CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Susan was a young woman who blew hot andcold because it was more exciting, and she liked to see men suffer. She was not altogether sure that Lord Pinkney would go so far as suffering, but she thought she might yet slip a barb beneath his armour if she showed herself very keen upon her uniformed admirer. Lord Edward Wittenham was as putty in her little hands, even though he sometimes dreamt she was squeezing his heart until it burst, not in the sense of loving but so that it might not follow its own inclination.
When he saw Lady Harriet that heart gave a little skip. Had it not been for the malign presence of Miss Tyneham, he would be determinedly fixing his interest with that damsel. He knew he was not the greatest catch, but he could keep a wife in comfort, assure her of moving in the highest circles and had a snug little estate from an uncle where he might settle once he sold out, and the army was far less interesting now there was peace in Europe. Not that having Polish Lancers attempting to skewer one counted as merely interesting, and there were odd nights when in his dreams he still parried the blow from a French cuirassier that thus did not slice off his arm but merely slid down his own lunging blade and neatly removed the tip from his right ring finger. He could hold his head up as not just a fancy soldier for London parades, and if you were going to have been present at any battles, Vitoria and Waterloo were undoubtedly the ones which would be remembered by everyone. He was twenty-six, and had no need to settle as yet, and no pressure from having to secure a succession, yet thoughts of a cosy home life did now intrude. He imagined that comfortable life with Lady Harriet, not Miss Tyneham, about whom his unconscious thoughts were more frequent, but located only in a bedroom.
Lord Rothley, who did not blame Wittenham for his infatuation, but pitied the man, wisely refrained from giving him the hint to stand down. He thought the fellow would see sense soon enough and would be left with nothing worse than an embarrassing memory.
Sophy, despite the added stresses, had always enjoyed the ball her mama held in the Hill Street house, even the awful year of her own debut. She wondered whether it was because it was one time when nobody announced her name. If it had not been for the tangle in which she found herself with Susan, and her worry over Harriet, she would still have enjoyed it this year, once she had got past the ‘day-before panic’. Bembridge was a fount of good sense and respectfully avuncular calm, whose veneer only cracked when Sophy took his hand and averred that without him she would have taken to her bed and hidden beneath the bedclothes, quaking in horror, until the event was cancelled. This reduced him to a blushing mumble for a full three minutes.
She thrust any thoughts about her cousin, and even her sister, to the back of her mind whilst there were practical tasks to check or oversee. She recalled her mama’s stricture to look at the positioning of the floral arrangements for herself, and double-checked that there was a sufficiency of hams, and additional patisserie from Gunter’s supplementing the output of the kitchens. It was only as she dressed for the evening that she wondered how the pair would fare. Harriet was not inclined to chatter with her cousin as she had been used to do, but had not done anything so ill-bred as refuse to speak to her. She need not fear a receiving line that gave off a crackle of mutual antipathy.
She had avoided the potential of one problem by the simple expedient of not sending an invitation to Lord Pinkney. She had also omitted Lord Rothley from the list, though she did not account him as disreputable as that peer. She told herself it was what her mama would have wished, even though it had not been decided at the point of her departure. She also told herself that the pang of regret it cost her was actually indigestion. At least the first was true.
Lord Pinkney’s absence would of course mean that Susan would, Sophy knew instinctively, devote as much time as she could just this side of propriety, to Lord Edward Wittenham. She had been tempted to omit him from the guest list as well, just for peace and quiet, but Harriet would miss him if he did not appear, even if she was forced to suffer seeing him in the clutches of her cousin if he did. Sophy hoped he might be Duty Officer, but this was not to be.
Sir Esmond Fawley would be present, and upon him Sophy could rely, and even foresee a few minutes of entertaining conversation. He might also be useful, being privy to Susan’s intemperate behaviour, if there were ‘emergencies’. She had the maid set a diamond crescent in her hair to match the diamond necklet about her white throat and the bracelet that glittered about her wrist over a long kid glove, and surveyed herself one last time in the mirror. The galling thing was that the thought uppermost in her mind was that it was such a shame Lord Rothley would not be there to see her in all her sparkling glory. She gave herself a mental shake, and the maid, seeing her expression, assured her mistress that she looked a treat. She tweaked the zephyr shawl that was draped with studied carelessness, and went out to take a final look at the public rooms, and then take her place at the head of the stairs. It occurred to her as she did so, and awaited Harriet and Susan, that this might be the only time in her life that she held this position, as the lady of the house greeting the guests. It was a rather depressing thought on which to commence the evening.
Lady Chelmarsh judged her parties by how hot it became and how fast the ladies’ fans wafted to and fro. By these criteria Sophy could safely report this one could be added to the list of successes. By half past ten the rooms were crowded and Sophy had sent Harriet to circulate among the guests. Susan she kept by her side, largely because she did not trust her. She therefore remained under duress and her smile was fixed. This was especially true because Lord Edward Wittenham had arrived a little after ten o’clock and she assumed Harriet would do just as she would have in the situation, and made every effort to find him and keep him ‘attached’. In reality Harriet was perfectly aware where he was, as if threads led from him, but she was too well brought up to be obvious or select people she would talk to upon her own wishes. She was therefore speaking to the most elevated of the guests, and the nearest she got to talking to him was to glance in his direction, catch his eye and smile. He smiled back, and she thought her evening made.
Sir Esmond Fawley was among the last guests to arrive, and smiled apologetically as he climbed the stairs towards his hostess.
‘Lady Sophy, am I in your bad books for my tardy arrival?’ He bowed over her hand, and then looked up.
‘That depends upon your reason, sir.’
‘Now that puts me in a quandary. Should I be honest and say I arrived late to make my preparations, having been on a very enjoyable drive to Richmond and back, or do I improve upon it and say that I was visiting my old nurse, and could not drag myself away because of the tears in her aged eyes?’
‘You could have said you were visiting your aged horse, and combined the two, Sir Esmond,’ suggested Susan, drily.
‘Now that is ingenious, Miss Tyneham, but I will have to use that next time.’ He paused, bowed over the gloved hand she extended, and when he straightened, his eyes were full of merriment. ‘Did the horse have tears in its eyes?’
‘Oh yes, otherwise there would be no feeling that you had done something that made the horse happy rather than yourself.’ The fixed smile had become real.
‘I shall remember that.’
‘And I, being magnanimous, will forgive you this once, Sir Esmond, but if you arrive late at a party I organise in the future, a whole stable of weeping equines will not save you from opprobrium.’ Sophy could at that moment forgive him anything for improving Susan’s mood.
‘I have thus been warned, ma’am. Will you dance at your own ball?’
‘Oh, I shall be led out by the most high-ranking gentleman present for the first dance, and I fear that will be the Marquess of Donnington, who is known to dance about as well as I sing.’
‘Have you a good voice, Lady Sophy?’
‘Cannot hold a note.’
‘Then might I only say that if your feet survive the encounter intact, I would consider myself honoured if you would dance with me later in the evening.’
‘If you see me limping you will know I amhors de combat.’
‘When I was young,’ murmured Susan, mistress of nineteen summers, ‘I thoughthors de combatwas the French for ‘warhorse’.
‘A perfectly logical mistake to make, Miss Tyneham.’ He bowed, and moved away into the throng.
Sir Esmond having apparently turned Susan’s sulk into something approaching good humour, Sophy felt brave enough to send her among the guests for a while, though she tried hard to keep her eye upon both her and Harriet as best she could. She had explained that they had ‘duties’ tonight, and would be expected to think of their guests more than themselves. When she looked at Susan she wondered if the girl even understood the concept of ‘not thinking of herself’.
When the dancing commenced, Sophy sacrificed her feet, and let Lord Donington, whom, she found out, had clammy hands as well as being a lumbering dancer, lead her to the floor. After these purgatorial few minutes, she was able to wander among ‘her’ guests, feeling less and less nervous and more assured that anyone to whom she spoke would be enjoying the party. Whilst the reason for the Season was to see Harriet and Susan established, the most important event to Lady Chelmarsh, other than the Presentation, which was so formulaic Sophy had not feared Susan might behave outrageously, was their own party, when house and occupants would be on full show. If she could report that it went smoothly, if friends wrote to her to say that it was ‘a terrible squeeze’ and that they had an excellent evening, then she would be able to look Mama in the eye.
By one o’clock she had not noticed any great thinning of numbers, so was confident that people were not drifting away to put in an appearance elsewhere. She relaxed enough to enjoy herself. Sir Esmond renewed his request that she dance with him, and she accepted, little knowing that among some of the matrons this was seen as significant.
