by Joan Smith
When the young ladies were as pretty as Henshaw’s clever hands could make them, they went belowstairs to await Evans’s arrival. He came punctually at three, bearing a bunch of indifferent posies picked up from a street vendor. No sooner had he made his bows than his long nose and eager eye turned to Dulcie, sitting in all the glory of her new cheribime do, with the sun striking her blond curls, turning them to gold.
“I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of your ... friend’s acquaintance,” he said to Tess.
“This is my little sister, Miss Dulcie,” Tess said.
“Not that little, Tess,” Mrs. Marchant said playfully.
Here was one man who knew true beauty when he saw it, at least. Evans sat down, tea was served, and the conversation ground along dully. Evans did not believe he had seen Miss Dulcie at the Lower Rooms last night. No indeed, she had not gone. She was reading The Castle of Otranto and could not tear herself away from the trials of Isabella.
Evans’s chair moved a little closer to her, and for the next ten minutes, the room rang with exclamations of delighted horror regarding the wicked Manfred, and Theodore, who bore such an uncanny resemblance to the portrait of Alfonso.
“I know Theodore is not just a simple peasant,” Dulcie exclaimed. Evans opened his lips to corroborate it, and she said, “No, don’t tell me, Mr. Evans. I have not finished the book yet. I have only been reading it for two weeks.”
Mrs. Marchant was nearly convinced her elder daughter was the flat she always knew her to be, for she sat with her tongue between her teeth while Dulcie waltzed away with her beau. The rattle of the door knocker was heard, and suddenly Tess’s face became animated.
“Who could that be?’ she asked, but she wore a gloating smile. “Why, it is Lord Revel,” she exclaimed in poorly simulated surprise when his voice was heard in the hallway. “I wonder what he wants.”
When Revel entered and saw Mr. Evans in the room, the smile on his face froze. Revel spoke first to the ladies, but when he addressed Evans, his displeasure was obvious. Indeed in Tess’s opinion, it was a tad overdone. He need not have glared quite so fiercely.
Revel was served wine, and for a few moments the conversation veered from Otranto into more general waters. Everyone agreed it was a lovely day. The weather very mild for the time of year.
“Let us take advantage of it and go for a spin,” Revel suggested, directing his invitation to Tess.
“I cannot leave, Revel,” she said, looking at Evans.
“Don’t let me detain you,” Evans said promptly. “I was about to leave in any case.”
“No, no, you must not rush away,” Tess insisted.
“Why don’t we all go out for a drive?” Evans suggested, turning his long nose to Dulcie.
Mrs. Marchant found no fault in this. She assumed the four would go in one carriage; two of the four knew she thought so, and said not a word to disillusion her. The group left as a foursome, but when they strolled by twos along the street, looking for their carriages, Evans called over his shoulder, “Your carriage or mine, Revel? Or shall we each take our own?”
“Let us go by twos, like Noah’s ark,” Revel replied.
Dulcie cast a questioning eye at her older sister, fully expecting Tess to scotch this exciting scheme.
Tess said, “Then we shall take our leave of you now, Mr. Evans. It was nice seeing you again. Take care of Dulcie.”
When she was safely ensconced in Revel’s chaise, she said, "I made sure you would cry craven and not come this afternoon, after Mama's hints last night.”
“Surely a carriage drive in full sunlight is not enough to compromise us.”
“As long as we are home before dinner.”
“Did she cut up stiff after I left?”
“You did not fool her for a moment. She knows full well you are only amusing yourself with me as Bath is so dull. I am not to see you again unless it is clear your intentions are honorable, sir.”
“They are not dishonorable, but you must not let her get the idea it is to be a match.”
“I am rethinking this whole affair, Revel. Mama has enough worries in her dish.” She told him about her mother’s outburst the night before. “So if she is a little distracted, one can hardly blame her. She still loves him very much, you see.”
“I have always thought love matches ought to be outlawed. Whichever of the loving couple recovers his sanity first, pitches the other into misery.” He waited, fully expecting a lively argument on the merits of true love.
“I daresay the first weeks of rapture would be delightful, but until some way is found for both to become sane simultaneously, it is a poor bargain,” she agreed.
“You would limit the rapture to weeks?” he asked, surprised, but ready to shift ground for conversation’s sake.
“Perhaps months,” she said reflectively.
“I personally know a man who has been happily married for two years,” he said.
“He must have married a saint.”
“On the contrary; his wife did.”
“Poor lady. How can she be happy with a saint? One feels instinctively sinners would be more amusing.” She had a passing memory of Saint Jerome. “Have you seen your cousin today?”
“No, did your mama say anything about him?”
“Nothing that suggested the affair is over. She is attending a play with him this evening.”
“It will be the last outing. He mentioned the play yesterday. Romeo Coates is to perform one of his vivisections on Shakespeare.”
She looked blank. “What do you mean?”
“Never mind, Tess. It is a joke.”
“Oh,” she said, but was not interested enough to pursue it. “Mama will be twice as blue when Lord James jilts her, too. I am almost sorry I had you speak to him, except that she really does not care for him in the least, and it would be a pity if she broke his heart.”
“It is a case of cream-pot love, Tess. As to bringing our ‘affair’ to a halt, I think you should reconsider. Your intention was to awaken your mother to her duties. It seems you are having some success. If your parents are not to get together, it is more important than ever that Mrs. Marchant behave with propriety. The daughters of a broken marriage are already under a cloud. Throw in a giddy mama, and the better class of gent will stay away in droves.”
“But if Papa continues acting the lecher ... ?”
He shrugged. “Society does not expect much propriety from men. It is the ladies who are saddled with the burden of behaving themselves. You and Dulcie will take your moral coloring from your mother. In fact, society looks with a peculiarly sympathetic eye on such ladies. Being wronged by men recommends them to the more devout sort. If you frequented London, you would realize Byron’s wife is in the process of canonization since she had to throw him out.”
“One wonders how she could have the heart for it, he is so handsome and romantic,” Tess said in a dreamy way.
Revel was amazed that she admired Byron. He would have thought her taste in men more demanding, and intimated something of the sort. “I daresay it is the feminine folly of wanting to tame a rake that incites you to passion.”
“Tame Lord Byron? Surely you jest! Propriety would be the ruination of a man like that. His indiscretions are the most interesting thing about him. I nearly gave up on him when he married Miss Milbankes.”
“One wonders why she ever married him, if what she wanted was an archbishop, but there you are. A perfect scientific example of opposites attracting— and the rapture of a love match dissipating within weeks.” He glanced from the window as he spoke, then gave a startled jerk.
Tess looked to see what had caught his attention and saw Esmée Gardener. At the same moment, she recognized the lady’s partner. “It is Papa!” she squealed. “With that horrid woman. Oh, I am sorry, Revel. I forgot she used to be your friend.”
“She is still my friend,” he said curtly. “We parted amicably.”
“Let us follow them and see where they are
going.” She pulled the check string and the carriage drew to a stop, but Lord Revel did not budge an inch.
“There are limits to how far I am willing to go in this farce, Tess. I refuse to scuttle along Milsom Street, dogging the steps of an erstwhile mistress.”
“Of course, I understand,” she said at once. “I’ll go alone, if you would please open the door.”
“You are not going to follow them alone!” he declared.
“Don’t try to order me about!” She wrenched open the door and began to get out. Revel closed it and pulled her roughly back onto the seat.
“Where did I ever get the idea you are a sensible girl! You have no more notion of propriety than your mama. Have I not just been telling you ladies in your position must behave like Caesar’s wife? What would the quizzes of Bath say if you were seen tagging along behind your father and his mistress?”
She leaned against the window, hardly listening to him. “There! They are getting into her carriage. We’ll follow them in yours. What a lovely tilbury she has, and its being green will make it easy to keep track of amid the other carriages.”
Revel had to be content with this half victory. At least it kept the foolish chit off the street. They followed the green tilbury along Milsom Street to Quiet Street, thence south to the Upper Bristol Road.
“Where can they be going? Does Mrs. Gardener live nearby?” Tess asked.
“No, she has an apartment in Bridewell Lane.”
“It looks as if they are leaving town,” Tess said.
“Straying gents usually take their ladybirds to a quiet inn a little out of town for ...”
She turned a knowing eye on him. “So you told me earlier.”
“... for tea,” he said.
Her cool gray stare went through him and raised a blush. “Mama will want to know which inn they are going to. We shall keep after them.”
Revel knew, none better, that Esmée did not insist on going to an inn for tea. She had a healthy, regard for her reputation and did not entertain gentlemen in her boudoir at her apartment lest the servants gossip, but she would serve a gentleman tea at home. The direction the green tilbury was traveling suggested a little inn tucked away just outside of Keynsham. There was no point purveying all this sordid business to Tess, however.
“I know which inn they are going to,” he said. “We’ll turn back now.”
“Which inn is it?”
“The George and Dragon. Why do you ask?”
“Because as soon as you take me home, I shall call our carriage and drive there.”
“They’ll be gone long since.”
“They will if they are only having tea,” she replied.
Revel’s patience broke. “What is to be gained by catching them in a compromising situation? It will only embarrass all three of you.”
“It won’t embarrass me. Perhaps it will bring Papa to his senses. I shall bring Dulcie with me. Papa is very fond of her.”
“What of Dulcie’s feelings? What of Mrs. Gardener’s?”
“A woman like that doesn’t deserve to have feelings. I hope she is well and truly ashamed of herself, to be branded an adulteress in front of the family she is breaking up. Take me home at once, Revel.”
“You might at least give a thought to Dulcie.”
“She knows perfectly well what is going on. Let her see what men are like. It will be a salutary lesson for her before she is carried off to London.”
If Tess insisted on going to the George and Dragon—why hadn’t he named a different inn?—he must go with her and try to avoid a confrontation. Marchant and Esmée likely would have tea first, hopefully downstairs. Esmée liked to take her tea in a proper parlor. He would send her a note, tipping her a clue Marchant’s daughter was at the inn.
He kept a few carriages behind the tilbury, but close enough to see where it was going. When it slowed down just before the George and Dragon, he knew what Esmée had in mind—and braced himself for what could only be an extremely embarrassing business. Marchant and Esmée had entered the inn by the time Revel’s carriage reached it.
“Why don’t you just stay comfortable here while I nip inside and discover what they are doing?” he suggested.
Tess didn’t bother to reply, but just rose and followed him out. “It isn’t a very nice inn,” she said, flickering a disdainful glance over the crouching little stone building with Norman doorway. “I thought mistresses were treated more royally.”
“Only if they are royal mistresses.”
“You’re a nobleman. I’m surprised you brought her here, and I am surprised at Papa, too.”
“Don’t take your ill-humor out on me, miss. This is not my fault.”
“I didn’t say it was,” she retorted, and strode angrily toward the rounded doorway.
The first people they spotted inside were Marchant and Mrs. Gardener. They were at the clerk’s desk, just signing the register. Esmée spotted Revel and arranged a triumphant smile. Then she glanced to see what new chick he had picked up, and her handsome eyes started from their sockets. She did not officially have the acquaintance of the Marchant ladies, but she was as interested in them as they were in her and certainly knew them by sight. What was Revel doing, bringing a young unmarried lady here?
Her speaking eyes told Revel what she was thinking, but no sensible course occurred to him. “Hello, Mrs. Gardener,” he said, trying for a casual air.
Mr. Marchant glanced up from the register to see who Esmée was speaking to—and found himself being stared at by his elder daughter. “Tess!” he exclaimed in a voice as hollow as a drum.
“Papa,” she said coolly.
“We just stopped for tea,” he said, with a guilty flush.
“Does one have to sign the register just to take tea?” she asked. “You had best sign, too, Revel. You have not introduced your friend, Papa,” she said, turning her fulminating gaze on Mrs. Gardener.
Tess had often glimpsed this beauty from a distance. This was her first opportunity to study her at firsthand, and she soon imagined a dozen flaws. The dark hair was dull, not shiny like her own. The cheeks were a little fuller than nature intended, and well rouged. She looked nearly as old as Mama, and not nearly as pretty. What did Papa see in her?
“As you must have guessed, this is my daughter,” he said to Esmée. “I take it you already know Revel, my de— Mrs. Gardener.”
Esmée smiled at Tess and said, “Revel and I are old friends, Lyle.”
“Why don’t we all have tea together?” Mr. Marchant suggested. He knew it was an appalling idea, but only wanted to put a decent face on the predicament.
“I have suddenly lost my appetite,” his daughter said. “But don’t let us detain you from whatever it was you had in mind.”
“Tea! We are just having tea,” Marchant said in an overly loud voice.
“I am sure Mama would have wanted me to give you her regards, if she had had any idea I would meet you here. And Dulcie, too,” Tess said to her father.
“You must give them both my compliments, Tess. Sure you won’t join us? They serve a very tasty tea here.”
Tess looked at Mrs. Gardener. “So Revel tells me, Papa. I hope you enjoy it, but it does not appeal to me in the least. Good day.”
She stalked out of the inn, with Revel making a hasty bow to the couple before darting out after her.
“What wretched timing!” Marchant said, trying to laugh it off. “I cannot imagine what brought Tess here at this time.”
“Nor I, but I have a fair idea what brought Revel. The lad has no reputation, but I should not have thought he would debauch a young girl like Tess.”
“Debauch her? What are you talking about? Revel is my neighbor. I have known him forever.”
“Ah, then it is to be a match. I am surprised the gossip is not circulating in town. Your daughter is to be congratulated.”
A match sounded nearly as unlikely as a seduction. If it had been Dulcie, he would have been sure she was being taken advant
age of. So young, and so pretty. But Tess? No, no one would try that sort of thing with her. If she had caught the interest of such an eligible parti as Revel, it would be a shame to scotch her chances by a scandal. He must be more discreet.
In fact, he must drop Esmée. He was already becoming uneasy at her hints that she disliked these hole-in-the-wall assignations. What she had in mind was marriage. He had no intention of exchanging a beautiful, wealthy wife with a fine estate for a merely pretty nobody.
“All things considered, Esmée,” he said, “perhaps we’ll just have a quick cup of tea and run along back to Bath.”
“You’re right, Lyle. We must be more discreet in future. It would be a shame for your daughter to lose out on Revel. Perhaps we could take a holiday in London.”
Mr. Marchant smiled impatiently and made noncommittal sounds as he led Esmée to a private parlor for tea.
Chapter Eight
Tess’s long strides and stiff back told Revel she was angry as he accompanied her to his carriage. It was not until they were seated within that he saw the tears trickling silently down her cheeks. A man of experience could tell much about a lady by the way she cried. He had seen ladies howling in dismay as they covered their dry eyes with a handkerchief. He knew others females, especially actresses, who could turn on the waterworks at will and simulate every symptom of grief. Some watering pots were so softhearted, they cried buckets over a sentimental novel. Of course he had seen genuine tears, too, but he had never before seen tears course down a lady’s cheeks while she sat like a statue, trying to pretend they were not there.
It was the lost and hurt look in Tess’s eyes that betrayed the depth of her feelings. Oh, she was angry, too, but mostly she was just plain miserable. A man Marchant’s age, a husband and father to boot, had no business carrying on with the muslin company. It created havoc in his family; it would bring the old fellow nothing but grief in the end, and for what? For a few hours of demeaning and uncomfortable companionship with a hussy. Ladies of pleasure were misnamed. They should be called ladies of discord. And the men who kept them were fools.