This seed of awareness had flowered when St. Tarval arrived to claim his dance. On the surface, everything had been scrupulously proper. They had talked about nothing but books. However, they had talked. He did not tell her what to think. He did not look at her with faint horror when she admitted to having laughed out loud when reading Mr. Fielding’s Adventures of Tom Jones, or Joseph Andrews. He did not cite his mother’s philosophy on the worthlessness of novels. Never had she enjoyed a dance as much. Never.
She could not dance twice with any man but her betrothed. She knew Lord Wilburfolde was willing to do his duty by her a second time, but that was part of the problem. He was only sure of himself when he was doing his duty, and if they were to dance again, he would enumerate all of the diseases that might occur as a result of this al fresco event.
She could not suppress the sting of tears, so she walked away to seek the cooler air of the terrace, where she might also hide pink eyelids — for there was nothing romantic all about Clarissa’s face when she was weepy. Her nose and eyelids would give her away.
She had just reached the terrace when a familiar voice caught her up, “Would you like a stroll in the cool air, Clarissa?”
It was Cousin Philip. Though the terrace was in shadow compared to the brilliance of the ballroom, she understood from his quick look of concern that the light had still given her away.
He was a comfortable friend. He would not intrude upon her thoughts, either with impertinent questions or unwanted advice. She took his arm gratefully.
They walked over the little bridge and into the rose garden along the artificial stream. Many of the fairy lights had burned out, and ghostly paper bubbles bobbed on the water. She felt that those represented her soul, and then scolded herself for her fancy.
He said, “May I compliment you on your new style?”
“Oh, do not,” she implored, then caught herself. “I beg your pardon. It is merely the headache causing foolish megrims.”
He guided her to one of the stone benches and they sat down. The only sounds were the croaking of frogs nearby, and in the distance the scrape and flourish of violins, and the buzz of merriment.
She took a gulp of air and squared her shoulders. “I will only say that whatever is pleasing in my appearance is not due to any incipient change of state. It is entirely due to Lady Kitty. You know that I have never been passionate about dress. It was easier to permit my aunt to have her way, but this year, when I went shopping with my guest, it was an unlooked for felicity that she has a natural eye for style.” She gave a watery chuckle. “You probably think me boring.”
“I hope we have been friends too long for that. We agree that our real interests lie in different directions than dress, and as always, I value your honesty. Speaking of which, there are times when I am conversing with your guest that I perceive a sudden restraint. If she has taken a dislike to me, it would be better to let me know now, rather than permit me to behave like a coxcomb in pressing upon her an unwanted friendship.”
“That is not at all the case, I believe. If there is a restraint, I suspect she has been influenced from another quarter. At least, I have become aware that visits from the person in question invariably result in a mood of anxious worry.” She stopped there, uncomfortably aware of having strayed into the area of gossip.
To her relief, he said only, “I believe I understand. Perhaps, then, on my return to London, if I were to invite you and your guest for a drive... say to Hampstead Heath? I am very much persuaded that you will need an outing after enduring the high spirits of our respective younger sisters for days.”
“It would be a delight on my part, and I will speak to Kitty.” She rose. “Thank you for your kindness. I believe my head is the better for the fresh air, and I would not trespass a moment more on your time.”
Kitty and St. Tarval observed the two from across the terrace. Kitty said, “Clarissa has just returned from walking with her cousin. See how much happier she is?”
Her brother patted her hand as they walked on, but he did not speak.
They were not the only ones who noticed; Lucretia, who wished to be available for a second dance, saw them as well, and smiled benignly. Miss Harlowe was safely betrothed, and indeed, there had been no signs of any special regard these past four years. She and her cousin Devereaux were merely friends.
Lucretia then realized that she had been remiss in that regard. A friendship with Miss Harlowe would enable Lucretia to call in Brook Street more frequently. Her reward would be evidence of her devotion to Mr. Devereaux’s relations, should he find her there.
And so, after Clarissa took a seat with her family, Lucretia sat down beside her and exerted herself to be friendly.
Clarissa knew that this year she really did look better than she ever had, but what could motivate Miss Bouldeston to suddenly declare that Clarissa’s gown was the sweetest thing she could conceive, and wasn’t it lucky that she was betrothed, or else all the men in the room would fall in love with the way she had done her hair?
Clarissa was disconcerted by the increasingly lavish stream of compliments, returning ever shorter answers — which prompted Lucretia to greater efforts.
Kitty kept walking with her brother, hoping that Lucretia would go away soon so she could sit next to Clarissa and encourage her to talk about her cousin. St. Tarval wanted Lucretia to move on so that he could ask Clarissa for another dance.
Kitty said, “You have been invited to the Duchess of Norcaster’s masquerade ball, have you not?”
“Yes. Arden saw to that. Why?”
“Did you bring Kirby to town, or anyone else?”
“Just Kirby, and he is not always with us. Perforce I rely on him to carry messages back and forth to Tarval Hall. Why do you ask, Kit?”
She smiled mysteriously. “I hoped that that was the case. It has to do with a costume for the masquerade. I will give you a letter for Kirby to carry to Mrs. Finn.”
Everyone was surprised when Edward presented himself before Clarissa. Kitty and St. Tarval could not hear whatever it was he said, but the import was soon clear when she rose, and took his hand to follow him toward the dance floor.
“This is the first time I have ever seen Ned do that,” Kitty whispered. “I didn’t even know that he could dance.”
“I saw to it he had lessons his last year at Eton,” St. Tarval admitted, “but I never thought it took.”
Ned brought Clarissa toward them; neither Kitty nor St. Tarval were aware of stopping until Mr. Worthington appeared, and asked Kitty to dance.
Ned seemed to be looking through the crowd ringing the dance floor for an opening to get through. But then he stumbled against one of the little spindle-legged chairs, and winced, exclaiming, “Ow, ow!”
Clarissa was quick to concern, as was St. Tarval, their voices colliding, “Oh, sir, are you all right?” “Ned, have you hurt yourself?”
“A spanking bruise is all,” Ned said, shaking one foot. “Here, Carlisle, will you mind dancing with Miss Harlowe? I’m going to sit right here until the pain goes off. It will in a trice. It was the merest glancing blow.”
St. Tarval flushed at this obvious ploy, risking a glance at Miss Harlowe, whose expression of concern made it clear that such ploys had hitherto played no part in her life.
The marquess stretched out his hand. “I hope you will not mind, though it is our second?”
She glanced at his hand, instinctively responding to that gesture of appeal. She was distracted by a small gap between the edge of his glove and his sleeve. The skin was marred by a purplish scar.
“Were you hurt?” she asked, for the scar did not look very old.
He flushed becomingly. “An accident. A matter of a splinter, and my own unwariness.”
The ballroom was if anything significantly hotter than it had been, the crowd thicker. The noise greater, so great there was little chance of being heard without shouting. But she was content to stand near him, content to enjoy the press of his fingers on h
er gloved hand, however brief, the sound of his breathing as he stepped near and then away. The sight of his face, as she memorized every feature, the quiver of his lashes, the slight curve of his mobile mouth. How could she ever have thought him ordinary? He was the handsomest man in the world.
He, too, enjoyed the moment, though he knew he ought not. He’d promised Kit to forward the cousin’s chances, and Devereaux seemed an excellent man. But the marquess could not force the first words past his lips.
And so they danced in silence, each in a reverie of glory, the sharper for the awareness of how transient it must be. Each beat of the music carried them inexorably toward the moment when they must part.
That parting was brought home when the dance ended, and there was Lucretia, bridling and simpering as she made a play with lowered lashes. “I believe you spoke of the supper dance, Carlisle,” she said—for she’d just seen Mr. Devereaux go off with one of his married cousins, whose husband had been posted to Spain.
St. Tarval bowed, held out his arm, and Clarissa parted with a polite word to both. She would not presume to know the gentleman’s mind. But that countenance seemed as far from a man in love as was possible.
o0o
Later that evening, when the two young ladies went upstairs to bed, Clarissa paused on the landing. “Kitty, may I speak to you, or are you too tired?”
“Not at all,” Kitty stifled a sudden yawn, and grinned at being caught, but she joined Clarissa in her chamber.
Kitty sat on the hassock, paying no attention to her ball gown, which was already sadly crushed. “Oh, my novel,” she exclaimed, spying the papers on the escritoire. “Have you looked at it?”
“I am nearly finished reading it. Would you like an opinion now, or when I am done?”
“Oh, not now. Is that all? I know we are engaged to go riding in a few hours.”
“Before they escape my mind I wished to put to you a pair of questions.”
“Ask,” Kitty said fervently. “You have been so good to me—”
“Please, no more of that. The pleasure has been entirely mine own. But, I confess a concern for your brother. I could not but help notice a healing wound on his arm, and having seen it, noticed that he favored the other. I trust there is nothing seriously amiss?”
Kitty laughed in relief. “Oh, that! Ned told me the other day, I forget, I think when we were walking. Carlisle makes nothing of it, but he and Ned carried out one last landing, and though it was a success, the landing was very rough, and Carlisle’s hand was pinned between a barrel and the rail of the boat, where a splinter scored it. He is not materially hurt, and they will never go out smuggling again, but Ned said that this is why they were able to come to town.”
“I see,” Clarissa said. She found that she approved of this sign of sibling loyalty far more than she cared for a strict adherence to an unpopular law.
“Your second question?”
“Have you taken a dislike to my cousin Devereaux?”
Kitty stared blankly, her cheeks flaming. “Not at all! How did you—what made you think that?”
“I noticed a... a restraint in his presence, and hoped that he had done nothing to make you uncomfortable.”
“Oh, not at all. It’s just that I received a hint—advice—not to appear forward, especially as that gentleman has been given a disgust for such behavior—”
“Nonsense,” Clarissa said. “I beg your pardon. Your behavior is a very model of restraint. And if anything had been at fault, you may be sure that my mother, or I, would have long since shown you how to go on. Conversing with my cousin is hardly seen as forward behavior.”
“Thank you,” Kitty said, looking away.
Clarissa saw with surprise that betraying flush, and a new idea occurred to her.
Kitty was also thinking rapidly. So this explained why he had made no motions toward Clarissa. Having brothers, she had gained a different perspective on young men, and she said, “Though a great deal is said about female delicacy, the truth that I have discovered is that men are not born knowing how to court any more than women are. Perhaps, having been pursued so long, Mr. Devereaux actually does not know how to go about pursuing? If someone were to not care about his looks, and wealth, and so forth?”
“I think he would proceed with extreme caution, having spent most of his life as a topic for idle talk,” Clarissa said. “So, if my cousin were to invite us both out for a drive to Hampstead, would you accept?”
“Gladly,” Kitty said, and the girls parted, both with a better understanding—even if they did not quite understand the same things.
TWENTY-FIVE
“What was that, Kingston?” Lord Wilburfolde sat up in bed and stared at his man, aghast.
“Your lordship, I said, if it pleases you, I should like leave to marry.”
Lord Wilburfolde’s first reaction was betrayal, and hard on that, the irritation of frustration. His mother had been correct in her warning that London only encouraged servants to gad about. If they were home, such goings-on never would occur.
“Why do you put me to this trouble?” Lord Wilburfolde muttered fretfully.
Of late he had wondered if his mother might be misinformed upon some points. For example, Clarissa never once turned up at death’s door after any of Mother’s dire warnings about sitting near open windows, or mixing among the lower orders in such dirty emporia as the Pantheon Bazaar.
He ran his fingers up and down the neat stitching that edged the sheet, as if the bumps would guide him toward what he ought to do. Here was Kingston, and Lord Wilburfolde knew what his mother would do. Any servant so presumptuous was instantly turned off without a character. Yet Kingston was so quiet, so perfect in every way. He knew how Lord Wilburfolde liked everything. He never had to say anything. Especially here in this noisy city, where disorder reigned over order, it was so comforting to return to his lodging and find everything waiting just so.
Kingston saw the ambivalence in his master’s face, and assumed his most deferential air. A fusspot Lord W. might be—and his mother a dragon—but the son could be managed, if one knew how to get over rough ground. “If I may be so bold, your lordship...”
Lord Wilburfolde, desperate for a way out, said, “Yes, Kingston?”
“My Bridget is under-maid to a milliner, but she’s got a way with linens. Her mistress at the shop has even said, no one has such deedy fingers. That very sheet, there, your lordship, she repaired it for me, when the laundry-maid brought it back with a rend, for it must be said, the linens are somewhat old.”
“Her ladyship says they have years of use left in them,” Lord Wilburfolde stated.
Kingston bowed. “Her ladyship’s wisdom is a watchword among us, and we know her excellent, saving ways. But think of it this way, if I may be so bold, your lordship. You would be gaining another servant, not losing one. Surely, her ladyship would see the benefit in such a saving.”
“Losing?” Lord Wilburfolde repeated, pouncing on the word that most concerned him.
Kingston bowed his head and assumed his most apologetic air. “I would very much regret having to give notice, your lordship. But I stood up in church and plighted my troth. There’s no going against that.”
“No indeed.” Lord Wilburfolde gave a reluctant nod. Even his mother must acknowledge the greater claims of Providence.
He looked down at the edge of the sheet, and for the first time in his life, thought about the hands that had put in those even stitches. His imagination could not quite extend beyond those hands, except in the sense of convenience, and very convenient it would be to have someone so clever in the household. Surely his mother would think so. Would she not? He fretted under a renewal of that sense of betrayal. He anticipated his mother’s extreme disapprobation, because she did not like servants marrying without her having been consulted, everything proper and with due attention to their betters.
Lord Wilburfolde plucked at the coverlet and sighed. He liked the notion of being married, once he’d bec
ome accustomed to it. Besides the obvious comforts, it would only improve matters if Clarissa and Mother would deal directly.
“I shall put the question to her ladyship,” Lord Wilburfolde said.
“Pardon me, your lordship, but did you mean the future Lady Wilburfolde?”
Lord Wilburfolde stared, and the valet went smoothly on. “As head of your household—your future household—you of course must be the first consulted, but the new Lady Wilburfolde might welcome a thrifty, clever seamstress before she is put to the trouble of finding her own servants if you were wishful of establishing a separate household.”
Lord Wilburfolde’s first reaction was to deny being head of the household, as if his mother were listening from the next room, but then he bethought of the fact that legally, he was the head. The idea of a separate household was interesting, but he did not like to think about what his mother would say.
Kingston began straightening things about the room, and walked noiselessly out, leaving the question in the air.
Lord Wilburfolde was relieved. He tried out the idea of being the head of a household. Perhaps he might begin as he would like to go on, with Clarissa. What would happen if he tried to tell her what he would like, as head of their future household?
It was past time to return home, for he’d had enough of the metropolis. They could travel to Hampshire together. The presence of her maid and Kingston would make it perfectly respectable.
He moved to his desk to pen a note asking after her health. If she were well, he said, they might consult about important matters.
o0o
The light of day brought unsettling reflections into Clarissa’s head, forming around the disclosure Kitty had made light of the night before. Why should the marquess and his brother risk their lives to gain the wherewithal to come to town, unless they had a purpose?
Impatient lovers would be understandable. But the reserve in St. Tarval’s face when Lucretia Bouldeston had appeared could not have differed more from the expression Clarissa had met with when she accepted his offer to dance.