The Love Knot

by Charlotte Bingham

‘What what is like, Mercy dear?’

  Mercy turned and her eyes were grave and sad as she stared across the short space between them. For a second there was only the sound of the fire crackling as some damp wood protested, and a spark flew out onto the hearth as Mercy turned back to watch Mrs Blessington with Twissy on a smart new London leash walking slowly up and down the little garden below.

  ‘I know what it is like to give birth all alone, knowing that your husband has taken little interest in your condition, that he is off with someone else while you think you are going to perhaps die. I know what that is like.’

  Dorinda made sure to look as compassionate as she could while hoping against hope that Mercy would take the bait being left out for her. It would be so much better, now that she had taken the extraordinary step of leaving Sussex and set about thinking how best to divorce Brancaster, if she could find herself some kind of employment whereby she could be seen to be both taking the reins into her own hands and following a profession which would, to all but the most narrow minded, be seen as virtuous and charitable.

  After all, seeing that Mercy herself now had a baby, it would be quite impossible for her to take herself off to a convent. On the other hand Mrs Dodd’s home would be a perfect place for the expression of Mercy’s gentle talents, and at the same time no-one would be able to raise a word in criticism. A divorced woman would never be able to live a normal life like other married women, or even widows, but she could turn to good works.

  ‘I wonder, do you think that Mrs Blessington would consider me forward if I offered myself to her for the position of running her business? I was always useful at home, before I married, and seeing that my situation is so changed it would benefit both myself and John Edward if I found some such situation, surely? I would not be forced to live abroad as so many divorcees are, and I would not be in the way of the fashionable, or my own family. No-one would know my situation, unless of course they had some poor daughter who fell into trouble. It could be the solution, wouldn’t you say?’

  Dorinda looked serious, her head on one side.

  ‘My dear, how perfectly perfect, how perfectly, perfectly perfect! You are the very answer. I mean, as you say, you know how it feels to be abandoned in childbirth, you know how it is to feel miserably alone in just such a situation, and although you are married, and your circumstances are not precisely the same, nevertheless you would understand. You would know how those poor young gels felt.’

  Dorinda stood up. She had stayed beyond the required twenty minutes, and more than that, she had seen from a quick look to the window that Mrs Blessington was coming in from the garden.

  ‘Why not ask Mrs Blessington now? Why not suggest this to her?’

  ‘I was hoping that you might do it for me. It would lessen the embarrassment for her if she had it in mind to refuse me.’

  And so Dorinda stayed far longer than the statutory twenty minutes, so long in fact that she was in time to see John Edward brought down from his bath and quite able to kiss him good night too.

  As to Mrs Blessington, she proved to be a very fine actress indeed, and her reaction of surprise and joy at the news that Mercy would take on her ‘little business’ could not have been better. Indeed, so good was her acting that watching her Dorinda, who was no mean actress herself, felt almost envious. At the very least she hoped that, if needs be, she could carry off just such a moment as well as the warm-hearted Mrs Blessington.

  ‘And now I really must and shall go. Come on, Pitou, away with us. Like the fairies we should be home by dusk, before someone who should not sees us and we are caught in a big net.’

  Once back in the hackney carriage, Dorinda sat back quite tired out, although certainly not dispirited. She stared out of the window at the small, narrow streets that led from Chelsea into Sloane Square and then on to those other, chic-er reaches, where she was so privileged to live. For a few seconds it seemed to her that Mercy’s plight might well have been hers, had it not been for Mrs Dodd and her advice about the watch. She too could have been living in a narrow little house in Chelsea instead of with her darling Lawrence in a mansion with everything and anything she wanted.

  Not that it would have been the same if she was in the mansion without Mr L. Then everything would just seem to be over-gilded and false. But since she had been lucky enough to find love too, she was that luckiest of all lucky people, a happily married rich woman.

  Putting aside this complacent thought Dorinda began to think ahead, for there was still much to be done about so much, most of all her dear friend Leonie who was so plucky as not to mind about wearing the same dress as the wretched Lady C at the ball. She needed to repay her for that kindness. Thinking of this she realized that it would be sensible to ask Gabriel Chantry to luncheon. While in Sussex, a few weeks back, she had taken the opportunity to purchase some furniture from him. She could write to him and command him to come and place it where he thought it would look most suitable, and, having done that, stay to luncheon. And after that, Dorinda could, delicately, and with the utmost tact, find out if Leonie had, as Dorinda hoped, caught his eye at the ball. She knew that he had not danced with her, but had she caught his eye? She was longing to find out, and she could not wait for the days to pass until he came up to London to see her, and she could put the final part of her ‘tidying up’ plan into action.

  Gabriel Chantry was one of those men, Dorinda realized as he walked towards her, who is so kind, so warm-hearted, so at ease with himself and life, that with the single exception of those unfortunate women who only like hard, unfeeling men – such as John Brancaster – no sensible woman could surely pass up the temptation of falling in love with him

  It was for this reason that he had come to luncheon with her, because Dorinda knew that, Gabriel having fallen wildly in love with Mercy on account of her humiliations at the hands of John Brancaster, and Mercy having hardly noticed him in any other way than to treat him, always gratefully, but only as a sort of antiquarian brother, he would now be in the mood to do as Dorinda devoutly wished, and fall in love with Leonie.

  Even as she smiled and drinks were brought and placed before them both, Dorinda sighed inwardly with impatience, as she always did when she was waiting to get her own way. She sighed because she saw all too clearly, and more than ever now that he was in her drawing room, that Mercy could never have loved Gabriel, simply because poor Mercy was finally incapable of appreciating kindness in a man, her own father having been so very indifferent to her until it seemed it was almost too late.

  Leonie, on the other hand, had known only kindness when she was growing up. Not only that, but Dorinda had guessed from what Leonie had simply not said about Gabriel Chantry that Miss Lynch had not remained unaffected by Mr Chantry, and had been disappointed that for all the dances booked into her card at Dorinda’s ball, not one had been his, and that although they had talked for a few moments he had made no move to write his name, but seemed only too happy, most unhappily, to let every other man dance attendance on her in his stead.

  ‘Mr Chantry still loves Mercy,’ she had told Dorinda in a sombre voice the following day when they had met to gossip when Leonie had some hours free.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Dorinda had replied. ‘He is too sensible to love someone who will never love him, surely?’

  So she had asked him to luncheon to make quite sure that he was too sensible, for, if Dorinda had little time for women who loved unkind men, she had even less time for men who loved unkind women, seeing them as no more than pathetic pastiches of what a man should be.

  * * *

  The flower-filled drawing room was therefore all too ready for Dorinda and her guest long before his arrival. The arrangements were most especially designed to assail his senses, make him giddy if needs be, with their exquisite scents, not to mention Dorinda looking unaffectedly beautiful in a morning dress of exquisite tailoring, her old ‘ess’ shape having returned (with the aid of the all important health corset) to show off the fin
e, light cloth of which the skirt was made, albeit in a more modified and less exaggerated way than hitherto. Her hair was simply dressed in a great velvet bow at the nape of her neck, small, kid button boots were on her feet, and a beautiful sapphire brooch graced the neck of her lace-trimmed lawn blouse. She had chosen all her clothes with the greatest care, as she always did, but this time, in contrast to her receiving of John Brancaster, her clothes were designed to bring confidence and encouragement to the onlooker, not to impress.

  From the shop in Ruddwick she had bought what she could, and having no need of oak, except in the servants’ quarters perhaps, she had finally selected a 1787 inlaid Italian escritoire, and an English military chest, for the library, of the same date. Seconds after Mr Chantry had arrived, the servants and the removal men followed him into Lawrence House, and having mounted the magnificent marble staircase placed the pieces just so, and with the greatest care, in the great rooms for which they had been destined.

  As it happened Dorinda really could not have cared less how they looked, but not so poor Gabriel Chantry, who walked up and down and around them, looking pale and stiff with anxiety. Dorinda, who had only bought the pieces in order to bring him to town, felt suddenly really rather ashamed of her politicking, knowing as she did that it was quite likely that Mr L would sweep in and announce that he did not like either and order them to be taken away, to be put anywhere but where they had been placed.

  Even after the removal men and the servants had left them, Dorinda found it impossible to put Gabriel Chantry at his ease. He stood, six foot and wonderfully handsome with his big brown eyes and beautifully trimmed dark beard, but as tongue-tied and nervous as a schoolboy, his eyes fixed on the escritoire in such a mesmerized and distracted way that eventually, having not been able to draw him into any kind of conversation, Dorinda suggested that they should proceed straight away to luncheon.

  And it was there, in Dorinda’s dining room, that the disaster that was to change Gabriel’s life for ever occurred.

  Leonie stared out of the window, her eyes distracted not by anything particularly startling outside it, but by her own thoughts. She had returned to the nursing home, after the excitements of the ball, a great deal more thoughtful than she had been before. She could not expect to be the same after such a momentous evening. It would

  be absurd to believe that leading off a ball with the King of England would leave her unmarked. Of course it had changed her, not for the worse she hoped, but certainly she was not the same as she had been.

  She was proud that she had held her own that evening, that she had not given way to nerves, or giggling or gaucherie, that she had danced every dance, and sipped at her lemonade and earned approving glances from everyone – except, it seemed, the one person whose approval she truly desired, namely Gabriel Chantry.

  He had seemed to be standing quite apart from the evening, as if he was a Society painter come to record the scene, and not a young man asked for his handsome looks and charming ways. She saw that he had been watching as she danced with the King, she knew that he had seen that of all the women there it was Leonie Lynch who had been singled out and approached by the equerry to be partnered by the King, and yet he obviously did not share the King’s taste in young women.

  As she rolled bandages with Miss Scott, it seemed to Leonie that very little had occurred at the nursing home, of late, that had involved her as it had once done. It was perfectly understandable. After all, there were times when more people were sick or had broken bones than at others. And of course the King being quite well, as he had been of late, Lady Angela was now in residence. It was inevitable, therefore, that Leonie felt a great deal less needed than she had done in previous months.

  Certainly Miss Scott, who was to be married next month, had about as much interest in the rolling of bandages as Lady Angela would have had in the fashions at last year’s Ascot. Dutifully Leonie listened to Miss Scott’s description of her wedding dress, for perhaps the fiftieth time. It seemed it was being hand embroidered, but to judge from the time taken up for the fittings Leonie had started to imagine that Miss Scott was going to be crowned, not married.

  ‘It is to be of the finest silk, and I shall wear orange blossom, very old fashioned, as Queen Victoria’s daughter did years ago, to please my grandmother, you know. And I am to wear her veil – my grandmother’s, not Queen Victoria’s. It is of Brussels lace, and a more beautiful piece of embroidery I do not think I have ever seen, except of course on the royal christening robes. I think I told you that my grandmother once saw the royal christening robes, due to a lady in waiting allowing her in to see the last of the Queen’s babies dressed and ready for his christening, a rare privilege indeed as you can imagine, and a moment that she has never forgotten. But then the lady in waiting had every reason to be grateful to her, I believe, although what for precisely we never did discover.’

  Leonie had noticed that ever since the news had spread through the nursing home that the King had danced with her, every nurse with whom she had ever had a conversation was now at pains to point out their own royal connections, however tenuous. It was a great trial, but one that had to be borne, like rolling bandages, and listening to Miss Scott’s endless descriptions of her dress and veil, not to mention her wretched grandmother’s opinions of her train, and how many attendants would be fashionable, and whether or not the entrance music would be appropriate.

  ‘So what do you think, Miss Lynch?’

  Leonie came to and stared at Miss Scott.

  ‘I – er – I couldn’t have an opinion, not really.’

  ‘But it was you who said yesterday that I should have my own choice, and not that of my grandmother or mother. It was you who made me go home and say that I thought the train would be too long.’

  Leonie allowed her eyes to boss momentarily at Miss Scott, who, good hearted as she was, immediately started to laugh.

  ‘You have not heard a word I have said, and what is more you could not care less. I swear, if I did not know that your dying wish is to remain unmarried like Lady Angela, you have been so dreamy lately that I would say that you are, at last, in love, Miss Lynch.’

  Leonie turned away, colouring a little. Miss Scott, on the other hand, always so very obliging and talkative, began again. She had reached exactly the same point in her conversation and was busy describing, in long and very precise detail, her train, the embroidery on it, and the underneath of it, when the door of the room in which they had been standing for some good time now was opened, noisily and in haste, and a most relieved nurse announced gaily, ‘A patient at last!’

  They all hurried out into the corridor, each of them only too willing to be busy with a patient rather than to be rolling endless bandages, or sorting towels and washing down walls, which had, all too often, been their lot of late.

  ‘What is the case?’ Leonie asked as they hurried towards the entrance hall.

  ‘Food poisoning. Some poor young man ate an oyster and it did for him. Except I believe it was not exactly an oyster, but oyster juice, I think Lady Angela said, and at any rate he has been dreadfully ill and will need immediate attention if he is to be saved.’

  Leonie looked at the young man being carried in on a stretcher and saw at once that he was by no means just a case, or just any young man. He was Gabriel Chantry.

  Seventeen

  Once, when she was growing up in Eastgate Street, Leonie had seen one of Aisleen’s caged birds fall suddenly from his perch and watched his little mate trying to revive him. The little bird had stood beside him at the bottom of the cage, calling and calling to him, singing frantically to him, until eventually, realizing that he would not be coming back to her, she too, quite as suddenly, dropped dead.

  For some reason Leonie could not stop thinking of this as she watched by Gabriel Chantry’s bedside.

  It seemed that there was nothing to be done for food poisoning except to introduce liquids and hope for the best, the doctor, on a brief and uninterested visit,
had said, but Leonie could not agree. She thought there was everything to be done, and between his groans and his sickness she put cold flannels on Gabriel’s head and prayed.

  Every now and then Lady Angela put her head round the door, and Dorinda, who had come in with her luncheon guest, but had had to leave to go to a levée with her Mr L, had left messages to send for her the moment there was any change in his condition.

  ‘My dear, I cannot believe the bad luck of it. It was only oyster juice in the salmon entrée, but it struck him down within minutes. He just doubled over. I feel as though I have murdered him, just taken a gun and shot him, really I do.’

  Dorinda, having hovered about unable to do anything to help, had eventually hurried off, her eyes filled with tears, leaving behind her a marvellous scent of her perfume – one that Leonie happened to know was made up for her, and only her, in France.

  ‘What a beautiful scent Mrs Leveen wears,’ Gabriel murmured in a hoarse voice from the bed. ‘It is like something from heaven.’

  ‘Knowing Mrs Leveen,’ Leonie agreed as she rinsed a flannel in some cold water, ‘it probably was made in heaven, Mr Chantry. Most likely she went there to have it mixed for her from the heads of divine flowers!’

  ‘She is an angel. Such an angel. I worship her beauty.’

  Leonie stopped in the act of squeezing out yet another cold flannel, for suddenly the flannel seemed to be her heart.

  She had known that Gabriel was passionately devoted to poor Mercy Brancaster, but judging from his adoring tones it seemed to her suddenly that he might well have transferred his affections from Mrs Brancaster to Mrs Leveen. Perhaps he was one of those unfortunate young men who could only love other people’s wives? Perhaps it was for that reason he had not danced with her at the ball.

  ‘I feel so terribly ill, Miss Lynch, oh, so ill.’

  Leonie frowned, and noticing suddenly that he kept clutching at one side of himself, and remembering that Lady Angela had described the onset of the King’s illness as having started in just this way, she stopped squeezing out her flannel and put it down, because of one thing she was suddenly sure, and that was that cold flannels could do nothing for appendicitis.