The Painted Fan

by Elizabeth Aston

  Papa frowned. “You’re sure he gave the man something?” And then, as though recollecting himself, he said, “Do not be telling this story around to people. Mr. Vere is obliged by the nature of his duties to have sometimes to meet people in unusual situations.”

  Chapter 11

  After dinner Anna and Mama were going on to a rout. Papa was going to his club, but he escorted them to Aubrey Square before going on to St. James’s.

  Anna had no expectation of any pleasure; she went from duty and a sense of pride. People were not going to whisper that she was moping; that, lovelorn, she was going to fall into a decline.

  As luck would have it, the first man she saw as she entered the crowded room was Mr. Standish, dancing attendance upon Lady Flavia. It did not seem to Anna that Lady Flavia was really responding to Mr. Standish’s attentions. She winced at the gallantry and a flirtatiousness in his air, but she would not have said that Lady Flavia was showing any signs of an interest in Mr. Standish as a beau, as a potential suitor.

  He finished talking to Lady Flavia, and she turned away to speak to the Princess Lieven, who had drawn her usual court around her. Where was Mr. Standish going? He had a hurried air and there was a kind of excitement about him that aroused her curiosity. He had made his way round the edge of the room and was now sliding out of a door at the rear of the room. She started forward just as a man standing in front of her stepped back, treading on the flounce of her dress and tearing it with an ominous ripping sound.

  He was effusive in his apologies, and Anna assured him, untruthfully, that no great harm had been done. Clumsy idiot! How annoying this was, but she always carried pins with her and could easily repair the damage for now. She must find somewhere to pin the flounce and made her way with difficulty, for the room was crowded by now, to a door. The same door that Mr. Standish had slipped through.

  It led out to a little circular hall, with two further doors leading off it. One was ajar, and the other was closed. She hesitated and then pushed the one that was slightly open a little more and peeped in to see if it were empty.

  It wasn’t.

  A man and woman were in there, locked in a fervent embrace upon a sofa that was the only furniture in the little chamber.

  How shocking, how embarrassing, how terrible for her to catch them in such a situation. But no; neither the man nor woman was aware of her presence. Indeed, at this angle they couldn’t see her. She didn’t want to be a voyeur, but she stood transfixed, for although the man had his back turned to her, she recognised the coat, the shoulders, the back of the man’s neck. It was Mr. Standish, his hand sliding inside the bodice of the woman’s gown, his lips fastened on hers. Then he drew away and laughed as he tucked a fold of paper into her bosom, before he bent and kissed one white breast.

  Anna retreated, breathing hard, her head in a whirl. Who was that woman? She had seen her before but couldn’t put a name to her.

  So much for Lady Flavia.

  And for her? Was it such a surprise?

  The answer came to her. No. A sudden calmness came over her as she examined her feelings. She had imagined—no, had longed herself into—being in love with Mr. Standish. He was attractive, extremely attractive, but why had she been taken in by his handsome looks, never pausing to make any reasonable assessment of his character?

  He had flirted and flattered her, and she had been in the mood to fall in love. Had he asked her to marry him, she would have accepted him, and she thanked God it had never come to that. What she thought had been love was nothing more than the hotness of the blood and a passing fancy.

  Chastened, she took another deep breath and fled back into the drawing room, anxious to lose herself in the throng before Mr. Standish and the woman came back.

  The woman re-entered the room alone. Her colour was high, and she was fanning herself with a beautiful fan. Anna drew close to her mother and asked so abruptly that her mama looked at her with some surprise, “Who is that woman?”

  Mama raised her face-à-main and looked across to where the woman was sipping a glass of wine. “The one in purple satin? That is Mrs. Fortescue. She is a most elegant creature, do not you think? She had a tragedy in her life; her first husband was sent to the guillotine in France, and she was lucky to escape with her life. But that was a while ago, and she has been married to Mr. Fortescue these four or five years. He is never in London; he is one of those men who prefers to stay in the country.”

  It was a long time before Anna got to sleep that night. She was tired after the rout, and as soon as she got in she said good night to her mother and took her candle upstairs to her bedchamber, where a sleepy maid waited to help her out of her gown and into her nightdress.

  Her tiredness was not physical tiredness, but a deeper exhaustion. She lay back on the pillows, thinking about weariness, and then the word became “wariness,” and as images of Mr. Standish and that woman slipped in and out of her half-asleep mind, she thought that wary was what she should have been, and hadn’t.

  What an innocent, to think that you set your fancy on a man and then your heart followed; all so intoxicatingly easy. Whereas, wariness would have been a far better course to follow. How much did she know of Mr. Standish’s character? Very little. He had proved himself as fickle as a man could be, and she had to acknowledge that she had had a lucky escape. If Papa had been more influential, or her fortune larger perhaps—but no, she was not going to think about that.

  She drifted into sleep that was disturbed by a dream of Mr. Vere astride his horse, galloping after Mr. Standish, commanding him to stop and brandishing a folded paper above his head. The dream dissolved and re-formed, and there was Mrs. Fortescue, half-naked, fluttering her fan and looking over it with devilish eyes. Mocking eyes, and her ears filled with the sound of her mocking laughter.

  Chapter 12

  By the time her maid came in with her morning chocolate, Anna was glad to be woken, the light streaming in through the windows chasing away the phantasms of darkness.

  Mama had sent a message up by her maid to remind her that she was due at the dressmaker’s that morning for a fitting for her new ball dress. Memories of the night, those fleeting images of Mrs. Fortescue, tugged at her mind, but she resolutely dismissed them.

  She missed the sensuous pleasure that she had formerly felt when she had wakened and indulged in rapturous thoughts of Mr. Standish, imagining herself in his arms, responding to his embraces. She shuddered, amazed at how such strength of feeling could turn so quickly from adoration to repulsion.

  Once in the carriage, Anna sat back against the squabs, looking out at the streets, at a London grey under heavy skies. The black clouds exactly suited her mood but caused Mama to exclaim at how hot and close the weather was.

  Madame Girot was attending to another customer. She greeted them with flowery apologies, begged Lady Gosforth and Miss Gosforth to wait, to let her assistant attend to them, and then she would be with them shortly.

  The other customer was Mrs. Fortescue. She gave the Gosforths a slight nod of acknowledgment, which Mama returned with an equally slight bow.

  Anna’s eyes were drawn to Mrs. Fortescue, who did not appear to be having a fitting but was deep in conversation with Madame Girot. She held a fan—not as pretty as the one she was carrying last night, but still a charming one, with a pastoral scene painted on it. But as Mrs. Fortescue opened and shut it, Anna noticed that the other side was almost plain; indeed, it appeared to be some kind of parchment with words inscribed on it. Anna had never seen such a design, and she wondered about it for a moment before being distracted by her mama’s request that she attend to a detail of the trimming on her new gown.

  Mrs. Fortescue closed her fan and put it down, then rose from her seat and went over to the other side of the room to admire some lace. She returned to her seat, picked up her fan, and waved it in front of her face, just as she had done last night and in Anna’s dreams. She made a remark about how hot it was and, with another polite smile pinned to her l
ips and a nod to Mama, left the shop.

  Mama whispered her disapproval into Anna’s ear.

  “They say her first husband was a French aristocrat, and certainly Mr. Fortescue is well enough, but I think that woman is not what she seems. I find there is something very ill-bred in her air.”

  The fitting completed, Anna and her mother were bowed out by Madame Girot and set off for a milliner a few doors further down the street. Anna wasn’t in the mood for hats, and she stood inside the shop, watching the world go by: ladies bent on purchasing finery, servants walking briskly with packages to deliver, wives walking on arms of husbands. Then she saw a familiar figure; good heavens, it was that Mr. Vere again, taller than the others in the street and with an impatience in his vigorous stride. How that man did almost magically appear. Why was he out and about? Hadn’t her father said he had duties that should have kept him at his desk all day?

  Mama concluded her business and beckoned to Anna to come out of the shop. Outside she almost bumped into a friend, greeting her with cries of delight. Anna knew what would happen now: Mama and Mrs. Desmond would stand on the pavement conversing and gossiping. Oh, no. Mrs. Desmond’s carriage was drawing up, and she was inviting Lady Gosforth and Anna to go with her. That meant a tiresome hour or so fidgeting, obliged to listen to a conversation in which she had no interest and played no part.

  Mama seemed to understand Anna’s reluctance and, spying Mr. Vere, she called out to him. He stopped, looked an inquiry, and came over to them.

  Mama wasted no words. “Lord Gosforth said that you were going to call upon him this morning. Might I beg that you would escort my daughter home? I have business elsewhere, and I know it will bore her.”

  Mr. Vere smiled, bowed, and hooked an elbow for Anna to take.

  She felt the strength of him beneath the broadcloth and for the first time was conscious of what an attractive man he was. She stole a look at his countenance, which was quite grave. On impulse she said, “Do you have some serious matter weighing upon you, Mr. Vere? You look as though you are preoccupied.”

  He looked down at her, with a smile of apology. “Yes, I do have things on my mind just now.”

  “To do with what is happening in your government department?”

  He was surprised. “What do you know about what is going on at any government department, Miss Gosforth?”

  The words were out of Anna’s mouth before she could stop herself: “I heard you talking to Papa yesterday.” Then she bit her lip, furious with herself.

  His frowned. “Overheard?”

  She flushed. “I was not eavesdropping—at least not deliberately. I was in the library when you and Papa came in, and I did not know how to leave. I was not going to pay any attention, but I could not help overhearing what you said.”

  Mr. Vere halted and gave her a searching look. “I trust you are discreet. I trust you realise that this was not for your ears and indeed must not be spread abroad under any circumstances. If you were to prattle about it to your friends, the consequences . . .”

  Anna drew herself up and gave him a haughty look in return. “Just because I am a mere female, it does not mean that I do not have as much sense of discretion and honour and duty as my father and my brothers. Of course I shall say nothing. I am aware of how dangerous things are with regard to France and peace. I am not such a fool as you seem to think me, Mr. Vere.”

  That made him laugh, lifting the annoyance that had showed in his expression. “My apologies, but it is still unfortunate that you should have overheard that conversation.”

  They walked on; he appeared lost in thought. In for a penny, in for a pound. She said, “Mr. Vere, when we parted in the park yesterday and you rode away, I saw you stop and talk to a man, and you handed him what looked like a document of some kind.”

  “Aha, and you wondered whether perhaps I was the person who had taken the memorandum and was handing it over to a French agent. No, indeed that was something quite else, a folded paper yes, but it was merely a message passed on to go to an entirely different destination. The man in question works for us, for the English. If I told you his name, which I won’t, your father would confirm this, and indeed he knows that I have dealings with him. Have you been harbouring suspicions about me? I assure you need not.”

  Mortified, she murmured, “I was sure that it could not be so.”

  She had offended him and regretted that the easy camaraderie and the friendship that seemed to be developing between them must be jeopardised by her voicing her suspicions of him. More silence; they were turning into the street that led to her house. Reluctant to end their walk on this note, she ventured, “The lost memorandum is important, is it not?”

  Mr. Vere nodded. “One could say it is crucial. And that is not a word I would use lightly.”

  “Are there so many people in London who would wish to see the French triumph over us, even to invade?”

  “Indeed, that rascal Bonaparte has eyes and ears everywhere, and many of them belong to people who live in England. There are those among the émigré community who would throw their lot in with Bonaparte, and also tradespeople and artisans who support the regime in France. Perhaps even that milliner whose shop you have just left.”

  Anna laughed. “I can assure you that milliner is not any kind of a French agent. She puts on a French accent and has assumed a French name, but her real name is Wallace, and she comes from our village. I am sure she has never set foot in France. So I do not think you need be seeing any danger there. However . . .”

  Suddenly she had thought of Madame Girot.

  “On the other hand,” she went on hesitatingly, “I do have my doubts about the dressmaker I have just visited. Madame Girot. Now, she is a Frenchwoman, although I know she has been established in London for several years. She’s in great favour; all the ladies of fashion go there. But—”

  “But?”

  “Do you know Mrs. Fortescue?”

  His eyebrows rose. “I am slightly acquainted with Mrs. Fortescue, if we are speaking of the same woman. You have lost me. What has she to do with Madame Girot?”

  “Mrs. Fortescue’s first husband was a Frenchman, was he not?”

  “Oh, if you are thinking of her as a French spy, I assure you that women whose husbands perished under the hands of The Terror and were sent to the guillotine are most unlikely to support Bonaparte.”

  “You said yourself that there are traitors among the émigré families.”

  “Yes, and we have some information about them and keep an eye on a few of them, perhaps the younger ones who have an idealistic vision of France and think erroneously that Bonaparte points the way to a better future for their country. But I can assure you that to the best of my knowledge, Mrs. Fortescue has never come under any kind of suspicion.”

  She might be young and inexperienced in such matters, but she felt that he was wrong. Some instinct warned her that Mrs. Fortescue was not what she seemed. She must be careful, think it through in a rational manner. Was it simply that she had found the woman in Mr. Standish’s arms and felt pique and jealousy?

  No. She had been shocked; even though she knew of the free and easy ways of many ladies of fashion, Mrs. Fortescue, a married woman, should not be relishing the embraces of a Mr. Standish. However, that was a moral issue. There was something else about Mrs. Fortescue that struck her as false. She was a woman with a mask, and although in a world of artificiality and artifice this was not unusual, there was more to it in her case.

  Yet what use was instinct? Mr. Vere or her father would say that she was just imagining it. That she was envious of a beautiful, accomplished older woman who had attracted the attention of a man she fancied.

  They had arrived at her house, and once within, she went upstairs to take off her outdoor clothes while Mr. Vere was announced to Lord Gosforth, who invited him into the library. Anna stopped on her way up the stairs and looked down into the hall. Mr. Vere looked up and gave her a fleeting smile.

  He reall
y had a charming smile, and there was complicity in it. He was telling her that this time she would not be in the library eavesdropping.

  He was an interesting man, an intriguing man.

  Chapter 13

  Upstairs, in her bedchamber, Anna took off her hat and sat down by the window, still pondering on Mrs. Fortescue. What was it that was niggling at her? She closed her eyes, forced herself to relive the scene she had witnessed at the rout, Mr. Standish tucking the paper into Mrs. Fortescue’s voluptuous bosom, and then, with a skip, she was at Madame Girot’s establishment . . .

  . . . where Mrs. Fortescue was talking to Madame Girot, fluttering her pretty fan, laying it down, taking it up again . . .

  Fan! That was it—the fan.

  She sprang up and ran out of the room and down the stairs, in time to see the front door close behind Mr. Vere. Papa was standing there, talking to Henrietta, who must just have arrived. Anna had no time for her. She flew to the front door, the butler hastily stepped forward to open it, and she was outside, bounding down the steps.

  Henrietta called out to her and followed her out, asking what she was doing, what was the matter?

  Drat. There was Mr. Vere climbing into a hackney cab.

  Henrietta was beside her, burbling away. “I am so glad to see you. I thought you might be out making calls with your mama, but here you are. Pray, come back inside; you look so strange.”

  Anna looked at Henrietta as though she had never seen her before. Thank God, here was another hackney bowling along the street. She waved it down, bundled Henrietta, speechless with astonishment, into the hackney cab, jumped in beside her, and instructed the jarvie to follow Mr. Vere’s cab.