by Sophie Gee
But though her assurance and confidence had aroused him, that glimpse of her vulnerability had drawn forth emotions that he had never known before. He felt the desire to protect her, to keep her from harm: he imagined himself as her champion, secretly carrying her colors between his armor and his heart. His fancy took flight, and he pictured himself returning from the troubles and travails of the world to find her at his fireside, the proud smile that she wore in public turned inward to a sweet, imploring look of appeal. This new image of Arabella, at once the Siren who sang to him and the maiden who ministered, gained swift purchase in Lord Petre’s imagination, propelling him to even more vehement, and now exquisitely poignant, pangs of desire.
The pangs, however, he was shortly required to set aside. He was awoken at eleven o’clock the next morning by Jenkins, who came to tell him that John Caryll, his former guardian, had arrived in town. He had called at the house for Lord Petre at ten, but was in a hurry to be gone, and had instructed Jenkins to have Lord Petre meet him in White’s coffeehouse at noon. Lord Petre sat up wearily, reluctantly taking the velvet morning-coat that Jenkins held out to him, and sliding his feet into the slippers that had been placed beside the bed.
“I suppose I must go,” he said, deducing from Jenkins’s silence that his footman agreed. “But I cannot leave the house without breakfast,” he added. “Will you get me some toasted bread and bacon, Jenkins? And I do not think I can face my chocolate this morning. I shall take a mug of ale instead.”
He pulled on a pair of stockings and breeches and tied them into place, wondering which coat he should wear. Perhaps just his blue one. Mr. Caryll would hardly notice, and there was not much chance of seeing Arabella out this morning. He thought of Arabella’s curls falling over her face as she untied her stays, and felt an erection stirring in his trousers. But Jenkins came in with the bacon, and he was calm again.
When Lord Petre arrived at White’s, he was relieved to discover that Caryll’s friend Mr. Pope was there, too. He ought to have expected it, he reflected, remembering with some embarrassment the meeting at Ladyholt when he had made the unfortunate discovery of Mr. Pope’s crippled frame. Mr. Pope did not seem to recall it, thank heavens. But now he would not have minded if Pope had ass’s ears and a monkey’s tail, so long as he made small talk with Caryll.
Caryll stood to greet him, clapping him on the back. “How are you, my lord? Well? Splendid—you look tremendous.”
He had forgotten Caryll’s enthusiasms, more familiar with the prickly officiousness that had been habitual when he was his ward.
“You remember my young friend Pope, do you not, my lord?” Caryll was saying. “Alexander Pope, the celebrated poet?”
“Not celebrated,” Pope was mumbling, looking awkward. Lord Petre gave him a sympathetic glance, remembering the days before he inherited his title, when people were always introducing him as the next Baron of Ingatestone while he protested furiously. Of course nobody had cared in the slightest.
“Nonsense, Pope,” Caryll was saying. “Your Essay on Criticism is to be sold next month—you told me that Tonson believes it will go to a second edition.”
Alexander frowned with embarrassment, making Lord Petre want to laugh.
“What brings you to town, sir?” Alexander asked Caryll. Immediately the gentleman’s face became serious.
“I am here to see about a bride for my son,” he answered.
“Is not your son to marry Lord Arundell’s daughter?” Lord Petre asked without thinking.
“In the end I did not favor the match,” Caryll said stiffly. Lord Petre recoiled, looking at his former guardian with curiosity. How strange he was: one minute effusively friendly, the next like ice. He would certainly not want to be out of favor with him—or reliant on him for anything, either, he thought. He hoped that Mr. Pope did not depend upon him for his progress in town.
But Caryll had started to explain. “Lord Arundell would not agree to the settlement—he was greedy on his daughter’s behalf. The arrangements I proposed were fair, but he would not have it so. I parted company with him. But I believe that I have found another lady who will suit my son better. Lord Throgmorton’s daughter. Do you know her, my lord?”
Lord Petre shook his head, motioning for the waiter’s attention. John Caryll was a beady fellow, and he could well imagine old Lord Arundell blanching at the settlement. But he wished Caryll no ill; he had such a large number of children for whom he was expected to provide.
He was pleased when Caryll turned to Pope and said, “I have brought a letter from your father, sir. I hope that it contains his blessing for you to remain in town.”
Alexander took it from him quickly, with a nervous smile. “I should be astonished if it were to contain his blessing, but I do hope that he will understand my wishing to continue here,” he said, looking apprehensive as he broke the seal.
Lord Petre was beginning to frame a question about Caryll’s wife and children, when Pope burst out, “It is just as I thought. He does not like it, but he gives permission. I believe I have you to thank for this, sir.” He smiled up at Caryll, and Caryll looked gracious. Lord Petre glanced at him skeptically. He could not imagine Caryll interceding on anyone’s part, let alone for little Alexander Pope.
But Alexander was exclaiming again. “Good Lord!” he cried as he ran his eyes down the page. “That man was a priest!” The two others turned to him in surprise.
“What are you speaking about, Pope?” asked Caryll, prickling instantly at the mention of Catholics, Lord Petre noticed.
“The masquerade guest! The fellow who was murdered in Shoreditch,” Alexander said.
Lord Petre went still.
“His name was Francis Gerrard,” Pope said. “A Catholic from Lancashire. There was a notice about it in the Daily Courant. My father is an avid reader of the newspaper,” he explained to Lord Petre.
“Francis Gerrard,” John Caryll echoed, and he glanced quickly around the room. “He was indeed a priest, accustomed to visit the embassy on clerical business.”
Alexander and Lord Petre both stared at him. Who had Caryll heard this from?
Caryll continued to speak. “Gerrard had long been an ardent supporter of the Jacobite cause, very active at the time of my uncle’s arrest. Sometime ago, I believe, he discovered that there were traitors among the Jacobite agents in London. I was told that he went to the embassy that night to tell the ambassador’s secretary what he knew.”
“You were told, sir?” echoed Alexander. “You knew of this already! He was killed deliberately?” Alexander felt himself grow cold. He had allowed himself to forget the fears he had had when he first came to London. Martha had put his mind to rest, too, dismissing with calm good sense his suspicions of Lord Petre. But he had only to glance at Lord Petre’s face now to guess that they had been well-founded.
“Nobody knows,” Caryll answered. “Nothing more has been discovered of the murder.”
Lord Petre knew that he had gone white. “But where did you hear of this, sir?” he asked.
Caryll looked around the room again. “From an old friend,” he said quietly. “The Jacobites of my uncle’s generation are still closely connected.”
Lord Petre played with the buttons of his coat, pretending to be distracted by something the waiter was saying. He was stunned by Caryll’s news. What was the meaning of it? Was Caryll giving him a warning? He wondered whether Douglass had heard the story. He must be told immediately. Perhaps Caryll had even engineered this meeting to tell him about Gerrard. And yet it had been Mr. Pope who raised the matter.
Could Caryll still be with the Jacobites? Lord Petre looked across to him, searching for some sign of mutual understanding. The glance was not returned. But Caryll had already been imprisoned for suspected treason, Lord Petre reminded himself. He could not risk further involvement now. Once again he tried to catch Caryll’s eye, but he had turned to greet another acquaintance who had just walked into the coffeehouse.
Alexander was r
elieved to be gone from Lord Petre’s and John Caryll’s company as he walked back to Jervas’s house that afternoon. He wanted nothing to do with the Jacobites, and though he did not believe that Caryll could himself be involved in anything of a treasonous kind, the glimpse he had been given of secret communications and clandestine meetings had repelled him. Jervas was right—it was another world, one that he had supposed to be long gone.
Of course, for as long as he was living with Charles Jervas he would be safe—the very idea of Jervas letting anyone sneak around after dark in a cassock made him laugh. But it had been astonishing to observe Lord Petre’s countenance when the subject of Gerrard was raised. He had tried to hide his confusion—it seemed that Caryll had noticed nothing—but he had gone white at the news. Alexander smiled, gratified to have seen Lord Petre at a disadvantage for once. At first he had swaggered into White’s swaying his sword as though he were a knight-at-arms returning to the banquet after a hard day’s jousting. But he had slunk out at the end with his tail well between his legs, no doubt reflecting that there would not be much jousting to be had if his body were tied to a cart and divided into four bloody pieces.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“With varying vanities, from ev’ry part,
They shift the moving Toyshop of their heart”
“Arabella’s petticoat had no flounce,” Teresa announced to her sister as they sat together one morning about a week after the opera. Martha was working at her sewing; Teresa holding a letter.
“Who is your letter from, Teresa?” Martha asked, ignoring her sister’s observation, which she had heard several times before.
“Our grandfather,” she replied. “But he has nothing to say—he only asks how we do, whether our aunt is recovered from her cold, and if Alexander has been to call on us. Alexander has probably sent him the news by now. He loves to write long letters showing off about some author or other whom he has read.”
She walked over to the looking glass to study her face. Martha watched as she turned her head one way and then the other.
“Do you know, I think my profile is just as nice as Bell’s,” Teresa observed, as much to herself as to her sister. The day before, she had returned from a morning levee at Arabella’s looking crestfallen, and had sat alone in her room for nearly an hour. When Martha had asked about it she said, “Arabella had new friends there, whom I had not met before. She must have been going about visiting without me.” Martha guessed it was why Teresa was worrying about her dress today.
Teresa examined her profile again. “I was watching Arabella talking to Lady Salisbury yesterday,” she said, “and her nose turns upward at the end. But somehow she always manages to stand so that one does not see it.”
“What is that package on your desk, Teresa?” Martha asked.
“Oh, something from Alexander, I believe,” she answered, not looking at it.
Martha looked over at her sister sharply. She must have decided that Alexander was not a smart enough friend for Arabella and her new set. Surely Teresa had never dreamed that Arabella would take an interest in a young poet anyway. How willfully naive she could be, Martha thought.
“From Alexander?” she echoed. “What is it?” She stepped over to look at the parcel.
“I don’t know—it looks like a book of some sort,” Teresa said. “He has probably sent that Frenchman Boileau for us to read. Alexander made a joke about him the other day, which I did not even pretend to understand. He said he would give us a volume.”
Martha took up the packet and turned it over in her hand. “Boileau? I think not—I believe it is Alexander’s new poem. He said that he would send it, even though it is not yet in the booksellers’ shops.”
“Well, I think he might have waited at least until everybody else is reading it, too! What is the use of struggling through fifty pages of poetry if nobody else is doing the same?”
Martha laughed, exasperated, and said, “Teresa, do turn away from that mirror!”
She did not turn away, but she glanced at Martha’s reflection, which she could see in the glass behind her own. “Why do you not open it, since you are so eager?” she said.
But Martha had already sat down and begun to untie it, and she found the same little volume that Jacob Tonson had shown Alexander a couple of weeks before. She opened the front cover.
“Essay on Criticism,” she read. “How fine it looks. Alexander does not put his name on the title page, though—what a shame.”
“Probably because he knows how desperately dull it is,” said Teresa, and she turned to look at her sister. As soon as she had spoken she regretted it. It was the sort of remark that they would once have shared a smile over, when Martha had been quite happy for her to tease Alexander about his foibles. But lately, she and her sister had not shared in the jokes of the past. A thought struck her, and she looked at Martha wonderingly. Surely Martha did not imagine that she and Alexander could make a match? Unconsciously, she shook her head at her reflection.
Returning her sister’s glance, Martha frowned. “This is the first book that Alexander has published on his own. The Pastorals were merely in Tonson’s collection, but if the Essay is well received, he will have made a name for himself. Do you not want to see him famous?”
Martha knew a great deal about Alexander’s affairs, Teresa noted. They must have been spending more time together than she had realized.
“Alexander has been talking about this Essay on Criticism for years, and I am heartily sick of it,” she said. “Why does he never write a poem that is witty and diverting?”
“The Essay is an ambitious new work, and serious,” Martha answered. “This poem could be the making of him. And yet if John Dennis reads the poem, he may likely try to slander Alexander’s reputation. I know that he is apprehensive.”
Teresa did not care for Martha’s speaking on Alexander’s behalf.
“Who is John Dennis?” she asked as she examined the hem of her gown.
“Teresa!” Martha exclaimed in reply. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know who John Dennis is. He is the most famous critic in London.”
Teresa did not, in fact, know who Dennis was, but she said nothing, preferring to let Martha think she had been trying to provoke her. Until this conversation she had not been aware of the extent to which she had fallen out of touch with Alexander. She had forgotten that he had a new poem coming out—and suddenly she wished that she had remembered it. She ought to have realized that Alexander and her sister would spend time together while she was with Arabella—yet she resented their friendship.
Martha picked up the note that Alexander had included with his poem and read it.
“Alexander has sent us both a billet-doux. It is very charming,” she said with a smile.
Teresa jumped up and grabbed the note from her sister. “Let me see it!” she exclaimed. “It was meant for me, Patty. You should not have read my letter!”
“But Alexander addressed it to us both, Teresa,” said Martha quietly.
Teresa was distracted, however, when the door opened and a servant brought in a nosegay of flowers. She was at his side in an instant.
“Oh!” she exclaimed as soon as she saw that they were for her. “How lovely! And from the hothouse, for it is far too early for hyacinths from the garden. Is there a note, Jones?” she asked, but the servant shook his head and retired, closing the door with a bang.
Martha was deflated. She had told Alexander that Teresa liked white hyacinths, and guessed that he had sent them to accompany the poem. Of course, Alexander knew Teresa better than to hope she would admire him for his verses alone. Martha shook her head ruefully. Alexander’s affections were unchanged.
“Who do you think they are from?” she asked Teresa.
Much to Martha’s surprise, Teresa was evasive. She fell silent a moment, considering the possibilities. “I know not,” she said at last. “My first thought was James Douglass. When he danced with me at the masquerade I happened to say that our house was n
ext to Lord Salisbury’s in King Street.” A little spark of excitement appeared in her eye, and she added, “But now I am wondering whether Mr. Douglass might not have mentioned it to Lord Petre. He smiled at me very kindly when I left Arabella’s levee yesterday, and said that he was sorry I was leaving so soon.”
“Whoever sent them must know the sort of flowers you like, Teresa,” said Martha. She paused, and then added, “Perhaps it was Alexander.”
“Alexander? Oh, I don’t think so!” Teresa’s face fell, and she looked away. The sight checked Martha in her desire to scold her sister for the outburst over the letter. Her own hopes for Alexander were not so dissimilar to Teresa’s for Lord Petre. Was not her own pleasure at Alexander’s book as willfully misled as Teresa’s reaction to the flowers? She wondered now whether he had addressed the letter to both girls merely as a necessary gesture, required in the interests of politeness. Not for the first time since they had been in London, the sisters remained together without speaking, neither able to confide the feelings of disappointed hope that so occupied each of them.
Lord Petre’s private meetings with Arabella were quickly established. When Arabella held the morning levee from which Teresa had returned out of sorts, Lord Petre attended with a group of his friends: the Duke of Beaufort, Henrietta Oldmixon, and Lady Salisbury. His hope was that they would begin to include Arabella as part of their intimate circle, thereby making their clandestine meetings easier to arrange. Arabella was delighted by the development. When Lord Petre’s party arrived, a servant led them upstairs to her chamber. She was sitting on her bed drinking chocolate, wearing a loose nightgown and jacket, her hair not yet put up. Teresa was there already, with two other girls whom Lord Petre knew by sight. Arabella’s mother had appeared briefly to greet Teresa, but as soon as Lord Petre and his grand companions appeared, she left her daughter to pursue the friendships free from constraint.