My excitement wins out over my hesitancy. “The backstage? Oh, do you think we can meet Mrs. Gibbons? I do so admire her!”
Julia looks at Terrant, who shrugs.
“Why, certainly,” Mr. Linsley says. He tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow.
“Inigo…” Julia tugs at his other arm to whisper something in his ear.
What on earth are they about?
“Don’t be a ninny, my dear,” Mr. Linsley says to her, and pushes me out of the box and into the passage. “You should be glad to have such a protective friend.”
“I am, indeed.” So Julia knows about his child, and I think she knows something else too. I wonder if we are really going to the backstage, but realize, as Mr. Linsley leads me downstairs and through a series of discreet doors, that is indeed our destination.
It is quite exciting. We emerge into a dimly lit area, which is at the side of the stage. We can see the actors and actresses, and hear them too. One of the actors, who awaits his entry on the stage, shakes Mr. Linsley’s hand, and bows and kisses mine, and he too is impressed with the cut of my pink gown.
It is dirty and dusty, and there are strange bits and pieces of scenery standing around. A large table holds items such as the dagger used in the tragedy earlier that night, and a tree in a tub, which looked quite real on the stage, but not up close.
We pass a woman, scantily clad in flesh-colored tights and gauze, and a man with a terrier in a frilly collar, as we emerge into a corridor lit with rush-lights. A well-dressed man pauses to shake Mr. Linsley’s hand and ask him how he’s enjoying the play.
“It’s quite dreadful,” Mr. Linsley says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Did you write it?”
“I fear so, sir. Yet the actors will insist on changing my lines.”
“How unfortunate.” Mr. Linsley does not introduce me, but steers me forward to a door marked “Ladies’ Dressing Room.” Some other gentlemen crowd around the door, and I am pleased to see Aylesworth and The Mad Poet there.
“’Pon my word, the divine Miss Wellesley-Clegg and the dashing Mr. Linsley,” Aylesworth says. “A charming gown, my dear, but one I believe we have seen rather frequently this season.”
“I like it,” I say. “It is my favorite. Are you going to visit Mrs. Gibbons?”
“Ah, if only we were allowed into the inner sanctum,” The Mad Poet says. “We adore her. She is a goddess.”
“I thought I was, sir.”
“So you are, Miss Wellesley-Clegg,” Aylesworth says. “But is it not scandalous for you to be here in a gentleman’s company?”
“My sister-in-law and Terrant, are here too, although I think they have been distracted.” The easy delivery of Mr. Linsley’s lie appalls me. He raises his hand to knock on the door.
“Oh, should we go in there? They may not be decent.” I am quite shocked.
The other gentlemen snigger and some of them, but not Aylesworth and The Mad Poet who whisper together, look down my bosom.
“Go away,” says someone inside, in reply to Mr. Linsley’s knock. “We’ve told you a dozen times.”
“It’s Inigo Linsley.”
There is a pause, and some giggling. “Very well, but the others are not to come in.”
We enter a room full of women in various states of undress, maybe a dozen of them, crammed in together. The air is thick with sweat, and the room is littered with gowns, wigs, hairbrushes, pots of facepaint, and wreaths of silk flowers. It is both squalid and exciting.
“Ladies, your servant.” Mr. Linsley seems very much at home here, and quite unaffected by the abundance of female flesh—a couple are down to their shifts, and one is in the act of drawing on her stockings.
He takes my hand and pulls me to the back of the room, quite the brightest area, as it is lit with beeswax candles, and where a woman in shirt and breeches sits.
It is Mrs. Gibbons!
Up close, her facepaint looks fairly hideous, and she appears smaller than she does onstage. What I thought might be a wig is her own hair, reddish, and cut fashionably short. Until she smiles at Inigo, I think her a disappointingly plain woman, after having seen her as both a dazzling beauty and a handsome young man on the stage.
“My dear, I have not seen you in an age—it must be two days at least.”
He kisses her hand. “Fanny, this is Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” I babble. “I do so like your singing although the play is dreadful, and I am so glad you are in it.”
“Thank you. Do you sing, as your name would suggest, Miss Wellesley-Clegg?” Her voice is warm and throaty, with the hint of an Irish accent.
“Oh, no. Hardly at all. I do not play very well either. It is hard to do two things at once.”
“I agree. It took me a long time to learn to sing and dance together—Inigo, what are you about, under my dressing-table?”
“Where is he, Fan?” Inigo emerges, brushing dust from his coat.
“Over there. He is asleep. Please let him alone.” She shrugs and looks at me. “I do not know why I bother to ask, for of course he will wake him; he always does. May I ask, are you related to those Wellesleys?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“I had His Grace sniffing around my skirts once,” another actress interjects.
“I, too,” says another, giggling. “There was scarce enough room in here for him and his big nose.”
A general ripple of hilarity runs through the room. I am shocked that they should talk of the hero of Waterloo so!
Inigo, meanwhile, rummages in a large open chest nearby and gives a cry of triumph. “Ah, here he is. My little boy!”
Mr. Linsley turns, a baby of about six months in his arms, who wrinkles up his face and gives a loud squawk of protest at his rude awakening. There is no doubt whose child he is, with that curly black hair, and when he looks at Mr. Linsley and his initial suspicion fades, he has a similar wide smile, sans teeth of course.
“Dadadada!” The baby exclaims.
“He’s talking! You never told me, Fanny.”
“Oh, don’t be so foolish.”
“But he said Dada.”
Mrs. Gibbons rolls her eyes. “Did you ever see a man so besotted with a baby, Miss Wellesley-Clegg?”
“I think he needs changing,” Inigo announces.
“Oh, pray do the honors.” She pushes a chair towards me. “Miss Wellesley-Clegg, please sit. Inigo, do not use the blue velvet to change him on. It is my costume for the tragedy.”
“It stinks already.”
“The manager will fine me if it’s soiled.” She shakes her head. “At least put something beneath him.”
The other actresses gather around as women will when a baby is undressed, and coo and admire him.
“What a sweet little doodle,” one comments. “Like a little thimble, bless him.”
A doodle? That is a word I never thought to hear spoken in company, and indeed have only heard from Diana.
“He’s a lovely baby,” I finally manage to say, afraid that I sit there like a tongue-tied fool. And indeed, he is a charming baby. But I am shocked that Mr. Linsley apparently forgot to tell me his mother would be present, and who she was. “What is his name?”
“Will. After Shakespeare. William Henry Gibbons.” Mr. Linsley tickles his son’s belly. “Say Dada again.”
The baby, clutching both feet in his hands, obliges with a stream of adorable infant gibberish, beaming all the while.
“Miss Wellesley-Clegg?” Mrs. Gibbons looks at me with concern. “I am afraid this—myself and the baby—may have come as somewhat of a surprise to you.”
I am trying with all my heart to dislike her, although I cannot deny the tumult of emotions I feel. He should have warned me, of course. Once again I struggle for words. “No, I am…well, there were plenty of hints, and he did tell me of Will, but…”
“Believe me, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, I am delighted to make your acquaintance, although I am aware of the impropriety
of this meeting. I only wish Mr. Linsley was too.”
“Yes, but…” Strangely enough, this has the effect of making me want to defend him.
There is a burst of laughter from the actresses, and Inigo rears to his feet.
“D—n it, your son has p—d on me!”
“Well, so he will if he becomes cold. You should know better.” She turns to me. “You will see how suddenly Will is my son if he does something of which his papa disapproves.”
Amidst much giggling from the actresses, Mr. Linsley wipes off his coat with a towel and sets to work pinning the baby into a clean napkin.
I am dumbfounded. Does Mr. Linsley intend to set up house with his mistress—or former mistress, although I am not so sure of that—at Weaselcopse Manor (which is an exceedingly silly name, now I think of it?) And does Mrs. Gibbons know of our false engagement? And what, I wonder, does Mr. Gibbons, wherever he may be, think of his wife’s indiscretion?
Mr. Linsley plops Will onto my lap. “Is he not a fine boy?”
But he is. He shoots his little arms and legs out like a starfish, chuckling and cooing, with a wide grin on his face. He is warm and squirmy and altogether adorable.
Mrs. Gibbons reaches below her shirt to unwind a wide strip of cloth. “I have to flatten myself to make a convincing boy,” she explains, gathering the cloth in her hands and bundling it onto her dressing table. She holds out her arms to the baby. “Come here, my love.”
I pass Will to her, and we both laugh as he opens and shuts his mouth like a little fish, before diving onto his mother’s breast with a loud smacking grunt. It’s a strange situation, to be sure, a woman in a man’s clothes suckling a baby while her lover and his alleged fiancée look on.
“As soon as Terrant and I have the papers signed, I’ll go down to the country and make sure the cottage is in fit state,” Mr. Linsley says. “I may have to have some work done on the chimney, but you’ll find it snug and comfortable. It’s but a half mile from the Manor, so I’ll walk over often to see you.”
“If you ever plan to marry, you sad rake,” Mrs. Gibbons says, “it will have to be to an exceptional woman who would tolerate your mistress beneath her nose. Don’t you agree, Miss Wellesley-Clegg?”
Mr. Linsley winks at me and I want to slap him.
Mistress. She did not say former mistress.
I endeavor to change the subject. My gaze falls upon a most handsome bonnet standing on Mrs. Gibbons’ dressing-table, and I remark upon it.
“Oh, yes, that is new, but now I wonder about the velvet ribbon. Do you think I should retrim it with a satin?”
“Possibly, but that tawny color is very good. Is it from Mrs. Merriweather’s shop?”
“Why, indeed, yes. I admire her work greatly. I see you are a connoisseur of bonnets, Miss Wellesley-Clegg. They are a great source of pleasure to me.”
“As they are to Miss Wellesley-Clegg. The two of you should go shopping together,” Mr. Linsley says.
“Absolutely not!” Mrs. Gibbons glares at him. “Have you no sense of propriety at all, sir?” She glances at me. “Under different circumstances, of course, I should be only too pleased.”
“If you wish to be improper, I could come too. I could look after Will.” Inigo, I am convinced, is now trying to shock us both.
“No,” we both say together, and I am glad she agrees with me.
There’s a rap on the door. “Mrs. Gibbons? Five minutes, if you please.”
“I’ll take him while you go onstage,” Mr. Linsley offers.
“No, you may not, for he’s dropping off to sleep, and you’ll only wake him to play with him.” She looks at me with a shy smile. “Miss Wellesley-Clegg, if you will, please put him down to sleep in the costume chest again.”
In my arms, Will smacks his lips and makes sleepy, sucking movements, his body warm and limp. He gives a brief whimper of protest when I lay him down in the chest, before flinging his balled fists up beside his head and falling deeply asleep.
“My little man,” Mr. Linsley says softly and leans to kiss him. “I do so long to teach him to play cricket.”
Now transformed again into a young man, Fanny smiles at us both and swaggers toward the door. I swear she is a whole head taller. She is certainly an inch or so taller than Mr. Linsley, who catches her hand in his as she passes to kiss it.
I am purely astonished to have seen the worldly Mr. Linsley dandle a baby, and there’s something else I feel which shames me—envy. I wish Will was my baby, and I wish I had the friendly ease with someone that Mr. Linsley and Mrs. Gibbons enjoy. They use first names, there is an affectionate intimacy between them, and it reminds me—dear heavens, it reminds me of my own mama and papa.
But even though little Will is delightful, I wish I had not been told of him, or of his mother.
Chapter 10
Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg
By an extraordinary coincidence I visit Mrs. Merriweather’s shop the next day.
Of course I do not go there on the chance that I might meet Mrs. Gibbons and particularly not to meet Mr. Linsley escorting his mistress—or former mistress; I really am not sure of the relationship between them at present. I wonder that he can afford to keep a mistress, or indeed how he has had the time, while acting as Terrant’s land agent. Of course, as I have heard from several women, quite often begetting a child takes very little time at all—blink and you’ve missed it, as I once heard one of Mama’s friends complain.
But if Mr. Linsley were to marry an heiress—and this is a thought that makes me most uncomfortable—he could keep a dozen mistresses. It is what gentlemen of the ton do.
But we are not to marry, so I should not concern myself.
“Miss Wellesley-Clegg?”
I look up from the samples of trim that are laid upon the counter for my perusal (I must admit I have barely looked at them, as distracted as I find myself today).
I see a well-dressed, ladylike woman, with nothing remarkable about her save her eyes and that perfectly splendid bonnet I admired last night. If it were not for the bonnet, I don’t believe I should have recognized her.
“Why, Mrs. Gibbons!” My voice, which unlike hers is not low and melodious in the best of circumstances, comes out as a sort of squawk. I look over my shoulder to see if Hen lurks. No, she is sitting with her nose buried deep in a fashion paper.
“This is somewhat awkward,” Mrs. Gibbons says. “I’ll leave directly.”
“Oh, no. No. I was about to leave myself.”
“Oh, please, not on my account.”
We stand and stare at each other.
“Mr. Linsley—” We both speak the same words simultaneously.
Hen looks up, frowns, and returns to her fashion paper.
“Miss Wellesley-Clegg, you should not be seen with me,” Mrs. Gibbons says with a smile that denies the harshness of her words.
“Yes, but…I have no right to ask you to leave and I shall not. It is unjust. Besides, I have serious business to which I must attend.” I gesture to the pile of ribbon and trim samples.
“Of course.” She hesitates. “I wonder…may I possibly ask your advice?”
For one hideous moment I fear she is about to ask me something relating to Mr. Linsley.
“I have a velvet spenser—it is new, and now I realize I have no bonnet to match.” She pulls a scrap from her reticule. “The color, as you can see, is somewhat unusual, a cross between blue and green. I should welcome another pair of eyes and some advice.”
“I should be honored,” I say, still not altogether comfortable in her presence.
“And if someone you know comes into the shop, I shall be discreet.”
“Mrs. Gibbons, I…” I stumble to a halt. This seems so grossly unfair, but I cannot think how to put it into words. If it were not blasphemous, I should imagine myself a sort of Saint Peter denying Mrs. Gibbons ere the cock crew three times. “It is not your fault you had Mr. Linsley’s baby.”
She smiles, but in a kind way,
not at the idiocy of my comment. “It’s most kind of you to say so, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, but I must assume half the blame.”
Unless of course she blinked and missed the moment, but somehow I do not think a woman could be anything but very aware of such an activity with Mr. Linsley.
Determined to put such indecent thoughts from my mind, I apply myself to the matter at hand. Although at first we are still shy and formal with each other, we find our taste in bonnets similar and our conversation becomes easier. We spend an hour or so trying on bonnets and looking at various trimmings—she has an excellent eye for color and wears a most elegant rust-colored gown and pelisse that match her bonnet exactly. She suggests a bright blue, a color I should have not considered myself, for the contrast to the moss-green gown, which appears to me more dingy than ever. To my great pleasure, I order a bonnet with ostrich feathers dyed the same bright blue and ribbons in peach, a color far more suited to me, and I am most excited, for it will look excellent with my cream pelisse. Papa will be so pleased that I save money.
To match her spenser, we find a handsome sea-green velvet that I think will look excellent with her complexion, and a deep pink velvet ribbon.
After buying various trims, gloves, stockings, and other things, I send Hen home in a hackney with my parcels, and Fanny—for we have decided we must use our Christian names—and I retire to Gunter’s Tea Shop for ices.
“Ah, this is very pleasant,” Fanny says. “Bonnets and ices—I can think of nothing better. I am glad Mr. Linsley is not with us, for he would have only been bored and flirted abominably with the milliners to amuse himself. How are you enjoying London, Philomena?”
“Quite well. I have had my presentation at court and Almack’s, which is a dreadfully boring place. And Mama and Papa plan a coming-out ball for me soon.”
“Forgive me if I am forward, but are you and Mr. Linsley…?” So she has been wondering about it too.
“We are not—that is…” I stumble to a halt.
“Forgive me. I did not mean to intrude.”
“Not at all. It is rather complicated.” I feel as awkward and guilty as I would if trying to explain it to Mama and Papa, or Julia. “Has Mr. Linsley said anything of it?”
The Rules of Gentility Page 8