by Lynn Morris
The piece was not particularly relaxing and melodious to the ear, for it was highly technical, fast-paced, with very intricate finger work and a melody that only a skilled musician could truly comprehend. When she finished there was a slight pause, and then the guests applauded politely. Reggie Lydgate, seated next to Alastair, leaned over and murmured, “What was that, Hylton? I’ve never heard it before, I don’t think.”
“No, I’m sure you haven’t,” Alastair said with cool amusement. “It’s Scarlatti.”
Reggie looked puzzled. “That the fellow that was so jealous of Mozart? And a lot of good it did him, too, no one ever plays him.”
“No, Reggie, that was Salieri,” Alastair replied. “This was Scarlatti. Esercizio Numero Uno, I think.” Then he raised his voice and called, “That was magnificent, Miss Segrave. Now, won’t you sing? I’m sure we’d all enjoy it immensely.”
Valeria rose from the pianoforte bench and reset the sheet music. “I doubt that very seriously,” she said acidly. “I know that Admiral Dinkins next door brought some of his hounds to Town. I fear that if I sang it might start the entire pack a-howling.”
A startled silence greeted this sally, and then the young gentlemen started laughing. Lord Sefton slapped his knee and chortled, “Admiral Dinkins’s dogs! Sharp girl!”
“Oh, really, Valeria,” Lady Hylton said with some exasperation, but she too was smiling.
Valeria said composedly, “Now I know we should all like to hear Miss Everleigh both play and sing. I think that’s a much better idea.”
With a superior air Adele took to the instrument. Valeria thought that she was talented, but somehow her air of unpleasantness translated into her voice and even into her playing. On some deep level there was a semblance of discontent in her performance, though it was technically perfect.
After three songs the guests all drifted back toward the seating around the fireplace. This time Valeria took a comfortable wing chair set somewhat back from the group. To her surprise, however, she soon found herself surrounded by men. Daniel Everleigh, Paul Northbrooke, Charles Ponsonby, and Lord Stephen hovered around her. Alastair stood slightly behind them, aloof but still part of the conversational group.
“Admiral Dinkins’s dogs!” Everleigh repeated with relish. “Surely you underestimate your talent, Miss Segrave. And I’m told that false modesty evinces just as much pride as vanity.”
“I’m afraid you’ll never know the truth of the matter, Mr. Everleigh,” Valeria replied, “for I have determined never to sing in public. It is one thing to inflict it upon my family, but it’s quite another to display it to strangers.”
“It seems to me that you display very well,” Alastair said mockingly. “For example, I found Scarlatti an interesting choice. It is complex, more for a musician’s ear than for a group in a drawing room.”
“Yes, and I happen to have all thirty of the Esercizi memorized, sir, so I promise you that if you ask me to perform again, you shall have Esercizio Numero Due,” Valeria retorted.
“All thirty?” Alastair repeated sarcastically. “You were right, Everleigh. I believe that Miss Segrave’s reticence is in fact false modesty, and therefore, in truth, vanity.”
“I shall defend you, Miss Segrave,” Lord Stephen said stoutly. “I thought your playing was marvelous, but if you dislike performing I will take you at your word and believe that you are simply modest.”
A very slight murmur was heard from Alastair, but Valeria ignored him. “Thank you, Lord Stephen, you are truly gallant, unlike some gentlemen.” She shot a sly glance at Alastair and then, as was the lady’s prerogative, changed the subject. “Lord Hylton, Lord Sefton tells me that he is to attend Tattersalls on Thursday, to see the Maledon horses. It seems that Achilles is quite an advertisement for us.”
“Superb mount,” Paul Northbrooke said enviously. “I wish I could afford that one black stallion from Maledon.”
“Yes, that would be Mordaunt,” Valeria said eagerly. “He’s a magnificent three-year-old, sixteen hands. He could almost be a twin to Achilles, except that Mordaunt has a blaze while Achilles has the true star of the Maledon ‘black star’d horse.’”
They pressed her to explain, and with animation Valeria told them the history, and about some of the bloodlines of the Maledon horses. When she finished, Daniel Everleigh said with open admiration, “Fascinating! I must say, Miss Segrave, I’ve never known a young lady with such expert knowledge of equine matters. I’m amazed that you know so much about the Maledon stables.”
“Oh, yes, I know all about all of our horses,” she said enthusiastically. “In fact, it’s difficult for me to think about Mordaunt’s being sold, he’s one of my favorites. I’m so worried about his going to a good owner. I’ve been thinking of attending the sale myself, just so that I can watch over him.”
A blank stunned silence greeted this. Finally Alastair said in a funereal voice, “Oh, really, Miss Segrave? You think you’ll attend the sale at Tattersalls? Of course. And then we can go to my club, have some fine brandy, smoke some cigars, maybe put a bet or two on the book.”
“I beg your pardon?” Valeria said, bewildered.
Through gritted teeth Alastair said, “Gentlemen? Would you excuse us for a moment? I suddenly recall there is an urgent matter of business that I need to discuss with Miss Segrave.”
With knowing grins the young men drifted away. Alastair leaned over Valeria’s chair to mutter in a rough whisper, “Have you lost your senses, Miss Segrave?”
Valeria retorted in a low grating voice, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And—and—how dare you, sir? Embarrass me in such a way?”
“You embarrassed yourself, I’m merely trying to salvage the situation,” Alastair said tightly. “Surely your mother has told you that no lady would ever think of attending Tattersalls. It’s simply not done, it would be scandalous.”
Indignantly Valeria said, “No, I did not know that. Now I do. I assure you I won’t mention it again.”
Alastair gazed with narrowed eyes at the other four young men who had gathered around a footman bearing a tray of glasses of sherry. “The damage may already be done, but I’ll try to tell those young bucks to keep it to themselves. Don’t you understand that if you make such grievous errors in deportment you may be labeled a fast woman?”
“Such stuff!” Valeria said crossly. “It was just a silly mistake, said in a private group at a private dinner party.”
“No, it was said in London, and you had better learn exactly what that means,” Alastair said direly. “I assure you, if Lady Sefton had heard you chattering away about attending Tattersalls, your admission to Almack’s might have been threatened.”
Now Valeria felt uncertain. “Do you—do you think they will repeat it?” she asked.
“I do,” Alastair said grimly, “but not in such a way that it would reach Lady Sefton’s ears. Just try to be mindful from now on, Miss Segrave, and make some attempt to behave yourself.”
Now Valeria’s temper flared. “Stop treating me like a child! You are not my father, nor my brother. It’s insufferable that you should keep correcting me like this.”
“And if I do not, who will? Obviously neither my mother nor your own can impress upon you how vitally important it is that you stop saying these rash, imprudent things. As I have told you before, it is only for your—”
“Stop,” Valeria said imperiously, holding up her hand. “For my own good, yes, I know, it’s amazing how concerned you are for my welfare. But I’ll thank you to stop chastising me like a cross nanny. It’s really quite tiresome.”
He blinked, then his face closed down as surely as a heavy door slamming. With icy formality he said, “Please accept my sincerest apologies, Miss Segrave. I would never intentionally impose such a burden of boredom upon a lady.” Stiffly he offered her his arm, and with reluctance Valeria rose and the two rejoined the other guests.
And Valeria’s heart sank.
Chapter Eighteen
ALTHOUGH MONSIEUR JOUBERT HAD BEEN faithful to his word and sent Valeria’s chocolate-brown riding habit the very next day, he need not have made the garment in such a headlong rush. For exactly eleven days—Valeria counted them off with frustration—it rained dismally. The fashionable hours for riding in Hyde Park were between five o’clock and seven o’clock in the evening in the height of the Season, but those who were in London in February made an exception for the shortened winter days, and rode between three and four o’clock.
It seemed to Valeria that some vengeful rain gods must be cursing her, for without fail the rain would start every afternoon at about three or four o’clock. Actually, Valeria reflected sourly, it couldn’t always be called rain; on four of those long days the infamous London fog was so thick and wet that it was like being in the middle of a sodden sponge. After ten minutes one’s hair and clothing were just as soaked as if one had been standing still in a downpour.
Valeria missed riding; at Bellegarde Hall she had ridden, it seemed in golden memories, almost every day. Surely she had never been confined indoors for eleven days in a row, but sensibly she told herself that her memory must be faulty. The County of Essex was just north of London and the weather could not possibly differ that much. It was just that she found London so very dreary, as far as the atmosphere went. The sky was never a bright cheerful blue; the sun, when it managed to filter through the pervasive coal-dimmed skies, was faded and dingy.
However, Valeria admitted to herself that although she did miss the long walks in Bellegarde’s gracious grounds, the freshness of the air, the long solitary rides, she was still extravagantly happy to be in London for the Season. Every single night Lady Hylton or Lord and Lady Lydgate had arranged for her to attend the opera, the theatre, a dinner party, a card party. Lady Hylton or Elyse had taken her every day to make morning calls, and on Lady Hylton’s at-home days, Valeria received the callers along with her godmother. Even though the Season was not yet in full swing, Valeria had already been introduced to many people, so many that she could hardly keep them all straight in her mind. Somewhat to Valeria’s surprise, her mother had been very helpful in reminding her of the wide acquaintance she was making. She had thought her mother so unworldly, and so unmindful of social status, that she could hardly know much about the haut ton. Valeria was wrong in this; Regina knew all of Polite Society, and it knew her. Valeria had seen that in the private dinner parties her mother had been able to attend, she was much caressed.
Her mother would dutifully explain who and what everyone was, but for the real tales about people Valeria had to rely on her godmother and Elyse, for Regina flatly refused to repeat gossip, whether idle or plain truth. It had been Lady Hylton who had told Valeria, “My dear, I must warn you that although Daniel Everleigh is a charming young man, he is something of a rake. Also, since he is the heir, he is expected to marry well, and his parents will never countenance his connection with a young woman who is not wealthy. Everyone has already noted his marked attentions to you, and I am obliged to tell you that they will likely come to nothing.”
“And again, ma’am, I am obliged to tell you that I care nothing whatsoever about getting married,” Valeria said, softening the impertinent remark with a smile. “I find Mr. Everleigh a most entertaining, lively gentleman, and if he wants to waste his time with me then I have no objection whatsoever to wasting my time with him.”
Now, on this blessed sunny afternoon, as she was dressing in her brand-new riding habit, she thought of Daniel Everleigh. He had hinted several times that he should like to make an appointment to ride with her in the park on the first fine day, for this was the only socially acceptable liaison between gentlemen and ladies who were not betrothed. But Valeria had been noncommittal about it. Truly she was looking forward to a long, satisfying ride on Tarquin, and she wished to ride alone. Of course she wouldn’t really be alone, she would have her groom Timothy chaperoning her, but that was merely a formality that must be observed, and she knew his presence wouldn’t affect the invigorating sense of freedom she always felt on a long ride.
Her sense of heady exhilaration—felt at every social event she attended, even on morning calls—heightened when Valeria saw how undeniably attractive she looked in the riding habit. Made of a deep rich earth-brown velvet, heavily napped, it had been trimmed by Monsieur Joubert in a most masculine manner that only heightened Valeria’s femininity. The jacket had broad military-style lapels of black velvet, widely notched, with velvet-covered buttons, an upright stiff collar, and upturned wide black velvet cuffs. Underneath Valeria wore a man’s shirt (cut down to size, of course), and a starched cravat.
It was the cravat that was giving her and her maid the most trouble. Valeria had no notion whatsoever of how to tie a cravat. Joan had assured her that she had observed her brothers countless times, and she was confident that she could mimic their motions. However, the logistics were proving to be difficult. First Joan tried standing in front of Valeria and tying it, but she said with some confusion, “No, no, now it’s seeming like I’m backward. Or you are, ma’am.”
“Perhaps you might stand behind me? Would that enable you to more closely mirror whatever Ned and Royce do?” Valeria suggested.
“You’re too tall,” Joan said, then suggested, “P’raps if you sit down on your dressing table chair, then I might position myself behind you, and…” Her voice trailed off as she bent over and concentrated on wrapping the stiff neckcloth into a complicated knot with a graceful fall. After long moments of silent effort, Joan frowned.
“Ned and Royce make it look so easy. Here, I’ll untie it completely and try again.”
Valeria sighed. “And I thought that women had complications in dressing. Perhaps I should just go down to the library and ask Mr. Chalmers to tie it for me.”
Joan’s eyes widened with horror. “Oh, miss, you can’t mean it! Asking a gentleman to dress you—why, Mr. Chalmers would likely be so confounded he might—he might—”
“Faint dead away? Yes, I suppose you’re right, he is a very proper gentleman, and perhaps I shouldn’t subject him to such an appalling shock. But then what are we to do?”
Sternly Joan said, “You just sit right here and wait, please, ma’am. I’ll go get instructions from Ned, and I’m sure I can do this. After all, if my silly brothers can do it I certainly can.” She bustled out indignantly.
Valeria spent the interval admiring herself in the cheval mirror and trying on her hat. It was a diminished version of a man’s top hat, with a brown velvet band; but the ultimate of Monsieur Joubert’s genius was the marcasite chelengk, that dashing masculine version of a brooch, anchoring the black-dyed ostrich feather that curled fetchingly over Valeria’s left shoulder. With complacency Valeria reflected that she looked fine indeed.
Joan came back in with a determined look on her face. “Now, then, ma’am, I have gotten complete instructions from Ned, and I successfully tied his cravat ’round my own neck, which I’m sorry to say was a great source of amusement belowstairs.”
Valeria sat back down, and Joan, now with deft fingers, began to tie the long rectangular length of starched silk around Valeria’s neck. “This, I’m told, is called the ‘Mail Coach’ or the ‘Waterfall’ cravat. I told Ned that I hardly thought you wanted to look like a coachman, but he and Royce assured me that it’s very popular with the swells. I mean, with finely dressed gentlemen.”
Joan finally finished tying the cravat and said with satisfaction, “Now, you do look—”
“Like a swell?” Valeria giggled. “Good! Now. Help me with this splendid hat, and please do hurry. I’m so looking forward to my ride.”
Valeria clattered down the stairs in her riding boots—a female version of men’s Hessians—and merely stuck her head in the drawing room to say good-bye to her mother. Outside, Timothy, in his splendid livery, held the horses. Valeria, of course, was riding Tarquin, and Timothy was riding his favorite chestnut gelding.
“Good afternoon, Timothy. A ride at las
t!” she said with animation.
Timothy held the stirrup; Valeria mounted and carefully arranged her skirt so it would fall gracefully. Then, with a beautiful seat, her back erect but not stiff, showing a wonderful grace, she spurred Tarquin on, with Timothy close behind.
It was only five blocks from Berkeley Square to the most famous park in London. Hyde Park was 350 acres of long expanses of perfectly tended lawns, sweet shady glades, wandering pathways and promenades, and the man-made Serpentine River. Now, in winter, the trees were bare and solemn and the lawns and glades soft hues of brown; yet Valeria thought that on this benevolently sunny day she could sense a hint of oncoming spring.
Immediately on entering the park she went directly to Rotten Row, spurning the more sedate Lady’s Mile that traced the northern bank of the Serpentine. Rotten Row was the place to be seen in Hyde Park, as it was the path that the Quality most loved to ride, drive their fine carriages, or promenade in their best finery. Gigs, curricles, and phaetons, all pulled by fine high-stepping horses, were thick on the bridle path, along with riders mounted on spirited “blood” horses. On each side of the well-beaten riders’ drive, crowds of people slowly promenaded along: young ladies with their chaperons, young dandies “doing the strut,” nannies with children and baby carriages, doyennes with their ladies’ maids in tow, young couples eagerly greeting acquaintances.
Valeria saw several people she knew, including the perpetually peevish Miss Adele Everleigh promenading with her mother Lady Sturway. Valeria thought she detected a hint of envy on Miss Everleigh’s face, and her mother looked distinctly displeased, even though they both nodded politely to Valeria as she passed them. Snappily Valeria raised her riding crop and touched the brim of her hat, saluting them. Adele stiffened with disapproval, and Lady Sturway whispered something in her daughter’s ear, and she nodded with perhaps more vehemence than was quite called for in a modest young woman. Serenely Valeria cantered past them, her head held high, her eyes sparkling.