by Anna Willman
“I will not agree to any solution that harms one hair on that dear scoundrel’s head. I’ve no doubt he’s ruffled some feathers, but he was a charming boy who brought me comfort when I was in a great deal of distress. It all happened many years ago, but I have never forgotten his many kindnesses.”
The room was silent a moment. Sarah looked around the circle and noticed that the ladies assembled were sitting absolutely still, transfixed, their eyes intent upon the Dowager as they waited to see if there was anything more coming.
A light of reminiscence appeared in the old woman’s eye, and after a moment, she gave a little nod of her head and continued. “My husband had fallen into the clutches of a greedy little Cyprian. It wasn’t his first high flyer, by any means, but I could tell that this one was different. She was a saucy piece, and very sure of herself. I was terrified he was going to abandon his family and take her abroad.” She shook her head and glared at nothing in particular. “It was a close thing there for a while. And when he came back to me, he was angry and resentful and made my life a misery.”
A gleam of amusement lit her face and she said, “And then Lancelot came along. I was easily ten years his elder and he made me feel like a young girl again. And then, for a while. my husband thought he was going to lose me and suddenly he was all smiles and caresses – courting me again, you know. Lancelot made him see me with new eyes.” She paused and gave a kind of harrumphing sound before continuing. “Not that there was any real danger of my leaving. I had my children, of course. My responsibilities. And Lancelot had made it clear from the start that his heart was already taken.”
A smile spread across her old face, wrinkling her cheeks and deepening the lines around her eyes as she added, “That didn’t make his kisses any the less sweet.” She sat in silence, apparently enjoying her memories.
Sarah noticed several other women smiling as well, and nodding their heads in agreement. A low murmur of agreement hummed around the circle.
Then the Dowager frowned and added a non sequitur, “The way I see it, is that when you play with fire, you are occasionally going to get burnt.”
“So you would do nothing?” a middle-aged matron asked, her face flushed with disapproval. “Let him ruin our lives? Our children’s lives?”
The old lady scowled and banged her cane on the floor. “Not at all. He must be stopped. I’m merely saying we must not harm him in the stopping. I’m for finding him a wife. Lady Guinevere has the right of it. It’s past time that rogue settled down.”
One of the younger matrons – no older than forty – spoke. “I agree. I certainly wish him no harm. He came to me as he did to you, in a time of sorrow. He told me no lies, but added sweetness to a life that had become devoid of all happiness.”
This comment started off a spate of eager reminiscences. It was as if this simple statement following on the Dowager’s revelations had somehow freed the other ladies to share their own tales. Some of the women followed the Dowager’s example and described their connection with Lancelot in some considerable detail. Others spoke briefly. But however long or short the telling, it seemed to Sarah that every woman there felt compelled to add her own story.
Lady Guinevere, beside her, responded to Sarah’s look of inquiry with a slight shake of her head and whispered that this was the first time the ladies had shared their stories so freely.
And indeed, while Sarah, who had suffered so much from Lord Carew’s disclosures, could not find much in their various accounts to improve her opinion of him, Guinevere was struck with the similarity of the stories and was, in spite of herself, impressed with Lancelot’s discernment. Always, it seemed, he chose a lady in distress. Always he found ways to alleviate her burdens – sometimes with kisses, but like as not with gentle conversation.
He had, it seemed, behaved better over the years than she had imagined. Even the partings, though often bittersweet, were seldom accompanied by the anger and regrets for which such endings were, in the general way of things, notorious.
There had, of course, been a few ladies over the years who had not taken kindly to his inevitable desertion. Those ladies were not present in this room. They had behaved badly, had lacked discretion and created unpleasant scandals. Guinevere, who had heard those tales, had assumed that most of his conquests would share similarly unhappy sentiments. She discovered now that she had been wrong. Lancelot had loved his ladies and left them happier than he had found them. Most remained firmly attached to him.
The ancient Dowager who had spoken first ended this exchange of memories with a pithy remark. “The real question is, who amongst us is willing to marry the man?”
A shocked silence fell upon the room. Although many of the ladies present were married, a good number were widowed and therefore potential volunteers for the honor. A couple of those ladies cleared their throats uneasily and then flushed red in the expectant silence that followed as the other occupants of the drawing room turned their eyes upon them.
Finally, seeing that no one was eager to step forward, Marianne Digby spoke in her most soothing tones. “There is no need to settle upon a bride yet. Perhaps someone else has an idea or observation to make.”
“It is all very well, but if no one is willing to marry him, we are at a standstill,” one lady remarked.
“I have a notion on that score,” Guinevere said. “But nothing definite enough to speak of as yet.”
The ladies began to speak then, all at once.
“Who would marry him? He is the most unconstant of men.”
“I do not agree. He is faithful in his heart.”
“So he has always said – that he cannot love because he has already given his heart away. But to wed someone who is faithful to another? It would be madness!”
“I would marry him, but I have no fortune, not even a competence.”
“And if you had one, you would not consider marrying him, either!”
“I might. You cannot deny that he is charming, or that life with him could be vastly entertaining.”
“We all appreciate his charm. But you must remember that his health is indifferent. You would end up a nursemaid to a gout-ridden old rascal.”
“There is that. I’m not sure I’m up to the task. I am not a young girl anymore.”
No one in the room was a young girl anymore, and a discussion ensued on the state of Lancelot’s health and some speculation on how much longer the old rake might be expected to survive – for gout, though painful, is not a mortal disease. The Dowager took umbrage at this turn of the conversation, declaring indignantly that if they were so eager for his death, they might as well take out a pistol and shoot him outright, adding that she would have no part in such a scheme. Marianne smoothly turned the conversation to the question of how Lancelot might be persuaded to accept a bride once they had settled on one. The Dowager said he’d do well to do as he was told.
Guinevere said that, after hearing their stories, she had no doubt that they would find a way to persuade him, if they had to all descend upon him at once in order to do so. The Dowager gave her a look of great approval and said she had never doubted that Lady Guinevere had great good sense and volunteered on the spot to be a part of that delegation. Three other ladies immediately joined their names to hers and in short order the entire assembly of ladies had committed themselves to the venture. Guinevere, who had spoken in jest, was at first aghast at what she had unleashed, but then found the image of all these ladies descending upon Lancelot so entertaining that she could not resist the temptation to go along with the prevailing opinion.
This conversation continued for perhaps a quarter of an hour more before Marianne Digby decided it was time to draw it to a conclusion. They agreed to meet again in three days’ time when Guinevere hoped to have a bride to present to them. Then Marianne rang for the footmen to take away the tea and the ladies lapsed back into small circles of conversation with much hushed laughter and speculation. They gradually departed over the next quarter of an hour, l
eaving as they had come, in twos and threes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: In Which A Marriage is Announced
Three ladies remained sitting in the oversized drawing room. Sarah had just taken leave of her mama-in-law and gone home to Thomas with a secret smile in her heart. Not only was her dear mama-in-law no longer sitting alone and weeping, but Sarah had enjoyed this past hour excessively.
Guinevere, Louisa, and Marianne sat quietly, contemplating all that they had heard and said that day. Guinevere saw a smile quivering at the edge of Louisa’s mouth and inquired which revelation had inspired that suppressed giggle.
“The Dowager!” Louisa laughed. “To hear her speak of high flyers and saucy pieces and pistols! Indeed, she was magnificent. She took the lead throughout the entire afternoon. And in truth, she came directly to the heart of the matter, for she is right – without a bride we are undone.”
“We will find a bride,” Guinevere said with perhaps more assurance than she felt. “But tell me, they all seemed to think that Lancelot has some secret love, and I swear he has never spoken of one to me.”
Louisa laughed, and Marianne stared at Guinevere in surprise and said, “There is no secret about it. It is you, of course! Surely you knew. He tells everyone his heart is yours.”
“That old nonsense? That is just Lancelot’s way of poking fun about our childhood friendship,” Guinevere said with a short laugh. “No one would take that seriously. It ended the moment I grew up to be plain.”
She shook her head and furrowed her brow. “No, you are mistaken. It cannot be that. This is something different. It sounds as if there is someone he truly cared for.”
“You. It was always you, my dear,” Louisa said quietly. “He told us all he could never love anyone but you.”
Guinevere stared at her and then let out a sudden gasp of laughter. “Well, what a hum that is!” She got up and paced restlessly around the room. “He’s nothing but a wheedling humgudgeon! You mean to say he’s been using me all these years as an excuse not to get leg-shackled? A sop to win the ladies’ sympathies and secure his conquests?”
Marianne and Louisa exchanged looks. “No, my dear,” Louisa said. “You misunderstand. For sure, he may have turned it to his advantage, for Lancelot is undoubtedly an incorrigible schemer. However, in this instance he is in earnest. He has always loved you, and only you, Guinevere.”
Guinevere came to a stop in front of the two seated ladies. “Impossible!” she said.
“Nevertheless, it is true,” Marianne said.
Guinevere sat down and stared blankly at the floor before her. Her eyes followed the intricacies of the patterned tile floor in front of her, but in truth, she saw nothing but Lancelot’s laughing eyes. The two ladies waited quietly.
After a time, she said, “We have been such good friends. He never said one word to make me think that he loved me.”
“You were married,” Louisa said.
“That didn’t keep him from making advances to you, or to any of the other ladies who were just here.”
“You are right.” Louisa glanced at Marianne and smiled. “I should have said that you were happy in your marriage. I never knew Lancelot to make love to a woman who was not in some way discontented with her circumstances. Furthermore, I do not believe he would ever risk compromising the reputation of the woman he loved.”
“Well, you are far off the mark there,” Guinevere said with some energy. “For this whole disgraceful episode of the memoirs has compromised me from start to finish and I have told him so.”
“And what did he say to that?” Marianne asked.
“He scolded me for being a false friend, for caring more about the opinion of the ton than about him.”
Louisa and Marianne exchanged looks again. Then Marianne said, “He must have been very distressed.”
Guinevere frowned a little at that. “He did seem to be at first, but it turned out that he was distressed for himself, not for me. Then I told him he was selfish, and I left him. It was not a happy moment for either of us.”
Guinevere found herself wringing her hands and with an effort, folded them together neatly in her lap. She spoke firmly. “No, this cannot be right. Lancelot does not love me.” Then her voice wavered a little as she added, “I do not wish him to love me.”
Neither lady had anything to say to that. Guinevere stared at the floor tiles some more and then had a terrible thought and looked up, her eyes wide with distress.
“Does Charles know?” she asked Louisa.
“I cannot imagine that he does not. My dear, everyone knows and has known for many years.”
“Why did no one say anything to me?”
“I cannot speak for others,” Louisa said, “but it never occurred to me that you did not know.”
Guinevere thought some more. There had been incidents over the years, conversations that she remembered that took on new significance. “So I have been the subject of gossip all these years?”
“Hardly, my dear,” Marianne assured her. “Does one gossip about the sun rising every morning? No, not gossip. But indeed, winning and keeping the heart of such a one as Lancelot has added to your consequence, and to Charles’ as well. It is no small accomplishment.”
“Accomplishment!” Guinevere snorted. “How could he use me so! I would like to…to murder him!”
“You do not mean that, Gwen,” Louisa said quietly.
Guinevere stared at her and then shook her head. “No, I don’t. Not if it is indeed true. But, Louisa, this is not something I want at all! I have never done anything to encourage such a thing. I cannot bear to think that Charles knows about this. What must he think of me? I shall never be able to face him now!”
Louisa glanced at Marianne and reached out to take Guinevere’s hand. “There is no cause for you to feel shame, my dear. You must remember that this is not new to Charles as it is to you. If Charles indeed felt any discomfort, it will have been years ago.”
Guinevere stood up abruptly. “I must go now. I need to talk with Charles. Thank you so much for having us, Marianne. Louisa, are you ready to go?”
Louisa rose promptly in response to her friend’s urgency. “Of course. Thank you indeed, Marianne.”
The carriage was called around and the two ladies departed together. Guinevere intended to drop Louisa off at her townhouse and continue home, but as they arrived, the front door opened and Lydia Westlake stepped out and came down the steps.
“Oh, Guinevere, do not abandon me now,” Louisa said quickly. “I know you are anxious to get home to Charles, but we cannot miss this opportunity to speak with her.” Guinevere, who had ridden in stony-faced silence, sighed and stepped down from the carriage behind Louisa.
“Well met, my dears,” Mrs. Westlake said, as the three ladies entered the house together and went into the parlor. “I am so glad I have found you. I have great news, which I have been discussing with Sir Legerwood, and now I can tell you as well.”
Ned rose as the ladies entered, kissed his wife’s hand and nodded to Lady Guinevere. When everyone was seated, Mrs. Westlake told them about the marriage that had taken place two days before in Kent.
“They have gone to Brighton for a few days to enjoy the sea. It is of course, much too cold there right now to be fashionable, so they will bundle up and have the beach quite to themselves. They will be back here in London by the week’s end. Is this not a delightful surprise?”
Louisa and Guinevere exchanged horrified glances and looked quickly away. The message was clear. Too late. Say nothing.
“It is a great surprise, to be sure,” Guinevere said, to fill the silence.
“A happy one, indeed,” Ned said, a little uncertainly, as his wife remained silent.
“But why so rushed?” Louisa asked at last. “I am very happy for them, of course, but I thought they had planned a longer engagement.”
“I think they wished to be married before you went off on your travels.”
“If they had wished that, they
might have asked us to attend,” Louisa said a little pettishly. “It is all very well to put that story about for the ton, but I wonder what was their real reason?”
Mrs. Westlake blushed, but said only, “Perhaps you had better ask Edmund when he returns.” She said her good-byes then and left the house for a second time, leaving the two ladies gazing at one another in consternation and Ned busying himself with a speck of lint that had attached itself to his right cuff. Louisa caught this motion from the corner of her eye and turned to stare at him speculatively.
“Ned,” she said, sharply. “What have you done?”
Guinevere said quickly, “What is done is done, Louisa. It does no good to discuss this further. We must hope that we are wrong and keep silent.”
“I will have no secrets from Ned, Gwen,” Louisa said. “The only reason I did not tell him before was because we did not know.”
“And we still do not,” Guinevere said.
“Do not know what?” Ned asked.
“Of course, now we shall never know, since we can say nothing,” Louisa said to Guinevere. She turned and glanced at her husband, who had come to stand next to her. Then she continued. “Still, I will not protect Ned from what we fear. I will not do to him what has been done to me so many years. But you, I know, are anxious to be home. You need not wait.”
“Another sorrow to be laid at Lancelot’s door,” Guinevere said as she kissed Louisa good-bye.
Ned and Louisa saw Lady Guinevere to her coach and returned to the parlor.
“You had a hand in this,” Louisa said. “Do not tell me you did not, for Edmund would never have acted without telling one of us.”
“I did play a small part, my love,” Ned replied, not without some little pride. “I told him how to obtain a special license and loaned him our traveling carriage. The rest was up to him, and it seems to me he has made a rather good job of it. I should think you would be pleased to see him settled before we left for the continent.” His voice trailed off uncertainly as he added, “I know how fond you are of dear Elizabeth.”