by Vanessa Gray
“Hobbs, what do you think of this?”
Hobbs chose discretion. “I really could not say, my lady.”
“No, of course not. But I wonder ... I haven’t seen this handwriting for years. More years than I intend to remember,” said Lady Thane with spirit. She went on to remember the years.
“This certainly takes me back,” she said presently. “This is from old Lady Penryck. The dowager, you know.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Elizabeth Tresillian’s mother-in-law. You must know, Hobbs, that Elizabeth and I grew up near neighbors and closest of friends in Devon. I was a Launceville, you know, and although there was a connection between our families, it was such a long time ago that it was of no account. But growing up together made the difference.”
She leaned back against her lace-covered pillows, her breakfast forgotten. “We came out together, presented at the same ball in London, you know. Elizabeth was the prettiest belle of the season. She had at least five offers in the first six weeks!”
Lost in her reveries, she was once again a girl, dancing at four different parties every night, after a round of afternoon outings, and riding in the park in the morning. Elizabeth had married Robert Penryck and gone to live in Dorset. And Helen Launceville, not quite so pretty but much more fortunate, married a pleasant, kind man of substantial wealth—not exciting, but, thought Lady Thane, much more durable, after all.
“Elizabeth and Robert were killed in an accident on the road to Exeter. Horses ran away and the carriage overturned.” Lady Thane shook her head. “Robert Penryck always thought he was a notable whip, you know, but in fact he was lamentably slow-witted. But one thing he did have—the Penryck resolution.
“I daresay it led to his demise—a frosty night, so they said, and the road not at all trustworthy. But they both died in the accident. I was godmother to their daughter, you know. But my own affairs were troublesome, and I let things go. When the girl was first sent to old Lady Penryck, I heard from time to time how she was getting on. But since then...”
She frowned once again at the letter. Had she been a woman of some sensitivity, one might have thought she was seized by a feeling of impending trouble, even disaster. But she was not, and Hobbs thought she was simply prolonging the delicious feeling of anticipation.
“What do you think, Hobbs?”
“I think, begging your pardon, my lady, that the letter might tell you what is going forward. If you opened it.”
“How commonsensical you are, Hobbs.” She broke the wafer and began to read.
“What dreadful handwriting!” she exclaimed. But the letter explained the handwriting, too.
“My dear Helen,” it began. “A long time has elapsed since I have had the pleasure of hearing from you, although I have kept myself informed of your circumstances as well as I have been able, living in the confines of Penryck Abbey, itself isolated to a degree from the world of society. I have heard of Thane’s death, for which I offer condolence, and, two years ago, of your daughter Harriet’s marriage. You have done well for your daughter, marrying her to such an unexceptional gentleman as Braintree Cromford. I confess it is partly your daughter’s felicity that prompts me to turn to you in what must be a dilemma that I cannot resolve alone.”
Lady Thane turned over the letter. There was much more—and already she felt a foreboding of more than trouble. With a sigh she turned back, found her place again in the crabbed hand, and set herself resolutely to make her way through the labyrinth.
“My dear granddaughter, Clare, is my deepest concern. I myself have been far from well for these ten years, and now I find that I cannot do even the smallest things that I once was able to manage with ease. I do not these days leave my bed.”
Poor thing! thought Lady Thane. Even though she herself lay comfortably in bed just now, she could leave it at will. And even such a complacent woman as herself could see that pain racked the invalid whose handwriting was so bad.
“I have made my will, and named a guardian for Clare. The will is in the hands of my man of affairs, Herbert Austin. But there is not much longer for me. And I do wish to see my dear granddaughter settled in life as soon as possible. I want her to have a season in London, and a chance to make a satisfactory marriage, before she must go into mourning, which I am sorry to say will be inevitable, and quite soon. Although, for myself, I shall welcome whatever release is to come from my discomfort, I shall rest more easily knowing that my dear Clare has enjoyed herself a little.”
Lady Thane was a compassionate woman, even if her intellect was not powerful, and the words of the letter swam before her eyes.
Lady Thane dropped the letter on the counterpane. “Hobbs,” she directed, “I wish to get up at once.”
Hobbs stared at her, alarmed at Lady Thane’s abrupt departure from custom. “It lacks a quarter-hour of ten o’clock, my lady,” Hobbs pointed out.
“I do not wish, after all, Hobbs, to spend my entire life in bed. I think I shall wear the light blue tunic with the gold trim, Hobbs. It always makes me feel more cheerful.”
She read, presently, the rest of the letter. The child Clare was old for her age—sixteen in June—for she had been in her grandmother’s company for some years, and had taken over much of the running of the establishment She was much like her mother, Elizabeth. Thank goodness for that! thought Lady Thane. Elizabeth had been a beauty, and of a sweetness of disposition that was remarkable.
She could have taken after her father, mused Lady Thane. A man of mild enough character, but possessed of an unexpected stubbornness when it came to gambling away his fortune. The well-known Penryck resolution, while all very well on the battlefields of Europe, was sadly inappropriate at the gaming tables of the Dandy Club, combined as it was with a strong, if unmerited optimism.
If Lady Penryck wanted Clare’s godmother to launch her into society, the apprehension of a decided change in her way of living was daunting to Lady Thane. But no one had ever said that Helen Launceville did not do her duty, and no one ever should.
Referring once again to the letter, she deciphered the last paragraph. “I shall pray that you will take this charge upon yourself, and will be ever grateful. Clare would travel with her maid, two grooms, a footman, and the coachman, and I trust that you will allow Budge to remain with Clare. I would not have you put to the trouble...” There was more, but a cursory glance indicated that the rest of the letter was taken up with civilities, and not to the point.
Hobbs dropped the light blue sarcenet over her mistress’s head. From the folds Lady Thane’s voice came muffled. “I must write at once. Poor child. It will be pleasant to have a young girl around the house again. I must answer all those invitations that came this morning, begging the courtesy of bringing my goddaughter. And the bedrooms, Hobbs”—her voice was clear again as the maid straightened the folds of the skirt—“I think the Blue Room will be the best. There is a smaller room next for the maid. What’s her name? Budge? And there will be all manner of arrangements needed—I vow I don’t know what to do first.”
“Perhaps Mr. Darrin would know?” said Hobbs with a straight face.
“I should say not! I believe I know what is best in my own house. I shall tell Darrin what I wish done.”
The conference with Darrin settled Lady Thane’s mind, and she could rest assured that her goddaughter’s comfort would be uppermost in the minds of her household. Lady Thane could then turn her thought to confiding in a few of her very closest friends, perhaps an even dozen of them, that her goddaughter—Elizabeth Tresillian’s daughter, you know—was on her way to London. Armed with promises of cards to balls, invitations to routs, and a general certitude that she had done what she could and all must wait now upon the arrival of the girl, Lady Thane declared to herself with unquenchable optimism that the girl must of necessity be biddable, very pretty, and sweet-natured. Lady Thane looked forward to an excessively successful season.
Casting her cares comfortably away, Lady Thane ordered h
er barouche and ordered her coachman, John Potter, to drive to the park. As usual, the pleasant motion of the carriage, the balmy May air upon her powdered cheeks, soothed her mind as she greeted her many acquaintances. Her matchmaking thoughts, stimulated by the faces she saw, came to the fore.
Ned Fenton, for example, bowing to her now. A splendid figure on horseback, and wealthy enough to overlook the lack of a dowry in a bride, if he could be attracted.
His great friend, Benedict Choate, riding there on a magnificent black—now, there had been the greatest catch in London, until last fall, when his engagement to Miss Marianna Morton had been announced in the Gazette. Fabulously wealthy, yet he was noted for a sardonic turn of mind and a daunting curl of lip, and Lady Thane, eminently practical, told herself that he would no doubt quell, with one word, a chit of a girl up from the country. No matter! She decided she would take good care to keep Clare away from Lord Benedict Choate!
Then there was Sir Alexander Ferguson, and Mr. Marriott—wealthy, but there was a whisper that his grandfather had been in trade.
She really must get to thinking about various schemes. All in all, she must wait, she decided, until the girl got here. And then, for the first time, foreboding struck her. If the girl was not yet sixteen, then...
Ominous whisperings came to her mind, a reflection of her long experience in the world of society. A girl, who had no polish at all, probably reared by an old-fashioned governess, living in her grandmother’s sphere with none of the amenities of modern-day living—what dreadful things might the girl do, or say? The possibilities went beyond description.
But in spite of herself, she grew conscious of a stirring of excitement as the time for Clare’s arrival drew near.
It would be fun to take a young girl again to all the ton parties, to Almack’s—where she hoped the girl wouldn’t disgrace her. She could get vouchers. Lady Thane was adroit in her planning. There were several ladies who owed her favors, and she herself might give a ball...
And this time, Lady Thane thought with a flash of realism, it would be more fun than dragging that serious Harriet around, a sour-faced girl like her paternal grandmother. Lady Thane had blessed the fate that had kept her from meeting her husband’s mother often—but Harriet was as like her as two peas.
She must get home quickly, and accept the invitations that had come in, and get word to other prospective hostesses that her goddaughter was coming into town...
Lady Thane’s optimism bubbled once more to the surface as, with a lilt in her voice, she directed Potter to turn the horses and return to Grosvenor Square to await Clare’s arrival.
The carriage drawn up in front of the house facing the square looked horrifyingly familiar to Lady Thane. It could not be Clare’s carriage. But even though she allowed herself to hope for a moment that she was mistaken and that the carriage stood before another door, she knew with a sinking feeling that her first impression was right.
The coach had just arrived, clearly, for Darrin sailed down the steps of Lady Thane’s house, dispatching footmen in all directions, and Lady Thane’s daughter, Harriet Cromford, descended to the pavement.
“Now, what on earth is she doing here?” said Lady Thane under her breath. “She’ll spoil everything!”
But when Lady Thane in her turn descended from her carriage, and both vehicles were rattling away to find shelter in the mews at the back, she greeted her daughter as blandly as ever. “Do you come alone?” she asked dutifully. “How is Cromford? And the darling baby? You surely did not leave him alone in Buckinghamshire?”
“Yes,” said Harriet grimly. “I left him alone, for I had heard rumors that made me, I do not hesitate to tell you, very uneasy.”
“Rumors?” said Lady Thane, dismissing Darrin with a request for a dish of strong tea. “What rumors?”
“Do not pretend not to know what I am talking about, dear Mama. It’s all over town. That you are taking on some total stranger to foist her upon society.”
“Stranger? My own goddaughter? That is not the case at all!” protested Lady Thane. “Where did you get such a ridiculous notion? I am sure you cannot have had it from me.”
“No,” said Harriet grudgingly. “I heard nothing from you, so when Lady Cromford...”
Harriet stopped short. She had not intended to make her mother privy to the source of her information, for Lady Thane had little use for old Lady Cromford, considering her a great prattler with feathers for brains. She had pointed this out to Harriet many times before her marriage, mentioning, with deep feeling, that sometimes the grandchildren took after the grandparents—“and always just the qualities that one wishes they wouldn’t, you know!”
Harriet (the picture of the departed Lady Thane, her grandmother) had characteristically overridden all objections in favor of twenty-five thousand a year and a title. Nor, to give her credit, had she ever complained about living in the wilds of Buckinghamshire, her mother-in-law in the dower house, built distressingly close to the main house. But Harriet had sufficient sense not to mention her mother-in-law unless it was necessary.
Or unless it slipped out, as it had just done.
Lady Thane’s eyes kindled. “So you came to town at that woman’s behest to check up on me? I tell you, Harriet, I will not tolerate this!”
Harriet set herself to soothe her mother, with the same determination that had led her to hasten to London to protect her easygoing mother from the darkling designs of some rustic female who was so much a stranger to the family that Harriet had never heard her name.
At length, after two cups of very strong tea, Lady Thane’s indignation dissipated, and once more she felt in charity with her only child.
“But you know she has led a sadly restricted life,” said Lady Thane sometime later. “I wonder how she will go on. Although, as I remember Lady Penryck, she was a high stickler. But with her illness, I just don’t know what to expect.”
Harriet had been watching her mother closely, and now came to a conclusion. She was at heart extremely fond of her mother, and bethought herself of a way to ease her mother’s tribulation.
“I shall send word at once,” she said briskly, setting down her teacup and reaching for the last of the tiny cakes that Mrs. Darrin made so well. Answering her mother’s uplifted eyebrow, she explained, “I shall tell Cromford that I wish to stay here with you, at least until the girl arrives.”
“There’s no need,” said Lady Thane, knowing her protest was futile.
“You may be glad of my presence,” said' Harriet, conscious of a glow of pleasure at her own self-sacrifice. “She may be totally unsuited to company—if, as you say, Lady Penryck has been ill for years.”
Lady Thane had no time to repent of her incautious letter to Harriet, nor to wonder which of the carefully selected hostesses in London to whom she had confided the news of her goddaughter’s arrival had spread the news as far as Buckinghamshire so quickly.
Harriet said, “I shall write at once to Cromford.” She left the room at once on her errand, so Lady Thane was alone when the Penryck coach drew up in the square.
Lady Thane’s emotions had been badly cudgeled by her bout with Harriet, and now that the moment of Clare’s arrival was here, Lady Thane found herself momentarily unable to move. Pressing her snowy handkerchief to her lips. In a futile effort to stop them from trembling, she started to her feet and stared at the door.
Then, a lifetime of training impelled her forward, and she started across the Blue Saloon. She reached the foyer to see Darrin inviting in a slender girl not quite of average height, with gold ringlets and a modish traveling bonnet Her traveling coat was dark and of severe cut. But the smile trembling on her lips, the apprehension in her dark blue eyes, had already won over Darrin, Lady Thane noticed, and was conscious of a warm spreading feeling in the region of her own sensibilities.
“Clare, my dear!” Lady Thane hurried across the foyer to clasp the girl in her arms, kissing her on both cheeks, and wiping a tear away from her own. “Ho
w very welcome you are!”
3.
London was as far removed from Penryck Abbey, Clare decided, as though she had unaccountably been flown to the moon. Penryck Abbey was an almost forgotten backwater in Dorset, the Penrycks long out of the swim, mostly, of course, because of the aging Lady Penryck’s painful infirmities, but even before that, because of the failing fortunes of the family.
The most excitement that Clare remembered was when the squire and his wife, Sir Ewald and Lady Melvin, came to call, bringing their house guests from Northumberland, a maiden lady of mature years and her inarticulate brother.
But London! It seemed to Clare that she had never heard such noise. When her coach had rumbled into town, over the cobbles and into the square, she had been too excited to notice, but now, a week later, as she stood in the square portico at the top of the front steps of Lady Thane’s house, she could hear in the far distance a hum as of innumerable hiving bees. Closer there were cries, rumble of carriages, sharp clop of horses’ hooves—the immensely varied sounds of a busy city at work.
There was so much to do in London! Clare stood for a moment trying to realize that she was at last there. The hub of the universe—and although Clare’s education had been impeccable, including the elements of natural sciences and the use of the globes, and she was aware that there were other worlds beyond London, yet she was realist enough to suspect that the city would engross her sufficiently without worrying about the rest of the world.
There was much that she wanted to see. She had on her mental list the Tower, with its lions and certain other animals in the menagerie that she darkly suspected existed only in hearsay. A Greenland bear, for example—all white, so it was said. A small ant bear, too, and a creature listed in the guide as a “White Fox from Owhyhee.” Most intriguing!