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Chapter Thirteen

As it happened, the Penshallow box at the Theatre Royal was directly across from the Lindow box. From Ophelia’s point of view, it couldn’t have been more unfortunate.

She and Maddie arrived in plenty of time. Maddie had cheered up and decided to enjoy her role as a woman in a delicate condition; she fanned herself constantly and entertained her friends with whispered commentary about the trials and tribulations of carrying an heir.

As far as Ophelia could see, there was near-universal acceptance of Maddie’s condition, but she knew it wasn’t enough to merely display Maddie with a cotton roll at her waist.

At the play’s intermission, she surveyed the ladies who crowded the Penshallow box, and selected the worst gossip of them all, Lady Arden, and adroitly drew her to the front of the box, exclaiming that she hadn’t seen the lady for ages.

Once they were cozily seated, Ophelia confided that she had insisted her darling Maddie keep her condition a secret.

“I understand that for the first months,” Lady Arden said, looking faintly skeptical, “but so near to confinement?”

Ophelia flipped open her fan and spoke behind it. “Surely you know that my dearest cousin’s marital relations are stormy.”

“To say the least!” Lady Arden’s eyes brightened.

“Most of London believes that it is due to a lack of passion between herself and her husband,” Ophelia whispered, “but the reverse is true. There is too much emotion between them.”

“Ah,” Lady Arden breathed.

“Her delicate condition makes her so sensitive,” Ophelia confided. “I feared for the life of the babe.”

“Lord Arden likes to tell stories of a time when I behaved in a most unladylike fashion while carrying our second child,” Lady Arden said, apparently won over. “Arden insisted on roast partridge for luncheon over my express command, and I could not abide that odor. I vomited on his shoes. Deliberately, he says.”

“I have persuaded my dearest cousin that she would do best to retire from society after this evening,” Ophelia said. “I certainly don’t want her to lose control of her temper as she did at the Hunt Ball, only due to the emotional storms of the first months of one’s delicate condition. I trust you will pay us a call? She will be resting comfortably at my house.”

“An excellent plan,” Lady Arden said, clearly recalling the way glacé cherries had bounced off Maddie’s husband’s head. “Men simply do not understand how hard it is to manage one’s feelings while carrying a child.”

“Lord Penshallow will visit daily, of course,” Ophelia said.

“Of course,” Lady Arden echoed.

Then she asked precisely the question that Ophelia had been hoping to avoid. “Did you see that the Duke of Lindow is in attendance, accompanied by Lady Woolhastings?” She nodded at the box across from them, which was as thronged as their own with visitors. “I must say, that pairing has surprised me.”

“Oh?” Ophelia asked. “I know Lady Woolhastings, of course, but she is considerably older than I am.” If she felt an errant thrill at that truth, it was only natural. Or so she assured herself.

“Her eldest daughter and I were presented at St. James in the same drawing room, so yes, she is my mother’s age. Just look at them together!”

Ophelia had managed not to glance at the ducal box before the play, or during the first three acts, but now she couldn’t stop herself.

Hugo wore a sober coat of dark blue, enlivened by a sumptuous apricot waistcoat. He was standing, since ladies were visiting their box. Two women remained seated: Lady Woolhastings and Lady Knowe, who was wearing a gown à la française that made Ophelia feel a flash of pure jealousy.

“I would never wear that gown at her age,” Lady Arden said.

“You wouldn’t?” Ophelia breathed. “I think the blue is exquisite.”

“Oh, that,” Lady Arden cried. “Not that. Everyone knows that Lady Knowe orders all her fabric from France. No, that sack gown that Lady Woolhastings is wearing.” She shivered.

Ophelia deliberately hadn’t looked closely at Lady Woolhastings, the woman whom Hugo had chosen to replace her. That sounded bitter, and she had no right to bitterness, given her refusal of his proposal.

She forced herself to look at Lady Woolhastings as if yesterday’s trip to the Frost Fair had never happened, as if the lady were a stranger. She was wearing a neat, small wig that covered her head with organized rows of curls, and she had a quite pretty face.

“That’s a very close wig. Do you think that she’s shaved her head?” Lady Arden whispered. “Ladies of my mother’s generation often do so.”

Ophelia raised her shoulders in a hopeless shrug. Hugo had adored her hair. She couldn’t imagine him in bed with a bald woman.

“But that dress,” Lady Arden moaned. “Lady Woolhastings is going to be a duchess, and she is wearing a dress that airs her entire bosom to the theater, at her age?”