by Nikki Poppen
Mr. Kentworth approached with his cousin Roberta and his aunt, Lady Farnwick, to make their farewells, their fifteen minutes having come to an end. Marianne murmured something polite, barely hearing what they had to say. Others followed in his wake, making their gracious good-byes. In a little while, it would be too late. The clock that had moved so slowly throughout the afternoon now moved too quickly, ticking off the last ten minutes of their at home.
Her mother beamed as the drawing room of their rented town house on prestigious Portland Square emptied. “You’ve done well, Marianne. The gentlemen were so polite. Just look at all of the beautiful flowers they sent this morning. They were very thoughtful to bring their sisters and mothers today too.”
They knew, without speaking of it, what that meant: invitations, which would allow them to claim another rung on the social ladder of acceptance. It wasn’t the men who decided who was invited where, it was the women. Sisters and mothers and other female relations were important in navigating the shoals of Society.
Marianne gave a halfhearted smile. She’d truly thought that he would come. He’d seemed genuine and he was the only one she was interested in seeing again. It wasn’t that he was the highest-ranking gentleman with whom she’d danced, nor was it his dark good looks. It was that he’d spilled champagne for her. A man willing to perform such contrivances for a chance to dance with her aroused all sorts of curiosity on her part.
Her mother reached over and patted her hand, divining Marianne’s disappointment. “I’m sure we’ll see him again, my dear. I’m quickly learning London isn’t that big after all.”
Just then the butler, a stuffy man named Snead, announced the arrival of one last guest. “The Viscount Pennington,” he intoned.
Marianne smiled broadly and crossed the room to greet the new arrival in spite of her mother’s hastily whispered words: “Don’t appear too eager.” Marianne held out her hand to shake, delighted that he was caught off guard only momentarily by the forwardness of her gesture. “I thought you’d changed your mind,” she challenged lightly. “You left it until quite late”
The viscount had the good form to bow his head in deference to her scolding. “I am duly chastised, Miss Addison. However, in my defense, I wanted you all to myself.” There was a twinkle in his coffee brown eyes when he met her gaze.
Immediately, Marianne saw his plan, how he’d arranged his arrival to attain his wish. By coming at the end of the at home, he’d ensured his being able to spend more than the requisite fifteen minutes with her. He was proving himself an ardent strategist. Marianne flashed a coy smile. “First the champagne and now this. How clever you are”
“How lovely you are,” he replied neatly, presenting her with an enormous bouquet of flowers. He made a grand gesture toward the exquisite hothouse arrangements decorating various tabletops around the room. “I see I’m not the only one who thought to complement your natural beauty with nature’s blooms.”
Marianne took the bouquet from him, studying the flowers in delighted surprise. She noticed the difference right away. “But you’re the only one who has brought a bouquet with purple of Romagna flowers.” She inhaled deeply, enjoying the sweet fragrance. “They’re grown in California. How did you get these?” Marianne was struck by the gesture. The flowers were thoughtful in the extreme and most likely had been exceedingly difficult to acquire.
“I have a friend who specializes in exotic blooms. He travels around the world on botanical expeditions. Fortunately, he’d acquired a few of these plants on a previous trip. I thought that with your being so far from home, you’d appreciate a small reminder of it.”
A worrisome thought struck Marianne. “How did you know? I don’t think I mentioned living in San Francisco last night.” She was sure she hadn’t. The polka had been too fast. They hadn’t talked except on the way back to her mother and that conversation had been about his subterfuge to steal a dance.
The viscount gave her a charming, flirtatious smile. “I could mysteriously say I have my sources and leave you to wonder, but in actuality, I asked the Countess of Camberly.”
Marianne hid her concern in another sniff of the bouquet. She wondered nervously what else the countess had imparted about her. Had the countess mentioned the debacle in New York? She hoped not. She reasoned that the woman wouldn’t have bothered to introduce her friend to Marianne if the incident in New York mattered to her. Marianne hoped for the best. She shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d sought out information about her. She was fast learning that was the way of the English ton. In San Francisco, people learned about each other through conversation with one another and were given a chance to prove themselves through their actions, but people in London Society didn’t approach anyone without first being reassured of the other’s status. One’s reputation was often previously established before an introduction even took place. No one risked meeting someone who might prove to be entirely unsuitable.
Marianne took a final smell of the flowers and gathered her wits. “I must get the flowers in water right away. Will you excuse me? You can sit and become better acquainted with my mother.” Marianne moved to go in search of a vase when the viscount raised his eyebrows slightly in the direction of a footman, who stepped forward instantly and offered his services. “Miss, I’ll see to those for you”
Marianne blushed and relinquished the bouquet. “I forget how it is here. Sometimes it seems so silly to have someone do such a little thing one is capable of doing themselves” Silently, she chided herself. What a stupid thing to forget! He probably had a house full of servants. Now he’d think she was an uncultured American. They had a staff of servants at home too, but it didn’t preclude doing things for oneself.
“Come sit down, Lord Pennington.” Her mother gestured to the chairs gathered around the settee to cover the awkward moment. “Will you take tea?”
“I’d be delighted.” He took a chair near the settee, crossing his long legs with casual ease. “I confess that I had ulterior motives for arriving so late in the afternoon, Mrs. Addison. I was hoping Miss Addison would do me the pleasure of accompanying me on a drive through the park”
“I’d love to” Marianne didn’t wait for her mother to answer for her although the question had been directly asked of her.
Half an hour later, Marianne sat in the handsome viscount’s curricle, with a straw hat trimmed with cream veiling that matched her pale pink and cream driving ensemble, perched atop her head, her maid riding on the back platform as a discreet chaperone.
The viscount expertly tooled the curricle through the Mayfair traffic to Hyde Park. Marianne didn’t mind the slow pace. It gave her time to study the man who’d spilled champagne on another as the price for a dance. She’d half feared her memories of him from the prior night were somewhat magnified but he was indeed as handsome as she remembered, perhaps even more so. His nut-dark hair shone in the dappled sunlight filtering through the park’s leafy trees. In profile, his nose stood in sharp relief against the planes of his face. His jaw carried a certain strength to it, reminding her this was the face of a man, not a fresh-shaven boy who had yet to come into his prime. In comparison to the other young men who’d called, the difference was remarkable.
Everything he did bespoke an impressive aura of confidence. He greeted people who passed them in similar vehicles while he smartly steered his curricle through tight spots on the path crowded with walkers, riders and other drivers. It seemed he knew everyone. They could hardly move twenty feet without encountering another of his many acquaintances. At each encounter, he endeavored to introduce her as “Miss Addison of San Francisco.”
It was quite overwhelming to be the center of so much attention. The effect was not lost on her. She knew enough to understand that association was of the utmost importance in London. After today, the two of them would be linked together in conversation. People would say at tea tomorrow or at supper parties tonight, “I saw Pennington in the park today. He was driving with the Addison girl
from San Francisco.” The comment would inevitably be followed with another commentary on whether or not such an activity passed censure.
“Do you know everyone?” Marianne asked after yet another greeting.
He turned toward her with a laugh. “I do. Don’t you?” he joked.
Marianne shook her head. “I marvel at how anyone can keep it all straight. The forms of address alone are overwhelming. I can’t begin to fathom the intricacies of dinner seating.”
He gave her a questioning look. “Don’t you seat people by rank in America?”
Marianne wished she hadn’t brought it up. He was staring at her with an incredulous look. “We do, but it’s much simpler. Seating is all about money. Whoever has the most sits at the top of the table and we work our way down from there.”
She thought the viscount might be repulsed by the gaucheness of the notion. But he merely laughed again and said, “How very democratic.” He pulled the curricle onto the verge, away from the flow of traffic. “Would you like to walk a little? There’s a duck pond not far from here-and we’re not likely to be interrupted by all the people I know,” he added with a grin, stepping to her side of the carriage and swinging her down with ease.
“Now we have enough quiet for a real conversation,” he said as he led her down to the pond and an empty bench nearby. “Tell me about San Francisco, your home, Miss Addison. All I know is what I’ve read about it in Kipling’s article on it not long ago. It seems like a most interesting town.”
It was all the encouragement Marianne needed to regale him with tales of her home, from the enormous twenty-five-room mansion on Powell Street to the first bread factory her father owned on DuPont Street.
“You sound as if you miss it,” the viscount said sympathetically when she broke off her stories.
Marianne nodded. “I do. We’ve been gone for several months. There was the time spent traveling across the United States, of course, and then we spent a few months in Paris and went on to Italy briefly before we came to London” All in an attempt to gain some Continental polish and practice. There’d been her clothes to order from Worth, lessons in British comportment, and her father’s new yacht to check on in Cherbourg. One could not assail the bastion of London society without practice and the right tools. Even then, Marianne had discovered that she wasn’t willing to remake herself entirely simply to fit in.
She had the right tools: the Worth wardrobe, the prestigious address on Portland Place, the invitations into the desirable social sets. None of that could change her, though, and she found that she didn’t want to be changed. For instance, she liked getting a vase in which to put her flowers. She doubted she’d ever get used to someone doing those simple tasks for her.
The viscount began to ask another question. “Miss Addison-”
Marianne shook her head. “Please, call me Marianne. Everyone at home does.” She didn’t care how unorthodox or bold the request was.
“Then you must call me Alasdair, or Dair as my close friends do” He smiled, his coffee-colored eyes sparkling their approval. Marianne thought she could stare at those warm, dark depths all day without boring of it.
“Now, it’s your turn to tell me about you,” Marianne said, turning the conversation. “What do you do when you’re not in London?”
A shadow flickered across Alasdair’s face at the question, and his eyes seemed to go flat and cold momentarily.
“I didn’t mean to pry. My apologies,” Marianne offered quickly. She looked away, giving her attention to the activity on the pond. A little boy stood at the water’s edge sailing a small toy boat on a string.
“No, it’s just that I’ve spent a large part of my time recently trying to figure out the answer to your question. Who am I?” He broke off. “I’m sorry, that’s not what you expected to hear. I haven’t made it easy for you to make conversation. I am at fault.”
Marianne opened her mouth to reply, but just then the little boy let out a loud cry of disappointment. His boat had come loose from its string and capsized in the pond not far from where they sat. He let out a wail.
Marianne looked around. The boat wasn’t more than eight or nine steps from shore, too far for a little boy to wade out but surely not too far for an adult. The boy’s nanny was alternately consoling him and scolding him for setting up such a racket. But beyond that, no one sitting on the benches or strolling nearby did anything. Marianne’s heart went out to the boy who’d lost the boat. If no one was going to come to his aid, then she would.
“Oh dear,” Marianne said, reaching to undo her shoes. “I suppose my stockings are done for.”
“Marianne, whatever are you doing?” Alasdair queried in a confused whisper.
“I’m going in after the boat. I don’t think the pond is all that deep at this point.” She gathered up her pale pink skirts and made her way down to the shoreline before Alasdair could dissuade her. She called a few words of reassurance to the little boy who managed to stop crying in order to watch her. She heard Alasdair’s footsteps behind her. She supposed she’d shocked him.
Again.
She was apparently in the habit of doing that. But going after the boat was the only real solution available. It took her only a few moments to retrieve the boat. Alasdair was there at the water’s edge to help her back up the bank to the bench, his hand warm and supportive on her arm.
Marianne thought she’d performed the task more than admirably. She’d managed to ruin just her stockings. The pond had turned out to be quite shallow, as she’d suspected, and her skirts were only the tiniest bit damp. The look on the boy’s face when she returned the boat was recompense enough for the ruined stockings.
She even managed the silliness of retreating behind a tree to modestly remove the ruined hosiery before putting her shoes back on. It was beyond her why she couldn’t simply sit on the more-comfortable bench and take off her stockings, or why she couldn’t have gone into the pond barefoot to start with.
But by then the damage was done. It was too late to avoid being the target of gossip. Obviously, Englishwomen didn’t make a habit of wading in Hyde Park or rescuing toy boats. A hard stare from Alasdair in the direction of the onlookers, however, sent them shuffling on their way.
Her stockings successfully removed, Marianne plopped back down on the bench next to Alasdair, who stared at her with an indecipherable look on his face. She worked the fastenings of her shoes, suddenly selfconscious of his attentions. Perhaps this was where he politely offered to drive her home and then disappeared from her life. Perhaps he was already regretting having introduced her to so many people.
“What is it? You’re staring,” Marianne said at last, unable to bear his scrutiny.
“My apologies.”
She looked up and saw the hint of a smile on his lips. “Marianne, are you attending the Stamford ball tonight? If so, would you save me a waltz?”
Marianne cocked her head to the side, intent on not giving in too easily, although relief coursed through her in heady amounts. He wasn’t going to reject her out of hand. “I think that could be arranged without too much effort”
Alasdair rose and offered her his arm. “Shall we drive on, then? We’ve done our good deed for the day”
He was laughing with her, flirting with her again, and Marianne gladly returned his banter. On the way back to her home, they talked of her impressions of London, Alasdair taking care to point out places of interest during the drive. Marianne had the easy feeling that she’d known Alasdair for far longer than a day and it felt positively marvelous.
“I’ve a confession to make,” Marianne said as they drew to the curb in front of her home.
“Oh, a confession?” Alasdair raised his eyebrows in shocked good humor. “More scandalous than rescuing boats from duck ponds?” he teased.
Marianne pretended to consider it for a moment. “Well, somewhere between duck ponds and spilling champagne for a dance,” she answered back. “The truth is, I’m glad you spilled champagne all over
that Lord Brantley. I didn’t like him. Something didn’t seem right about him. I’d much rather dance with you anytime.”
Alasdair nodded. “It’s not for me to malign a fellow peer without cause. However, you would do best to stay away from Lord Brantley. He has certain habits I am sure you would find distasteful, to say the least.”
Marianne laughed. “The English are unfailingly polite even when describing a bad seed”
Alasdair came around to help her down. “I assure you, Marianne, that we too have tempers when provoked”
He walked her to the door and gallantly bent over her hand. “Until tonight, Miss Addison.” He was suddenly all English formality again.
Marianne couldn’t resist one last tease before he left. “Is this how you say you don’t disapprove of my having fished a boat out of the drink?”
He looked at her, mastering a level of solemnity with his gaze while his mouth twitched with a wry half grin. “Yes, Marianne, I believe it is.”
London was infinitely more exciting with Marianne Addison at his side, Alasdair reflected a week later. He made it a point to dance with her every night and to send her hand-picked flowers every day, including purple of Romagna when he could cajole it out of his botanist friend. He’d come up with an endless amount of excuses to be wherever she was in the afternoons; not drives in the park, not Venetian breakfasts, not even shopping trips were beyond the pale of his efforts.
He was not alone in his attention or attraction to Marianne. Marianne Addison, openly known now among the ton as the Sourdough Heiress, was fast becoming London’s latest cause celebre. There were some who labeled her an Original for her loveliness and exuberance, and others who labeled her merely the latest American novelty.