A Most Unusual Lady

by Janet Grace

  Once or twice Louisa spared a thought for the frightened, unhappy girl she had been in London all those years ago. She had no such fears now. It seemed she could find a niche in the daunting world of Polite Society after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Louisa read his letter that night, in bed.

  She had put off considering the letter, and all the implications of what he had said, while she was at Mrs. Morgan’s. She had been kept too busy to think. But she could not be unaware of his thoughtfulness and attention, nor of the short shrift he gave to Miss Annabelle Whitley. She brought the letter home, unopened, unmentioned, in her reticule, and, while Millie helped her to undress, chatting happily about her dairyman father and her family out in Islington village, she considered it.

  In fairness to him she would have to read it—despite the pain and anger, doubts and distrust. The story of the letter must be true. John had confirmed it when he had sought her out and apologised himself for his behaviour, later in the evening. She could not convince herself that Lord Alnstrop would lie. She had believed he might wish to escape the folly of an ill-considered affair, but she could not believe he would lie. So, in fairness, she would read it.

  She waited until Millie had gone, and she was ready in her white linen nightgown, before she took the letter from her reticule and carried it to the bed. The single candle flickered as she slipped between the sheets and pulled the covers around her. Suddenly, she pressed the letter tight against her breast, clutching it, too nervous to break the seal. Then she drew a deep breath and spread the sheets open on the pillow.

  She wept when she had finished reading, for she could hardly believe it. The force of his love seemed to leap from the written words, and she could not doubt it. She lay for a while, the paper tight against the thudding of her heart, and thought of his words that evening. ‘My intentions are entirely, if impatiently, honourable.’ She smiled.

  Later, she looked at the date, and suddenly imagined him waiting for the reply that never came. He must have suffered as she had. Eventually she slept, one hand on the letter under her pillow, and if her drowsing thoughts passed with satisfaction over the memory of Annabelle Whitley’s disgruntled face, she felt she might be forgiven.

  Georgiana laughed the next morning when a note arrived for Louisa by hand.

  ‘A secret admirer already! Who can it be?’ Then she paused and looked at her friend more closely. ‘But what is the matter, Louisa?’

  Louisa, the paper open on her lap, had gone pale. She rubbed her forehead.

  ‘It is just a shock. So unexpected. After all these years—I can hardly believe it. I wonder whatever Mama would say?’

  Then suddenly, seeing Georgiana’s perplexity, she held out the brief note. In a hand that had once held a casual elegance, but was now shaken with age, Miss Louisa Stapely was requested to call that morning at Luddenay House in Belnaughton Place. It was signed simply, Luddenay.

  ‘Well! But how exciting, Louisa! A grandfather you have never met. Who cast your family off without a penny. Shall you go? Would you dare to spurn him?’

  Louisa thought for a moment.

  ‘Oddly, it is because it no longer seems to matter to me that I shall go. I have made a life that is independent of him. But there has been too much ill feeling in our family for too long for me to want to perpetuate it. Besides, I must write to my Aunt Honoria in Bath. She would be pleased to know I had visited my grandfather, she was always distressed by the family split. But we should not read too much into this note. He does not sound overly friendly. Perhaps he simply wants to formally disown me again?’

  Louisa prepared for the visit with mixed feelings. She had hoped Lord Alnstrop would call that morning—now, if he did she would miss him. But she could not be certain he would call. Perhaps he would feel she needed time to consider his letter, and she did not want to refuse her grandfather’s unexpected olive branch.

  She dressed with care, for she could not deny that she was nervous. She studied the result in the glass and decided it would do. The smart grey walking-dress, that had been Hetta’s, looked pretty but businesslike. She clung to her notion of her own independence; she would not go grovelling to the man who had caused her family such hardship.

  She would have walked with a footman as escort, but Lady Mondfort, having studied the note, uttered an ambiguous ‘Humph!’ and ordered round the carriage and William Coachman.

  ‘You’ll do this thing properly,’ she said obscurely, and gave Louisa a pecking kiss on the cheek as she left.

  Louisa did not see, as she climbed into the coach, Lord Alnstrop rounding the corner into Gudrigan Square. He stood, watching the carriage rumble away over the cobbles, a bouquet of hopeful roses in his hand.

  Luddenay House was a tall, gaunt town house of soot-blackened stone, rows of blank windows staring over black spiked railings. A flight of immaculately scrubbed steps led up to an imposing door with a large brass knocker in the shape of a gasping fish, and an elegant fanlight above. Two great pillars stood like sentinels on either side, supporting the porch. A footman jumped down from the back of the carriage to assist Louisa out, and knocked firmly.

  The butler who opened the door might once have been a fine figure, but there was no sign of those days now. He was a wizened, bent little man, who wheezed painfully as he opened the door, waving aside a younger footman who came forward to help.

  ‘Miss Louisa Stapely? Mr. Charles’s daughter? It’s a grand day that we see you here. A grand day.’ He shook her hand fervently, and Louisa could see tears in his eyes. ‘But the master is waiting. Come in.’

  He led her across a vast expanse of cold, bare marble floor, polished like glass. The chairs that stood along the wall were heavy and old-fashioned, portraits of early Luddenays hung on the high walls above. A great staircase swept up to the shadows of a gloomy landing. A faint, damp mustiness pervaded the air. Louisa shivered, the tap-tap of their footsteps was the only sound.

  The old man paused before a heavy oak door, one of several that led off from the hall, all closed. He taped lightly, but getting no response muttered, ‘He doesn’t hear, he doesn’t hear!’ Pushing open the door, he announced loudly in his cracked tones, ‘Miss Louisa Stapely.’

  It was a library, dominated by the high shelves of books, with the soft smell of the leather bindings in the air. A generous fire was burning, and her grandfather sat beside it with his shoes resting on the heavy iron fender. He pushed himself awkwardly to his feet.

  Once he must have been a fine, imposing man, tall, broad-shouldered, with a great head of hair and bushy eyebrows. Now the back was bent, the shoulders stooped, the shock of hair pure white. But the eyes glaring at her from under the beetling grey brows were still keenly intelligent. She stared levelly back.

  ‘Humph. Well, come in, girl, come in. Sit there and let me look at you.’

  The butler quietly closed the door and Louisa was left to face her grandfather alone.

  She sat down composedly, and waited quietly while he studied her.

  ‘Well, you’re very cool, I must say. I suppose you know you have a strong look of your father, my boy Charles? A strong look. There can’t be too much of that damned mother in you.’

  Louisa stiffened and glared at him.

  ‘Hoity-toity, eh? You know I couldn’t stand the woman, and I won’t start pretending now.’

  ‘Sir,’ Louisa was suddenly quite unafraid, ‘your opinions are, of course, your own, but I do not have to stay and listen to your insults of my mother, who has certainly done a great deal more for me than you ever have. Nor can I feel your opinions are well-founded when you have never once allowed yourself to speak to her. She is a good woman who made your son an excellent wife, and is an admirable mother to your grandchildren in the most adverse circumstances.’

  Louisa knew her colour had heightened as she spoke, but she looked her grandfather firmly in the eye. She was startled to see a great smile spread over his wrinkled face.

  ‘Huh!
I knew you were a chip off the Stapely block. Stand up for your opinions and look anyone in the eye. Not like those mincing, sweet-talking cousins of yours. I dare say your mother is not a bad woman. I’ve been wrong about some things in my life, and my treatment of Charles was one of them. I can see that now.’

  His head nodded tiredly, and he mumbled his lips a little. Louisa was moved with pity, but his head jerked up again and he glared at her once more.

  ‘So you will be wanting help, I suppose, if I take you back and acknowledge you? Hopefully for some money, eh?’

  ‘Thank you, sir, for your generous offer,’ Louisa responded tartly, ‘but I am an independent woman. I earn my keep as a companion and governess, and have Aunt Honoria’s income to look forward to. I have no need of your concern. What you would like to do for my mother and the younger children is, naturally, a matter for your own conscience. They have managed without you for nearly thirty years.’

  Her grandfather was frowning.

  ‘Cedric told me there was some nonsense about you being a companion. To some relative of Alvira Mondfort. He didn’t mention governessing. That will have to stop. It is not what I accept in my family.’

  ‘I am sorry if it distresses you, sir, but I need to earn my keep. There is no necessity for you to acknowledge me, after all.’

  ‘And if I were to give you an income of your own?’

  ‘I think I would prefer not to be beholden, thank you, sir.’

  Somehow it mattered a great deal to Louisa to keep her semblance of freedom. To meet her family, but on her own terms. Ridiculous, when perhaps by careful cajoling she could persuade her grandfather to part with all the money her family needed. But she could not do it. She was afraid he would refuse to see her again when she remained adamant, but, although he looked suddenly very old and tired, the thoughts he was mumbling to himself were not daunting. Louisa felt she intruded on his privacy by hearing them.

  ‘Knows her own mind, and goes her own way. Just like her father. Just like I am, and my father before me. And Honoria, damn her for being right. I was an obstinate fool all those years ago. God, how I loved that boy. Here’s his daughter, worth a dozen of Patrick’s spawn. Won’t be beholden! Would I could say that of those others ... that mincing, obsequious absurdity of a grandson who will step into my shoes, dammit!’

  He was abruptly alert and studying her, almost as if he had been dozing, so lost in his thoughts had he been.

  ‘I’ll have no quarrel with you now, my dear. There has been too much quarrelling in the family, and good never comes of it. Shall you be at Sally Lanchester’s ball tonight? You shall? Then I will go. I would like to see you there. Sally always asks me to these great occasions of hers, but nowadays I don’t always bother to make the effort. Tonight I will. I would like to see you looking your best.

  ‘But now I am tired. I have a tonic I take. Some concoction of that fool of a doctor’s, but it seems to work. Ring for Whistler, will you?’

  Louisa rang, tugging at the faded embroidery of the bell-pull. She felt a warmth of affection and admiration for the strength of this tired old man who, after all these years, could face and acknowledge his mistake. Also a sense of belonging. She had found another part of her lost family but, unlike her cousins, she knew she could quickly come to love and respect her grandfather.

  Whistler came shuffling back, and stood leaning heavily on the door-handle.

  ‘My grandfather needs his tonic, please, Whistler.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He means to come out to Lady Lanchester’s tonight. I think he should rest now.’

  ‘I’m not entirely in my dotage yet, my girl,’ Luddenay growled, overhearing, but he did not sound displeased.

  ‘Certainly not, grandfather. No one could meet you and think that. I am so very pleased you asked me to come here.’ She took his hand impulsively in her own, and kissed his cheek. ‘I will look forward to seeing you tonight. Now I will go and leave you in peace.’

  In Gudrigan Square, Louisa’s account of her visit was eagerly awaited. Lady Mondfort seemed quietly satisfied at the turn of events, but Georgiana was predictably more effusive.

  ‘It’s wonderful, Louisa. Like the happy ending in a fairytale. Mama will be so pleased, she loves a happy ending after much affliction. After all these years! What a story! And we have something else to tell you. May I tell her, Aunt?’

  Lady Mondfort nodded and smiled.

  ‘Lord Alnstrop visited this morning, specifically to call on you! And he brought with him the most beautiful bouquet of flowers. We had them put in your room. We told him where you were, of course, and he seemed very pleased for you, and then he asked me for the colour of your ball-gown! He must mean to send something for you to wear. Oh, Louisa! It is so exciting! I had no idea, and I don’t believe John suspected it, either. Will you wear it, if he sends you a flower for your dress? Just think—we might become sisters!’

  ‘My dear Georgiana,’ put in Aunt Alvira repressively, ‘you are running on a great deal too fast.’ She regarded Louisa’s flushed face, and smiled. ‘I think we should all retire to our rooms to rest before Madame Defayne arrives to carry out last-minute fittings. There is more than enough to be done before you are ready for the ball.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The chaos outside the Lanchester town house was at its peak when William Coachman set himself to manoeuvre the Mondfort carriage up to the blaze of light that streamed across the pavement from the wide doorway. Huge, old-fashioned torches had seen set to flutter and flare in sconces up and down the street, their smoke wafting across on the turn of the breeze. A long, striped awning, its scalloped edge dancing, sheltered the pavement. Here, those who alighted from a medley of carriages and sedan chairs were assisted by a troop of quick-footed, able-bodied men, in the distinctive green and gold of the Lanchester livery.

  At last William was able to pull up right before the wide open door, scorning to unload his precious cargo, as other coachmen were doing, further down the pavement. A scurry of green and gold, the carriage door opened, and the steps were lowered.

  John, who had travelled in the Mondfort coach to escort Georgiana and Louisa, leapt down. With a happy confidence in her own enchanting beauty Georgiana took the hand held out to assist her, and floated down the steps. Following her, Louisa was filled with admiration. Georgiana did look ethereal as the light caught and spun on the softly moving silver thread in the white muslin dress. Heads turned as she handed her swansdown wrap to the waiting attendants, and gazed, eyes like stars, round the glowing hall full of the dazzle and babble of all London Society at its most exotically exuberant.

  Louisa left her cloak, a soft green silk trimmed with white fur that Lady Mondfort had lent her, and John escorted them both to greet their host and hostess, then on through to the ballroom.

  Louisa walked confidently. She looked forward to seeing her grandfather again. Her cousins had lost the power to scare her. She had friends. Her dress, she knew, became her admirably—with her new self-assurance she had overcome her initial bashfulness at the very low cut of the neckline. Georgiana had made her a present, just before they left, of a long, airy shawl of the lightest silver gauze. Looped over her arms, it slipped around her body and shimmered across the warm peach silk. And pinned between her breasts was a single cream rose. It had been delivered, complete with a delicate, filigree silver holder, as she was dressing for the ball. The note said simply, ‘With my love, Alnstrop.’ He would, she knew, be coming, escorting Henrietta.

  Some eighty years previously, a Lanchester, after a spell of outstanding good luck at card-play that brought him a fortune, and ruin to some less fortunate, decided to spend the winnings on a ballroom of great size and splendour. Frivolously earned, he stated, it should be frivolously spent. The result, rearing in white stone on the back of the town house, had delighted that gregarious family ever since.

  Tonight Sally Lanchester had excelled herself. The whole great room was a garden of flowers. Flowers towering from vases and tu
mbling from urns, banked against pillars and strung, in endless garlanded loops, from end to end of the room and across the dance-floor—all in whites, pinks and reds. Despite the ever increasing crush of people, the scent of the blooms still filled the air, and their rich colours glowed in the soft light of the three great chandeliers. The parquet floor shone invitingly, and waiters stood attentively behind the long, white-clothed tables of winking cut glass and bottles of champagne, loading sliver trays with bubbling glasses. The musicians, on a raised dais, broke into a soft, lilting melody.

  John introduced them to his friends, young Archie Lanchester and his cousin Charles Hexham, a soberly dressed man of about thirty, and his sister Jane, just out of the schoolroom and agog with excitement. Louisa saw her cousins across the room, and waved a hand lightly. They nodded an acknowledgment of her greeting, but did not come over.

  As sets formed for the first dance they all took the floor, Louisa on the arm of Charles Hexham. He was a pleasant man, who regarded her earnestly from solemn blue eyes, and paid her laboured compliments. She smiled at him kindly, and tried to prevent herself from watching the door. Though she trod the steps lightly, her heart was elsewhere.

  The formal pattern of steps, twirl and part, curtsy and bow, drew to a close. Her friends straggled, breathless and laughing, back to their table to sip champagne, but Louisa had seen Lord Luddenay arrive and seat himself painfully among several elderly guests, who watched, gossiped and speculated now they could no longer dance. She asked Charles Hexham to take her over to join him.