The winds of change, p.4
The Winds of Change, page 4
At the very least, they were ladies and, as such, were suitable companions for her. The same could not be said of Mr. Smith, who was obviously not a gentleman.
Perhaps she should change her dress—the azure poplin was rather plain, despite the rows of tucks at the hem. The ladies seemed to dress rather elaborately, and she wanted to fit in. But she would need her maid’s help to change, and she didn’t want to have to deal with Peg at the moment. The dress would have to do, but her shoes were another matter. Half boots were not needed for a stroll to whatever sitting room was in use today, so they were quickly replaced with a pair of blue kid slippers trimmed with a thoroughly frivolous bow. Another pair of bows pinned into her hair, the addition of a colorful Norwich shawl, and she was ready.
On second thought, she turned back and picked up her needlework bag. It was always a good idea to have an occupation at hand just in case the conversation proved less than enthralling.
Half an hour later, Clara sat in the window seat of the green sitting room, bent over her embroidery. The light was better there, she had explained. Also, it was a bit further from the gossip circle gathered around the fireplace. She wondered that the classical figures on the white marble chimneypiece didn’t blush at the talk before them.
The contrast was really quite remarkable. The room itself was serene. Sofas and chairs were covered in green and rose brocade, the tall windows were draped with more brocade in green and gold, the floor was covered in a carpet patterned in pale gold, green and rose. Mahogany tables and chests were placed around conveniently, with large bouquets of late summer flowers in the alcoves. The walls were hung with gentle landscapes by Lorrain and Ruisdael, even a pair by Constable. It was all quite lovely and gracious.
The conversation, however, littered the floor with shredded reputations. One woman in particular, a Mrs. Olmstead, managed to make the most innocuous behavior sound utterly reprehensible. She was a large woman with a florid complexion, and a habit of wetting her lips before she uttered her innuendoes. Miss Smithers, the pointy-faced woman seated beside her, greeted each remark with shrieks of laughter. Painful shrieks.
Clara concentrated on her embroidery and wondered if she would be considered haughty and arrogant if she left. Surely she had been here long enough to indicate amiable intentions, had she not? Much longer and she would be unable to keep her contempt from showing in her expression.
“La, I understand just how you must be feeling. This is not the sort of company in which I am accustomed to find myself either.”
Clara looked up into the smiling face of Mrs. Richardson, the blonde woman who had been pushing her bosom onto Mr. Smith’s plate at dinner. Settling herself in a chair next to Clara, she fanned herself gently with a handkerchief. Really, she would have done better to tuck it into the bodice of her dress, which was far too low for either modesty or fashion and definitely unsuitable for morning wear.
Clara blinked as if in confusion, and said, “I beg your pardon?” Her tone made her wince inwardly. Her mother could have imbued that question with the proper degree of frost. Clara was afraid she just sounded as if she really were confused.
Mrs. Richardson emitted a bell-like trill of laughter. Some gentleman must have once admired that laugh, for Clara had heard it frequently last night at dinner. Far too frequently. The woman leaned forward and patted Clara’s arm confidentially. “No need to pretend with me. We both know that our fellow guests are not of the highest ton.” She slanted a glance at the women gathered around Mrs. Olmstead. “I doubt any of them would ever be welcome at the sort of select affair that might be graced by the presence of the Duke and Duchess of Ashleigh. Do you know…” She paused, as if struck by a thought. “I do believe I know a connection of yours. George Wilton. He and my late husband were great friends.”
“Really.” Clara had nothing to add to that. Mr. Wilton, with his self-satisfied smirks and fondness for pinching the maids, was one of those relations one tried to avoid but occasionally was forced to endure.
Mrs. Richardson waited, clearly expecting a more welcoming response, but it was not forthcoming. Eventually Clara’s needlework caught her eye, and she reached over to take hold of it for a closer examination. Clara had to withdraw her needle to keep from tearing the fabric.
“My dear, what delicate work you do, and such tiny stitches. And whitework as well. I would not have thought anyone wears whitework anymore. Unless…” Mrs. Richardson paused, as if struck by a thought. Her voice fell to a whisper. “Unless it is for an infant!” That laugh trilled out again. “Obviously, not yours, of course. But do tell me. Is your mother expecting again? I declare, we were all struck with amazement when she married Mr. Bancroft. Quite a comedown, wasn’t it? I wonder that the duke permitted it, even though Mr. Bancroft is some sort of connection. And then to have twins not a year later! At her age, too. Or…” There was another pause and her eyes widened in excitement. “Is it your uncle? Is the duchess expecting again? Oh, do tell me when the happy event is to be!”
Clara’s face felt frozen and she was sure the frost managed to reach her voice this time. “I am certain that should any announcements concerning my family need to be made, they will be made at the appropriate time and place.”
Mrs. Richardson flushed slightly and sat back a trifle, but maintained her smile. “I quite understand. I will keep your secret. Lud, I am sure no one of any breeding would care to make an announcement in this company.” She waved a hand dismissively. “The women are bad enough, and among the men, aside from our host, the only title belongs to Viscount D’Ivry. That is why I feel I ought to warn you.” She leaned over conspiratorially with a knowing nod. “The reason I came over to speak with you is that I feel impelled to warn you. There is a Mr. Smith here, who has not the slightest pretense to gentility. No family at all, or none he cares to name. In trade. He could have sprung up from the gutter, for all anyone knows.”
How dare she. Clara’s first instinct was to leap to Mr. Smith’s defense—he was far more of a gentleman than the unpleasant Viscount D’Ivry—but she took a deep breath and good sense prevailed. She managed to speak calmly. “Really? Lord Talmadge introduced him to us yesterday, and my family quite enjoyed his conversation. My stepfather, in particular, found him knowledgeable and interesting.”
Mrs. Richardson shook her head and gave Clara a pitying look. “Mr. Bancroft may well have use for a knowledgeable man. That hardly makes him someone suitable to be introduced to you or your mother. A useful man and an acceptable gentleman are two entirely different things.” Mrs. Richardson gave a dismissive shrug. “Lord Talmadge should have had more sense than to make the introduction.”
Clara frowned slightly, just enough to indicate confusion once again. “But I am certain I saw you with him at dinner, and you appeared to be enjoying his company.” You were draped all over him, you sow.
With a slight smirk, Mrs. Richardson said, “My dear, I do not deny that Mr. Smith is, in many ways, an admirable physical specimen, but I am older than you, and a widow. He is not the sort of person you should know. I assure you, the attractions he possesses are not such that could recommend him to a young lady in your position. I cannot imagine what possessed Lord Talmadge to make that introduction, but I am certain that your mother was offended and that your uncle, the duke, would not approve it.”
Once again, Clara was feeling a strong urge toward violence, only now it was Mrs. Richardson, not Mr. Smith. If this was the sort of attitude Mr. Smith faced, no wonder he was so irascible. “An admirable physical specimen”—how utterly degrading. She longed to box the woman’s ears but controlled herself and gathered up her needlework to depart.
“I do hope I have not offended you in any way,” said Mrs. Richardson, as if she were truly worried. Perhaps she was.
“Were you being offensive?” Clara asked sweetly.
“If I was, it was in no way intended. I merely wished to give you a warning. You are very young, and I feared that, unaccustomed as you must be to such company, you may not realize just how unacceptable someone like Mr. Smith is.”
Clara smiled and nodded as she stood up. “You will excuse me. There are letters I must write.”
Mrs. Richardson held up a hand to prevent Clara’s departure. “Please give my compliments to your aunt and uncle when you write to them.”
“Do you know them? I had not realized.”
“I have encountered the duke in London.” Mrs. Richardson preened slightly. “I do not doubt that when we meet, the duchess and I will find we have many interests in common.”
“Really? I had not realized that you are fluent in classical Greek.” It was Mrs. Richardson’s turn to look confused, and Clara’s smile now held genuine, if perverse, amusement. “My aunt’s main interest these days—other than her children, of course—is in making a verse translation of Aristophanes’ The Birds.”
*
Lord D’Ivry was not a happy man.
The gentlemen of the party had broken up into groups. He had chosen to go shooting and had taken Benjamin Otway and William Haldiman with him. They may have been foolish choices.
Otway had been useful for some time now, but his father had suddenly decided that he was bleeding funds at an excessive rate. There would be nothing forthcoming until the next quarter’s allowance. That meant nothing more until Michaelmas.
It was preposterous. Otway was nigh twenty-eight years of age. Who could have expected that his father would still be overseeing his spending habits? His own father had never complained about his debts. Of course, he never paid them either. Now, when it was all too common knowledge that his father died leaving practically nothing but debts, it was getting harder and harder to avoid the duns.
A bird suddenly burst out of the shrubs to his left. He swung his gun around, fired, and missed. With a muttered curse, he flung the gun to the servant following them for reloading.
“At least that mushroom Smith didn’t inflict his presence on us this morning,” he growled.
“He probably doesn’t know how to shoot,” offered Mr. Otway helpfully. “Cits often don’t, you know.”
D’Ivry looked at him in disgust. Bad enough he was no longer a helpful source of funds. There was no need for him to be stupid as well.
Haldiman did not look likely to be an improvement. He just stood there staring like a frightened rabbit, his mouth hanging slightly open to add to the illusion. Would he never say anything? Or do anything? He had not even fired a shot, and there he was carrying one of the new Purdey sporting guns. God, what that must have cost!
“Why the devil did Talmadge invite him?” D’Ivry burst out. “Smith may not intrude on the shooting, but it’s an insult to expect us to sit down to dinner with him.”
“We could leave,” suggested Otway.
That won Otway another glare from D’Ivry. And go where, you bloody fool?
“Maybe Lord Talmadge owes Smith money,” suggested Haldiman.
That was actually an intelligent remark. A debt might explain Smith’s presence. Some of these mushrooms were disgustingly wealthy and, on occasion, willing to lend money in exchange for an introduction to their betters. D’Ivry gave Haldiman a level look but decided that praise might puff him up. He twisted his lip in a sneer. “I may owe the cent per centers, but I don’t invite them to dine.”
Haldiman flushed, as he should, but said, “Smith’s not so bad as that. Besides, I’m pretty badly dipped myself. Wouldn’t mind staying here until Quarter Day if Lord Talmadge will have me.”
Otway grimaced. “In much the same boat myself, have to admit.”
So was D’Ivry, though he’d be damned if he’d admit it. Haldiman being useless, though, that was a blow. He’d had hopes there.
“It was exciting to see that Lady Clara’s here,” said Haldiman. “But I don’t suppose her mother will let her near me. Pity. I could use an heiress.”
D’Ivry straightened up at that. “An heiress? What makes you say so? She certainly didn’t look it last night. Barely a jewel in sight.”
“Oh, yes,” said Otway, ever helpful. “Didn’t you know? Her father left her a dowry of 20,000 pounds, and they say her uncle will double it if he’s pleased with the match.”
“Not likely to be pleased with me,” said Haldiman mournfully. “She didn’t seem interested either.”
A slow smile spread across D’Ivry’s face. That priggish ninny had 20,000 pounds? He’d have her before the vicar, special license in hand, before she knew what had happened. He retrieved the gun from the loader. Another bird started up. He fired and hit it cleanly.
A good omen.
Chapter Five
John found Lady Clara eventually. She was tucked into the corner of a bench under the dense shade of a huge oak, and if he hadn’t been looking for her, he would have passed right by. Her face was hidden by the deep brim of her bonnet right enough, but that wasn’t it. She was sitting utterly still, like a rabbit hoping the hawk won’t notice him. Or a poacher, waiting for the pheasant to return to its nest.
Either way, she was hiding there in plain sight.
That’s what she had been doing yesterday with her porcelain doll imitation. And he had not realized it until now.
This was his fault. She was hiding again, and it was because of him. He cursed his stupid temper. He’d had a glimpse of the real woman this morning, and he’d driven her away. His curious sense of loss had nothing to do with her uncle and support for the railway.
Stop it, Johnny boy. Remember what you are. There could be no loss because there had never been anything for him in the first place. The railway was what was important, he had to concentrate on that. He needed to apologize, somehow get himself into her good graces so she wouldn’t turn her uncle against him before he had a chance to plead his case.
He stopped a few feet from her and took off his hat, the fine, tall beaver that had cost him forty shillings at Lock’s in London. It was a gentleman’s hat. He doubted it made her think he was a gentleman, any more than his finely polished boots did. They certainly didn’t make him feel like a gentleman. One look at her, with her elegant posture, and he felt like a graceless clod. His fine feathers would never disguise that.
Drawing on his courage, he cleared his throat to attract her attention. “Lady Clara, I apologize profusely for my rude behavior this morning. I had no right to speak to you in such a way.”
She lifted her head and looked at him. The sheer beauty of her face struck him, even—perhaps especially—now when it displayed no emotion. It was an almost unearthly perfection. Finally, she spoke. “Yes, you were rude, insufferably rude, and you had no right to speak to me that way. But I have been thinking about what you said, and I cannot deny that there was some truth in it.”
He made a protesting noise, but she held up her hand and continued. “No. I have been thinking about it because I doubt I would have been so upset had there not been something to what you said. I do not believe that, in general, I think myself above others—you were wrong about that. But I must confess that I felt, I do feel, a certain… disdain for some of our fellow guests. I find that I do feel superior to them, and I dislike having to acknowledge the feeling. It discomfits me to think of myself as proud and haughty.”
He had to interrupt. She was quite wrong about herself. “That is not pride, that is good sense. You feel yourself superior to them because you are. The stable boys are probably superior to most of them. It’s not a matter of birth and titles. They may call themselves ladies and gentlemen, but the best of them are fools and the worst…” He paused for a moment and gave a sour laugh. “Well, let me simply say that the worst of them should never have been introduced into your company or the company of any decent woman. Lord knows I would never introduce them to my mother or sister.”
She blinked at his vehemence. “Surely Lord Talmadge would not have invited them…”
John shook his head and one side of his mouth twisted up. “The blame for that goes to me as well. Talmadge means well, but he’s a bit of a daftie. I’m afraid he may have chosen them to make me look better.”
She blinked again. “I beg your pardon?”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he ran a hand through his hair and looked up at the branches shading them. Finally, he looked back at Lady Clara. “I think I had best tell you the whole foolish tale. Will you walk with me?” He put out a hand.
She did not refuse, but she tilted her head and looked a question.
“If we are walking,” he said, “I will not have to look you in the face while I tell you. I’m afraid the story makes me sound more than a bit daft myself.”
Her lips twitched. “Never let it be thought that I would wish unnecessary embarrassment on a fellow creature.” She took his hand and rose gracefully.
Unfortunately, he had no idea where to go now. His uncertainty must have shown, because she gave him a smile that was just a wee bit superior. “If we go up to the folly on the hill,” she said, “we are unlikely to be disturbed or overheard. The gentlemen have just returned from their morning’s activities and the ladies will all be fluttering about to admire their prowess.” That startled a snort of laughter from him, so she shrugged and said, “You more or less gave me permission for a bit of disdain.”
She took his arm and led the way onto a path winding up the hill.
The day was warm, and the dense shrubbery lining the path blocked any current of air. The heavy atmosphere was oppressive, or perhaps it was just the knowledge that he had to explain himself that weighed down on his spirits. After all, no man likes to look a fool before a beautiful woman.
That was all it was, really. Anyone could see that she was a beauty. It wasn’t that there was anything special about this particular woman. Except, of course, that she was beautiful.
He was digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole and he hadn’t even begun to speak yet.
