by Jane Toombs
She doubted that Mr. Brummell would regain the Regent's favor although she applauded his conservative sense of style.
What did she think of the recently installed gas lines in Westminster? an elderly gentleman at an Aldrich dinner party inquired. Were they truly a scientific advance or a fad representing a danger to life and limb?
She considered gas lighting a genuine improvement that should help to reduce crime in the city.
"Have you read Pride and Prejudice?” a fellow browser at Hatchard's inquired. “Do you consider Elizabeth Bennet the most appealing heroine to appear in English literature since Shakespeare?"
She had and she did.
In the beginning, Deirdre tried to resist the adulation, but then she succumbed, albeit unwillingly, and was swept along on a wave of compliments from ball to party to soiree to ball while the gentlemen of the ton danced attendance on her.
She had to admit she enjoyed the attention, for to a slight degree, they helped keep her thoughts from returning time and again to Clive Chadbourne.
Edward had urged her to make her feelings known to Clive; in other words, he wanted her to abandon her attempt to smooth the path to the altar for Clive and Phoebe and, to phrase it bluntly, to pursue him. This, she told herself, was what a man might do, but she would not and could not.
Clive was betrothed to Phoebe and, unless she came to decide otherwise, it would be Phoebe he would marry and whether or not Deirdre deemed the match suitable, or whether Edward considered the alliance to be courting disaster for both participants, had no absolutely no bearing on the matter.
During the last week of November, her grandmother extended an invitation for a visit during the Christmas holiday and Deirdre, so eager to leave town only a short time before, debated with herself whether to accept or decline with regrets. Even if she did go, she no longer intended to remain in East Sussex after the first of the new year.
London had become altogether too satisfying for her to permanently retreat to the country as once, in the depths of despair, she had wanted to do.
Life in town was proving to be exhilarating for her family as well.
Roger Darrington was, at first, taken aback when his daughter became one of the wonders of the waning days of the London year. Soon, however, he grew accustomed to his family being at the center of a whirl of activity and at every appropriate occasion, expressed his great pride in Deirdre. He had, he said, “Always considered her an exceedingly handsome girl."
Sybil, who had always harbored a secret envy of those a rung above her in the social hierarchy and who had regretfully considered that her marriage to Roger Darrington, a love match on her part, would write finis to her dreams, was initially surprised and then overjoyed at this change for the better in her social fortunes.
Sybil's only concern came to be the possible adverse effect of Deirdre's popularity on her elder daughter. Though she genuinely loved both Phoebe and Alcida, Phoebe had always been her secret favorite both because she was her first born and because, in the opinion of many, she bore a marked resemblance to her mother.
Phoebe began by being resentful of Deirdre, a resentment that showed itself in angry, caustic remarks. Soon, however, she came to accept, albeit grudgingly, her stepsister's sudden fame and even to savor the attention that came her way in its wake.
Alcida was the least changed. Awed by Deirdre's sudden popularity, she was happy for her new sister, enjoying the reflected glory, but no more than she might enjoy reading the work of one of her favorite authors. Her thoughts, though, rarely strayed far from Dr. Leicester.
She played cards with him during evenings spent at home, she danced with him at balls and assemblies and, on occasion, strolled with him in the park, but nothing in his words or demeanor gave her hope that theirs might grow into a longer lasting and more permanent alliance.
"He talks of little except medicine,” she told Deirdre with a heartfelt sigh.
Deirdre, surprised that Alcida now seemed to be hoping for what, a short time before, she had declared to be impossible, said, “He is, I do believe, exceedingly fond of you."
Alcida shook her head dispiritedly. “Never by word or deed has he given any indication of his feelings toward me. I expect, if he feels anything at all for me, it is nothing more than pity."
"No, not pity,” Deirdre said, “I believe he cares for you in quite a different, deeper way. One evening the doctor may well burst in upon us, request an audience with my father, and declare himself."
That very evening, despite a dense fog that had settled over London, to their great surprise, Dr. Vincent Leicester did burst in on Alcida, Deirdre, and Phoebe as they sat reading in the drawing room. “The most extraordinary thing has happened,” he told them, his face flushed with excitement.
They looked up at him expectantly.
Rather than drawing up a chair, he strode back and forth, gesticulating as he spoke. “I have just been informed in today's post,” he said, taking a bulky letter from an inner pocket and holding it aloft, “of the death of my only uncle, Jacob Leicester."
"You have our deepest sympathies,” Alcida said as her sisters nodded their concurrence.
"Thank you, you all are most kind, although my grief is lessened by the fact that to me Jacob Leicester was always merely a name, an elderly gentleman I had never set eyes on. A year or two before I was born he left England and proceeded to spend his entire adult life on the island of Jamaica in the West Indies."
What then, Deirdre wondered, was the cause of the doctor's agitation?
"In his letter,” Vincent said, “Mr. Thaddeus Hightower of Hightower, Hightower, and Scofield, a Jamaican firm of solicitors, informs me that my uncle Jacob was the sole proprietor of an extensive cocoa plantation not far from Kingston, the capital of the colony."
"And you are the heir?” Alcida asked.
"Precisely. The sole heir. Jacob never married and, in his last will and testament, he left the entire property, one of the most prosperous cocoa plantations on the island, to me."
"How wonderful for you,” Alcida cried.
Dr. Leicester nodded. “I was overwhelmed with gratitude at my good fortune when I received the news, completely overwhelmed.” He frowned, clasped his hands behind his back and sighed. “However, the inheritance brings significant duties and responsibilities along with it. The plantation is presently being managed by an overseer who is becoming increasingly infirm. Mr. Hightower, therefore, has advised me in the strongest possible terms, to set sail for Jamaica at my earliest convenience if I wish to preserve my inheritance."
Alcida stared at him and then, her hand going to her mouth as if to conceal her dismay, murmured, “The West Indies. So far, far away."
"And do you intend to follow Mr. Hightower's advice?” Deirdre asked.
"I do, I most certainly do. Not only do I find the prospect of living, at least for a few years, in the West Indies exceedingly intriguing, I have, ever since completing my medical training in Edinburgh, had an intense interest in the possible causes of fevers and other tropical diseases. We of the medical profession have remedies for fevers, but unfortunately have little notion of their causes. Living in Jamaica would give me the opportunity to prove or disprove some of my theories on the subject."
"I would expect,” Deirdre said after glancing at the stricken Alcida, “that one might become lonely for the company of other Englishmen, not to mention Englishwomen, in such a faraway land.” Not merely Englishwomen in general, she wanted to add, but one in particular.
Dr. Leicester, appearing quite oblivious to the hint, shook his head. “That, I am told, is not a problem since there exists a large English colony on Jamaica where besides cocoa, there are sugar and indigo plantations worked by some of the 300,000 or more slaves. The island, as you may know, was discovered by Columbus and then settled by Spaniards who killed off the inoffensive Arawak Indians and imported Africans."
Deirdre found her attention wandering as Vincent described the flora and fauna of t
he island and the possibility of earthquakes and hurricanes, but Alcida listened with rapt attention.
"We occupied the island in 1655,” Vincent went on to tell them, “but some of the Spanish slaves ran off to the mountains and these Maroons, as they were called, fought us until only a few years ago.” He rubbed his hands together, anticipating his journey to this exotic land. “Since Mr. Hightower believes time is of the essence, I intend to begin my preparations for my departure from England on the morrow."
A short time later, the doctor bid them farewell, convinced that the three sisters, although perhaps in varying degrees, shared his enthusiasm for his forthcoming voyage to the West Indies. A tender-hearted man, although not a particularly perceptive one, he would have been profoundly shocked to learn that, even as he walked through the dense and cloying fog to Oxford Street
, one of the recipients of his glad tidings was crying herself to sleep.
* * * *
When the doctor arrived at his lodgings, he found Clive Chadbourne waiting for him. Despite the combination of the lateness of hour, the unexpected nature of Clive's visit and his guest's obviously troubled expression, Dr. Leicester launched into still another impassioned recital of his glorious news, repeating his description of the island and its history.
After a considerable time, he became aware that Clive, although he nodded and now and again interjected a comment, appeared distracted. Several minutes later, he deduced that the reason was not his guest's lack of interest but some over-riding concern of his own.
Dr. Leicester rose, dusted his hands and said, “Enough about my good news,” and poured two glasses of Madeira and handed one to Clive. He sat nearby, both men facing the dying fire in the grate.
"Forgive me,” the doctor said, “for becoming overly engrossed in my own prospects while neglecting my duties as a host. You appear troubled.” He glanced at Clive. “Have you had a recurrence of your megrims, perhaps?"
Clive shook his head. “Earlier this evening I had one of the most disquieting and mysterious experiences of my life."
Dr. Leicester, surprised and distressed, turned to look fully at his friend. Of late, in fact from about the time the portrait of Deirdre-Diana had been placed on exhibition, he had considered that Clive was on his way, however slowly, to a full recovery from the melancholia brought on by his experiences in Spain. Now he wondered whether he had been mistaken.
"Tell me about this disquieting experience of yours,” he said, putting down his glass and leaning forward.
Clive drew a deep breath. “It was shortly after eight, and I was walking along St. James’ Street where, in spite of the early hour and the bothersome fog, I encountered a considerable number of friends coming and going from White's and the other clubs.
"Suddenly an eerie quiet settled over the city, the street seemed deserted, without even a carriage passing by, and it was then I spied, perhaps a hundred or more feet ahead of me and proceeding in the same direction, a man limping through the circle of light beneath one of the street lamps. I recognized him, or at least I thought I did, as one Lieutenant Timmons, a fellow hussar who I had last seen in Spain during the battle for Vittoria."
"This Timmons was a particular friend of yours?” Dr. Leicester asked.
Clive hesitated, his hand straying to the scar on his temple. “No, not a friend. Timmons is a man I may have abandoned to the tender mercies of the French immediately after I was wounded. The man I saw this evening limped and Timmons always walked with a bounce to his step, though the limp may have been caused by a wound."
"Did this Timmons, if it was Timmons, recognize you?"
"I think he did; I fear he did. By the time I called his name several times, Timmons, if it were he, had passed once more from the lamplight into the fog, but he must have heard my footsteps for he retraced his steps, coming into the halo of light again, and he called, ‘Chadbourne?'—proving, I suppose, it was Timmons—and I answered, ‘Yes, Clive Chadbourne here.'
"To my dismay Timmons drew a sword and advanced on me in a most menacing way, disappearing into the fog again as he approached. I waited, not afraid but not knowing what to expect, and then when he failed to appear I walked toward him, rather warily, I must admit, and I thought I heard his footsteps. But when I called his name again there was no answer, only a hushed silence. Although I kept calling his name, ‘Timmons, Timmons,’ he never reappeared."
The doctor frowned. Placing his hands, fingers laced, behind his head, he leaned back in his chair and looked up at the shadowed ceiling. “You have no doubt that you did see someone? No doubt at all?"
"At the time, I was certain, as certain as I am of your presence here. Now I wonder if the entire incident might have been nothing more than a hallucination.” He shook his head and sighed. “Tell me what I should do."
Dr. Leicester closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he rose and walked to stand beside Clive. “My good friend,” he said, putting a hand on his Clive's shoulder, “may I, speaking both as your friend and as your physician, offer a suggestion? More than a suggestion, a recommendation."
"Of course. I came here tonight seeking your advice."
"You need rest, Clive, a time to be completely by yourself, a few weeks in seclusion, if you will, away from the clamor of town, a time spent attempting to gain a new perspective on your life.” He paused as though weighing alternatives. “Your eldest brother William lives in Brighton, I believe."
"He does. With his wife and three children. All of them boys."
"I propose you visit William for a few days but then, informing no one of your plans, I suggest you proceed to Chadbourne Hall in East Sussex, remaining there until you regain your peace of mind."
"And you want me to tell no one where I am? Not even Deirdre?"
"Deirdre?” the doctor echoed, his voice showing his surprise. “Surely you mean Phoebe."
"Did I say Deirdre? I meant to say Phoebe, of course.” Clive bowed his head, putting his hand to his temple. “I think I see a man in the fog who threatens me with a sword, I say the name of the wrong girl. Have I lost my senses, Vincent? Have I become demented?"
CHAPTER 15
Deirdre, sitting at her dressing table in her green velvet robe, ran her brush through her hair. “Twenty-three,” she murmured, “twenty-four.” Hearing a tapping at her chamber door, she said, “Come in,” and glanced up at the looking glass.
Alcida, her forefinger inserted in the book she carried in her hand, entered and closed the door behind her. She marched over to stand behind Deirdre, opened the book and began to read without any preamble and in the most acid of tones.
"'It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’”
Slapping the book shut—the sound caused Deirdre to give a start—Alcida said, “The author who, for some reason, declines to identify herself, happens to be mistaken or at least the maxim introducing her novel does not hold true for Dr. Vincent Leicester. His new-found wealth, the prospect of managing his new cocoa plantation in a distant tropical land, and the possibility of closely observing colonials and natives stricken with frightful diseases appear to satisfy all of his wants."
Deirdre, responding to Alcida's bitterness with compassion, swung about on her low-backed chair and held out her arms to her sister, only to have Alcida shake her head and back away.
"I did not come to you for pity,” she said. “In the last six months, Vincent has offered me enough pity to last me several lifetimes."
"You may be misjudging him,” Deirdre said despite her fear that Alcida was right in suspecting Vincent pitied rather than loved her. “The doctor has always impressed me as a kind and gentle man even though sometimes he appears so overly concerned with his own affairs he becomes oblivious to the feelings of others."
Alcida bridled. “Vincent is not oblivious to others, not in the least."
Deirdre sighed, having forgotten for the moment that while Alcida might feel free to
point out Dr. Leicester's faults in some detail, no one else was allowed to do so without risking her anger.
"He probably asks himself,” Deirdre said, “'Is Alcida out?’ and his answer must be, ‘No, she is not out.’ He probably believes every young lady should be given the chance to have her season. Then, too, the fact that you are not out would remind him that you are, but seventeen while he is considerably older. He could believe the difference in ages too great."
"I may be only seventeen today, but my eighteenth birthday is next month, two days after Christmas.” Alcida sighed as she shook her head. “I only wish I knew what he thought. Vincent is exceedingly forthright in expressing his opinions on the practice of medicine and on the state of society in general, but he rarely speaks either favorably or unfavorably of other people.” Alcida lowered her voice even though they were quite alone in the bed chamber. “Vincent has told me, however,” she said with a satisfied nod, “in an unguarded moment, that he finds Phoebe to be much too full of herself."
Deirdre paused with her brush raised above her head. “Phoebe does appear to be but little affected by Clive's absence,” she said as she resumed brushing her hair.
"I happened to see her do it again today,” Alcida said, her voice showing her shock and disapproval. “No more than a quarter hour after Mama left the house on her way to make her afternoon visits, Edward called to take Phoebe driving in Hyde Park. That makes at least three times this week. Imagine, three times, and each time when Mama was absent. I doubt Mama is aware even now since she never listens to servants’ gossip and I refuse to tattle."
"Do you think your mother would forbid Phoebe to go driving with Edward if she knew?"
"Mama would certainly point out the inadvisability of spending so much time with one man while engaged to marry another. People will talk. And Clive is certain to hear eventually."
"I agree,” Deirdre said, “that Phoebe should consider the damage to her reputation even if she has no regard for Clive's feelings."
Alcida sighed. “I often wonder if Phoebe behaves as she does, at least in part, because of our father."