The Determined Bachelor

by Judith Harkness

  “Oh, no! I am perfectly all right. I shall be very well if only I am able to lie down.”

  “I hope it is not a migraine, my dear. I have been cursed with them all my life. Run along, then, and let us know if you need anything.”

  So easily dismissed, Anne sought the solitude of her own chamber with a feeling of relief. But half an hour passed, and the sounds of laughter wafting up from the drawing room prevented her thinking of anything else. “What are they saying now?” she wondered, and thought, ironically, that she could not be much missed. Lady Cardovan and Sir Basil must welcome the opportunity to be alone with the child—their child. A sort of secret reunion of the family, prevented by circumstance and time from being reconciled for all these years. A little while later she heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs leading to Nicole’s bedchamber, and presumed, from hearing the low voice of Lady Cardovan and the high-pitched one of Nicole, that the orphan was being put to bed at last by her own mother. A moment later the door closed again, retreating footsteps sounded down the stairs, and Anne knew that the lady and gentleman were closeted alone. How seldom they must have the opportunity to meet like this! The Princess Lieven had said to her, with that significant little smile which seemed to encompass the frailties and eccentricities of all mankind, “Ah! The wonderful Lady Cardovan. Sir Basil is devoted to her. You know, her own husband deserted her years ago. I wonder why she never has remarried? In England, of course, there is nothing to prevent it. You wonderful English! You have devised so many ways to make life more enjoyable! In Russia, there is no such liberty.”

  Anne could not bear to let her mind run on any further. She rose from her bed and very deliberately took out paper and writing instruments from her desk. She then sat down to compose the letter to Ben we have already seen, so different in tone and subject from the real burden in her heart and mind.

  Chapter XVI

  For a decade, Lady Cardovan’s soirees had been a regular tradition amongst the literati of the ton. What the Duchess of Devonshire’s Wednesday nights had done for the cream of London Society, Diana Cardovan’s Thursdays had done for the intelligentsia of the Capital. Through the years the membership of her little club—for if it was not one in name, it was more exclusive than any of the gaming establishments on St. James’s Street would ever be—had been narrowed down by default as much as taste, to about two dozen of the finest minds in England. Some of these were very prominent, some known only in the spheres in which they moved. Fox had come regularly until he died, and the Regent, when he was fed up with being a Prince, had once or twice put in his head to listen to what he called the “snobbish prattle of the bookey-minded.” There was George Gordon, Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelly, and the bastion of the Utilitarians Jeremy Bentham, and Walter Scott, when he could condescend to come out of hiding, and some, like the young Disraeli, who though he was barely nineteen and a Semite to boot, amused Her Ladyship and was therefore suffered by the others. There was, besides, a smattering of the nobility who either cherished the idea of being thought fashionable amongst this odd group, or had nothing better to do. The evenings were as famous for those who would not come as for those who would: Georgina Devonshire claimed she would not set one of her dainty feet in the place, Wellington, who might really have enjoyed it, disliked going anywhere he was not the only star in the heavens. Still, the soirees survived without them, and if Lady Cardovan had rather gained the reputation of being eccentrically disposed, preferring the wit of journalists and poets to that of earls and dukes, she was rather held in awe by those who pretended to scorn her. Amongst these, it might as well be admitted, were the Princess Lieven and her neighbour (though hardly her intimate in any other matter), Lady Hargate.

  Neither of these ladies would have been tempted to visit Grove House on a Thursday even if they had been amused by the idea, for that was the evening upon which the vast doors of Almack’s regularly swung open to admit the less serious-minded members of the ton, where champagne was drunk by the gallon, and the conversation did not stray much beyond the personages within its own hallowed walls. Never before had either of these ladies been absent from the festivities. Imagine, therefore, if you will, the astonishment of Lady Cardovan upon seeing them, together with Miss Newsome and the Earl of Hargate, appear in her drawing room on the evening following her dinner with Sir Basil.

  It was evident from the first that the little party had arrived at once, their carriages having swung into the drive at exactly the same moment and, despite the exertions of the Princess Lieven to make her coachman slow down, together they had arrived beneath the portico. They came in, therefore, as a little cluster, were announced all at once, and caused a communal eyebrow to be raised by the party already assembled about the room. For a moment there was absolute silence, so intense that Bentham’s laugh, having caused him to choke upon his biscuit, sounded as loud as a thunderclap. No one knew what to say or do, for the appearance of these socially incandescent figures amongst this plainly clad and distinctly intellectual assemblage was about as amazing as the appearance of a flock of geese.

  Lady Cardovan recovered almost instantly from shock, rose from the sofa she had been sharing with Bentham and a celebrated essayist, and moved toward them. There were expressions, as may be imagined, on either side of welcome and nervous pleasure. The Princess had come on purpose to see Sir Basil and the lady of the house, while Lady Hargate had engineered her own family’s visit in order to further what she optimistically termed the “courtship” between the Ambassador and her sister. They discovered simultaneously, and at one glance, that Sir Basil was not present, and the fallen faces of Miss Newsome and Lady Hargate were sufficient to make their hostess suppress a smile.

  The Princess Lieven, however, was only half as disappointed as they, for while she had hoped to find the Baronet, she could perfectly well content herself with Lady Cardovan. The Ambassador’s absence, moreover, only served to add fuel to her fire, for did it now show that he was consciously avoiding such public meetings with his inamorata? The Princess was, besides, far more socially versatile than the other two ladies: She was on amiable terms with half the figures in the room, though she would not, of her own accord, have sought most of them out. Pressing her cheek against that of Lady Cardovan and murmuring some meaningless phrases about having wished for “eons” to see what all the fuss was about, she moved deftly in the direction of the incandescent Byron, who was listening to a criticism of Childe Harolde by Shelley and the young Disraeli.

  The Hargates, however, and Miss Newsome were left at a loss. The Countess cursed herself inwardly for having failed to foresee this eventuality, and uttered with wide eyes her astonishment at not finding her brother-in-law in the company.

  “Sensible fellow,” muttered Lord Hargate, directing his attention toward a footman who was carrying around a tray of champagne goblets.

  “I thought you said Sir Basil always came when he was in London,” murmured Miss Newsome crossly to her sister.

  “Hush, my dear. Well! What a charming assemblage, Lady Diana! I had no idea you drew such a crowd upon these evenings. I do not believe I have met a single one of them. Who is that gentleman over there?”

  Lady Cardovan glanced in the direction intended and replied that “the gentleman” was Charles Newcastle, the famed cartoonist.

  “Dear me! The one who does those shocking caricatures of His Highness? Well! I never supposed he was so well-looking!” Lady Hargate paused for a moment, glancing around the crowd, which had now resumed its various conversations.

  “I always believed you had a great many politicians and people of that sort,” continued she, as if she were referring to some sort of curious animal. “And writers—novelists and things.”

  “Well, there is Sir Walter Scott,” offered Lady Cardovan softly, seeing that gentleman approaching them. “I wish we had persuaded Miss Austen to join us before she died.”

  “Speaking of Austen, my dear Diana,” said the great man, coming up beside her and
glancing curiously at the other two, “I have just read the most extraordinary book. I could swear it was an early manuscript of hers. A most extraordinary novel, to be sure. I should like you to take a look at it. My publisher gave it to me the other day to look at. Said it was the young woman’s first work, but I cannot believe it. It resembles so much in tone and animation the early novels of our Jane. I told him so at once, and wondered if it could not have been a younger sister, at the least. But he said, ‘no, of course it couldn’t be, he should know it anywhere.’ Besides, the lady’s credentials were all intact, though of course she would not publish it under her own name. The usual ‘By a Lady’ sort of thing. Absurd notion! Why should not women write under their proper names? It makes a mockery of the rest of us!”

  Lady Cardovan glanced apologetically at the sisters, who had begun looking about them impatiently. “I should love to read it, Sir.”

  Pshaw! I can see you are only offering me a placebo. I shall interrogate you about it next we meet.”

  Lady Cardovan smiled at the little man, so great in his achievements, so short and squat in his physique, and with the face, as one wit had put it, of a plum pudding.

  “I shall read it at once. As soon as I can acquire it. What is it called?”

  “A Country Parson.” Sir Walter coughed. “And I have brought you my own copy. But mind you, give it back. I warrant it shall stand amongst the finest of contemporary satires. Shan’t take you long to read—not a lengthy piece of work. And fraught with humour. You’ll enjoy it, my dear Diana, see if you do not. I mean to give it to the Prince. You know how he adored Miss Austen’s books.”

  And the little man waddled off, leaving behind him a slim volume, and an astonished expression upon Miss Newsome’s face.

  “Was that Sir Walter Scott?” exclaimed she.

  Lady Cardovan nodded.

  “Why! He is so small and fat!”

  “His mind, however, is very large,” responded her hostess with a little smile, “and has no excess flesh.”

  Miss Newsome did not comprehend the jest, but she understood very well the tone. With a sniff, she excused herself and went to find the tea tray. Lady Hargate stayed behind a moment, endeavouring to make conversation. She had long held Lady Cardovan in awe, though thinking her rather queer.

  “I was so positive that Basil would be here! I am sure my sister is heart-broken over missing him. They had the most delightful conversation the other evening.”

  “Did they?” Lady Cardovan smiled politely. She had heard a rather different report from the Baronet.

  “Oh, Lord, yes! You would have thought they had been lovers forever! Basil is so quaint, you know—pretends to despise us all. But really, it is high time he married. In point of fact,” now the Countess lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone, overjoyed to be in possession of knowledge superior to Lady Cardovan’s, “in point of fact, he has confided to me that he came home on purpose to find a wife!” Lady Hargate watched this news be digested with delight. Evidently Lady Cardovan, with all her airs, did not know some things!

  “Did he indeed?”

  “I should not repeat it, of course. It was told me in the strictest confidence. But then, you are so intimate a friend of his—quite one of the family, by now! Do you not think it delightful?”

  “Perfectly delightful,” echoed Lady Cardovan, wondering if she could believe her ears. “Has he settled yet upon the object of his affections?”

  Lady Hargate simpered. “Perhaps ‘settled’ is too strong a Word. And yet I might just venture to hint that I have my suspicions. Would not Henrietta make a delightful ambassadress?”

  Here was a hint too clear to be missed. Lady Cardovan followed her companion’s gaze, which had shifted to that part of the drawing room where the tea tray was set up. The fortunate Miss Newsome, apparently unaware of her imminent happiness, was sulking in a corner by herself, ignoring the attempts of the young Mr. Disraeli to draw her into conversation. Lady Cardovan studied her for a moment, and then turned back with a brilliant smile to her companion.

  “Quite a charming young ambassadress,” affirmed she.

  “Lord! I can scarcely wait! It shall be so diverting! To have two brothers married to two sisters! And, of course, we shall all go to visit in Paris regularly. Henrietta and I have already settled upon that.”

  “How amusing it shall be!”

  “Oh certainly! As amusing as anything upon earth! Dear me, and I had just begun to fret from boredom. Really, there is nothing to equal this Town for dullness! Ah, well, all that shall be over soon!”

  “Indeed it shall. Soon you shall be crossing the Channel as often as you are used to traversing Bond Street. And when shall we expect the happy occasion to take place?”

  Now Lady Hargate was something at a loss. She had a moment of panic, thinking that perhaps she had let the cat out of the bag too soon. But as easily as Lady Hargate could find a reason to bemoan her unhappy lot, so could she find an excuse for her conduct.

  “Of course it is not absolutely settled,” said she primly. “But you shall be the first to hear, I am sure!”

  “Thank you very much.” The irony of her hostess’s smile must have escaped Lady Hargate, for she only laughed and exclaimed, “Think nothing of it! I know Basil regards you as quite a sister—an elder sister, of course.”

  Lady Cardovan smiled again.

  “Well—may I be the first to wish you joy? A secret joy for the moment, of course.”

  “Hah, hah! To be sure! A secret joy!”

  If Lady Cardovan had been taken aback by this interview, she was soon to be astounded even more. Not long after Lady Hargate had gone off to spend the remainder of her visit whispering in a corner with her sister and scowling at Lord Hargate’s attempts to drink the entire contents of their hostess’s wine cellar, the Princess Lieven approached.

  “Ma chère Diana,” exclaimed she, upon finding the Countess alone at last. “I never was more diverted in all my life! Ces gens sont si amusants! It is really the most delightful gathering I have attended in an age! But, chérie, why are you looking so amused?”

  Lady Cardovan smiled up at the small, dark Princess from her place on a sofa.

  “Oh—I have just heard the most amusing thing,” said she.

  “Vraiment?” The Princess ensconsed herself cozily on the sofa beside her hostess. “Then recount it to me, please! There is nothing I so love as an amusing story!”

  “I am afraid I cannot, Livvy. It was told me in the strictest confidence.”

  Princess Lieven looked crestfallen, and then petulant.

  “Really, you English are so secretive! I never could comprehend it!”

  “I should love to tell you, Livvy—for I believe you should think it as amusing as I do. Well, then—what do you think? I have just been informed that Basil means to marry Miss Newsome!”

  “Miss Newsome!” The Princess looked horrified, “The ugly Miss Newsome? But, chérie, how can this be? I do not believe it! I won’t believe it!” And then, with a sly glance, she murmured, “Ma pauvre chérie!”

  “It is the most comical thing I have heard in an age,” continued Lady Cardovan, unaware of her companion’s pitying glance. “Imagine Basil marrying anyone, let alone Henrietta Newsome!”

  “It must be a shock,” murmured the Princess softly.

  “A shock! Why, it is absurd. Come, Livvy—don’t tell me you believe it!”

  The Princess nodded slowly. “With difficulty, but yes—one never knows about these determined bachelors. Anastasy was the same. Imagine, he was almost forty when I married him! They go along, hating every female they meet, and then one day—poof!—they are smitten with love!”

  “But Miss Newsome? My dear Livvy—I have known Basil for a great while. I cannot fathom his marrying anyone who prefers horses to conversation!”

  “Yes, yes—it is the attraction of opposites. Anastasy and I have hardly anything in common. He loves to play his little political games, and I love to dance! And
yet—we are so much in love.”

  Lady Cardovan strongly doubted that. At the moment, it was common knowledge that the Princess was “dancing” with the Duke of Clarence. Still, she was a charming woman, and witty to boot. Lady Diana dearly loved to hear her speak, with that small, low, chirping accent that was more like a bird than a woman.

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Ah! Mais oui!” The Princess raised her tiny hands, sparkling with jewels. “Absolument! Why, the other night, they could hardly take their eyes away from each other.”

  Lady Cardovan could scarcely believe her ears. “The other night?”

  “At Lady Hargate’s,” explained the Princess. “They seemed to like each other very well. To be frank, I could not believe it myself—she is so like a horse, you know—so beeg! But, one never can tell about what gentlemen like!”

  “How odd! Basil himself told me all about it! But he certainly has not hinted anything of the kind!”

  “But of course, my dear Diana,” murmured the Princess softly, touching her hand, “he would not. He is far too much the gentilhomme. And after all—but! May I be perfectly frank?”

  Lady Cardovan nodded, more bewildered every moment. Not the least cause of that bewilderment was to hear Livvy wishing to be “frank”—a quality she had in very short quantity, for all her other charms.

  “You must understand, my poor Diana, that, whatever he feels for you, he must think of the child as well now. Such a delightful little girl! And really, she must have a mother. Even if not her real mother—” with a significant smile—“still, a mother. I believe Basil understands his duty perfectly. And you, my dear lady, must endeavour to understand as well as you can. However difficult it may be for you.”

  The Princess paused, gazing sympathetically at her friend. Lady Cardovan did not meet her glance, but stared at her own hands with an ironic smile, saying nothing.

  “Ma pauvre chérie!” breathed the Princess.