And shop they did. Jennifer, whose wildest notion of shopping had hitherto been confined to a sedate day choosing between spotted and sprigged muslins at the linen-draper’s in Chichester, found herself quite dazzled by the displays of mull and jacquonet, of gauzes and crapes, that were unrolled at the Duchess’s behest. Amazing, too, was the speed with which her commands were to be executed. Returning the proud possessor of four bonnets, each one more becoming than the last, she could hardly believe that the walking dresses, the dove-coloured pelisse, the muslins and—greatest joy of all—the evening dress of figured gauze over satin were to be sent home within the week.
‘Mind you.’ The Duchess tapped Jennifer’s cheek with her lorgnette. ‘The figured gauze is perhaps a little fast for a young girl, but I am almighty tired of those insipid muslins, and when I take you to Almack’s I wish you to cut a figure and make a proper stir in the world. Last season there was a chit of a girl under Lady Cowper’s protection who was all the rage with her spotted and sprigged; we will see what we can do with something a little stronger. I have a great fancy to see you the toast of the town, and half measures will never achieve that. Then, when we have two or three good offers for your hand, you may snap your fingers at your banker uncle, choose the best of them and let him alone to extricate your fortune from the old skinflint’s clutches.’
Jennifer had to concede the brilliance of this strategy, though she found it hard to believe that she, whose only experience of London had been one demure week spent with Lucy, might by any freak of fate or management of the Duchess, contrive to become the belle of Almack’s. Besides, she reminded her patroness, they had agreed that she should rejoin Lucy (referred to as her nameless friend) as soon as she returned to London.
‘True, child,’ said the Duchess, sinking back against the cushions of her luxurious carriage, ‘I do seem to remember something of the kind. But that was this morning and I had not properly considered what pleasure might be had in dressing you and launching you in society. Surely you cannot deny me it? To take an unknown heiress and make her the talk of Almack’s, the toast of the Clubs; what a delightful occupation! I see by that pursing of your lips, you think it cannot be done, but let me alone for contriving...And you surely could not be so cruel as to deny me the opportunity. It will add six years to my life, terrify my daughter, and delight George.’
Jennifer laughed. ‘Oh, ma’am, how can you be so kind. Nothing in this world would give me greater pleasure than to stay with you, but I have no right...’
‘Lord, if you talk of rights,’ interrupted the Duchess, ‘have done. Think rather of the pleasure it will give me, consider the woeful surprise of your poor uncle when he finds you snug in my protection. Consider the sparks of St James’s, sighing over your slipper, and remember that London is better conquered from Grosvenor Square than from Great Peter Street...In fact, consider what you please, only do, pray, oblige me by agreeing to stay.’
CHAPTER VIII
Only one shadow clouded the happiness of the ensuing days. Looking up eagerly from the muslins, the gauze, the riding habit, the bonnets and shoes that came home with such speed, Jennifer brightened each time the knocker echoed on the great front door. Surely this time it would be Lord Mainwaring, come to enquire how she did. And surely the Duchess, who insisted that she see no company until she was herself fit to be seen, would make an exception in favour of him.
But he did not come. The wise old Duchess soon saw how the land lay. ‘You must wonder,’ she said over their breakfast chocolate one morning, ‘where my scapegrace of a grandson is all this time and why he has not come to pay his respects. The fact is, I quite forgot to tell you he is gone out of town—and on a most romantic errand.’
‘Indeed?’ By an effort of will, Jennifer steadied the hand that held her cup.
‘Yes, I hope daily to hear news of his betrothal. It has been quite a settled thing this long time past and it is but now for the announcement to be made and the lady to name the day.’ If this was not the exact truth, the Duchess told herself it was kindest so to make Jennifer aware at once of the complete impossibility of any hope in that direction.
Having administered this timely dose of information, she threw herself with more enthusiasm than ever into the game of launching Jennifer in society. And Jennifer, for her part, set her teeth and determined to succeed. The Duchess was right. Marriage for love was romantic nonsense. She would keep a cool head and settle for nothing less than a coronet to match her fortune.
The Duchess, meanwhile, had summoned her daughter, Jane, who had made, many years before, an unexceptionable match with a witless marquis and was now busily engaged in hunting a similar one for the eldest of the resultant plain Miss Beresfords. Lady Beresford was not best pleased to find herself saddled with the responsibility for her mother’s all too handsome protégée. But—the Duchess was paying the expenses of Miss Beresford’s season. The argument was a powerful one. Lady Beresford kissed Jennifer, declared she was ‘sweetly pretty, and so vivacious’ and said it would be a privilege for Pamela to share her debut with so charming a girl. She also exchanged a speaking glance, behind the Duchess’s back, with her old ally, Marsham. It boded no good for Jennifer.
Praising Jennifer effusively to her face—and to the Duchess —Lady Beresford lost no chance of dropping insidious doubts about her in other ears. Her grandmother was so impulsive...One knew so little of this latest protégée of hers...One hoped she would not be disappointed in her confidence...How odd that nobody knew anything about Miss Fairbank’s family...And as for her fortune...An expressive shrug of still shapely shoulders finished the sentence. Marsham, meanwhile, was performing the same kind office below stairs. Visiting abigails were regaled with the details of Jennifer’s first appearance: ‘Dressed as a man and in the protection of Lord Mainwaring.’ The abigails could all too easily guess what that meant.
But Jennifer was blithely unaware of this sordid undercurrent of slander. On the surface, her world was rosy indeed. Completely outfitted now as a young lady of the highest ton, she went everywhere with her patroness, or, when the Duchess preferred to stay at home and write in her diary, with Lady Beresford, who seemed the kindest of chaperones. Her daughter, Pamela, was a cipher of a girl, plain, dull and good-tempered, but in the first excitement of finding London at her feet, Jennifer hardly noticed this. She had conversation for two, and did not notice that in the gay little circles of young men who nightly surrounded her and Pamela, it was she who talked, while Pamela merely smiled, nodded, and listened.
Incapable of jealousy herself, Jennifer had no idea of the fury with which Lady Beresford watched all this, and innocently thought that she and Pamela were the excellent if superficial friends they seemed. So, together and yet not together, they attended balls and routs, the play and the opera, accompanied wherever they went by their little swarm of cavaliers. Of these, the conservative and cautious spirits attached themselves to Pamela, whose family and fortune were, after all, a known thing, the gay blades and gamblers dangled after Jennifer. She was not, after all, a rich Duchess’s protégée for nothing...
Chief among these, both in rank and attentiveness, was young Lord Leatherhead, a dandy of surpassing elegance, who was said to rival even the bankrupt exile, Beau Brummell, in the pains he took over his appearance. As it took him a minimum of two hours to dress for any occasion, and as he changed his costume at least three times a day, it was not surprising that his conversation was a trifle insipid. But then, as Jennifer said, his appearance was a poem in itself. It would be asking too much to expect prose too. Pamela, of course, repeated this remark to Lord Leatherhead, but unluckily for her he was too delighted with the compliment to his appearance to care about the slur on his sense. He remained Jennifer’s devoted slave, to Pamela’s fury, for before Jennifer’s arrival on the scene, she had thought she had him safe, and had daily expected his offer. She waited, now, for some opportunity to discredit Jennifer before the fashionable world. It was but a matter of patience
. Jennifer’s ignorance of London etiquette was abysmal and with a little quiet help she was bound to disgrace herself sooner or later.
The season was now in full swing. At last the night came when Jennifer and Pamela were to make their first appearance at Almack’s. Pamela and her mother had high hopes of this. If Jennifer could be encouraged to break one of the inexorable rules of this assembly, her social downfall was assured. Not even the Duchess of Lewes could save one who had offended the patronesses of Almack’s. So, that morning, Lady Beresford paid a visit in Grosvenor Square. She talked dutifully to her mother for a few minutes, bestowed the usual false and charming smile on Jennifer, hoped that they were both in spirits for tonight’s gaiety—and then retired for a word with her friend Marsham.
As a result, when the time came for the Duchess to dress for Almack’s, Marsham burst into voluble protest. Her ladyship was looking quite done up; she had been out three nights this week already...she knew she always found Almack’s a dead bore. And she had not written up her diary this sennight. She would be forgetting the witty things the Duke of Wellington said to her last night at Carlton House and indeed, ma’am, they should be recorded for posterity (Marsham was pleased with that word, and repeated it). And, in short, by playing on the Duchess’s valetudinarian fears and throwing in a subtle dash of flattery, Marsham contrived to persuade her that she had much better stay at home and let Jennifer go to Almack’s with Lady Beresford and Pamela. It was in every way the most suitable thing, and, indeed, it was quite a pleasure, sighed Marsham, to see how devoted the young ladies were...
So when Jennifer, who now had a maid of her own, a bouncing kindly country girl called Betty, came pirouetting to the Duchess’s boudoir resplendent in the figured gauze, she was disappointed to find the old lady sitting over the fire, still in her lilac négligé.
‘You see, child,’ said the Duchess, ‘I am to play the stay-at-home tonight. Marsham urges it; she says I have been fatiguing myself unduly. And Marsham is always right. But do you go and enjoy yourself with Lady Beresford and Pamela and mind you remember to tell me what Lady Cowper wears, and what Lady Jersey says, and who Caro Lamb is flirting with now.’
Jennifer laughed and promised to obey. It was disappointing not to have her evening enlivened by the Duchess’s caustic comments and pungent character sketches of those present, but she looked forward to amusing her, on her return, with some of her own.
At first sight, she had to admit that she found the famous Almack’s disappointing. The rooms were no more splendid than the Assembly Hall at Chichester. The light was good, it was true, and the room crowded with elegants, but the fact remained that she was disappointed. This was soon forgotten, however, when the musicians struck up a waltz. Pamela and her mother had left her for a moment, with a murmured, unintelligible apology. She stood alone, her foot tapping to the music, her eyes darting here and there about the room. What if Lord Mainwaring should have returned? Surely it was time his engagement was settled. And, engaged or not, he would, she told herself, constitute a most eligible partner. But any partner would be welcome. The music called her. She longed to be dancing.
Ignorant of the sacred rule of Almack’s by which no young lady might waltz before she had been approved by one of the patronesses, Jennifer was puzzled that one of her usual gallants, many of whom were present, did not request her hand for the dance. She stood impatiently, watching the graceful, swooping movements of the dancers, among whom Lady Cowper was conspicuous in black velvet, swirling about the room on the arm of Lord Palmerston.
Jennifer looked up at the approach of one of Pamela’s faithful admirers, Mr Eltham, a man of small talent and considerable property in Norfolk. ‘You do not dance, Miss Fairbank? May I have the honour?’
How was she to know that he came by Pamela’s express command? It would be an excellent jest, she had told Mr Eltham, to get Miss Fairbank a-waltzing before she should and thus take her vanity down a peg. Mr Eltham, who had in his time suffered under Jennifer’s mordant wit, was himself fresh up from the country and was unaware of the seriousness of such a flouting of the lady patronesses’ authority. Glad to please Pamela, he took Jennifer’s hand and led her towards the rope that separated the dancers from their audience.
But Lady Cowper, sweeping towards them on the floor, noticed their approach. ‘Look,’ she said to Lord Palmerston, ‘there is that child the Duchess of Lewes has taken up about to ruin herself by waltzing before she has leave. Go, quick, and bring her to me, that I may make it right for her. She is too entertaining a creature to be let destroy herself for a trifle.’
Palmerston bowed: ‘Always considerate, divine Emily.’ He led her to one of the seats reserved for the patronesses and hurried to intercept Jennifer and Mr Eltham. They were just taking the floor when he touched Jennifer’s arm. She turned, haughtily, at the unwelcome interruption, then recognised him with a look of surprise.
‘Miss Fairbank is it not? I had the honour of meeting you at Manchester House. Now, Lady Cowper desires the pleasure of your acquaintance.’
It was practically a royal command, and must be taken as such. Jennifer curtseyed apologetically to Mr Eltham and took Lord Palmerston’s arm. Eltham followed as they approached the chair where Lady Cowper awaited them.
‘Silly child,’ was her greeting. ‘Has no one told you you must not waltz till you have received permission from one of us?’
‘No, indeed, ma’am,’ Jennifer looked her surprise. ‘I was quite unaware of it. I thank you a thousand times.’ She turned a reproachful glance on Mr Eltham, who muttered something about not knowing this was Jennifer’s first appearance at Almack’s. It seemed unlikely. Jennifer was surprised, puzzled and suspicious, but thought it best to let it pass.
Lady Cowper dismissed her graciously. ‘Go, then, and have your waltz. I can see that you are itching to be off and so, indeed, am I.’ She took Lord Palmerston’s arm again and the two couples were quickly lost in the exhilarating maze of the dance. Mr Eltham waltzed admirably and Jennifer had soon forgotten her uncomfortable suspicions in the excitement of the evening. She danced every dance, laughed with, and at, Mr Eltham, flirted with Lord Leatherhead, gathered in a bon mot of Lady Jersey’s and another of Princess Lieven’s for the delectation of the Duchess, and presented, altogether, a perfect picture of happiness. Only a very acute observer might have noticed how restlessly, from time to time, her eyes wandered about the room. She would be so much happier, she told herself, when Lord Mainwaring returned to town and the news of his engagement was final.
*
Lady Beresford returned home that night in a very ill humour which had not been improved by a half serious admonishment from Lady Cowper that she should take better care of her charge. Dismissing her maid, she summoned Pamela to her room. The thing was becoming serious; Lord Leatherhead had dangled after Jennifer all evening, and she was realist enough to be aware that Pamela’s chances in the marriage market were strictly limited. If Jennifer could be removed from the running, Leatherhead would doubtless return to his first object—was he not known to have made the most encouragingly detailed enquiries about Pamela’s fortune before Jennifer appeared on the scene and spoiled everything?
‘But, come, my love,’ said Lady Beresford to her daughter, ‘this is no time for despondency. Dry your tears. I have a plan. The Duke of Devonshire, as you know, is giving a masquerade next Tuesday.’
Yes, indeed, Pamela knew. She and Jennifer had planned their costumes long since. She was to be Pamina in tulle, Jennifer the Queen of the Night in black satin. She was interrupted in an ecstatic description of these delicious costumes by her mother’s impatient: ‘Yes, yes, all very well, I am sure, but that is not my point. Luttrell was telling me only this evening that that same night there is to be another masquerade given at Watier’s Club. Would you believe the effrontery of it? These same gentlemen, from the Duke downwards, who will entertain the beau monde at Devonshire House, are giving, the same night, a similar masquerade at Watier’s for—�
� she paused, embarrassed.
‘Yes, I know, mother,’ chimed in her innocent daughter, ‘for Harriette Wilson and her set. I heard Eltham tell Leatherhead it was a capital notion. The beau monde at one, he said, the demi-monde at the other, and the same dominoes giving admittance to both.’
Shocked at her daughter’s knowledgeableness, or rather, at her admission of it, Lady Beresford reminded her that a young girl was expected to be ignorant of such things. ‘But it comes most happily for us,’ she went on, ‘it is but to contrive that Miss Fairbank go to Watier’s in mistake for Devonshire House, and the thing is done. Even if she escape unscathed, it will be more than anyone will believe.’
Pamela, who was not so much cruel as silly, protested a little at this scheme, but her mother soon distracted her by drawing her attention to the practical difficulties it entailed. They would have first to contrive that the Duchess did not attend the ball and then arrange that they should be unable to pick up Jennifer on their way as they usually did. Finally, the coachman would have to be bribed to deliver her to Watier’s instead of to Devonshire House.
‘Luckily,’ said Lady Beresford, ‘the Duke is but today returned from Chatsworth. It is impossible that Jennifer should have been to Devonshire House and as for Watier’s, that is out of the question.’
Pamela still looked doubtful. ‘But suppose her suspicions are aroused and she enquires before she is well inside?’ she objected. ‘Then we are blown and all for nothing.’
‘Yes, it is indeed a puzzle,’ said her mother. ‘If we could but contrive some escort for her, who should hand her in before she had time for suspicion. But who could we trust? Not, certainly, Lord Leatherhead, and she might twig Mr Eltham after this night’s work.’ She tapped her teeth with her fan, deep in thought, then brightened. ‘I have it. Is not Miles Mandeville one of her train?’
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