by Joan Smith
She had no real fear that he would consider this. He was one of those people who was born in the wrong place. He had felt at home from the moment he first visited Spain. The making of sherry was in his veins. He loved to walk his vineyards, looking at his grapes, tasting them. He spent hours in his winery, blending, testing, laughing, and joking with his workers in fluent Spanish, yet he could not master French after years of lessons. Latin and Greek were a mystery to him as well.
Helena had enjoyed that earlier life, too, but after only a few weeks in England, she found herself liking it very much. Spain would always have a special place in her heart. She would like to take her husband and children there to visit one day. She fell into a reverie of remembering, and daydreaming of the future. After fifteen minutes, she was interrupted by Sally and was amazed to discover that it was Severn who had been strolling the vineyards with her. It was small replicas of him who had been pulling the grapes from the vine and eating them.
“What is it, Sally?” she asked.
“Cook says I can’t have no more lemons. I made the terrible mistake of telling Sukey, Cook’s helper, what we’re doing with them, and she went and told Cook. Just when the juice was beginning to work, too. My spots haven’t faded, but my hair’s getting so blond, you’d hardly take me for a redhead.”
“It looks very nice,” Helena said. The red was beginning to lighten to blond. She didn’t want to come to cuffs with Madrina’s cook and gave Sally money to buy her own lemons.
Such pettiness, to begrudge the poor girl a lemon a day. They rotted on the ground in Spain. Everything came down to money in England. Moira would have Gagehot if he could keep her in a higher style. Malvern would be considered eligible if his pockets were not to let. And Severn hoped to marry her own fortune, to give it to his beloved Whigs.
Chapter Seventeen
Helena almost felt she was visiting a different lady when she called on Moira the next morning. Moira was bright-eyed and lively, as she used to be in Spain. She served tea, a civility she had forgotten on former visits. Her talk was all of Mrs. Everett, which was Lucy Gagehot’s married name.
“Mrs. Everett is very genteel,” she said, nodding her head approvingly. “She has her own carriage and all. Well, her husband has, but as he is in his shop all day, she has the use of it. Mr. Everett owns a drapery shop. It is doing a thriving business. He does not stand behind the counter, of course. He sits in his office attending to business. Mrs. Everett and I plan to drop in to see him this morning.” She looked at the head-and-shoulders clock on the mantel.
After a few such hints, Helena left, much encouraged. On the second visit after the advent of Mrs. Everett into her life, Moira was calling her new friend “Lucy.” She said casually to Helena before she left, “I may not be in tomorrow, so if it is inconvenient for you to call, don’t feel obliged. Lucy is having her coiffeur in to do our heads. We are going to Vauxhall Gardens in the evening. You need not mention all this to your papa,” she added, but with little concern.
The visits petered out to two a week. Moira was as good as cured. She had found a milieu where she was comfortable without the crutch of alcohol. Helena felt that as soon as Gagehot received his promotion, the wedding would occur.
Helena’s own social life proceeded satisfactorily. The duke, encouraged by her new interest, resumed his calls. He seldom had the opportunity to get her to himself, however. She had acquired her own court and was enjoying her success.
Severn was being drawn ever deeper into politics. So long as her callers came in droves, he did not object. There was safety in numbers. Marion still called, but less frequently. Her talk was as often as not of Malvern, who was finding favor with Mrs. Comstock. An experienced courter, he knew the good an infatuated mama could do him and was lavish with his compliments, assistance in fetching and carrying, and was always available for those difficulties that troubled a manless home.
Beaufort had been approached by Mrs. Comstock’s first cousin, who was married to Beaufort’s uncle, about finding Malvern a position at Whitehall. Beaufort had not yet found one but was actively looking. He had even taken the unusual step of interviewing Malvern to discover his strong suits. No one doubted such a staunch Tory as Beaufort would succeed.
Helena received a letter from her papa, explaining that he could not feel it possible to return to England. It was of particular importance at this time that he be on hand to keep an eye on his vineyards. They had not been taken over by the French, but such vile stunts as arson were possible. Naturally he did not want Moira to put herself in danger. Perhaps when she was feeling stouter ...
Two days later, another letter from Spain arrived. He was entertaining a Mrs. Thorold, from Cornwall. She had been traveling in Spain when the war broke out and was having a wretched time finding a safe shelter. No mention was made of Mr. Thorold. Her companion was a Mrs. Duncan, relict of a bishop. It seemed the ladies were veteran travelers who could not stay home. They had been to Greece and Italy, to Portugal and France. “Like me, they are more comfortable where the sun occasionally shines,” he wrote.
Mrs. Thorold featured largely in his following letters, while Moira was reduced to a postscript. Aylesbury had convinced Mrs. Thorold (and her companion) that they were safer at Viñedo Paraíso until the Frenchies were run out of the country once and for all. The next time Lady Helena called on Moira, she heard that Gagehot had gotten his promotion and his salary increase. “I’m not sure that was wise of your papa,” she said coyly. “It might put ideas in my head.”
“You must let Papa know if these ideas take root.”
“I really ought to drop him a note, though he hasn’t written to me in two weeks. Oh, did I tell you Lucy and I are thinking of taking a trip to the lake district? She’s never been, and neither have I. Isn’t that a coincidence? Of course, Mr. Everett will come along for escort. I know what you are thinking,” she added, wagging a finger. “But Gagehot will not be coming. He’s decided to buy a cottage. Now that he is to stay in England, he’ll want more than a couple of rooms. He spends half his time out tramping through houses with an estate agent. After he’s done your papa’s sherry business, I mean.”
This sounded remarkably like a man with plans of marriage. Helena left in good spirits. She always visited in the morning while Severn was at work. She kept Lady Hadley informed but never discussed the visits with her. As it now appeared likely Moira was about to pass out of her daily life, there seemed no point in bringing on an argument.
Severn usually returned from work early, and if Helena’s projected outing sounded “interesting,” he was as likely as not to take the afternoon off to accompany her. It did not escape her notice that what interested him was the duke’s being of the party. Severn, who expressed a keen interest in art, had not found the opening of a new art exhibit of sufficient interest to attend. She had gone with his mama and the Comstocks. A sail down the Thames on Rutledge’s yacht to visit Strawberry Hill, on the other hand, appeared to intrigue him despite his having visited Walpole’s Gothic castle many times before.
“But you hate the water, Edward!” his mama pointed out.
“Nonsense. I should enjoy a sail in fine spring weather. Strawberry Hill is always worth another visit.”
“Rutledge won’t mind if you join us,” Helena said. “He asked me to invite anyone I liked.”
As arranged, they all went to Greenwich in the duke’s post chaise. Severn could find nothing to object to in the duke’s manner to Helena, or in hers to him. The trip to Greenwich passed without incident. There they met up with the rest of the party for lunch at a tavern. After, they all went for an obligatory look at the Royal Observatory. They climbed up Observatory Hill and looked down from its steep summit to the river below.
A short tour of the courtyard to see the mark showing zero meridian of longitude, which established accurate time throughout the world, was also necessary. Christopher Wren’s Seamen’s Hospital completed the tour, and they were off for their sail. Rutledge
led the way to the pier, with Severn noticeably in the rear, dreading the water trip.
When they reached the yacht, he stared in consternation at a bewildering welter of masts, sails, and ropes, all precariously balanced on a long body that pitched to and fro even with the ship at anchor. The very boarding of the ship by an unsteady gangplank seemed perilous.
“What a beauty, Rutledge!” Helena exclaimed. “And we have a good, stiff breeze to move us along. It will be like my trip to England. Let us begin at once.”
A quarter of an hour later they finally moved away from the dock. After this tedious delay, however, the sails billowed and the yacht skimmed along at an alarming speed. The Thames was as busy a thoroughfare as the paved roads. Other pleasure crafts were few, but the river was alive with ugly barges. A dozen times Severn found his hands gripping the rail, ready to jump overboard if the expected collision occurred.
Severn, like Rutledge, stuck by Helena’s side, both of them vying to point out to her the various sights of the passing scene. “There is St. Dunstan’s church. It was burned in the great fire, but Wren rebuilt it. Very fine,” Severn said.
“That is St. Mary’s,” Rutledge corrected, and went on with a tale, possibly apocryphal, that Thomas à Becket was once priest of St. Mary’s in olden times.
After what seemed a very long time, Severn recognized the stained-glass windows, the turrets, and the battlements of Strawberry Hill, and he felt a great wave of relief. With a last creaking of masts and settling of sails, the ship finally reached shore. The party climbed up the hill, looking ahead to the House. At closer range, it was seen to be a compact building, looking somewhat as if various blocks had been put together, the roofline crenellated, and spires attached at the corners.
“It is hardly a true example of Gothic architecture, of course,” Severn said, shaking his head at such a bastardized thing. “It was Walpole’s conceit to paste it together in the last century, using a little cottage as his starting point. He trimmed it up with bits and pieces from real Gothic buildings.”
“Oh, but it is lovely!” Helena exclaimed. “I had not thought Englishmen had such imagination.”
The other ladies found it enchanting and hastened toward the gates, eager to explore imagined dungeons and smoke-stained walls, with hopefully a ghost or two. It lacked these delights.
Its interior was brightly finished in cream and gold, but it was supplied with sufficient stained glass, fan vaulting, and fireplaces resembling tombs that it found favor. For sixty minutes they all admired the house. There were stained-glass windows plundered from ancient buildings and set in lunettes above clear glass windows to give its builder a view of the surrounding countryside. Walpole had been a famous collector. Like a magpie, he surrounded his nest with what appealed to him: Cardinal Wolsey’s red hat, jewels and coins, paintings and books and tapestries. Helena was much taken with the collection of spears, arrows, and broadswords, and particularly with the gold antelopes on the stairs.
“This is the staircase he used for inspiration in his novel The Castle of Otranto,” Rutledge explained.
“What novel is that?” Helena asked. “I have not read it.”
“I shall find you a copy,” Rutledge promised.
“I have a signed copy in the study. You must have it, Cousin,” Severn interjected.
“Speaking of writers,” Rutledge said, taking her by the elbow, “you will want to run along and see Alexander Pope’s grotto and garden.”
“I expect the party would rather eat,” Severn said, hoping to shorten the tour.
“I have had a picnic prepared,” Rutledge announced. This was greeted with enthusiasm. “We shall eat down by the river, among the willows.”
“I thought we would eat in the Barmy Arms,” Severn objected. “No one wants to eat on the damp earth. The ladies will destroy their frocks.”
“I have brought blankets,” Rutledge replied.
“I hate picnics,” Severn muttered.
Helena joined him. In a low voice she said, “You are behaving wretchedly, Severn. The duke has gone to a deal of trouble for his outing. I wish you would not spoil it.”
“Only Rutledge would expect to feed his guests by a swampy river, amid the stench of fish and clouds of midges.”
“It will be fine. You’ll see,” she said, and with this assurance she got him to the picnic grounds, where Rutledge’s servant had arranged a lavish feast. After champagne, Severn began to think it was a tolerable idea.
“A pity we have not brought bathing costumes, and we could have a swim,” Rutledge said.
“Let us do it sometime,” Helena said. “I love swimming.”
Severn said nothing, but his face said, “You would!”
“Do you swim, Eduardo?” she asked.
“I used to, when I was a child,” he said, with a certain look at Rutledge.
Helena just smiled at his ill temper. “One never forgets. You should pitch yourself into the water one day. You won’t drown. You’ll see.”
“What is the point?”
“What is the point of living, if you only mean to sit like a thundercloud when others are trying to enjoy themselves? You should pitch yourself into all of life, Eduardo, and enjoy it while you can. You’ll be an old man soon enough.”
It was entirely a novel experience for Severn to receive a lecture on working too hard. He soon imagined Helena was concerned on his behalf. After another glass of champagne, he began to think it was rather pretty here, with the ladies in their bonnets and bright gowns, the willows drooping beside them, while the water gleamed beyond. They lingered long by the river’s edge, chatting idly. Some couples went for a stroll, but as Helena remained with Severn, Rutledge stayed behind, too.
The two gentlemen reminded her of a pair of dogs guarding a bone. She hoped Rutledge was not beginning to imagine she was in love with him, when she had told him very clearly she was not. It amused her to let Severn think she was, at any rate.
When all the walkers had returned, they boarded the yacht again and returned as the sun was sinking over the spires and rooftops of London. Severn had planned a trip to the theater for that evening, but after a day on the water, no one seemed much interested in it.
Helena, stifling a yawn, said, “I shall go home and write Papa a letter, then retire early.”
When they reached Belgrave Square, Helena thanked Rutledge enthusiastically for the party.
“We shall have a bathing party one of these days,” he promised. “Perhaps a weekend in Brighton—”
“Our weekends are all booked,” Severn said firmly.
“It need not be a weekend,” Helena said to the duke.
When Rutledge left and they entered the house, Severn suggested a quiet hand of cards to pass a few hours. Helena said, “I shall go up and write to Papa, as I mentioned.”
“I shall work. I really shouldn’t have taken the day off.”
“Why did you, as it was patently obvious you did not enjoy the outing?”
“I think you know why,” he said, offended, and went frowning into his office. Did that embrace in the carriage mean nothing to her? It could not be considered anything but a preamble to a proposal in England. Surely she was not changing her mind?
Chapter Eighteen
As Severn sat in his study, not catching up on missed work but gazing at his own reflection in the window, he pondered Helena’s question and his own reply. What he should have said was that the reason he went was that he did not like her being with Rutledge. Did she have to ask such a question?
He expected a more intuitive grasp of romance from a lady who performed that Spanish dance. Yet the simple fact was that she did not really seem to love him. His face, wavy from the imperfections in the old glass window, scowled back at him. Good God! Was that how he had looked all day? No wonder she had chided him.
The duke, he recalled, had smiled like a moonling, and Rutledge had never been an obliging fellow. Was there an understanding between them? Rutledge had not ask
ed for permission to offer. He would never offer without permission.
Severn sighed wearily. He had thought his courting days would be full of pleasure, but politics kept getting in his way. Yet he disliked to stop; Brougham had written to Hadley, and Hadley had expressed his delight in his son’s work. Smoothing Papa’s feelings was no longer necessary, now that he meant to marry Helena, yet he had been hoping to please his father on both fronts.
He really ought to arrange a special outing for Helena himself, something to outshine the trip to Strawberry Hill. His own preference was for a riding party, but Helena had mentioned she enjoyed bathing. Rutledge had suggested a trip to Brighton for the purpose. Why wait for Rutledge to provide that treat and weasel his way closer to Helena’s heart? He would do it himself.
His family did not own a house in Brighton. His papa had not been one of those who followed Prinny and his cronies to the seaside to raise hell, but he could hire a private parlor to provide a proper dinner. He would not ask Helena to eat off her lap at the smelly beach. They would leave in the morning in his curricle and enjoy an uninterrupted four hours of privacy. If the traffic was not too heavy, he would let Helena take the ribbons for a few miles. She would enjoy that.
They would return by moonlight the same evening, the two of them alone in the curricle for another private trip. It would be an auspicious occasion to make his formal proposal. He would take the family engagement ring with him. Once she had accepted his offer, Rutledge would stop pestering her.
He had to settle on a suitable day and select their guests. Marion, of course, and an escort for her. Her mama would be happy to join them as chaperon. He must invite Rutledge. He would be leaving for the Newmarket races next week. Severn had planned to attend himself, but he would be too busy. That was the time to have the bathing party, though, when Rutledge could not attend.