Before the Season Ends

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Hearing such reports hardly raised him in Ariana’s estimation, and by the end of the week, she wished heartily not to fall again into his path. Or almost did. It was one thing to hear tales about him, but no matter how much she was swayed by the general consensus regarding his character, she could not forget the moments of kindness in his voice; or that he had actually done nothing unforgivable toward her.

  Still, she was sensible enough to realize that his placid behaviour to her on one occasion might not be repeated, so she determined to be wary of him.

  There was one thing that was lacking in Ariana’s social success. Two of the patronesses of Almack’s—Lady Covington and Lady Hollingsford—had not called upon Ariana and her aunt. Only ladies with so-called “vouchers” could be admitted to Almack’s, and only the patronesses of Almack’s could issue them. Therefore it was paramount these ladies be singularly satisfied the debutante in question was worthy of admittance. Two of the four patronesses had called, however. The vouchers were promised, and their ladyships’ absence was not to be dwelt upon.

  The cultural expeditions, as Mr. Pellham called the intended jaunts he and Ariana had hoped to take together, were postponed indefinitely. Mrs. Bentley kept her niece busy returning calls in any case, and they were welcomed into the most elite drawing rooms in Mayfair, where the art of keeping up a lively banter, Ariana found, was both fun and challenging. She could not always hold her own, but it seemed that Mr. Mornay’s favour had preceded her, and if she momentarily faltered for a smart reply, she was kindly helped along by various hosts or hostesses. Ariana discovered, too, that silence, accompanied by a knowing look, could be response enough to satisfy a company. And her natural habit of speaking her mind was often mistaken for wit, to her advantage.

  One night she and her aunt attended a card party at the exclusive residence of Lord and Lady Sherwood. Ariana dreaded the evening, for it promised to be an exceedingly proper affair. Her aunt warned her that the Sherwoods took their cards seriously and wagers were likely to run prodigiously high; Ariana was not, under any circumstances, to accept an invitation to play. This presented no dilemma, since gambling was no temptation for her.

  The Sherwoods’ home was more luxurious than her aunt’s. Ariana could have been happily entertained giving an inspection to the abundance of splendid paintings and numerous trinkets in the large rooms, but she was ushered off to one side of the main drawing room with other young ladies who were not playing cards. She already recognized a good number of the other girls, and they treated her with deference, introducing any strangers until she had met everyone; she was not neglected for a moment.

  Far into the evening, two latecomers arrived. One gentleman was unknown to Ariana, the other, the much-maligned Mr. Mornay. Ariana felt a surprising reaction within herself. A slight flutter, a mild rush of colour to her cheeks. She had heard so much about him by this time that her reaction to his presence could not be neutral. This, surely, was the reason she became suddenly self-conscious. This, too, the reason she vowed instantly not to say a word to the man, but hoped every second he would see and greet her.

  Seated beside her was a lovely young Spanish girl named Miss Isabella, who offered the information that the other man was Lord Horatio, a second son who could expect two thousand a year. Ariana nodded sagely, having grown quickly accustomed to this unusual manner of learning about others in society. The gentlemen were greeted warmly, though Mr. Mornay more effusively, Ariana thought. They were quickly ushered to the main card table. Later, during a break in play, Mr. Hartley came and bowed politely to the circle of young ladies, exchanging small talk with a few, including Ariana. Lord Horatio looked brightly in their direction, but Mr. Mornay behaved as if the party consisted solely of those nearest him.

  Miss Isabella shuddered. “May Mr. Mornay continue to keep his deestance, for I understand he can have nothing civil to speak to a señorita. My mama say to avoid him at all costs!”

  Ariana said nothing but stole a glance his way. It happened that Mr. Mornay looked up from the table then also. Their eyes met and Ariana found herself in the precise predicament she had been in once before: his gaze immediately arrested hers, and she found herself hoping he might be on the verge of a smile.

  He wasn’t, of course. In fact, he showed no sign of recognition other than a faint change in his demeanour. Ariana noted with gratification that at least he did not scowl; that was something. Lord Horatio claimed his friend’s attention and Mr. Mornay looked away, but Miss Isabella had witnessed the silent eye match and hissed, “He is bound to insult you, now you have claimed hees attention!”

  Ariana spoke her thoughts aloud. “I wager that he must labour under some hidden anguish which causes so unnatural a response in him.”

  “No, no! It is not heeden,” Isabella answered. “He is out of countenance because everyone wants to teep their cap at him because he is reech and handsome.”

  A few hours later, the group of intent card-players stood up, and congratulations for Lady Sherwood could be heard. As they began to disperse around the room, Lady Sherwood, looking very pleased with herself (for she must have won a great deal of money) announced that the refreshment room was open. As people headed in that direction, Ariana did likewise but had to stop as if by a great tug on her heart when she came abreast of a beautiful Reynolds portrait.

  Lord Horatio, meanwhile, had stopped Mr. Mornay while the crowd was thinning into the other room. “I say, Mornay, you threw that game, letting her ladyship win! What the deuce for? With such stakes!”

  “You give me too much credit, Horatio,” was the reply, with a short laugh.

  “No, upon my word! You could have had that round and you know it!” Mr. Mornay did not reply, but helped himself to the smallest pinch of snuff.

  Lord Horatio continued. “You’ve heard the same rumours I have, that the Sherwoods are in narrow straits these days! Upon my soul, but if you aren’t a sentimental fellow beneath all that crust, after all.”

  Mornay stiffened. “That is the most imbecilic notion I have ever known you to entertain. Now go plague somebody else with your devilish ideas!”

  Lord Horatio chuckled. “Oh, very well, deny it if you like. But I know what I know—” He stopped short as they both noticed Ariana at that moment. She had unwittingly abandoned the painting and had turned her head in astonishment upon hearing such a remarkable dialogue. She was still in front of the large, ornately framed canvas, but looking at the two men, delighted with the notion that her Mr. Mornay was actually a secret do-gooder, for she instantly gave credit to Lord Horatio’s suspicion.

  She looked very pretty in full evening dress with the long, empire-waisted white gown and matching white gloves that reached her elbows. Her hair was done high upon her head and she was standing, with a small smile upon her mouth, looking at Mr. Mornay as if he were an angel. Now it made perfect sense, his helping her that day at his estate.

  She realized her position with a short gasp. “I beg your pardon!” She would have turned on her heel immediately but Mr. Mornay held out a hand for her to stop.

  “Horatio, I must speak to this young woman a moment.”

  The young lord instantly had a nervous alarm in his eyes. He looked cautiously at his friend. “Do not do it, Mornay.” His tone was low, and wistful. He wanted to think of a reason to bring away this fetching young lady so that Mornay could not be unspeakably rude to her, as he was certain his friend was about to be. Having nothing come to mind in way of a rescue, however, he bowed helplessly to Ariana, and strode reluctantly away, saying, “Do follow shortly; Lady Sherwood will be waiting to fall at your feet, I should think.”

  This was meant as a joke, but Mr. Mornay did not smile. He was looking severely at Ariana, who was realizing what an enormous blunder she had made. Again! She had done the very thing she had repeatedly been warned against, allowing Mr. Mornay to see her admiring him. She turned veiled eyes to his swirling dark countenance.

  “Do you make it a habit to listen to pr
ivate conversations?” His tone was soft—and venomous.

  “Of course not!”

  “Nevertheless, you have deliberately overheard one of mine. Do not think, Miss…er…” He had forgotten her name!

  “Ariana. Forsythe!” She had given her first name out of habit and she blushed.

  “Miss Forsythe.” He ignored the mistake. “Do not imagine Lord Horatio was near the mark in what he supposed.”

  She said nothing, but only continued to face him, feeling her heart beating painfully. Why was she afraid of him? She must have heard too many reports of how awful he could be.

  “For your information,” he continued, sourly, “if I did throw a hand, it would not be a misguided effort of good will.”

  “You owe me no explanation, sir!” Her voice lacked strength. She put one hand to her throat, a nervous mannerism she was unaware of.

  “Indeed, not! But as your meddling results in a misleading assessment of my character due to Horatio’s delusion, I prefer to keep the record straight.”

  There was a brief silence, but Ariana’s weakness of speaking her mind surfaced. Her voice was not as even or unruffled as his, but she managed to say: “I have heard a great deal about your character of late. And nothing would have convinced me of any redeeming qualities within it. I am too persuaded already of your overwhelming depravity, so an explanation is hardly necessary!”

  He eyed her with surprise. Her outburst seemed to have restored his good humour. She had met his stinging rebuke with her own poisoned dart. Though Ariana’s face was blazing from embarrassment and self-reproof, his had become unarmed. She was surprised by this startling change in demeanour, and suddenly self-conscious. It began to be borne in upon her that she had indeed listened to a private conversation and she owed him an apology.

  She could not meet his eyes. “I am sorry for having listened to your conversation; it was—rude of me…and…wrong. I do not know why I did! Good evening!” With that, she whirled around and hurried toward the refreshment room, hoping no one would notice her late entrance.

  Lord Horatio looked anxiously at Ariana as she entered the dining room. She was flushed, to be sure, but not hysterical, and he decided that Mornay had either gone easy on her or she had nerves of steel.

  As people helped themselves to drinks, fruit ices, pastries, nuts, and fresh fruit, Ariana discreetly took her place near her aunt, who whispered, “Where have you been!” A few minutes later, Lord Horatio politely requested an introduction. She discovered his lordship was witty and pleasant, and she greatly enjoyed the minutes she and her aunt had of his company. He had an admiring attitude toward Ariana that made the blush on her cheeks remain; and when he had gone, suddenly Mr. Mornay was there, bowing politely.

  “I notice your niece did not play this evening,” he said lightly to Mrs. Bentley.

  She looked at him wide-eyed. “Well! With you and the Sherwoods playing, I should think not! I positively forbade her from doing so.”

  He nodded. “Perhaps another time, then. I should like to see how she gets on.”

  He looked at Ariana who instantly professed, “I do not play for wagers, sir, on any occasion.”

  “And what is your reason? I feel you must have a particular reason, by your manner of stating it.”

  “Yes; It is against my principles. Card-playing is innocent enough, but, when combined with gaming, it is ruinous. You know that fortunes are lost at cards.”

  “There are those,” he returned with the briefest look in Lady Sherwood’s direction, “who would say that fortunes are won.”

  She answered slowly, trying not to be distracted by his dark good looks. “Yes. At the expense of those who lose.”

  He studied her with the hint of a smile. “Certainly I agree that one shouldn’t play unless one can afford to lose.”

  “And therein lies the problem.” Her eyes flashed, a quick spark of bluish-green was in them, and then was gone. “Those given to gaming always think they can afford to play; and if not, no longer care. I submit that gaming at cards is ruinous, and should never be encouraged.”

  He bowed politely and turned away.

  Thirteen

  Mrs. Bentley was silent for most of the twenty-minute drive home from the Sherwoods’ house. “I believe,” she said at long last, “Mr. Mornay means to discover your situation.”

  Ariana looked wide-eyed at her aunt. “What on earth for? He can have no interest in me.”

  “No, indeed, not,” her aunt quickly agreed. “Someone else must have inquired, perhaps Lord Horatio.” She thought for another moment and said, “I shall write to your father, to see what’s what, though I daresay there will be little coming from that corner, eh?”

  Ariana nodded. “Five hundred pounds, at most, I believe. And perhaps some plate. Very little by London standards.” She hoped this would dissuade her aunt from any thought of seeking a match for her.

  “Lord Horatio is only a second son, of course, but of excellent pedigree. If he is interested in you,” said her chaperon, rubbing her chin thoughtfully, “then I shall transfer to you a sum I have put aside.”

  “I could not accept it, Aunt Bentley!”

  Her aunt raised her chin. “Don’t be absurd. Of course you can accept it. What are childless relations for?”

  Ariana eyed her uncertainly. Was she actually making a joke? “But—”

  “The money belongs to me, and if it will help you marry into a noble family then I consider it better spent on your account than elsewhere. In addition to which, if you marry Lord Horatio, you can help your sisters find equally advantageous matches. They may not have your style, I grant, but that is secondary. You will be Lady Horatio—”

  “Aunt Bentley! Lord Horatio has hardly spoken to me. You are too hasty in your thoughts, I am persuaded.”

  “No, but he looked at you, my gel, quite noticeably. I own he was taken with you.”

  They arrived at the house and the conversation ended. With a heavy heart, Ariana went up to her room. As Harrietta helped her undress, she ruminated on her aunt’s plans for her. It wasn’t enough that Ariana was gowned and coifed in the first order of fashion. Now Aunt Bentley wished to endow her in the hope she would make a famous match, which meant marrying one of the rich society gentlemen of title or exceptional heritage, regardless of their faith—or their lack of it.

  Lord Horatio was an agreeable man; perhaps he held with her beliefs? But he seemed to be in tight with Mr. Mornay, in which case she had to doubt the possibility of his taking religion seriously.

  At home, Papa often questioned the girls about their readings in the prayer book or the Bible, and wonderful conversations and ideas ensued. They discussed the election of the saints, the parables of the Lord, the providence of God and His hand on the affairs of men—oh, so many things. Matters that few in her aunt’s circles she knew of could, or would wish to, hold their own on. Mrs. Bentley (just as Papa had warned) was practically a heathen. She was a church-going, generous heathen, to be sure, but her generosity was not without obligation: Ariana was supposed to find a husband among this circle of London’s wealthy elite.

  Thinking of her parents, she suddenly recalled that she had not got a single answer to her letters, thus far. It was decidedly unusual for them not to respond. She would write and tell them of Aunt Bentley’s latest idea regarding Lord Horatio and of enhancing her dowry. Papa would certainly have something to say about that!

  Before getting into bed, Ariana fell to her knees and began to earnestly pray. Heavenly Father, keep me for Your purpose; I pray that, despite my aunt’s desires, only You would choose a husband for me. And let it be a man who cares for the things of God. Let me not keep the attention of anyone who is not pleasing in Your sight. Lead my steps and guard my path, Lord!

  After praying for everyone who came to mind, Ariana went to bed. Her aunt’s words came back to trouble her, and she slept only with difficulty. “Mr. Mornay means to discover your situation…You shall be Lady Horatio…”


  In the next few days a great quiet descended at Hanover Square. Morning calls ceased. Completely. Abruptly. Just like that. Worse yet, when Ariana and Mrs. Bentley took the carriage out to make calls of their own, not one lady received them. At each home, after taking Mrs. Bentley’s card inside, a servant had returned to give the dubious information that his mistress was not at home. Mrs. Bentley was far too shrewd to think it could be coincidental, but she refused to believe they were being snubbed. How could it be so?

  On the bright side, they had time to spend with Mr. Pellham. He had insisted upon being moved from his chamber to a comfortable spot in his drawing room, and received them there. Mrs. Bentley filled him in on the latest on-dits to which he would invariably reply, “So ’tis with high society, Mrs. B.,” or, “Not a farthing of sense among all that brass!”

  He had begun endeavouring to walk with the help of crutches. This was very encouraging to both Ariana’s aunt and the gentleman himself. It was nonetheless a surprise to find Mr. Pellham in the parlour at Hanover Square late Friday afternoon. Two burly footmen were supporting him in lieu of the crutches, but his spirits seemed higher than they had for many a day. Mrs. Bentley was beside herself for a few moments, shouting shrilly to the servants. Indeed, her affection for the old gentleman was nowhere more evident than when she was giving orders on his behalf.

  “Come, come, get some blankets and pillows down here directly!”

  “Charlie and John, move this settee nearer the window, and get a card table here at once.”

  “Haines, tell cook we have a dinner guest, and bring him his drink—you know what he likes.”

  “Goodness, Molly, you know Mr. Pellham must have the Times! You’ve been employed here for days, already! Whatever is that silly broadsheet? Bring it here.”