Lady Bridlington was so much astonished that she dropped her pencil. “Acquainted with Mr. Beaumaris?” she repeated. “My love, what can you be thinking about? When can you possibly have met him?”
“I—I quite forgot to tell you, ma’am,” faltered Arabella unhappily, “that when the pole broke—I told you that!—Miss Blackburn and I sought shelter in his hunting-box, and—and he had Lord Fleetwood with him, and we stayed to dine!”
Lady Bridlington gasped. “Good God, Arabella, and you never told me! Mr. Beaumaris’s house! He actually asked you to dine, and you never breathed a word of it to me!”
Arabella found herself quite incapable of explaining why she had been shy of mentioning this episode. She stammered that it had slipped out of her mind in all the excitement of coming to London.
“Slipped out of your mind?” exclaimed Lady Bridlington. “You dine with Mr. Beaumaris, and at his hunting-box, too, and then talk to me about the excitement of coming to London? Good gracious, child—But, there, you are such a country-mouse, my love, I daresay you did not know all it might mean to you! Did he seem pleased? Did he like you?”
This was a little too much, even for a young lady determined to be on her best behaviour. “I daresay he disliked me excessively, ma’am, for I thought him very proud and disagreeable, and I hope you won’t ask him to your party on my account!”
“Not ask him to my party, when, if he came to it, everyone would say it was a success! You must be mad, Arabella, to talk so! And do let me beg of you, my dear, never to say such a thing of Mr. Beaumaris in public! I daresay he may be a little stiff, but what is that to the purpose, pray? There is no one who counts for more in society, for setting aside his fortune, which is immense, my love, he is related to half the houses in England! The Beaumarises are one of the oldest of our families, while on his mother’s side he is a grandson of the Duchess of Wigan—the Dowager Duchess, I mean, which of course makes him cousin to the present Duke, besides the Wainfleets, and—But you would not know!” she ended despairingly.
“I thought Lord Fleetwood most amiable, and gentlemanlike,” offered Arabella, by way of palliative.
“Fleetwood! I can tell you this, Arabella: there is no use in your setting your cap at him, for all the world knows that he must marry money!”
“I hope, ma’am,” cried Arabella, flaring up, “that you do not mean to suggest that I should set my cap at Mr. Beaumaris, for nothing would prevail upon me to do so!”
“My love,” responded Lady Bridlington frankly, “it would be quite useless for you to do so! Robert Beaumaris may have his pick of all the beauties in England, I daresay! And, what is more, he is the most accomplished flirt in London! But I do most earnestly implore you not to set him against you by treating him with the least incivility! You may think him what you please, but, believe me, Arabella, he could rain your whole career—and mine, too, if it came to that!” she added feelingly.
Arabella propped her chin in her hand, pondering an agreeable thought. “Or he could make everything easy for me, ma’am?” she enquired.
“Of course he could—if he chose to do it! He is the most unpredictable creature! It might amuse him to make you the rage of town—or he might take it into his head to say you were not quite in his style—and if once he says that, my dear, what man will look twice at you, unless he has already fallen in love with you, which, after all, we cannot expect?”
“My dear ma’am,” said Arabella, in dulcet accents, “I hope I should not be so ill-bred as to be uncivil to anyone—even Mr. Beaumaris!”
“Well, my dear, I hope not, indeed!” said her ladyship doubtfully.
“I promise I will not be in the least degree uncivil to Mr. Beaumaris. if he should come to your party,” said Arabella.
“I am happy to hear you say so, my love, but ten to one he won’t come,” responded her ladyship pessimistically.
“He said to me at parting that he hoped to have the pleasure of calling on me in town before many days,” said Arabella disinterestedly.
Lady Bridlington considered this, but in the end shook her head. “I do not think we should set any store by that,” she said. “Very likely he said it for politeness’ sake.”
“Very likely,” agreed Arabella. “But if you are acquainted with him, I wish you will send Lord Fleetwood a card for your party, ma’am, for he was excessively kind, and I liked him.”
“Of course I am acquainted with him!” declared Lady Bridlington, quite affronted. “But do not be setting your heart on him., Arabella, I beg of you! A delightful rattle, but the Fleetwoods are all to pieces, by what I hear, and however much he may flirt with you, I am persuaded he will never make you an offer!”
“Must every man I meet make me an offer?” asked Arabella, controlling her voice with an effort.
“No, my love, and you may depend upon it that they won’t!” replied her ladyship candidly. “In fact, I have had it in mind to warn you against setting your ambitions too high! I mean to do all I can for you, but there is no denying that suitable husbands do not grow upon every bush! Particularly, my dear—and I know you will not fly into a miff with me for saying it!—when you have no portion to recommend you!”
In face of her ladyship’s conviction, Arabella hardly liked to betray her feelings, so she bit her lip, and was silent. Fortunately, Lady Bridlington’s mind was not of a tenacious nature, and as she just then recollected a very important lady whose name must be included amongst the list of invited persons, she forgot about Arabella’s matrimonial chances in explaining why it would be folly to omit Lady Terrington from that list. Nothing more was said about Mr. Beaumaris, her ladyship having been diverted, by some chance reference of her own, into describing to Arabella the various social treats she had in store for her. In spite of the fact that the season had not yet begun, these were so numerous that Arabella felt almost giddy, and wondered whether, in this round of gaiety, her hostess would find the time to accompany her to Church on Sunday. But in doubting whether Lady Bridlington would go to Church she wronged her: Lady Bridlington would have thought it a very odd thing not to be seen in her pew every Sunday morning, unless, as was very often the case, she chose to attend the service, at the Chapel Royal, where, in addition to listening to an excellent sermon, she could be sure of seeing all her more distinguished friends, and even, very often, some member of the Royal family. This good fortune was hers on Arabella’s first Sunday in London, and the circumstance made fine reading; for the interested brothers and sisters in Yorkshire, following, as it did (most artistically), descriptions of Hyde Park, and St. Paul’s Cathedral, and a lively account of the racket and bustle of the London Streets.
“We attended Morning Service at the Chapel Royal, St. James’s on Sunday,” wrote Arabella, in a fine, small hand, and on very thin paper, crossing her lines. “We heard a very good sermon on a text from the Second Epistle to the Corinthians, pray tell dear Papa: He that had gathered much had nothing over; and he that had gathered little had no lack. London is still very thin of company”—not for nothing had Arabella dutifully attended to her godmother’s conversation!—“but there were a great many fashionables present, and also the Duke of Clarence, who came up to us afterwards, and was very affable, with nothing high in his manner at all.” Arabella paused, nibbling the end of her pen, and considering the Duke of Clarence. Papa might not care to have his Royal Highness described, but Mama, and Sophy, and Margaret would most certainly wish to know just what he was like, and what he had said. She bent again over her page. “I do not think one would say that he is precisely handsome,” she wrote temperately, “but his countenance is benevolent. His head is a queer shape, and he is inclined to corpulence. He made me think of my uncle, for he talks in just that way, and very loud, and he laughs a great deal. He did me the honour to say that I wore a vastly fetching hat: I hope Mama will be pleased, for it was the one with her pink feathers, which she made for me.” There did not seem to be anything more to be said about the Duke of Clarence,
except that he talked quite audibly in Church, and that was information scarcely likely to please the inhabitants of the Vicarage. She read over what she had written, and felt that it might disappoint Mama and the girls. She added a line. “Lady Bridlington says that he is not near as fat as the Prince Regent, or the Duke of York.” On this heartening note she ended her paragraph, and embarked on a fresh one.
“I am growing quite accustomed to London, and begin to know my way about the streets, though of course I do not walk out by myself yet. Lady Bridlington sends a footman with me, just as Bertram said she would, but I see that young females do go alone nowadays, only perhaps they are not of the haut ton. This is very important, and I am in constant dread that I shall do something improper, such as walking down St. James’s Street, where all the gentlemen’s clubs are, and very fast, which of course I do not wish to be thought. Lady Bridlington gives an evening-party, to introduce me to her friends. I shall be all of a quake, for everyone is so grand and fashionable, though perfectly civil, and much kinder than I had looked for. Sophy will like to know that Lord Fleetwood, whom I met on the road, as I wrote to you from Grantham, paid us a morning-visit, to see how I did, which was very amiable and obliging of him. Also Mr. Beaumaris, but we were out driving in the Park,. He left his card. Lady Bridlington was in transports, and has placed it above all the rest, which I think nonsensical, but I find that that is the way of the World, and makes me reflect on all Papa has said on the subject of Folly, and the Hollowness of Fashionable Life.” That seemed to dispose satisfactorily of Mr. Beaumaris. Arabella dipped her pen in the standish again. “Lady Bridlington is everything that is kind, and I am persuaded that Lord Bridlington is a very respectable young man, and not at all abandoned to the Pursuit of Pleasure, as Papa feared. His name is Frederick. He is traveling in Germany, and has visited a great many of the battlefields. He writes very interesting letters to his Mama, with which I am sure Papa would be pleased, for he seems to feel just as he ought, and moralizes on all lie sees in a truly elevating way, though rather long.” Arabella perceived that there was little room left on her sheet, and added in a cramped fist: “I would write more only that I cannot get a frank for this, and do not wish to put Papa to the expense of paying some sixpences for the second sheet. With my love to my brothers and sisters, and my affectionate duty to dear Papa, I remain your loving daughter Arabella.”
Plenty of promising matter there for Mama and the girls to pore over, and to discuss, even though so much remained unwritten! One could not resist boasting a very little about the compliments paid to one by a Royal Duke, or just mentioning that a fashionable peer of the realm had called to see how one did—not to mention the great Mr. Beaumaris, if one had happened to care a fig for that—but one felt quite shy of disclosing even to Mama how very gracious—how amazingly kind—everyone was being to an insignificant girl from Yorkshire.
For so it was. Shopping in Bond Street, driving on clement afternoons in Hyde Park, attending the service at the Chapel Royal, Lady Bridlington naturally encountered friends, and never failed to present Arabella to their notice. Some really forbidding dowagers who might have been expected to have paid scant heed to Arabella unbent in the most gratifying way, quite overpowering her by the kindness of their enquiries, and their insistence that Lady Bridlington should bring her to see them one day. Several introduced their daughters to Arabella, suggesting that she and they might walk in the Green Park some fine morning, so that in less than no time it seemed as though she had a host of acquaintances in London. The gentlemen were not more backward: it was quite a commonplace thing for some stroller in the Park to come up to Lady Bridlington’s barouche, and stand chatting to her, and to her pretty protégée; while more than one sprig of fashion, with whom her ladyship was barely acquainted, paid her a morning-visit on what seemed even to one so little given to speculation as Lady Bridlington the slenderest of excuses.
She was a little surprised, but after thinking about it for a few minutes she was as easily able to account for the ladies’ civility as the gentlemen’s. They were anxious to oblige her. This led her by natural stages to the reflection that she deserved a great deal of credit for having so well advertised Arabella’s visit to town. As for the gentlemen, she had never doubted, from the moment of setting eyes on her goddaughter, that that fairy figure and charming countenance could fail to attract instant admiration. Arabella had, moreover, the most enchanting smile, which brought dimples leaping to her cheeks, and was at once mischievous and appealing. Any but the most case-hardened of men, thought Lady Bridlington enviously, would be more than likely, under its intoxicating influence, to behave in a rash manner, however much he might afterwards regret it.
But none of these conclusions quite explained the morning-visits of several high-nosed ladies of fashion, whose civilities towards Lady Bridlington had hitherto consisted of invitations to their larger Assemblies, and bows exchanged from their respective carriages. Lady Somercote was particularly puzzling. She called in Park Street when Arabella was out walking with the three charming daughters of Sir James and Lady Hornsea, and she sat for over an hour with her gratified hostess. She expressed the greatest admiration of Arabella, whom she had met at the theatre with her godmother. “A delightful girl!” she said graciously. “Very pretty-behaved, and without the least hint of pretension in her dress or bearing!”
Lady Bridlington agreed to it, and since her mind did not move rapidly it was not until her guest was well into her next observation that she wondered why Arabella should be supposed to show pretension.
“Of good family, I apprehend?” said Lady Somercote, carelessly, but looking rather searchingly at her hostess.
“Of course!” replied Lady Bridlington, with dignity. “A most respected Yorkshire family!”
Lady Somercote nodded. “I thought as much. Excellent manners, and conducts herself with perfect propriety! I was particularly pleased with the modesty of her bearing: not the least sign of wishing to put herself forward! And her dress too! Just what I like to see in a young female! Nothing vulgar, such as one too often sees nowadays! When every miss out of the schoolroom is decked out with jewelry, it is refreshing to see one with a simple wreath of flowers in her hair. Somercote was much struck. Indeed, he quite took one of his fancies to her! You must bring her to Grosvenor Square next week, dear Lady Bridlington! Nothing formal, you know: a few friends only, and perhaps the young people may find themselves with enough couples to get up a little dance.”
She waited only for Lady Bridlington’s acceptance of this flattering invitation before taking her leave. Lady Bridlington was left with her mind in a whirl. She was shrewd enough to know that more than a compliment to herself must lie behind this unexpected honour, and was at a loss to discover the lady’s motive. She was the mother of five hopeful and expensive sons, and it was well known that the Somercote estates were heavily mortgaged. Advantageous marriages were a necessity to the Somercotes’ progeny, and no one was more purposeful in her pursuit of a likely heiress than their Mama. For a dismayed instant Lady Bridlington wondered whether, in her anxiety to assist Arabella, she had concealed her circumstances too well. But she could not recall that she had ever so much as mentioned them: indeed, her recollection was that she had taken care never to do so.
The Honourable Mrs. Penkridge, calling on her dear friend for the express purpose of bidding her and her protégée to a select Musical Soiree, and explaining, with apologies, how it was due to the stupidity of a secretary that her card of invitation had not reached her long since, spoke in even warmer terms of Arabella. “Charming! quite charming!” she declared, bestowing her frosted smile upon Lady Bridlington. “She will throw all our beauties into the shade! That simplicity is so particularly pleasing! You are to be congratulated!”
However perplexed Lady Bridlington might be by this speech, issuing, as it did, from the lips of one famed as much for her haughtiness as for her acid tongue, it seemed at least to dispose of the suspicion roused in her mind by
Lady Somercote’s visit. The Penkridges were a childless couple. Lady Bridlington, on whom Mrs. Penkridge had more than once passed some contemptuous criticism, was not well-enough acquainted with her to know that almost the only sign of human emotion she had ever been seen to betray was her doting fondness for her nephew, Mr. Horace Epworth.
This elegant gentleman, complete to a point as regards side-whiskers, fobs, seals, quizzing-glass, and scented handkerchief, had lately honoured his aunt with one of his infrequent visits. Surprised and delighted, she had begged to know in what way she could be of service to him. Mr. Epworth had no hesitation in telling her. “You might put me in the way of meeting the new heiress, ma’am,” he said frankly. “Devilish fine gal—regular Croesus, too!”
She had pricked her ears at that, and exclaimed: “Whom can you be thinking of, my dear Horace? If you mean the Flint chit, I have it for a fact that—”
“Pooh! Nothing of the sort!” interrupted Mr. Epworth, waving the Flint chit away with one white and languid hand. “I daresay she has no more than thirty thousand pounds! This gal is so rich she puts ’em all in the shade. They call her the Lady Dives.”
“Who calls her so?” demanded his incredulous relative.
Mr. Epworth again waved his hand, this time in the direction which he vaguely judged to be northward. “Oh, up there somewhere, ma’am! Yorkshire, or some other of those dev’lish remote counties! Daresay she’s a merchant’s daughter: wool, or cotton, or some such thing. Pity, but I shan’t regard it; they tell me she’s charming!”
“I have heard nothing of this! Who is she? Who told you she was charming?”
“Had it from Fleetwood last night, at the Great-Go,” explained Mr. Epworth negligently.
“That rattle! I wish you will not go so often to Watier’s, Horace! I warn you, it is useless to apply to me! I have not a guinea left in the world, and I dare not ask Mr. Penkridge to assist you again, until he has forgotten the last time!”
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