The Scandal of the Season

by Sophie Gee

  Alexander said, hoping that he would not sound ridiculous, “You must be every day reminded, Dr. Swift, of how very different the path that you tread is from that of your fellow-travelers. But so does orthodoxy beget heresy.”

  “Tell me sir: Are you a conformist in point of religion?”

  Alexander was surprised by the question—he had not expected Swift to raise the subject of religion when he must know he was a Catholic. Steele would hardly have omitted that detail. He resolved to answer as lightly as he could. “My family are pious,” he said, “and when I am with them they say so many prayers that I can make but few poems. I call myself an occasional conformist. As I am drunk and scandalous to suit my company in town, I am grave and godly at home, for the same reason.” He tried not to laugh at his own joke, but it slipped out nonetheless.

  Swift was laughing, too, and did not notice it. “You are witty, Mr. Pope. My Lord Petre told me that you are no satirist, but I believe that he was in error.”

  “I shall not correct him,” Alexander replied, interested to hear that Lord Petre had spoken of him at all. So it had not been Steele. He noticed that they were being overheard by a third party. It was Swift’s friend, the short, chubby fellow, whom Swift introduced as John Gay.

  “I know that you are a scribbler, Mr. Pope,” Gay said. “I have read your verses, and admired them exceedingly.”

  “Mr. Pope should more properly be called a poet than a scribbler,” Swift corrected him. “He has learning, and will one day write an epic in the manner of Virgil.”

  But Alexander shrugged this off. “Your recommendation makes me into a dull, dry scholar,” he said laughingly, “the sort whose dearest ambition is to write a treatise for The Works of the Learned.”

  Gay smiled. “The Works of the Learned! Is that really a periodical?”

  “Most certainly. Unreadable from start to finish.”

  “I like its title very much indeed,” Gay enthused. “Entirely absurd and overblown. I hereby make a proposal. I move that we three begin a society in vehement opposition to dull journals and dull men. Our publication shall be called The Works of the Unlearned. We shall publish as infrequently as possible.”

  “An excellent plan,” said Alexander, carried away with the pleasure of his success with Swift. “We shall be remembered as the great unlearned wits of the age.”

  “How much better that, than to be forgotten as its most learned sages!” Swift rejoined.

  The music of the opera sounded a particularly strident blast, and the attention of all parties was momentarily drawn back to the action.

  Gay, who had been following the drama with even greater amusement than Steele, exclaimed boisterously, “Dear me, I fear that the undertakers have forgotten to change the side scenes. We now have a prospect of the ocean in the middle of a delightful grove. I must own myself astonished to see that well-dressed young fellow in a full-bottomed wig, appearing in the middle of the sea, and without any visible concern taking snuff.”

  Throughout the merriment caused by the opera, Lord Petre remained uncharacteristically silent. He stood in the corner of the box, trying to concentrate on the performance, but in truth all of his attention was focused on the ladies’ boxes. He had noticed Robert Harley glancing toward him, probably wondering what was the matter, but he could not bring himself to care, either for that, or for his obvious inattention to the performers. All he wanted was to know that Arabella was present, and, more important, present because he had requested that she come.

  He told himself that it would be only a few minutes until the first act was over. He would leave the box with the other men—neither rushing ahead nor lingering behind as though he were embarrassed. He would greet a few others, and then he would approach her. The thought of Arabella Fermor’s standing within reach of him made his throat close over slightly. It felt a little like panic, but it was pure excitement. He would be permitted to kiss her hello, first one cheek, and then the other. It was the fashion.

  But supposing she were not there—it would be torment to stand and make conversation. There would be no one else to flirt with; nobody he could bear to make the pretense of flirting with. If Arabella was not at the opera he would have to leave.

  He paid no attention to Richard Steele, who was crying out with ever-increasing exuberance, “The birds! The birds! I do believe they have already got into Lady Sandwich’s headdress!” The whole party was laughing and peering over the box to watch them, but Lord Petre stood impatiently in his dark corner, longing for the act to be over.

  Arabella was seated beside the Blount sisters’ aunt. From her position, she could see Lord Petre quite clearly on the other side of the theater, standing with the men in his party. Why did men always stand? she wondered. To appear impervious to the charms of the Italian opera, presumably. They were achieving that effect without difficulty.

  She watched as he moved apart from his friends, turning to look into the audience. She was certain that he was looking for her. How delightful. She had taken care to sit well back, where she could not clearly be made out.

  The door of Arabella’s box opened, and two elegantly dressed women walked in, Lady Salisbury and her fashionable friend Henrietta Oldmixon. She looked up and smiled as they came forward, hoping that they would acknowledge her. They nodded back and seemed about to speak, but then caught sight of friends seated among the little crowd of women at the front of the box. This fashionable group included Charlotte Castlecomber and Lady Mary Pierrepont, and, disappointed, Arabella watched as Lady Salisbury and Henrietta Oldmixon moved forward to greet them, leaving her behind.

  On her left, she could hear the Miss Blounts making a fuss about their friend Alexander Pope. Martha was saying, “I believe that he is enjoying himself, though he struggles to pretend not to. I wonder who that clergyman is? Alexander is looking up at him very eagerly.”

  “Alexander’s eager look is rather trying, do you not think?” Teresa replied. “If he could learn to view the world with greater detachment, he would find himself a more general favorite.”

  Aunt Blount interrupted her eavesdropping.

  “What think you of Lady Tewkesbury, Miss Fermor?” she asked. “What color would you give to the lace at her breast? Is it golden or yellow? It looks well beside the rich painting on her face, does it not? And what age would you say she is, Miss Fermor?”

  Arabella turned toward old Mrs. Blount with a patient smile. She must give an appearance of interest, of course. She answered that the lace appeared more gold than yellow; that the effect of her paint was fine, and (biting back the temptation to say that she could not be a day more than a hundred and twenty) guessed that Lady Tewkesbury must be something under forty-five.

  When she came to the end of this speech, Aunt Blount smiled and said, “I perceive that I am boring you, my dear.”

  Arabella started, hoping that her surprise, at least, was imperceptible to her astute companion. It had not occurred to her that an elderly woman could be so observant.

  “But you bear yourself with so much charm and gentility, Miss Fermor,” the old lady continued, ignoring Arabella’s discomposure, “that I cannot doubt your future happiness. You have not, for example, glanced more than once at the gentlemen’s boxes in the last half hour—which is more than can be said for my poor niece Teresa.”

  Arabella hardly knew what reply to make. Mrs. Blount smiled and said, “But look; I see that the singers have finally paused for breath. When it comes to making noise, an audience will always outlast the performers in point of stamina.”

  Arabella had no time to consider how seriously she had misjudged this exchange, for the act had ended and the box was astir. There was a general current of movement; she saw Mary Pierrepont, Charlotte Castlecomber, Miss Oldmixon, and Lady Salisbury walking toward the supper room, and, beside her, the Blount girls standing up to follow them. She was about to meet Lord Petre. For a moment Arabella sat motionless, and then slowly, appearing to give much attention to adjusting her f
ur stole, she walked alone to the salon in which the company was assembled.

  Lord Petre had positioned himself by the buffet with Robert Harley, who was describing a bill about cattle imports from Ireland soon to be read in Parliament. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, Lord Petre took two glasses of wine from the waiter and offered one to Harley—only to find that he was holding one already.

  “So much the better for you, my lord!” said the chief minister with a laugh. Lord Petre smiled back at him mechanically and turned to face the gathering. He wondered whether he should attempt to explain his inattention.

  Then he saw her.

  In his mind he had imagined and reimagined Arabella—as she had appeared at the Exchange; in her Goddess costume at the masque. By day he remembered her in bonnet and gloves; at night he imagined her as she had been as Diana: hair gathered loosely at her shoulders, stray tresses across her face. But she was a hazy figure in his reconstruction, beautiful and yet without features that could be clearly imagined; alluring and yet with a form that he did not precisely recall. As he looked across the room, however, he beheld the Real Being standing at the entrance.

  Her beauty was shocking. There was no whimsy about her dress tonight: her mantua gown was exquisitely composed and cut to her figure, the brocade petticoat full to the ground, the sleeves adorned with gorgeous furbelows, the décolletage deliciously full. She was tall, yet not too tall; her bearing bespoke a confidence and power that would never yield, yet the curve of her face and the freshness of her skin promised sweet consolation.

  Both Arabella and Lord Petre had told themselves beforehand that they would not look directly at each other when they met. Arabella reminded herself of this even as she turned into the salon. But each saw the other at exactly the same moment; neither had time to turn away unseen—and as their eyes met the impulse that would have made them move apart fled. Arabella’s eyes flashed; she parted her lips—to smile, to speak (though there was nobody by to speak to)—but found that she could go no farther. She stood motionless at the entrance, waiting for him to come to her.

  At last he was by her side. She found herself holding one of his two glasses, but neither of them lifted the drink to their lips for fear of a shaking hand.

  Lord Petre broke the silence. “How did Miss Fermor enjoy the first act?” he asked her.

  “I was hardly able to look away from the stage,” she said in reply. “The drama between the lovers was very powerful. I am wild to know how it will end.”

  “The lovers are compelling, are they not?” he echoed.

  “Exceedingly, my lord.” She smiled, but could say no more.

  “We are a large group this evening,” he observed.

  She inclined her head, but again found herself speechless.

  He was ready with another question, however. “Did you arrive with the Miss Blounts?” he asked. “I saw them in the box.”

  “I came in their aunt’s carriage,” she answered.

  In his new awkwardness, Petre realized that he had failed to kiss Arabella in greeting. It was too late, the chance lost. He stood in brooding silence, while Arabella looked about the room with an attempt at nonchalance.

  They were rescued by Richard Steele and Robert Harley, who approached with a view to sharing in more merriment at the expense of the singers and the audience. Then Teresa walked over with her friend Margaret Brownlow and asked Arabella whether she knew the name of the gentleman standing talking to Sir George Brown. With immense effort Arabella looked over at the person they described.

  “Yes,” she said shortly, “it is Francis Perkins.”

  “Are you acquainted with him, Arabella?” Teresa asked, determined to take her attention away from Lord Petre.

  “I have met him once or twice.” But instead of Teresa’s voice in reply, she heard Lord Petre’s.

  “You danced with Mr. Perkins at the masquerade, did not you?” he asked in a low tone. She only just stopped herself from turning to him instantly.

  “My Lord Petre has an excellent memory,” she said to Teresa with a light laugh.

  There was more talk, more laughter. One moment Arabella thought that he would walk away with the other men. The next Lord Petre feared that she would turn back to the box with Miss Blount, and that his chance would be lost. The chance for what, he could not say. Neither of them heard a word of the conversation; each of them looked for a reason to address the other. They both wished, vainly, that everybody else would go away. At last, as the audience began returning to their seats, they found themselves face-to-face. Lord Petre stood mute, looking at Arabella intently. She struggled for a pleasantry to break their silence.

  Finally she said, a little too loudly, “How eagerly I look forward to the next act.”

  Lord Petre continued to stare, and she had time to feel an instant’s anger toward him for taking no action—when, abruptly, in a low voice, he said, “I must see you.”

  It was Arabella’s turn to be silent.

  “Will you allow me to find you?”

  Arabella might have answered, “Shall we go back to our seats? What a delightful evening this has been.” And had she done so, Lord Petre would have checked himself. If she put a stop to it, he told himself, he would withdraw instantly. But Arabella, very much to his surprise, and somewhat to her own, did not.

  “I am not in hiding, my lord,” she replied, and turned to join the approaching figure of Mrs. Blount, who was walking back to the box.

  Seated again, Arabella thought back over each detail of their conversation. Their exchange had been deliciously fraught, conducted by two persons who thoroughly understood the habits, the small nuances of flirtation. Nothing had been overstated—except for his thrilling, urgent cry: I must see you. How unlike he was from the mewling suitors she had endured hitherto, with their hesitant approaches and weak compliments. A warning voice told her that she must not see him alone. But in her heart she knew that she had already gone too far to turn back.

  The players had begun again and now their music was delightfully sweet. At last the audience was quiet, captivated by the story. Over on the men’s side, even Steele’s protests were silenced as the hero vowed to endure all dangers to save his beloved. But his bravado was of a most fragile order, and sure enough, he was soon tempted. A Siren sang to him, and he was powerless to resist her call. Unheeding of his companions’ cries, Rinaldo abandoned his heroic journey. The beloved was forsaken; the hero had fallen.

  Very much against his wishes, Alexander found himself enthralled in the drama. He had not noticed until now that the composer and librettist had found a story so well suited to the present situation in England. It was an episode from Tasso: the Christians’ siege of Jerusalem. An apt choice, for the story was fraught with the drama of religious enmity. Yet how cleverly it was done, he saw, and felt the prickling agitation of jealousy. What a superb aria the Siren sang: how simple, how truly surprising—but menacing, with its steady, relentless rhythm. He acknowledged, with a sinking feeling, that it was superior to anything he himself had written. This Mr. Handel must be a clever fellow, German or no.

  In her box, Arabella leaned over to the Blounts’ aunt and said, “I am in need of some air. I shall return presently.” Her companion, assuming Arabella meant that she needed to find a chamber pot, nodded and turned back to the performance.

  Arabella stood up, walked out of the box, and leaned back against the wall in the dark passageway. How could she endure the rest of the night? Lord Petre’s question had promised such exquisite relief, but here she was once again, pressed between Martha Blount and her aunt, with nothing but more conversation, more standing about, more tedious gallantry to follow. He would leave with the men, she with the women. And they would meet each other in a fortnight’s time, as good as strangers again.

  Seeing that the men were all attending to the drama, Lord Petre withdrew from his seat. He knew that the right thing to do was to have a piss and return to the performance. But how could he shake off this
sense of anticipation? He could attend to nothing. He walked into a room just off the passage. He might have known that a crowd would be waiting there for the chamber pots, but felt that he couldn’t bear to stand for twenty minutes watching people urinating noisily in front of him. He walked out onto the street and opened his breeches in the alley beside the theater. Probably not a very sensible thing to do, he reflected as he came back inside.

  At the top of the stairs, he paused before turning back to the men’s side. He might just go around to where Arabella was sitting and look in. Nobody need see him. He would put his head around the doorway, and leave immediately.

  But she was standing in the passage.

  “My lord!” she exclaimed as he walked up to her.

  “Bell,” he said, and gave her the kiss that he had missed out upon before. His hand was on the back of her neck, his thumb pressed to her jaw. With his other hand he took hold of her shoulder, so that she could not turn away. The kiss was brief—had they been in public it would hardly have drawn notice, but for the force with which he held her.

  “Forgive my rudeness earlier. I came to render the debt I owe you.”

  “An oversight, my lord. There was much to distract you.”

  “There was but one thing to distract me.”

  She smiled.

  “Bell, will you come with me now?”

  She froze. Even now she could withdraw from this with dignity; nobody need know what she had felt this evening—what she had felt ever since she had seen him. But it was impossible. She knew that she must refuse him, yet found that she could not.

  “My things,” she stammered, “they are within—the Miss Blounts will—”

  He held a finger to his lips to silence her. “I shall take care of them,” he said, and walked into the box.

  Bending down to the girls’ aunt, Lord Petre whispered, “I found Miss Fermor outside. She is unwell—faint with the heat. I shall send her home with my footman. It is fortunate that I happened to see her, but do not be alarmed, madam. Do not thank me; I shall return before the act is over. Will you hand me her things?”