Making Sir Roger’s wife unhappy was not the way to win his respect.
“I had rather be stabbed, slashed, shot at, and trampled by the entire Polish cavalry,” Alistair said, “than cause your lady a moment’s distress. Please be so good as to tell Lady Tolbert that I shall be honored to wait upon her on Friday.”
Friday 20 February
THE dinner party was essentially what Miss Oldridge had predicted.
You’ll be…invited to admire pets, livestock, and children, especially their daughters.
Sir Roger had talked about Alistair being a lion in the menagerie. As it turned out, it was not Lord Hargate’s hero son who was on display but a bevy of maidens, all eager to entertain and entice him.
This was a new experience.
When Alistair had first entered Society, he hadn’t worried about anyone’s setting marriage traps. He was a younger son, dependent on a father who, while well-to-do, was far from the wealthiest member of the peerage. Lord Hargate, moreover, had four other sons to support.
In other words, Alistair Carsington was no great catch.
His lack of income, however, didn’t matter to Judith Gilford. She had enough money for the two of them, with plenty to spare. She might easily have supported a harem, in fact—and it was most unfortunate that the law frowned on polyandry, because it would want at least half a dozen husbands to give Judith all the attention and slavish devotion she craved.
But that was the London social scene, and this was a remote corner of the provinces, where eligible men were about as plentiful as coconut trees.
In eligible young women, on the other hand, the place abounded.
Lady Tolbert’s “intimate, quite informal” dinner party comprised more than two dozen guests. Ten of these were misses, all got up in their finest gowns and most flattering coiffures, and all exerting themselves to charm the Earl of Hargate’s third son.
Miss Oldridge would have made eleven, but she was hardly a young lady, being on the wrong side of thirty, and she made no effort to charm anybody.
All the other misses wore delicate confections of white or pastel muslin. These gowns, in defiance of the polar winds rattling the windows, displayed considerable acreage in the way of bosom.
Miss Oldridge wore a grey silk gown designed, apparently, by a strict Presbyterian minister for his grandmother.
She was, determined, it seemed, to drive Alistair insane.
In spite of all his resolutions, she was succeeding.
He’d resolved, since she’d refused to cooperate, to do without her.
He would view her as a piece of furniture standing in his way. He would not bump into or trip over her—figuratively speaking—this night, as he’d done during their previous encounters. This night he would make his way smoothly around her and deal with her neighbors instead. If he won them over, her objections wouldn’t matter.
So had he reasoned.
But how was a man to reason, faced with the apparition sitting directly across from him?
No candelabra or other large table decoration obstructed the view. The young ladies clustered nearby were easily entertained. In any event, it was impossible to look away from the horror Miss Oldridge had perpetrated.
The square neckline offered no more than a miserly glimpse of the hollow of her throat. The sleeves ended at her wrists. If not for the high waist underlining her bosom and the slim skirt skimming her hips, a man would hardly know she had any figure at all.
The gown was a shocking waste of exquisite silk and fine workmanship.
Then there was her hair, which was, in a nutshell, unspeakable.
Her maid had driven a rigid—and crooked—part through the middle of the glorious red-gold crown of ringlets, flattened it—with a hot iron, it seemed—yanked the lot back, and braided and twisted it into a stiff coil behind. A coronet of braided silver—dented on one side—adorned this outrage.
Only as the meal neared its end did Alistair find a way to regain a degree of tranquillity. He was mentally redesigning the neckline of the grey gown and cutting the sleeves back to dainty puffs at the shoulders. Much to his annoyance, he had to stop this promising work when Lady Tolbert asked if he had been to Chatsworth.
Alistair focused on his hostess—who, despite having a married daughter Miss Oldridge’s age, contrived to appear younger and nearly à la mode—and admitted he had not yet visited the Duke of Devonshire’s place, which lay ten miles or so north of Matlock Bath.
“You will wish to visit the Cascade, I am sure,” said Lady Tolbert. “A long set of shallow stone stairs runs down a hill. Over these water cascades from reservoirs on the top of the hill above the wood. It is most prettily done, and its effect on the nerves is wonderfully soothing.”
Lady Tolbert’s nerves, Alistair’s valet had informed him, were famous, and the bane of her husband’s existence.
Miss Curry, on Alistair’s right, said the Cascade sounded ever so romantic, and darted him a demure glance.
“It is most agreeable to contemplate,” Lady Tolbert said. “Since you are interested in artificial waterways, Mr. Carsington, you might wish to study it.”
Captain Hughes, who sat between Lady Tolbert and Miss Oldridge, observed that the present design dated from the time of Queen Anne.
The naval officer was a dark, dashing fellow in his forties, whom peacetime had marooned on land. Unlike other half-pay captains, he was comfortably settled upon a fair-sized property bordering the Oldridge estate. He might entertain ideas of occupying larger territory, for Alistair thought his manner to Miss Oldridge something more than neighborly.
“I visited the place in my boyhood,” the captain said. “It was a hot day, and I, even then, couldn’t resist water. I sat down and took off my shoes and stockings to go wading. I’d scarcely begun to splash about when the adults discovered what I was up to and snatched me out. It seems cruel to build such a thing, which little boys can’t possibly resist, then forbid them to play there.”
“It is good training for adulthood,” Alistair said, “when we encounter so much that is irresistible.” He let his gaze drift over the range of feminine pulchritude displayed in his vicinity.
His hostess, who was slender and well-preserved, preened a little, and the nearby maidens all blushed.
Except for Miss Oldridge.
Engaged in dissecting a tart, she spoke without looking up from her work. “I understand grown men cannot resist swimming in the canals in full view of canal boat passengers, not to mention the people on shore.”
Alistair wasn’t at all shocked by Miss Oldridge’s referring to naked men in a mixed gathering. He’d already discovered that her speech could be stunningly direct. As well, she was one and thirty, no ingenuous miss like the pretty pea brains surrounding him. Furthermore, country folk tended to be less delicate in their speech than their London counterparts, probably because of all the animals about them, endlessly breeding and birthing.
The Tolberts, certainly, were unpretentious. They served dinner in the traditional way, with all the dishes for each course set out at once. Likewise, male and female guests were not in orderly, even numbers, and sat wherever they liked—though all understood that the places at the head of the table near the hostess were meant for the more important guests.
Some quiet maneuvering had ended in a great many maidens occupying the chairs closest to the guest of honor at the upper half of the table.
Miss Oldridge had not maneuvered. She and Captain Hughes had sat near their hostess at Lady Tolbert’s urging.
The captain was regarding Miss Oldridge with amusement. “I take it the fellows were not using bathing machines.”
Miss Curry turned scarlet. Miss Earnshaw, beside her, tittered. But they were ridiculously young, barely out of the schoolroom.
“It is most inconsiderate behavior,” said Lady Tolbert. “Only think of the shock to a maiden’s sensibilities, should she come upon the men unexpectedly. She might be taken seriously ill as a consequence. I wi
ll not dispute that bathing is a healthful exercise—but in the proper time and place. Bathing in a canal.” She shook her head. “What next? Roman orgies, I suppose.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of orgiastic swimming in canals,” Alistair said.
“A gentleman wrote an angry letter to the Times about the swimmers not long ago,” said Miss Oldridge. “He said nothing about orgies. But he did mention moral decay.”
“The fellows must have been drunk,” said the captain.
“Or perhaps it was a very hot day,” said Miss Oldridge. “The writer blamed it on the bargemen. He said they were a corrupting influence. I understand they swear shockingly.”
“But they would not use bad language on Mr. Carsington’s canal,” said Miss Earnshaw, throwing a worshipful look Alistair’s way. “I am sure he would not permit it.”
Before Alistair could invent a response to this fantastically vacuous statement, Miss Oldridge said, “No doubt Mr. Carsington will add that condition to any others the landowners require.”
“Since we hope to have many, if not all, of the landowners as canal committee members and shareholders, they will no doubt act vigilantly against the corruption of public morals, Miss Oldridge,” he said.
“You will leave the responsibility to them?” she said. She directed a dazzling smile his way, as if he had said something desperately romantic rather than sarcastic. “Well, I know my mind is relieved.”
Leaving him vexed and dizzy, she turned the smile upon her hostess. “Do you not feel the same, Lady Tolbert?”
“Yes, I suppose,” Lady Tolbert said fretfully. “But I had not thought of so very many strangers coming, and Sir Roger did not mention it.”
“I should think we’d be used to strangers, if anyone was,” said Captain Hughes.
“But this is not at all like the tourists,” said Lady Tolbert. “They at least are respectable persons.”
“I am sure the bargemen are respectable in their way,” said Miss Oldridge. “And certainly they will seem altogether elegant, after the navigators.”
Lady Tolbert put a hand to her throat. “Merciful heaven! Navigators?”
“Miss Oldridge refers to experienced canal diggers,” Alistair said. “Skilled laborers.” Not riffraff and vagabonds, he wanted to add, but didn’t. He’d rather not plant any more unpleasant images in Lady Tolbert’s head. Miss Oldridge was doing that all too effectively.
“You will not hire local men?” Captain Hughes asked.
“There will be plenty of work for local brickmakers, quarriers, and carpenters,” Alistair said. “Still, the contractors must bring in skilled canal diggers—‘cutters’ they’re called.”
“No doubt Lord Gordmor will hire only the most respectable contractors,” said Miss Oldridge. “In which case, their gangs of workers will not all be ruffians. Furthermore, it is possible that the stories of drunken disorder and riots are exaggerated.”
“Ruffians?” said Lady Tolbert, turning pale. “Riots?”
“Disorder and riots sometimes occur in places where men are poorly treated and ill-paid,” Alistair said quickly. “I can assure you that Lord Gordmor and I will insist upon fair treatment and wages.”
“I am confident you will not allow any cutthroats to work for you, either,” Miss Oldridge said. “At least not intentionally. Naturally you will demand references for each and every person involved in the canal building, even if the work requires many hundreds.”
This was impossible, and she knew it. She might as well expect Captain Hughes to demand references for the men the press gangs forced into naval service. Alistair wanted to point this out, but he doubted Lady Tolbert would find the thought comforting.
Thanks to Miss Oldridge, the lady no doubt envisioned gangs of ruffians roaming at large—raping and pillaging as they went—through the pastoral hamlets and villages and private estates of the Peak.
Unfortunately, the image was not so very farfetched. Only the previous year, right here in Derbyshire, unemployed textile workers had banded together to capture Nottingham Castle. Though troops prevented the threatened mass revolt from materializing, fears of unrest lingered.
“I do hope you will bear in mind, ladies, how many hundreds of miles of canal have been built in this country without incident,” Alistair said. “Among them, Derbyshire’s Peak Forest and Cromford canals.”
“That is an excellent point, Mr. Carsington,” said Miss Oldridge. “We should consider another important one: the men will be less inclined to break out in rampages, because the work is less arduous than it was in the old days.”
“Indeed, it is,” Alistair said. “Much of the backbreaking work is done these days with machinery.”
“Quite so,” Miss Oldridge said. “Now I think of it, the din of the steam engines and other machines must drown out any swearing, and the smoke will obliterate any disagreeable sights.” She beamed at the company.
“Din?” said Lady Tolbert. “Smoke? Sir Roger said nothing about noisy, nasty machines.”
Alistair did his best to soothe her while he imagined himself leaping across the table, scooping Miss Oldridge out of her chair, and tossing her out of the nearest window.
Certain inconveniences attended any great building project, he reminded his hostess. While noise and smoke were drawbacks of modern methods, they did greatly shorten the process. Instead of having canal diggers taking up residence for long periods of time—many months, perhaps years—they would come and go in a matter of weeks.
Lady Tolbert listened politely, gave him a sickly smile, and signaled the other ladies to withdraw from the table. They adjourned to the drawing room, leaving the men to their port.
And while the men drank, Lady Tolbert would spread the contagion to the other wives.
Miss Oldridge had done her work cleverly, the devious creature. Alistair hadn’t foreseen the attack, and he’d been unforgivably slow to catch on.
Well, small wonder.
How was he to concentrate on anything when she sat for hours directly in his line of vision, dressed like a fright? How was he to cope with such a spectacle? He couldn’t, and so he’d focused on dressing her properly in his mind—or undressing her was more like it, and it would be a public service, really, not to mention economical. That appalling gown might have covered two women.
While he’d been busy mentally disrobing her, the foe had crept up behind him and all but routed him.
He had sat listening to Miss Oldridge poison her hostess’s mind while scarcely able to muster his thoughts into order, let alone devise an antidote.
But the women were gone, Alistair consoled himself as the port went round the dining table. He had only to deal with men now. They at least spoke a language one could easily understand. And they played by simpler, if sometimes more brutal rules. All he had to do was play skillfully.
THE men remained in the dining room for nearly an hour, which Mirabel knew was not a good sign. Sir Roger rarely lingered over his port, and if her father was the only one of his guests to drift into the drawing room, it must be because Mr. Carsington had the rest enthralled.
By the time the men finally rejoined the ladies, Papa was long gone. He had wandered out of the drawing room and on to the Tolberts’ conservatory.
Until now, the girls had been scattered about the room in duos and trios, some chatting, some looking at picture books. When Mr. Carsington entered, the chats ended, the books closed, and in a flotilla of pale muslin the maidens sailed, as if carried on a powerful current, toward him.
Mirabel supposed the nautical image arose because she spotted Captain Hughes making his way through the mass of maidens.
He came across the room to the window where Mirabel stood. It was the coldest part of the room, far from the fire. She had retreated there partly because she’d felt agitated and overwarm after dinner and partly because the drafty spot was not inviting to the young ladies. Their innocent joy in the gathering made her feel weary and cross, a sour old spinster.
“I’d no idea we had so handsome a fleet hereabouts,” the captain said, nodding in the direction from which he’d come. “Or did Lady Tolbert muster them up from forces abroad?”
“I take it you refer to the young ladies,” Mirabel said. “She’s summoned them from the far corners of the Peak. Now her youngest daughter is wed, she needs someone else’s future to arrange.”
She did not add her private opinion that the girls, while pretty, were too young and unsophisticated for a man who’d been fêted and petted by London’s most fashionable beauties. Too, the girls’ gowns must seem sadly outdated and countrified, far beneath his exacting standards.
On the other hand, they were young and fresh, and that was what males liked, all males, of every species.
“Someone should tell her to chart them a different course,” Captain Hughes said. “You’re the only vessel in his sights.”
Mirabel experienced a spurt of pleasure, which she promptly suppressed. After all, she’d deliberately set out to distract the guest of honor, she reminded herself.
The grey gown was outmoded and graceless to begin with, but in case that wasn’t enough, she’d persuaded Lucy to make a few adjustments, transforming it from merely dull and unflattering to hideous. The boring coronet needed only to be stepped on. But the crowning achievement was the coiffure Lucy had so unwillingly executed, declaring afterward that she’d never seen anything so frightful and would never outlive the disgrace.
Mirabel hadn’t been prepared, though, for the great number of beautiful young women so prettily garbed. They would make it easy to disregard her.
But Captain Hughes said Mr. Carsington could not ignore her, and the captain was an acutely observant man.
Miss Wonderful Page 7