A Lady of Consequence

by Mary Nichols

  ‘No, my lady, except to name the play and the scene.’ She scrabbled about for her reticule, which she had put down among the costumes. ‘I have it written down here for you.’ She found the piece of paper and handed it to the Duchess. ‘It is from The Rivals.’

  ‘There will be refreshments after the entertainment,’ the Duchess said. ‘I shall be delighted if you would join my guests. I am sure everyone will wish to ask questions about your work. I hope you will not find such enquiries too impertinent.’

  ‘Not at all, your Grace.’ It was Marianne who answered because Madeleine was suddenly confronted with the reality of what she had done and what she might yet do. It was happening. What she had hoped for, what she had planned, was actually happening and she was filled with foreboding.

  ‘I will leave you to finish your preparations,’ the Duchess said.

  ‘Come on, Maddy,’ Marianne said, as soon as their hostess had gone. ‘Stop dreaming and start dressing, or we shall not be ready. I can hear the orchestra beginning the music.’

  Madeleine pulled herself together and dressed in the heavy hooped brocade court dress of fifty years before, made up her face with a great deal of powder and rouge, added a couple of heart-shaped patches and donned the mountainous white powdered wig that was so heavy she was almost bowed down by it. She was growing more and more nervous but when a footman finally came to fetch them she took a deep breath and followed Marianne into the ballroom, which had been set out with chairs like a small theatre. They were received by a round of applause, which was stopped by a drum roll. The Duchess rose from her seat on the front row to introduce Marianne as Mrs Malaprop and Madeleine as Lydia Languish in a scene from Sheridan’s famous play.

  Once she was into her part, Madeleine’s nerves disappeared and she forgot her audience. This was what she did best, this was her life and work and whatever had been going on in her head a few minutes before was banished. It was the same for Marianne, they were a perfect foil for each other and the enthusiastic applause at the end bore witness to that.

  ‘There, it was easy, wasn’t it?’ Marianne said as they returned to the anteroom to change out of costume and into ordinary evening dress.

  ‘Yes, but the words were already written and I had rehearsed them, what comes next is what terrifies me.’

  ‘What comes next is entirely up to you.’

  ‘You think I should deny the French comte?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ She paused in the act of stripping off her costume. ‘Maddy, it is much better for you to be noted for your acting than for a hoax that will undoubtedly go wrong and ruin your reputation into the bargain. Now, if you are going to join the guests, do hurry and dress.’

  They helped each other into their gowns. Madeleine had chosen a pale azure gauze over a light green silk underskirt. It had a low round neckline and short puffed sleeves, padded to make them stand out, and a wide dark green sash, tied at the back in an enormous bow. Its skirt stopped short of her ankles, showing white clocked stockings and green satin pumps. White elbow-length kid gloves covered her arms. She wore no necklace, but put Duncan’s eardrops in her ears. She brushed out her hair and pulled it on top of her head, securing it with combs, so that curls cascaded about her ears.

  ‘Lovely,’ Marianne said, looking her over. ‘What about me?’

  Madeleine looked at her friend with her head on one side. Marianne was in rose pink and white striped satin with a matching feather head-dress. She had a necklace of rubies, which Sir Percy had given her years before. ‘Regal,’ Maddy said.

  They left the anteroom arm in arm and made their way back to the ballroom. The rows of chairs had been placed at the side of the room and the guests were milling about, talking animatedly. Duncan, in an evening suit of dark blue superfine, saw them enter and hurried over to them.

  ‘Miss Doubleday, Miss Charron.’ He bowed and they curtsied.

  ‘My lord,’ they said in unison.

  ‘Do come and meet everyone.’

  With one on each side of him, he led them forward and before she knew where she was, Madeleine was standing before the Duke and Duchess and Marianne had disappeared. ‘Sir,’ Duncan said, addressing his father. ‘Mama has already met Miss Charron, but may I present her to you.’

  Madeleine could see where Duncan’s good looks came from; the Duke was a very handsome man. He was tall and upright; his almost black hair had a few streaks of silver at the temples and his dark eyes were full of humour, as if he found life very pleasant. But then why would he not, considering his wealth and position?

  ‘Miss Charron.’ He inclined his head towards her.

  ‘Your Grace.’ She found herself dropping into a full curtsy, something she had sworn never to do, but somehow she could not help herself. He seemed to command that courtesy without being in the least stiff-rumped.

  ‘I congratulate you on your performance,’ he went on, as she straightened and faced him. ‘I have seen you act often in the theatre, of course, but never so close.’

  ‘Thank you, your Grace, you are very kind.’

  ‘It must be difficult being right on top of your audience like that,’ the Duchess said. ‘Not like being on the stage at all.’

  ‘It was rather daunting,’ she admitted. ‘But once I am into a part, I find myself so absorbed I am hardly aware of people watching me.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Though in the theatre if people start to hiss or throw things on the stage, I am soon made aware of them.’

  ‘That was not likely to happen tonight.’

  ‘No, your Grace, your guests are all gentlemen and ladies.’ She looked pointedly at Duncan as she spoke.

  He laughed. ‘Mama, Miss Charron is referring to Willoughby and Scott-Smythe, who barracked and threw orange peel on to the stage the other night.’

  ‘How very uncivil,’ Frances said. ‘I wonder they dare call themselves gentlemen.’ She paused, turning to her husband. ‘Miss Charron is of French extraction, Marcus, the granddaughter of a comte. Her family were forced to flee the Terror and made their home in England.’

  ‘Is that so?’ The Duke looked at Madeleine carefully as if considering the veracity of the statement, making her squirm inwardly. She wished the polished floor would open up and swallow her. Any minute now she would be exposed and she dreaded Duncan’s reaction. It would not only be the end of her hopes for a life in Society, it would be the end of her career as an actress.

  ‘I have no way of verifying the truth of it, your Grace,’ she said, weighing her words carefully. ‘My grandfather died soon after I was born, I never met him.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘I do not remember him either. He was in the army and was killed in the war. My earliest recollection is of living with my mother in London.’

  ‘Miss Charron became an actress after her mother was killed in a street accident,’ Duncan put in. Madeleine was unsure whether he had forgotten about the orphanage or whether he had deliberately left out that part of her story, but she decided not to remind him.

  ‘Have you no other relatives?’ the Duchess asked. ‘No uncles or aunts to whom you might have applied?’

  Madeleine looked at the Duchess, wondering if her ladyship was probing deliberately, but her expression was kind; there was no malice behind it. How could she go on lying in the face of that? She was tired of the pretence, but if she retracted what she had said, she would be damning herself as a liar. ‘None that I know of, my lady. Certainly none came forward when my mother died. Sometimes I wonder if the whole story might be a myth and best left in mystery.’

  She heard Duncan draw in his breath beside her, but he did not speak. Oh, if only she could run away!

  ‘You are probably right,’ the Duchess went on. ‘The past often clouds the present and it is better to concentrate on what is happening here and now.’

  ‘Yes, but if Miss Charron should wish to marry, it would surely have some bearing on her choice of husband,’ Duncan put in.

  Both the Duke and Duchess looked sh
arply at him, then the Duchess smiled. ‘I suppose it would depend on the man she chose. For my part, I think the person we are now is more important than where we have come from. I have met scoundrels in the ranks of the nobility as well as among the lower orders.’

  Oh, bless you, dear Duchess, Madeleine thought, but do you really know what you are saying? ‘I have no immediate plans to marry,’ she said quietly.

  ‘For my part I am glad to hear it,’ said the Duke, smiling. ‘Then we shall not lose one of our most consummate actresses to domesticity just yet.’ He paused. ‘Duncan, I can see a whole congregation of young men waiting to meet Miss Charron. We must not keep her all to ourselves.’ He bowed to her. ‘I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ Another curtsy and the interview was at an end.

  ‘There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ Duncan said as he led her towards a throng of young men, all eager to make her acquaintance.

  ‘No,’ she said, though she was still quaking with the enormity of her duplicity. She had not exactly lied, but she had not denied the story either and it was clear that both the Duke and Duchess were inclined to believe it.

  Somehow she managed to put it to one side and smile as she was introduced to several young men of Duncan’s acquaintance, men who would not normally attend one of the Duchess’s soirées, but who had been unable to resist coming to meet her. At least that was what Duncan whispered to her. She put on her brightest smile.

  Soon she was being besieged by questions about how she came to be an actress and the parts she had played, all of which were easy to answer. And then Benedict Willoughby sent her heart into her shoes again when he suddenly asked, ‘Is it true, your grandpapa was a French aristo?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘It was the story I was told when I was a little girl. I have no way of proving it.’

  ‘You were born and raised in England though?’

  ‘Yes, naturally I was.’

  ‘Oh, where?’ queried another.

  Madeleine was stumped. She searched her mind for a place which was not too well known, nor too isolated, knowing whatever she said someone was sure to have visited it or knew everyone of consequence who lived there. It was easier to tell the truth and so she repeated what she had told the Duke, that she did not remember her grandfather and had been brought up by her mother in London.

  ‘And your father?’ someone else asked. It was clear the story of her past was intriguing them.

  ‘He died in the war.’

  ‘On whose side, I wonder?’ Benedict murmured.

  ‘On ours, you ninny,’ Duncan put in, before she could answer. ‘But I do not think we should quiz Miss Charron about her family, it must be painful for her. Do speak of other things. Do you not agree her performance tonight was excellent?’

  There was murmur of agreement and the conversation turned to how she approached each role and how she learned her lines and she began to relax. She was in the middle of explaining something of the routine of the theatre when she became aware that other people had joined the group.

  ‘Stanmore, good evening,’ said a voice that sent her whirling back through the years and took her breath away. She stopped speaking, unable to go on, unable to move, caught like a terrified rabbit in a trap.

  ‘Miss Charron, may I present Lord Bulford,’ Duncan said.

  Slowly she forced herself to turn and face Henry and inclined her head, no more. She would have refused to address him by his title, even if her voice had not been snatched from her.

  ‘Delighted to meet you,’ he said, his eyes roaming over her, but she realised quite suddenly that his appraisal was that of a man for a pretty woman; he had not recognised her.

  ‘You are too kind,’ she murmured, concealing her shaking hands in the folds of her skirt and preventing him from taking one of them. The last thing she wanted was for him to touch her.

  ‘May I present my wife, Lady Bulford.’ She was taller than he was, and gaunt, with a long nose and very dark eyes. They seemed to burn into Madeleine, though, as far as she was aware, they had never met before. Did Lady Bulford know about her husband’s proclivity towards young servant girls? she wondered, as she acknowledged the woman without speaking.

  ‘And this is my sister, Miss Annabel Bulford,’ Henry went on. ‘She saw you in Romeo and Juliet and has been anxious to meet you ever since.’

  ‘Really?’ was the only word Madeleine managed to utter. She knew perfectly well who the girl was. When Annabel was small she had often run away from her governess and come to the kitchen, begging sweetmeats. Being the younger of the two girls she had been thoroughly spoiled, but there was no malice in her.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the girl said breathlessly. ‘I was enthralled by it. It was as if I were part of the play, as if I knew you well…’

  ‘Oh, that is all part of the illusion,’ Madeleine said quickly. ‘I am flattered.’

  Lady Bulford tugged on her husband’s arm. ‘My lord, I think we should move on, we cannot spend all our time talking to performers. It will be commented upon.’

  As they drifted away, Madeleine heard Henry say, ‘My dear, don’t you think that was a trifle rude?’

  ‘Not at all. She is only a common actress, for goodness’ sake. I cannot think what Fanny Stanmore is thinking of, allowing her to mix with her guests.’

  ‘She is the granddaughter of a comte, Dorothy.’

  ‘Only a French one and what is that to the point? She is still an actress…’

  Annabel, who had not left with them, had heard her sister-in-law. ‘Oh dear, I am so sorry,’ she said. She was standing so close to Duncan, she might have been glued to his side.

  ‘There is nothing to apologise for,’ Madeleine said, glad that Annabel Bulford had not recognised her. ‘You are not at fault.’

  ‘You shall be my friend,’ Annabel said. ‘The Duchess accepts you and that is good enough for me. May I call on you?’

  Madeleine thought about the simple lodgings in Oxford Street and tried to imagine the young lady drawing up in her carriage and found herself smiling. ‘Perhaps one day,’ she said. ‘But you see, actresses keep very strange hours; they sleep most of the day and work all evening. But you are welcome to come backstage next time you come to the theatre.’

  ‘I should like that above everything,’ she said. ‘But I know Henry would not allow it.’ She smiled at Duncan. ‘Perhaps his lordship could contrive it?’

  He bowed his assent and they continued a desultory conversation, animated on Annabel’s part, polite on Duncan’s and almost monosyllabic on Madeleine’s. She caught sight of Marianne looking at her and tried to convey, with her eyes alone, that she needed rescuing, but Marianne simply smiled and carried on her conversation with Sir Percy and the Duchess.

  Duncan wished Miss Bulford would go and find someone else to talk to. He badly wanted to speak to Madeleine on her own. He had told Major Greenaway that he would try and find out more about her family, but she had already endured the questioning of his father and his friends and he was reluctant to pursue the subject. But why had she suddenly said the story of the comte might be a myth? What was she afraid of?

  He considered excusing himself, but he could not drag himself away from Madeleine in case she let slip something of importance and he missed it. Instead he took both the ladies into the dining room for refreshments, after which they returned to the ballroom to promenade the room, subjected to an indifferent pianist and a terrible screeching soprano. He endured Annabel’s chatter, answered politely, and smiled at others who came to bid him good evening and make the acquaintance of Miss Charron. He was perfectly aware that they viewed her as an oddity, a supposed gentlewoman turned actress, whom they would never have acknowledged but for the fact that she had spent ten minutes talking to the Duke and Duchess.

  He was relieved when everyone started drifting away and Henry Bulford came to claim his sister and take her home. Once the goodbyes had been said, he turned to Madeleine. ‘May I esc
ort you home?’

  ‘No, thank you, my lord. I came with Miss Doubleday and shall go home with her. The Duchess has arranged for her carriage to take us.’

  ‘Very well, I will see you safely to it.’

  She laid her hand upon his arm and together they left the ballroom. The Duke and Duchess stood together at the door, saying goodbye to the last of their guests and Madeleine went to curtsy to them. ‘Thank you for asking me, your Grace,’ she said, addressing the Duchess.

  ‘Not at all, Miss Charron. It is I who should thank you. I think we have made more money than ever before and that will be a great help to the orphans. There are so many of them, you know, and we need to acquire more premises.’

  ‘I am very glad if I have helped.’ Uttering a prayer of thanksgiving that she had come through the evening relatively unscathed, she walked beside Duncan out to the street, where the Loscoe carriage stood waiting with Marianne already seated in it.

  ‘You are not expected to work on Sunday, are you?’ Duncan asked, as he handed Madeleine up.

  She smiled. ‘No, even actresses have a rest day.’

  ‘Then will you come for a carriage ride in the Park with me on Sunday afternoon?’

  She should have said no, she knew it, even if she had not seen Marianne’s warning look, but she just could not resist. To ride out in daylight with the Marquis of Risley would be a great feather in her cap. After all, it was what she had been working towards most of her life, wasn’t it? And perhaps she would be able to pluck up the courage to tell him the truth.

  ‘I shall be delighted,’ she said.

  He kissed the back of her hand. ‘I shall call for you at two o’clock if that is convenient.’

  ‘Quite convenient.’

  He released her hand and shut the door. ‘Until then.’

  ‘You are playing with fire, you know that, don’t you?’ Marianne said, as the coach carried them away.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Sir Percy thinks you would be wise to try and found out about your true parentage.’