She knew that Clarissa would be hurt if she suspected they shared, besides friendship, a ... Kitty dared not call it love. Outside of the impassioned words of romance, she was not quite certain what love truly was. Call it a shared regard for Mr. Devereaux.
I am going to enjoy this outing, she decided as she climbed into bed. But I will not put on my new carriage dress, in preference to the old. I do not want to be noticed.
The next morning, Clarissa appeared to have woken in a better frame of mind. She had put on her new royal blue carriage dress, the one Kitty had talked her into buying. It looked well with her pale complexion and brought out the warm tones in her hair under the pretty ribboned hat. A pair of tan gloves completed a modish toilette.
For Clarissa had remembered the idea that had once occurred to her, to be forgotten in the wake of other events. A little guilt had attended the realization that Kitty demonstrated more interest in a mere carriage ride than one might warrant, but then Clarissa had never set herself up for penetration into secrets and motives after the sometimes cruel, and often vulgar, manner she often heard around her.
There had been no dramatic awakening here, no vows to perish under violent passions, but Clarissa had learnt on her own part that love could warm one’s life as gradually and as softly as the sun appearing over the horizon. When she thought back, she suspected that Kitty’s interest in Cousin Philip had kindled into a genuine regard, and what’s more, Clarissa suspected that it was in some wise returned. Why else would he break his invariable rule, and attend so many events where he was sure to meet them?
She sent a covert glance at Kitty as she helped herself to eggs. Kitty wore her favorite green carriage dress, instead of the new one that Amelia and Clarissa had insisted she could carry off. However, the green brought out the shade of her eyes, and contrasted with her dark curls. Though it was not the dashing dress of blue and white stripes with the caped lapel a la Menèrve, the green one was if anything more flattering to Kitty’s charming figure.
The younger girls were chattering away. Eliza said presently, “Lady Kitty. You have got on your carriage dress. Are we going out for an airing?”
Clarissa watched Kitty blush as she said, “We were invited on an expedition to Hampstead.”
“Dull!” Eliza stated.
Any more conversation was forestalled when the knocker resounded, and Mr. Devereaux was announced,
“Oh, Philip,” Bess Devereaux exclaimed in accents of disapprobation the moment the gentleman appeared. “What are you doing here? Why are you come? Is all well with Mama?”
“She was when last I heard. I am not here to see you at all, but to give your cousin and her guest a respite from a household that must by now resemble Bedlam.”
Bess bridled. “Wretch! And I have been so very good, have I not, Cousin Clarissa? Lady Kitty?” She gave the latter a look of patent admiration, and said, “For you must know that Lady Kitty has played Charades with us, and asked her own maid to put up my hair when we attended Lucasta’s soiree, but do not think I have pestered her, for she said she enjoyed it, and I have not got myself into any scrapes, either, for I have been much too busy.”
“Permit me to depart, then, and you may return to your dissipations,” Mr. Devereaux said to his sister. “Are you ready, ladies? Or shall I have the horses walked?”
“Our hats are by the door,” Clarissa said, as Kitty’s cheeks bloomed yet again.
Clarissa was thinking, as Pobrick’s nephew Kelson handed her up into the curricle, that life had become interesting again.
Kitty found herself on one side of the gentleman, Clarissa on the far side. She was so surprised at the new sensations caused by such proximity to a gentleman that at first she was scarcely aware of the city streets they drove through.
But gradually her awareness extended outward. James’s style was the heedless speed called neck-or-nothing, putting pedestrians, carts, and animals at risk if they did not get out of the way. Ned probably would have driven much the same, if their older brother had not trained it out of him.
Kitty would have disliked it very much if Mr. Devereaux had endangered the population of London in order to show off the speed of his matched pair of bays. But he did not. If anything, he demonstrated greater skill by the way he managed to conduct the curricle smoothly through all the hazards of traffic, endangering no one.
Mr. Devereaux could not see Kitty’s face, only the edge of her bonnet as she gazed straight forward. But he found himself distracted by the entrancing curve of shoulder to waist, the line of her neck above the lace-edged collar, and he noted the subtle tightening and twitches of her gloved hands, which suggested unconscious responses to handling reins.
There was little conversation until they reached the outskirts of the city, and a gradual cessation of traffic. Once he had a clear view of the road, Mr. Devereaux dropped his hands, and permitted the horses to spring.
A chuckle of enjoyment from under the bonnet at his right inspired him to give the animals a good gallop, pulling them up to keep them from becoming overheated in the warm day. They preceded sedately up the pleasant valley between Clerkenwell and Holborn, slowing when the Fleet River, so unpleasant in its proximity to the city, ran clear in pretty streams.
As always, Clarissa’s spirits rose when they reached the countryside. Problems seemed to fall behind with the noise of the city.
Kitty diligently tried to pay attention to the wildflowers and bubbling brooks, but she was distracted by Mr. Devereaux’s strong hands on the reins and the outline of a fine legs in their buckskins—all that was visible at the edge of her bonnet. She dared not lift her head.
The horses slowed to a walk to cool down, then Mr. Devereaux guided them to a stream whence they could drink safely. After that, he pulled up under an oak, saying, “We might give the animals some time in the shade before returning. If anyone wishes to walk down this path to inspect the river—for this is the origin of the Fleet—I can tend to the horses.”
“There is no need,” Clarissa said. “I would prefer to sit right here in the shade. I even came equipped.” She pulled from her reticule the slim volume of Wordsworth’s poetry. “If you will entrust me with the reins, I would consider myself well occupied, sitting here reading, and watching the butterflies, so you two may refresh yourselves by walking about.”
Kitty gazed at her helplessly. This was not what she had planned!
Clarissa turned her way. “I have been here before. It would be a great pity not to see the stream, which is exceptionally pretty, while you have the chance.”
Mr. Devereaux turned a smile up at Kitty, and held out a hand. She placed her hand on his to be helped from the curricle, her heart beating unaccountably fast.
One last glance toward Clarissa, but she was already reading her book.
That was not the countenance of a woman in love.
Mr. Devereaux led the way down the path, Kitty nearly giddy as she tried to properly admire the delicate white flowering cherry, bell-shaped lavender foxglove, and sun-yellow celandine, but mostly aware of the crunch of footsteps at her side.
Mr. Devereaux said, “I was in the habit of driving two of my cousins up here frequently, when I was still a schoolboy: Clarissa and a mutual cousin who now lives in Surrey. Both came from noisy households, and craved verdure. I, being an arrogant schoolboy, favored any excuse to be showing off my horses and driving.”
He went on in this manner, in an ordinary voice, about ordinary matters, gradually winning from Kitty more responses, until it occurred to her that she must be a trying companion. How could Lucretia accuse her of throwing herself at someone who had to do all the work to make polite conversation?
She responded more naturally, and the conversation flowed along. The countryside—wildflowers—”Are you fond of gardening, Lady Catherine?”
“Well, no,” she said a little guiltily. “That is, I like to pick fresh flowers for the table when they are in bloom, but I do not much care for tending shrubs.”
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“What do you do to fill the time, then?”
Her tried to see her face, but only caught the edge of a blushing cheek. “There are myriad chores that must be done in aid to my brother, who acts as his own steward. That fills the day.”
“Do you find it tedious, then?”
“Oh, not at all. But it can be time-consuming. It is not only the household. In truth, Mrs. Finn is a most admirable housekeeper, leaving me little to do in that regard. I spend more time visiting the tenants on our land, when my brother is otherwise occupied. One cannot just stop, but must go in, and drink some cowslip wine, and listen to tidings of the parish as if it were all new, but I rather like it more than not. Each person sees things differently, and it’s rather like living in a story, which is good for writing—”
“Writing?”
“Letters—and things,” she said hastily.
“May I inquire how you get about on these parish visits? Do you drive?”
“I do. My brother taught me to handle our gig when I turned twelve. Later, he entrusted me with his team when I had to go farther than was comfortable for our old pony. But of course a female can drive about along in the countryside,” she added hastily, “in one’s own land.”
“Should you like to take the reins, then, for a time on our return?”
Extremely gratified, Kitty closed at once with his offer, and that thawed the remainder of her shyness. Once again they talked as they had at Almack’s that first night, cementing his conviction that her constraint was not natural to her.
When they wandered back up the path toward the spreading oak, he made a reference to Clarissa’s favorite, Wordsworth, and ventured a question on the topic of reading. He had already suspected that Lady Kitty was at least as well-read as Cousin Clarissa.
“My brothers and I often read plays together at home, during the winter. When we can agree on one,” she said.
“You all have different tastes?”
“Vastly. My younger brother has two tastes, either horrific ones, with ghosts, and madmen, and duels, or comic plays. My elder brother prefers the tragedies, the more high-flown the better, and I must confess a preference for the more romantical comedies.”
“I have a fondness for Congreve myself,” he said. “Though I am assured by many that his plays are thought outmoded.”
“My favorite of his is Love for Love.”
“Mine is The Way of the World.”
“That was Papa’s favorite. I quite like the valet Jeremy, in particular the way my brother Edward reads him. He, Ned, that is, makes the most famous Jeremy, and his Sir Sampson is as pompous and as nasty as you can stare.”
“It sounds a pleasant pastime, reading plays aloud,” he said. “I have not participated in such an activity since I was a schoolboy, and then of course one holds the wisdom and vision of the poets cheaply.”
“It is entertaining only if everyone in company is a good reader,” she said. “It can be otherwise if someone is slow, or reads in a dead tone.”
Though the conversation was quite ordinary—nothing the poets would acclaim—they found one another’s utterances bewitching, perhaps the more because they were true. Neither made extravagant claims, nor changed their opinion to flatter the other; they even argued in a friendly manner, Kitty insisting that Mrs. Haywood’s works were superior to those by either Fielding or Richardson, and he holding his opinion in favor of Richardson.
They quite agreed that nothing was to be made of Sterne’s Sir Tristram Shandy, Kitty offering her brother’s theory that the printers had dropped the pages upon the floor and picked them up anyhow. When Devereaux suggested that the author had made up a novel from one of his dreams, mixed up with a lot of Burton, Bacon, and Rabelais, Kitty admitted that she had read nothing by any of these three gentlemen.
They had to turn back, and here too soon was the carriage once again. But it was time to return.
He kept his promise, handing her the reins for the first stretch of road. Kitty proved to be an excellent driver, with a care to the horses as well as to the comfort of her fellow passengers. Mr. Devereaux was almost sorry when they began to see other people on the road, and they must trade places, Kitty feeling as if she moved in a dream.
Mr. Devereaux acknowledged that he must abandon his pretence of indifference. It was done by the time they reached Camden.
He was still not entirely certain of the lady’s heart, which only bewitched him the more. He, sought for most of his life, had discovered the enchantment of courtship.
TWENTY-NINE
Though courtship was not to be without its obstacles. The first he saw as the curricle drew up in Brook Street. A glance upward at the parlor window disclosed faces pressed to the glass, foremost the avid gaze of Miss Lucretia Bouldeston.
A quick glance at Kitty revealed a stricken, even guilty expression. That convinced him he had found the source of Kitty’s earlier stiffness.
“Would you care to come inside, Cousin?” Clarissa asked as the porter helped her down.
“I had better return the horses to the stable,” he said, and thanked her.
After Kitty and Clarissa had thanked him for the outing, he took his departure, deep in thought.
The young ladies put off their bonnets and gloves, and went up to find the Bouldeston sisters still in the parlor.
Lucasta had been in the middle of a long, exacting account of Mr. Aston’s recent excursions into poesy. Lucretia interrupted her sister to bestow compliments on the new arrivals and ask about their outing.
Clarissa undertook to answer, and draw Lucretia’s attention away from the silent Kitty to herself. After three or four uninformative, polite exchanges, Lucasta tried to resume her recitation of the new poem, but Lucretia cut her off, saying sweetly, “Lucasta, we must not overstay our welcome.”
Lucretia could scarcely wait to get outside. What was that stupid dowd Clarissa Harlowe about, parading all over town with Mr. Devereaux? She, who could have any man she wanted—who could buy any man she wanted, if the whispers were even half true about her immense dowry. But now that she’d thrown over Lord Wilburfolde, she must have her eye to her cousin’s fortune. Rounding out the family properties, perhaps? And what was Catherine doing there? Lending her countenance, of course.
It was past time to bring Catherine’s long visit to a close. Then Lucretia must turn her mind to the problem of Miss Harlowe. How could anyone so plain be so arrogant? It was probably due to her constant awareness of that immense dowry, and her grandmother being a duchess, Lucretia thought in disgust as she prodded her sister to walk faster.
“I am walking as fast as I can.”
“You always dawdle. And that puts me in mind of another thing, the way you were going on about that tiresome poet of yours, I scarcely knew where to look. Could you not see how very bored they were? Bess Devereaux will be pouring a long tale into her brother’s ears by tomorrow...”
o0o
While that was going on, Bess Devereaux, Amelia, and Tildy vented their feelings about Mr. Aston’s poetry, much as Lucretia had foreseen, but not nearly as long as Lucretia spent in scolding her sister. They soon shifted to other matters.
Bess Devereaux had developed a schoolgirl’s passion for Lady Kitty. In such cases, the earnest desire to emulate the object of one’s affections caused questions that could in any other circumstances be regarded as impertinent. “How much do you spend on gowns?” “Have you ever been kissed?” “How many offers of marriage have you had?”
Kitty dealt with these and more questions kindly, if a trifle absently, relieved when they were called to dress for dinner.
Afterward, the younger ladies went across the street to join the younger Atherton girls in a schoolroom party of round games and Speculation. Clarissa retired to answer a letter to her grandmother, and Kitty repaired to her bedchamber, feeling restless.
Her gaze fell first upon her costume for the masquerade ball, which she and Alice had been secretly working on since Carlisle had
brought it to her from Tarval Hall. She had not shown it to the girls, for she wanted it to be a surprise.
But she had no taste for sewing at this moment. A resurgence of determination caused her to sit down, mend her pen, and light a second candle that her hand might not cast a shadow across her page.
Remembering Clarissa’s suggestion, she began going through her manuscript from the beginning, altering and sharpening descriptions. When she came to Andromeda’s first encounter with the mysterious Duke, she began to write feverishly. Intent upon making the Duke less indistinct, and to convert some of the same sort of high-flown figurative language that the girls had been mocking in Mr. Aston to more realistic detail, she found her pen dashing along.
Her candles had burned down halfway when she laid her pen down and wrung her aching fingers. She was tired, and yet her mind seemed clearer than it had for days. She got up and took a turn about the room to refresh herself, then she sat down again and took up the page that she had just written.
She read over with increasing satisfaction the vivid description of the Duke as he drove up in his high perch phaeton. This description was so vivid that it caused the flicker of memory: Mr. Philip Devereaux as he took the reins from her on the road alongside the River Fleet.
She looked down again at the words she had written. She blushed and blushed again when she recognized what she had done. The mysterious Duke had become Mr. Devereaux.
She flung her pen down, gathered up her manuscript, and flung it into the bottom of her trunk. Then she whirled around and sat upon the trunk as if the papers might grow arms and legs and climb out to tell their tale to the world.
Was this what ‘particularity’ meant? She had only had time to acknowledge that the day’s outing, so quiet—so absent of anything like the dashing romance of Andromeda’s life, the floods of tears con amore or precipitously dramatic actions—had somehow been the best day of all her stay in London.
Was this how all those other females felt? If only she had real experience, and not just that of books! For in real life the women around her did not get abducted before they were married, nor did they faint away at the sight of their beloved, or indulge in such wild bouts of weeping that the faculty despaired of their lives.