy out the territory.”
“Spy out,” St. Tarval said, laughing. “There is still Lucretia, even if it were proper. Which it isn’t. However, one of my tasks was at Kitty’s direction. I was going to send her parcel around, but why not deliver it ourselves, and see how she does?”
He could not prevent the exhilaration of hope, which brightened even the age-dulled hangings and outmoded furnishings of the room. Surely Lucretia could be brought round? She couldn’t possibly still want to marry him—she’d stayed busy on the other side of the room the entire night they attended Almack’s.
“Good,” Ned said. And then, with a burst of generosity, “I’ll come along with you. Keep Kit busy, so that you talk to Miss Harlowe without interruption. You don’t have to bring up marriage.”
With this laudable intention, the two changed their clothes, picked up the parcel, and hailed a hackney.
o0o
Mr. Devereaux and his sister appeared in Brook Street as the family sat down to a late breakfast. Mr. Devereaux and his sister had arrived in London late the previous evening, and that morning she had awoken bright and early, insisting she would expire if she must wait a moment longer to see her dear friend Eliza.
She was Bess again, having declared that it would be too trying to be Elizabeth in a household with an Eliza, and anyway, Arabella Campbell had made such a piece of work about “Queen Elizabeth” and “fine ladies.”
And so, with a maximum of noise, Bess descended upon the Harlowes, amid bandboxes, trunks, and transports of felicity as only young girls can express
them. The girls raced upstairs, everyone talking at once—Bess, being accustomed to making herself heard among the other girls at her seminary, the most indefatigable talker.
Clarissa and Kitty quietly withdrew to the back parlor, Kitty to write more of her novel, and Clarissa to face the task of responding to the small spate of consolatory letters that had arrived consequent to the news of her broken engagement.
Most of the letters filled out the space with conventional expressions and unasked-for advice, but her grandmother’s made her smile ruefully: I am well Pleas’d that you recover’d your Wits. Do not lose them again!
The marquess and Ned found them so employed when they arrived. No one was about to notice the addition of a large parcel to the numerous bags and trunks already waiting to be carried upstairs. One of the footmen was dispatched with the parcel upstairs, under Rosina’s direction, to deposit it safely in Kitty’s bedchamber, as Pobrick opened the door to the back parlor to call out the names of the visitors.
Kitty and Clarissa looked up with warm smiles of welcome.
The world regarded Kitty as the prettier of the two but St. Tarval could see nothing past Clarissa’s quick, heartfelt smile.
Edward saw that smile as well. He professed not to know anything about romance (and his venture into the mysteries of romance was confined to some kisses exchanged with an enterprising milk maid who ambushed him when he turned sixteen, and a joking, uncertain flirtation with the squire’s horse-riding daughter after church of a Sunday) but he would have laid down a thousand pounds on Clarissa Harlowe returning Carlisle’s regard.
He liked Miss Harlowe almost as strongly as he disliked Lucretia Bouldeston. How to get two reticent people to declare themselves? As the others exchanged the polite nothings of a morning call, Edward looked about for a subject to keep his sister occupied. When he spied Kitty’s book, he said, “Ah! Still scribbling away?”
Kitty flushed, but was not averse to talking about a subject Ned had shown no interest in before. Edward drew his chair closer, and said bravely, “What is it about?”
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