“But Hetty had known Lord Badgerwood forever, and Mama was luckier than many. In truth, I think two years of waiting a very good thing, for it gives you time to think it over.”
“I did think it over. For weeks!”
“Here is another thing that you might not have considered. A woman must be absolutely certain she wishes to become wife to a clergyman. The wrong wife—an unhappy wife—can ruin his life in a way that the wife of a general, or admiral, or a lawyer cannot. She also leads the parish, in a way that the general’s wife cannot lead the army, or a lawyer’s wife go into court. Think of Mrs. Matthews at home in Hampshire, always the first in sickrooms, and teaching school to the orphans, and carrying baskets of food when one of the village wives lies in childbed.”
Amelia’s face changed. “But she’s old.”
“She began those very tasks as a young wife, I can promise you.” Clarissa leaned down and kissed Amelia’s hot forehead. “I will send your maid in with a tray, shall I?”
Amelia agreed in a muted voice, and Clarissa whisked herself out.
o0o
Lucasta Bouldeston dropped her gaze to her hands, pretending a modesty she didn’t feel as Mr. Aston shook his head—or tried to, for his ridiculous shirt points kept his head from moving very far. “I know it doesn’t do to laugh, but really, Lucasta, how could your sister be so remiss as to leave a couple of ladies standing in the rain? Not one, but two?”
Mr. Aston ventured a glance at Lucasta, whose scowl surprised him. Hitherto she was all smiles and complaisance, whatever he said, and he had consequently formed the impression of a young lady as biddable as she was devoted to the arts.
He said hastily, “Not that I think it at all humorous, your part in the rumor. Well am I aware of the particulars of domestic intercourse in this household, that you seldom get the ordering of things, that your tender heart and sweet sensibilities are not as regarded as should be their due.”
Lucasta smiled again, for she agreed most heartily.
“And so I exerted myself, with your image foremost in mind, to express my disapprobation to Nolan. I encouraged him to defend your good name, as Mrs. Aston to be, if he heard people talking.”
Lucasta bit her under-lip. Mrs. Aston to be! There were words to cause reflection. As a wife, she would be free of forever following in Lucretia’s shadow. She would even take the precedence of her, at least until Lucretia married Carlisle. As a wife she would have better things to do than sit there smiling with her fine sewing as she listened to long, boring poems. She would have her own carriage, and perhaps even her own house in town.
And so she returned a soft answer, pressed Mr. Aston’s hand, thanked him for waiting upon them, and fondly returned his adieu when he said he would see her that evening at the masquerade.
But the moment he was gone, she stalked into the breakfast room, and looked around. “We’re not going out calling anymore, are we?”
“No one is at home, it seems,” said Lady Bouldeston, who had gone to fetch the card tray from the hall. From the looks of it, only a single caller had come while they were out, besides Mr. Aston, who had been waiting for their return. Lady Bouldeston tapped the card on her other palm as she said, “Either everyone is getting ready for the masquerade, or pretending they are, no doubt, if they were not invited.”
“Has your poet got you in a pucker?” Lucretia tittered.
Lucasta stuck her hands on her hips. “He informed me that my sister has now made us a laughingstock all over the city.”
“Oh, Lucasta, it is too early for your dramatics,” Lady Bouldeston said wearily, until she observed Lucretia’s scarlet face. Irritation caused her to fling the pasteboard card down onto the tray. “What is this?” she demanded. “Has this something to do with our being denied at three houses this morning?”
“I told you that Lucretia flung us into the barouche on top of one another, so that I was choking with half a chicken tumbled all over my gown, and a hamper knocking Cassie unmercifully. And I told you that I did not see Catherine, or for that matter, Miss Harlowe, but Lucretia said that everything was fine—that she thought Miss Harlowe was on the box with Williams, with her umbrella.”
“I thought she was,” Lucretia said, daubing at her eyes with her handkerchief. “She got out of the barouche, and what else would she do but climb up on the box with us all willy-nilly inside?”
“And the consequence is, we left both Catherine and Miss Harlowe standing in the rain, and Mr. Aston says it has got all over town, and we are now become the jest of the city. And it is all her fault!”
Lady Bouldeston glared. “Lucretia, is this true?”
“I thought—”
“It does not matter what you thought. You did not have the wit to turn back the moment you were uncertain you had everyone safe? Who else was to do it? You insisted that you must do everything—that this was to be your treat, in honor of your cousin. What must Cassandra be saying this very moment to my sister, I shudder to contemplate. This is very ill done, very. We had better go, all of us, to Brook Street at once, to inquire after the young ladies, and to offer our apologies.”
“But of course they got home perfectly safe, or we would have heard something,” Lucretia said, bitterly disappointed. Mr. Redding must have failed to take her hints and drove home alone, or Mr. Aston would have brought the delicious gossip that she had been waiting for. Men were such blockheads!
“That may be,” her mother answered, “but the fact remains that you are in the wrong. I would not have had this happen for the world. We are going to call in Brook Street.”
An hour later, they arrived, dressed in their best town gowns.
At that moment Clarissa was upstairs with Amelia, or she would have felt it her duty to take the call. Kitty, upon seeing the callers through the parlor window, fled to her room, saying she felt unwell. She could not bear to face Lucretia, not after that horrid experience with Mr. Redding.
Lady Chadwick said to Pobrick, “Tell them that we are not at home.”
Pobrick carried the message to the doorstep, and repeated it.
Lady Bouldeston flushed, knowing very well what must be the truth. She left her card, spoke her compliments and apology, and bundled the girls back into the barouche.
As soon as they were in motion, she said, “We cannot help what is said in town, but we can at least mitigate the rumor. You are going to write letters of apology, and we will see them dispatched before we do anything else. And I think you had better stay home from the masquerade ball.”
“Oh no I will not,” Lucretia declared. That would be a disaster! Her beautiful gown—all her plans! At her mother’s angry look, she said, “It is high exaggeration on Lucasta’s part to say that we are the jest of the town, merely because a couple of ladies were left in the rain. Clearly they obtained a ride with one of the many carriages we saw going in and out, and are nothing the worse for wear, or as you say, there would have been messages. No one cares a whit about a bit of rain. We have all been caught, and nothing is made of it.”
“Mr. Aston said—”
“Mr. Aston, Mr. Aston,” Lucretia mimicked. “I am sick of the name. He makes a great dust out of nothing, you know he does. He thinks it poesy.”
Lady Bouldeston’s lip curled, and Lucasta flushed.
Lucretia said coaxingly, “This masquerade ball is important. It means we have made our entry into the best circles. You know it is true, Mama. We are invited where we have not gained entry for four years, and we have spent a great deal on our gowns.”
Lady Bouldeston considered the justice of this remark, and so she gave in, saying only, “Then tonight you will be a model of good-breeding, so that everyone will forget whatever they have heard, or at most will regard it as exaggeration.”
Lucretia rolled her eyes, but agreed.
Lady Bouldeston said musingly, “This might explain why St. Tarval has called twice since yesterday. Perhaps it is just as well that we were away from home both times. You had be
tter send him a letter of apology before he calls again. I am convinced that even his good-nature will not tolerate what appears to be an insult to his sister in your carelessness.”
Lucretia writhed with impatience, but she had no intention of losing one prospective husband until she had secured to herself a better. “I will do that the moment we get home,” Lucretia said submissively.
THIRTY-FOUR
Dearest Miss Harlowe:
I must write to Apologize with all my Heart for being so remiss yesterday. I can assure you I Believed that you were safely upon the box with your umbrella, as the Exigencies of the Weather forced us into haste and discomfort.
I assure you that I was most Grieved to discover your umbrella brought in by the maid, which caused us great wonder, but such was the uproar over my Cousin’s arriving wet and unhappy, and my Sister making a great Noise and Bustle over the rain, and then we must prepare to go to Fenton’s Hotel to meet my Cousin’s family, that it quite went out of my poor head to inquire until this morning.
Chill, I am forced to Confess, is my greatest Enemy, as my health is sadly delicate. We were forced to remain for ages at Fenton’s Hotel, and this morning we were also out, and such was our own distress that we quite forgot Your’s. I beg your pardon most earnestly, and throw myself on the Mercy of that Nearer Connection I live every day in Anticipation of claiming, once I am married, and have made our own dear Catherine my most beloved of Sisters.
Your fondest admirer, Lucretia Bouldeston.
Clarissa forced herself to read it through. So vexatious did she find the patent falsity in these words that she took the note to the parlor and handed it to her step-mother, saying, “Need I answer?”
Lady Chadwick ran her eyes down the note, then handed it back. “You needn’t unless you wish to continue the acquaintance. A curtsey and a polite word the next time you see them will suffice.”
Clarissa took the letter back upstairs, threw it onto the hearth, and burned it. She did not ask what Kitty did with hers.
Several hours later, when the family began gathering below in all their finery, Amelia was seen on the stair, her demeanor far more like Marie Antoinette than the Queen of Hearts, but at least there was no ribbon around her neck.
The entire family joined in praise of her costume, a pretty wide-skirted robe à la française in green and peach, with silver lace sleeves engageantes. Her bright golden hair was piled high, with a headdress of lace.
Clarissa smiled as she complimented her. She had chosen to go as Diana, in a pearl gray tunic over a gown of soft blue, her sandals silver. James was costumed as a silk-and-lace dressed Dick Turpin, complete to jeweled mask. Lady Chadwick followed the daring fashion brought over by the Duchess of Devonshire, favoring a filmy gown clasped by cameos at the shoulders, a Grecian outline that had never actually been seen in Greece, but made all the rage by Josephine Bonaparte. Lord Chadwick had resorted to a black domino, but this poor-spirited effort was at least lined in red, to his children’s satisfaction.
Eliza and Bess exchanged longing comments about how much they wished they could attend—the next season could not come too soon—but then everyone fell silent as Kitty came down the stairs, a vision all in white.
Lord Chadwick forgot himself long enough to give a low whistle as Kitty descended with floating step. Her under dress of white satin was revealed under a brocade over dress draped à la polonaise, with rich white lace at neck, sleeves, and along the edges of the over dress. The stiff bodice glittered with diamante insets in the brocade flourishes. The pure white drew the eye to her green eyes, vivid complexion, and the high-piled curling black hair, with two curls coaxed down to a sloping shoulder. The headdress was made up of pearls and lace, with high-standing two white plumes, and a single diamante set over one ear.
The crowning touch was a glittering necklace with three great pendants sparkling at every flicker of the candles overhead.
“I am going as my mother,” Kitty said shyly, self-conscious before all those staring eyes. “It was her gown, when she was presented to the Queen of France.”
“Upon my word,” Lady Chadwick exclaimed. “They said your mother was a Diamond, but she cannot have been more beautiful than you, Lady Catherine.”
“That will be one in old Carlisle’s eye,” Lord Chadwick exclaimed.
Kitty blushed. “Oh, but they will not know. See? I have a mask, and I mean to be announced as the mysterious marquise.”
“That is very thoughtfully done, my dear,” Lady Chadwick said. “Come, the carriage is waiting.”
Bess Devereaux backed away, her hands clasped. “Oh, now I truly wish I were going,” she said. “It is so unfair that I cannot!”
“Next year will be here all too soon,” Lady Chadwick murmured.
Clarissa fell in step with Kitty, saying, “Do you have panniers under that skirt? It is so very wide, yet it falls gracefully, and my grandmother said that panniers had a tendency to swing like a bell if you did not walk carefully.”
“I have on four petticoats,” Kitty whispered. “You should see the stitchwork on them. I could almost wear them into the street.”
“Are those real diamonds?” Clarissa asked.
“Paste,” Kitty admitted cheerfully. “Papa sold off the diamonds before I was born.” As they followed the rest into the carriage, her fan shimmered, and she whispered in a lower voice, “I hope and trust that Mr. Redding has said nothing. It would be so very horrid to arrive and discover that I am become a disgrace.”
“I very much doubt it will happen,” Clarissa returned. “But even if he did, my grandmother would have something to say to any gossip, you may be certain. There will be no scenes of public spurning, like your villainous Count Scorbini contrived for poor Andromeda.”
Kitty smiled, but it was a politeness. She was not ready to admit that the night before, after a long bout of tears, she had consigned Andromeda and her many abductions to the fire.
Conversation was minimal as the carriage joined the long line leading to Cavendish Square.
Even Amelia, sunk in gloom hitherto, was become impatient by the time they were finally let out, link boys and postilions calling to one another like hoarsened crows as the stream of traffic was routed past. Kitty and the Harlowes slipped on their masks and then followed the stream of guests into the brilliantly lit house.
Kitty had to blink several times before she could take in the dazzle of the great chandeliers, all lit, and the wings of the grand staircase made of peach marble, that framed the great carved doors leading to the ballroom.
Inside was a blaze of color as people in fantastical clothing admired and guessed one another’s identities. Kitty nervously touched her own mask, discovering that others’ masks did little to disguise those people she knew. They merely rendered it nearly impossible to distinguish strangers from acquaintance.
A Prince Florizel in blue satin appeared, and Lord Arden’s voice was heard as he bowed grandly over Kitty’s hand. “Your majesty,” he declared.
“Her majesty is here,” Kitty said, indicating the Queen of Hearts.
Prince Florizel promptly saluted this lady’s hand, but he returned to Kitty’s side, murmuring, “If a cousin is permitted a personal observation, you are the belle of the evening.”
Kitty laughed, thanked him, and passed on by, well knowing that the masquerade was in honor of the one of Clarissa’s many cousins. This young lady, a serious person who thought mainly of her horses, was apparently destined to marry a German prince. She wore an expensive gown of tiered silk as Queen Titania, leading the first dance with one of the royal dukes. Clarissa’s uncle the Duke of Norcaster followed, a stout figure stately in his Faustian robes, leading out Lady Castlereagh.
Many of the most famous beauties of London were there, in more or less guise—Ladies Ann Lambton, William Russell, Elizabeth Lambert—but among them Kitty could take her place as the partner of Lord Robert Manners, whom the duchess brought forth for an introduction. Mr. Devereaux, instantly r
ecognizable in a satin, full-skirted coat and white wig, to please his grandmother—partnered Lady Louisa Stuart, dressed as the poet Sappho, with whom he conversed about literature with the ease of long acquaintance.
Such was the sight that met St. Tarval’s eyes when he arrived at last. He had intended to wear a simple domino, but this his brother refused to countenance. Though Ned sustained little interest in flirtation, he loved an excuse for fancy dress, and therefore he had extended Kitty’s idea of using her mother’s clothing to that of their father. But looking over clothing in a dim attic turned out to be a different matter when said clothing was brought out of its trunk that morning, and examined in the light of day. Consequently poor Kirby, who of necessity waited upon both brothers, had spent the main of the day brushing and repairing the fine brocade.
St. Tarval had used that time to call twice upon Lucretia, to be denied both times. When he’d returned home he found a silly letter from Lucretia, full of excuses—the rain, her sister, her cousin—that sufficed to increase his ire.
So his mood was uncertain when he arrived in Cavendish Square. He longed to go home to St. Tarval. He fretted under the constraints of an engagement that was predicated upon entirely false circumstances, and he found the lace and satin irksome, though he did admit that he and Ned made a dashing pair. His mood improved slightly when he saw Kitty looking so beautiful, dancing among the leading lights of society.
As the crowd shifted, they found themselves before their hostess, an elderly lady dressed in the same French fashion that they wore.
The duchess had been waiting impatiently for days to meet this elusive marquess at last. She knew it was foolish to be pleased with his taste in dress—that he appeared in the fashions of her day could only be accident—but eyes were eyes, and he looked as handsome as his father, perhaps the moreso because his hazel gaze was not roving, but steady, as he flourished the lace at his wrist and made an excellent leg.
She shook his hand, nodded at the younger brother, and said, “The card room is that way, my boy.” She then tapped her quizzing glass on the arm of her chair, and said, “Bide with me a moment, St. Tarval. You have a look of your father.”
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