April Lady

Chapter Eight

Letty remained in Bryanston Square all day; and great was Mrs. Thorne’s delight to find her there when she returned from a protracted shopping expedition with Fanny. Silks and muslins for the making of Fanny’s bride-clothes had been their object; and while the tour of the warehouses had been in the nature of a preliminary skirmish so much had been bought, and so many patterns had been brought home to be studied at leisure that little else was talked of during the remainder of Letty’s visit. Mrs. Thorne did indeed notice that she was rather languid in spirit, but this circumstance she ascribed to pique, and paid no heed to it, beyond remarking, not very felicitously, that in spite of her three years’ seniority she had never expected Fanny to go off before her cousin.

Nell, meanwhile, spent an unexceptionable if rather dull day, and since such sedentary occupations as netting, tatting, knotting a fringe, or trying to bring to a successful conclusion a game of Patience, a new form of recreation which the Prince Regent had been so condescending as to explain to her, left her mind rather too much at liberty to fret over her troubles, she soon began to be sorry she had refused even so mild a form of entertainment as an invitation to practice French country-dances at a select morning-ball. In general, there never seemed to be enough time into which to fit her various engagements, for once the season was in full swing every sort of amusement offered, from Venetian breakfasts to Grand Balloon Ascensions; and in brief respites from these she was either submitting to the ministrations of Mr. Blake, who combined a laughable coxcombry with a positive genius for cutting ladies’ hair; or sitting for her portrait to Mr. Lawrence. Cardross had commissioned this full-length likeness of his lovely bride, and since Lawrence had become, since Hoppner’s death, the most fashionable portrait painter in England it was going to cost him not a penny less than four hundred guineas. But Mr. Blake had given her a smart new crop only a week earlier; Mr. Lawrence’s work on the portrait had had to be suspended until he had recovered from an indisposition. She did not care to visit the Royal Academy’s exhibition at Somerset House alone, for that would not only be dull work, but might render her an easy prey to some other unaccompanied lady: probably Miss Berry, whom one ought to admire, but could not contrive to like. London was overfull of elderly ladies who were Mama’s dear friends, and Somerset House was just the place where one might be sure of meeting them. So after knotting a few inches of fringe, reading three pages of Corinne, rather wistfully watching some children playing at battledore and shuttlecock in the Square-garden, and trying to make up her mind to write an overdue letter to Miss Wilby, she decided that the day was too fine for such sedentary pursuits, and determined, in default of livelier amusements, to drive to Chelsea, on a visit to Tubbs’ Nursery Garden, in the King’s Road, and to select there such plants as would transform the ballroom at Cardross House into a fairyland of flowers.

This lavish scheme had its birth in Letty’s desire to hang the ballroom with pink calico. She had seen this novel form of decoration at one of the first balls of the season, and it had instantly hit her fancy. Hundreds of ells of calico had been gathered to form the likeness of a huge tent: everyone had exclaimed at it, and had complimented the hostess on such a charming notion; and Letty, convinced that it would shortly become all the crack, had been alternately hectoring and cajoling Cardross for weeks past to have his ballroom turned into a pink tent for the grand dress-party to be held there at the end of the month. Unfortunately Cardross had not admired the effect of pink calico; and upon Letty agreeing that to be sure calico was shabby, and it would be far more elegant (besides going one better than Lady Weldon) to use silk, he had expressed himself so unequivocally on the subject as to confirm her in her belief that his taste was as old-fashioned as his disposition was mean. She had not scrupled to tell him so, and his way of receiving this terrible indictment did him no honour at all. “I know it,” he had said sympathetically. “I assure you, Letty, it astonishes even me that I could be such a hog-grubber as to grudge the expenditure of I daresay not much above a few hundred pounds on the suitable decoration of the ballroom to set off your charms.” He had cast a laughing glance towards Nell, and had added provocatively: “Now, had you asked me for blue hangings—!”

Letty had been perfectly willing to compound for blue, but had met with no support from Nell. Nell, quite as desirous as she to cut a dash, had no notion (she thanked Letty) of imitating Lady Weldon, or any other fashionable hostess. If Cardross approved, she would make the ton exclaim much more loudly by creating a flower-garden in her ballroom. It had often astonished her that hostesses made such meager use of flowers: they should be made to gnash their teeth with envy at the result to be achieved by taste, ingenuity, and the services of a first-rate florist. Cardross promptly gave her carte blanche; and Letty, having rather reluctantly listened to her scheme, was obliged to own that it would be at once pretty, and quite out of the ordinary way.

So off Nell went to Chelsea. No sooner did Mr. Tubbs, greeting her ladyship with flattering deference, grasp the purpose of her visit than he became an enthusiastic supporter of it, summoning up his chief minions, and rapidly devising several alternative plans for the tasteful decoration of her ballroom. They differed in many respects, but in one they were alike: they were all extremely costly. But since Cardross had said Nell might do anything she chose, provided she didn’t drape his ballroom in pink calico, this consideration was of no moment. In choosing the flowers and the ferns, and discussing with Mr. Tubbs the rival merits of garlands, hanging-baskets, and a trellis-work set against the walls and covered with greenery, out of which flowers could be made to appear as if growing, she passed an agreeable hour, her cares for the time being forgotten. She parted from Mr. Tubbs on the most cordial terms, that excellent horticulturist begging her to do him the honour of accepting a bouquet composed of all the choice blooms she had particularly admired during her tour of the garden. It was such a large bouquet that it had to be laid on the floor of the barouche, but Mr. Tubbs did not grudge a single blossom in it: it was not every day of the week that he received so magnificent an order as Lady Cardross had given him. He assured her ladyship that she might repose the fullest confidence in his ability to achieve a result that would hold her guests spellbound with admiration; and no sooner had her barouche driven away than he took his foreman apart, and exhorted him to put forth his best endeavours. “For mark my words, Andy,” he said earnestly, “if this does not set a fashion! I shouldn’t wonder at it if we were soon turning orders away!”

Nell was rather hopeful, too, that she might be starting a new mode. There had been a number of parties at Cardross House since her marriage, but this would be the first grand ball she had held, and she wanted people to say something more of it than that it had been a dreadful squeeze.

Letty had not returned from Bryanston Square when she reached home again, so after putting off her hat and her gloves she occupied herself with the arrangement of her bouquet in several bowls and vases. She was trying the effect of one of these on a pie-crust table in a corner of the drawing-room when a voice said behind her: “Charming!”

It was fortunate that she was not holding the bowl, for she must certainly had dropped it, so convulsive was the start she gave. She gasped sharply, and turned, to find that Cardross had come quietly into the room, and was standing by the door, quizzically regarding her. He had shed his driving-coat, but he had plainly but that instant arrived in town, for he was still wearing a country habit of frock-coat, buckskins, and top-boots.

The shock of hearing his voice when she had believed him to be a hundred miles away was severe, and her first sensation was of consternation. She made a quick recover, but not before he had seen the fright in her eyes. The quizzical look faded, to be replaced by one of searching enquiry. She exclaimed a little faintly: “Cardross! Oh, how much you startled me!”

“I appear, rather, to have dismayed you,” he said, making no movement to approach her, but continuing to watch her face with hard, narrowed eyes.

“No, no! How can you say so?” she protested, with a nervous laugh, and reddening cheeks. “I am so glad—I did not expect to see you until Monday, and hearing you speak suddenly—made me jump out of my skin!”

“I beg your pardon,” he replied, unsmilingly. “I should, of course, have warned you of my arrival. You must try to forgive my want of tact.”

“Giles, how absurd!” she said, holding out her hand.

He strolled forward, and took it, bowing formally, and just touching it with his lips. He released it immediately, saying: “Yes, in the manner of the farce we saw at Covent Garden, and thought so stupid. I shall stop short of searching behind the curtains and under the furniture for the hidden lover.”

The chilly salute he had bestowed on her hand had both alarmed and distressed her, but this speech fell so wide of the mark that she laughed. “In the expectation of finding your cousin Felix? It is a most improper notion, but how very funny it would be to discover him in such a situation!”

He smiled slightly, and some of the suspicion left his eyes. He still kept them on her face, and she found it hard to meet them. “What is it, Nell?” he asked, after a moment.

“But indeed it is nothing! I—I don’t understand what you can mean! Are you offended with me for having jumped so? But that was quite your own fault, you know!”

He did not answer for a moment, and when he did at last speak it was in a colourless voice. “As you say. Which of your many admirers bestowed that handsome bouquet on you? You have arranged it delightfully.”

“None of them! At least, I don’t flatter myself that he admires me precisely!” she replied, thankful for the change of subject. “I had it—but this is only a part of it!—from Tubbs, the nursery-man! I have been there today, to order the flowers for our dress-ball, and at parting he begged me to accept the most enormous bouquet imaginable!”

“Did he indeed? Then it seems safe to assume that you’ve lodged a very handsome order with him.”

She looked a little anxious. “Well, yes,” she admitted. “But it will be the prettiest ball of the season, and—and you did tell me I might spend as much as I wished on it!”

“Certainly. I wasn’t criticizing you, my love.” She felt impelled to justify herself, for in spite of this assurance there was an alarming want of cordiality in his voice. “It is the first ball we have held here—the first grand ball,” she reminded him apologetically. “You wouldn’t wish it to be talked of as just another jam—nothing out of the common style!”

“My dear Nell, you have no need to excuse yourself! By all means let it be of the first stare. Shall we give our guests pink champagne?”

“Are you joking me?” she asked cautiously. “It sounds excessively elegant, but I think I never heard of it before.”

“Oh, no, I’m not joking you! I assure you it will lend a great cachet to the party.”

“More than pink calico?” she ventured, a gleam of fun in the glance she cast at him.

That did draw a laugh from him. “Yes—or even pink silk! Where is Letty, by the by?”

“She has gone to visit Mrs. Thorne. She will be back directly, I daresay.” She fancied there was a frown in his eyes, and added: “You don’t like that, but indeed, Giles, it would not be right to encourage her to neglect Mrs. Thorne.”

“Very true. Tell me, Nell, what does my aunt Chudleigh mean by writing to inform me that Letty’s conduct at that masquerade you took her to set everyone in a bustle?”

“If your aunt Chudleigh would be a little less busy we should go on very well!” cried Nell, flushing with wrath. “She is never happy but when she is making mischief! Pray, has she any animadversions to pass on me?”

“No, she exonerates you from all the blame.”

“Obliging of her! I hope with all my heart that you will give her a sharp set-down, Cardross!”

“I probably shall. What, in fact, did Letty do to bring this scold down upon me?”

“Nothing at all! That is to say, nothing to make a piece of work about! You know how it is with her, when she is in high gig! She allows her vivacity to carry her beyond the line of what is pleasing, but she is so young that it is only people like Lady Chudleigh who don’t know that it is all done in innocence.”

“And want of upbringing,” he said, with a sigh. “I can blame no one but myself for that. You didn’t, in sober truth, let her wear an improper gown, did you?”

“No—oh, no!” she replied guiltily. “Not—not improper precisely! I own it was not just the thing for a girl of her age, but—well, she won’t wear it again, so pray don’t mention it to her, Cardross!”

“If it made her look like a class of female which my aunt prefers not to particularize, she most assuredly won’t wear it again!” he returned.

“Nothing of the sort! Lady Chudleigh knows very well that such gowns are worn by women of the first consequence. Do, pray, let the matter rest! To scold Letty will only set up her back—and it was my fault, after all.”

“I don’t mean to scold either of you, but I must own, Nell, that I could wish you had put your foot down,” he said, looking displeased.

“Perhaps I should have done so,” she replied, in a mortified tone. “I am very sorry!”

“Yes—well, never mind! I don’t doubt that it is very hard for you to check Letty’s starts. And while we are speaking of the masquerade, what, in heaven’s name, is this extraordinary story I have been hearing about Dysart’s holding you up on the road to Chiswick?”

“Oh, good God, Lady Chudleigh knows nothing of that, surely?” she exclaimed, rather aghast.

“No, I had it from your coachman. According to him, your carriage was stopped by Dysart and two companions, all of them disguised as highway men. It seems quite incredible, even in Dysart, but I can hardly suppose that Jeffrey would entertain me with a Canterbury story. Do you mind explaining the matter to me?”

She had forgotten that her servants would be very likely to tell him of Dysart’s strange exploit, and for an ignoble moment wished that she had had the forethought to have bought their silence. She was instantly ashamed of herself, and said, her colour rising: “Oh, it was one of Dy’s mad-brained hoaxes, and a great deal too bad of him! I must own that I hoped it wouldn’t come to your ears.”

“That, Nell, is patent!” he said.

“Yes—I mean, I knew you would be vexed! There was no harm in it—it all arose out of a—a stupid wager—but of course it was a most improper thing to do, and so I told him.”

“All arose out of a wager?” he repeated incredulously. “With which of his associates did Dysart see fit to make you the subject of a wager?”

“N-not with any of them!” she stammered, frightened by the look on his face.

“Then what the devil do you mean?” he demanded.

“It was with me!” she said, improvising desperately. “We—we were talking about masquerades, and I said it was nonsense to suppose that one wouldn’t recognize somebody one knew well just because they wore a mask. Dy—Dy said that he would prove me wrong, and—and that was how it was! Only I did recognize him, so I won the wager.”

“Gratifying! Did you also recognize his companions?”

“No—that is, it was only Mr. Fancot!” she said imploringly. “Oh, and Joe, of course—Dy’s groom! But he doesn’t signify, because he has always been with us, ever since I can remember! Pray, Cardross, don’t be vexed with Dy!”

“Vexed with him! I am very much more than vexed with him! To be giving you such a fright for the sake of a prank I should find it hard to pardon in a schoolboy goes beyond anything of which I believed him to be capable!” he said wrathfully.

“I wasn’t frightened!” she assured him. “Only a very little, at all events!”

“Oh?” he said grimly. “What, then, made you scream?”

Her eyes sparkled with indignation. “I did not scream! I would scorn to do anything so paltry! It was Letty who screamed.”

“How chicken-hearted of her, to be sure!” he said sardonically.

“Well, that’s what I thought,” she said candidly.

“Are you quite blinded by your doting fondness for Dysart?” he demanded. “He is fortunate to possess a sister who can find excuses for his every folly, his every extravagance, and for such larks as this latest exploit! I am aware—I have for long been aware!—that he holds a place in your affections that is second to none, but take care what you are about! Encourage him to think he may turn to you in any extremity! smile upon kick-ups unworthy of a freshman! You will not smile when the high spirits you now regard with such indulgence carry him beyond the line of what even his cronies will pardon!”

She shrank a little from the harshness in his voice, but she was quick to recognize the note of jealousy in it. She heard it with a leap of the heart, and it took from his words all power of wounding. Instead of flying to Dysart’s defense, she said merely: “Indeed I didn’t smile upon such a prank! It was very bad—quite unbecoming! But it is unjust in you, Cardross, to say that his wildness will lead him into doing anything wicked! You dislike him very much, but that is going too far!”

“No, I don’t dislike him,” he replied, in a more moderate tone. “On the contrary! I like him well enough to wish to be of real service to him. You think me unjust, but you may believe that I know what I am saying when I tell you that his present way of life is ruinous.”

She said, in swift alarm: “Oh, pray, pray don’t thrust him into the army!”

“I have no power to thrust him into the army. I own I have offered to buy him a commission, and I have not the smallest doubt that there is nothing I might do for him which he would like better, or which would be of more benefit to him. If the only bar in the way of his accepting it is your father’s dislike of the project I will engage to make all right in that quarter.”

“No, it is not that. I should not say such a thing, but I am afraid Dy doesn’t care much for what poor Papa wishes. But Mama made him promise he wouldn’t do it, and however ramshackle you may think him Dy doesn’t break his promises!”

“If that is how the case stands,” he said, “I recommend you, my dear, to use your best endeavours to persuade your mother to release him from a promise which I don’t scruple to tell you should never have been extracted from him!”

“I could not! Oh, she would sink under the very thought of his exposing himself to all the dangers of war!” She hesitated and then said, with a little difficulty: “Mama has had so many trials to bear. Poor Papa, you know . . .”

“Yes, I know,” he replied. “For that very reason I am persuaded that if she was aware of the truth she would think the hazards of war less perilous than those of the metropolis. Living, as she now must, so far from London, I fancy she cannot know how closely Dysart is following an example she must dread.”

She looked a little frightened, but said: “I know he is sadly wild, and—and—expensive, but surely—no worse than that?”

“Well, that is bad enough,” he replied. He saw that she was inclined to question him more closely, but he was already vexed that he had allowed his irritation to betray him into saying so much. Before she could speak again he had turned the subject; and very soon after he left her, saying that he must change his habit. Whatever bitter feelings he might cherish he could not shock her by disclosing the full sum of Dysart’s folly. She probably did not even know of that little narrow pink room behind the stage at the Opera House, where the dancers practiced their steps in front of long pier-glasses, and any buck in search of amatory adventures could have his pick of the west-end comets. Dysart was a familiar figure in that saloon, and so was his latest chère amie. Nell had certainly seen him driving with this article of virtue—a dasher of the first water, too! reflected Cardross—but what she had made of her one couldn’t tell. She had asked no questions, so perhaps she had guessed. But she didn’t guess that Dysart frequently sallied forth with the Peep o’ Day boys, starting the evening with a rump and dozen at Long’s, and gravitating thence to a less respectable world of which she was wholly ignorant. It diverted the wilder blades to mix on equal terms with the roughest elements of society; buttoning up, they would plunge into the back-slums of Tothill Fields, rubbing shoulders (and often falling into a mill) with all-sorts, from honest coat-porters to petermen. They saw badger-baiting in the reeking squalor of Charles’s, where a man must be a very fly-cove to avoid having his pockets picked; they rubbed shoulders with bing-boys and their mollishers in the sluiceries; became half-sprung on the blue ruin in these gin shops, and, wandering eastward, deep-cut at the Field of Blood. The night music of the watchmen’s rattles marked their progress through the sleeping town; often a drowsing Charley was overturned in his box, and sent sprawling into the kennel; many were the respectable householders brought down to their doors on false alarms of fire, or thieves. Sometimes these larks ended in a roundhouse, with its sequel of Bow Street, a false name, and a fine; sometimes a blade, fortunate enough to be numbered amongst Mother Butler’s favourites, sought refuge at the Finish, and spent what was left of the night snoring on a settle beside the dying embers of the fire in the tap. No, Nell knew nothing of such exploits as these, and no prompting of jealousy was going to seduce her husband into enlightening her. The shock would be severe, and her innocence as much as her affection for Dysart would lead her to regard his excesses in a far more serious light than that in which they appeared to her husband. He was vexed by them, and he viewed their continuance with grim foreboding; but he believed that they sprang from the boredom of idleness rather than from any ingrained depravity. What disturbed him far more was the suspicion he had formed that Dysart, in his restless quest for novelty and excitement, had lately become enrolled as a member of the Beggars’ Club.

This decidedly unsavoury institution had its locality in a cellar at the back of Broad Street, and was generally presided over by the Earl of Barrymore, with Colonel George Hanger as his Vice. It was patronized by all the raff of town, and such persons as those who thought it amusing to eat their suppers out of holes carved in a long table, and with knives and forks that were chained to their places. There was no particular harm in this, but the evils that could accrue from a young man’s getting into Barrymore’s set were grave enough, Cardross knew, to alarm even so casual a parent as Lord Pevensey. Old Georgie Hanger, for all his eccentricities, exercised little influence over the younger men. He was over sixty; and after a varied career, which began at Eton, rose to a commission in the 1st Footguards, reached its nadir in the King’s Bench prison., and included an excursion into trade (when, upon his discharge from the Abbot’s Priory, he set up as a coal-merchant), he had contrived to get himself restored to full-pay, and was now living rather more moderately. His age and his oddities caused him to be tolerated by society, but his manners were too coarse to render him an attractive figure; and, to do him justice, he had not the smallest desire either to figure as the leader of a set or to corrupt the morals of its members.

The noble Earl of Barrymore was a bird of another feather. Neither his rank nor his achievements on the box or in the saddle sufficed to make him acceptable to the ton. He had been one of the founders of the Whip Club; he had introduced the fashionable practice of driving with a small Tiger perched up beside him; his colours were to be seen on any race-course; but society, with the exception of the Prince Regent, who too often appeared to have a strong predilection for disreputable company, was obstinate in avoiding him. An Irish peer, he had inherited the title from his brother, who had earned for himself the unenviable nickname of Hellgate. This circumstance, coupled with the possession of a club-foot, naturally led to his being dubbed Cripplegate. A younger brother, in orders, was known as Newgate, from having (according to his boast) been imprisoned in every gaol in the country; and an excessively foul-mouthed sister became, inevitably, Billingsgate. Cripplegate, with his fame as a Nonesuch, his cool daring in the saddle, and his dark reputation, constituted a real danger to such reckless young bloods as Dysart; and if the hint dropped in Cardross’s ear held so much as a grain of truth neither Lady Pevensey’s maternal fears nor Nell’s distress at being separated from her brother was going to prevent his putting a summary end to that troublesome young man’s career as a town buck of the first cut. The demon of jealousy apart, he liked Dysart well enough to make a push to save him from the consequences of his own folly; for Nell’s sake he was prepared even to undertake the disagreeable task of disclosing to Lord Pevensey the exact nature of the course his heir was treading. He could only hope that the news would not prove fatal to his lordship’s shattered constitution, but he thought it extremely probable that a second stroke might result from it, and could only trust that it would not prove necessary for him to approach his father-in-law. Lord Pevensey might shrug up his shoulders at a tale of fashionable dissipations, but in his day not the most dissolute rake amongst the Upper Ten Thousand sought diversion in the back-slums. Unless the stroke he had already suffered had rendered him very much more incapable than Cardross had reason to suppose, he could be trusted to overbear his lady’s opposition the instant he received the intelligence that Dysart was not only associating on the friendliest terms with scamps, pads, and drivers, but was also in a fair way to becoming a boon companion of one whom his lordship had been amongst the first to ostracize.