Elisabeth Kidd (20 page)

“I couldn’t say, Aunt.”

“You mean you won’t,” Julia acknowledged. “Hester’s right. One may
as well wait for the official despatches as try to get anything out of you! Oh, don’t poker up, I won’t press you any further.” She sighed. “But I do wish you wouldn’t keep your amours so secret.”

Kedrington laughed in spite of himself. “That sounds reprehensible, indeed! What of my reputation, Julia? My position? Consider The
Family!” He rose with that and took his aunt’s hand to kiss it.

Julia smiled. “Stuff! I know very well you have taste enough not to go
that course. But where
are
you going?”

“To pay a call.”

“On a lady?”

Kedrington smiled oddly. “Yes, on a lady.”

“Well, be off with you, then!”

The Fairfaxes arrived at Almack’s famed assembly rooms the following Wednesday shortly after ten o’clock. A wave of warm, heavily per
fumed air swept over them as they entered, causing Mrs Curtiz to
wrinkle her nose in distaste. Isabel scarcely noticed the heat and gazed wide-eyed around her, drawing several other pairs of eyes toward her.
Dressed in a white gown with very short puffed sleeves trimmed with lace, a gold locket suspended around her throat from a velvet ribbon,
Isabel was a sight to refresh the most weary eyes. Antonia, in a scarcely less striking ensemble of cream muslin, wore her own hair in a cluster of artless curls confined by a velvet ribbon that matched the one Isabel was
wearing.

Gentlemen in knee breeches and snow-white cravats stood about with
young misses in the latest modes or elderly ladies in old-fashioned finery,
and drank lemonade from minuscule cups as they waited for the
musicians—seated on a little balcony above the heads of the dancers—to
strike up the next tune. The Wednesday subscription balls had been got
up with the object of introducing the most fashionable new dances from
the Continent, but the normal decorum of the proceedings had been
scrupulously maintained even in the face of the scandalous waltz, which
had passed through Almack’s causing scarcely a ripple in the compla
cency of the seven autocratic patronesses of the club.

Not all of these were present this evening, and the first to make note of the newcomers was Lady Jersey. Passing her hand gracefully over that of
the gentleman to whom she had been speaking, in a gesture of dismissal,
she turned and, as the Queen of Scots might have walked to the scaffold,
crossed the room and approached the Fairfaxes with a marble smile
affixed to her lovely pale countenance.

“Miss Fairfax, is it not? How good of you to come. Maria Sefton has
been singing your praises, but I see that she has quite understated the
case....

“What an enchanting gown, my dear,” she added in Isabel’s direction.
Isabel, handicapped both physically and temperamentally from perceiv
ing the archness in her patroness’s expression, smiled disarmingly. Lady
Jersey looked her over a little more carefully.

Antonia, discerning in Lady Jersey the sort of person who would wait
hopefully for one who had stumbled once to stumble again, warily
presented Imogen Curtiz. Lady Sefton joined them, but Lady Jersey
assumed the burden of the conversation by the simple expedient of never
allowing anyone else to put in a word.

“Ah, my dear Lady Sefton, here are Miss Fairfax and Miss Isabel
Fairfax, and Mrs... oh, yes, Curtiz, the good friends you so kindly
brought to our attention. We must take them in hand and see that they meet everyone, must we not?”

Antonia, half-amused and half-vexed by Lady Jersey’s use of the first-person plural, contrived not to catch Mrs Curtiz’s eye. The musicians struck up a providential mazurka at that moment, and Lady
Sefton deftly separated Isabel from Lady Jersey’s voluble clutches and led
her off to be introduced to her son, Lord Molyneux, who might be
counted on to stand up with her for her first dance without pressing his
good fortune.

Lady Jersey resumed her soliloquy, touching upon every subject from
Tsar Alexander’s impending visit to the sins of a parlourmaid Lady
Jersey had been obliged to dismiss the day before and an exquisite hat she
had seen at Clarimond’s in New Bond Street and which she felt would become Isabel to perfection. All the while she appeared to be absorbed in this small talk, however, her eyes took in every movement of Isabel’s on the dance floor.

Antonia supposed that Lady Jersey had taken it into her head to adopt
Isabel as her personal protégée and was running over in her mind the
names of the bachelors present whom she might profitably present to the
little Fairfax. She must be grateful, Antonia further supposed, if this
were the case, since Lady Jersey was doubtless considerably more experi
enced in this sort of thing than Isabel’s doting—and not very clear
-sighted—aunt. Nevertheless, she had been determined to fulfill her
chaperone’s duty properly tonight, and it irked her to have the responsibil
ity taken away from her. She was certain that Isabel would not care to
have
three
solicitous elders hovering over her, which left Antonia with
nothing to do but to make something of this unexpected freedom to enjoy
her own evening.

Almost as if to confirm her in this resolution, Lord Kedrington
arrived just then and, as he invariably did without having to do anything
in particular to achieve it, he made her smile.

His lordship was dressed in a satin coat and knee breeches—there were
no exceptions to the rule against pantaloons at Almack’s—and escorted a
very small, very lively lady in a lavender silk gown with artificial flowers
all over it and in her extravagant white curls as well. But no sooner had
he divested this lady of her silver-trimmed cloak than his eyes went directly to Antonia’s. Lady Jersey’s plucked brows went up when Miss
Fairfax first looked away, then looked back at him, smiling. Lady Jersey
beckoned imperiously to the viscount.

“My dear Kedrington! What an age it’s been since we saw each other last. I declare, I feel quite neglected.”

“Yes, it’s been nearly a week, hasn’t it? We met at Lady Holland’s soirée, I seem to remember.”

“Wretch! Will you never learn the difference between an inconsequen
tial
plaisanterie
and an assault that must be met with all force of arms?”

“Never, apparently. You are acquainted with Miss Coverley, are you
not, Sally? She will tell you I am far too literally minded to be perfectly at
ease in civilised society. Aunt, may I make known to you Miss Fairfax
and Mrs Curtiz?”

Greetings were exchanged all around, and when Lady Jersey perempto
rily claimed Lord Kedrington for a dance, Antonia and Imogen were left alone with Miss Coverley, who immediately demanded to have Isabel
pointed out to her, and then became, much to Antonia’s dismay, quite as voluble as Lady Jersey. The smallest hint of malice, however, was so
foreign to Hester Coverley’s warm nature that it was little time before Antonia was willing, even
amused, to let her ramble on.

“Oh, my!” she exclaimed artlessly. “Dear Isabel is every bit as pretty as
Duncan told me she was! I am convinced she will be the belle of the
season, and you, my dear, its fashion leader. So clever of you to set a style of wearing only one earbob; there is Miss Wolfson, you see, wearing only
the one diamond, and Mrs Smith-Morehouse with one pearl, however
large and gaudy a one it may be.
...

“Not that there is not always a goodly supply of young ladies in pretty
dresses,” Hester went on, as Antonia exchanged a resigned look with
Mrs Curtiz, “but now the war is over at last, there will be many more
young men for them to dazzle, and that, you know, is what makes a girl a
belle, to be popular with the young men—and
such
young men—the
officers, my dear! My head is always quite turned by the sight of a dress
uniform, dear me, yes.... Not that there are not also a number of
fascinating young men in town at all seasons.
...
I wonder if we may see
Byron here tonight? He need not be afraid of encountering Caro Lamb—
she is in mourning, naturally, since her grandmama, the Duchess of
Spencer’s, death last month, and does not appear in public. They say she
has secluded herself and is writing an expose of the whole
affaire
...
.”

“Not another
Bride of Abydos,
I trust,” Mrs Curtiz interposed.

Hester’s eyes widened. “Oh, heavens, I do hope not! Have you read it? I declare, I never... Well, Kedrington says Caroline cannot help what
she does, while Byron knows exactly what he is about, although how he
can think that bringing out such a tale when his own sister was in the
family way—oh dear, what an unfortunate expression that is!” Hester
sighed feelingly. “Well, I have always thought that one should strive to be
au courant
, but there are some fashions I cannot admire! I must be older
than I thought.
...”

Antonia laughed and said it was no such thing, which appeared to
please Miss Coverley, who then began to point out for Antonia’s edification various other personages of note, as well as some of her particular
friends. Antonia took a second look at the highly polished beauty who was Sir Henry Mildmay’s partner, but who glanced meaningfully at
Viscount Kedrington whenever the movement of the dance permitted
her to do so. She asked Hester who the beauty might be.

“Oh, that is Mrs Pennell,” Hester said with little enthusiasm. “I
daresay
Mr
Pennell is somewhere about as well.” She turned the subject
back to her own acquaintance, most of whom were young people in
whom the irrepressible Miss Coverley took an affectionate interest.

“I must introduce you to Miss Thomas, my dear; I am certain you
would approve her as a friend for Isabel, and I assure you she would find
no rival in that quarter, for Miss Thomas—apart from being of a style
quite dissimilar to your niece’s—is as good as engaged to Lord Frederick
Colby.... Oh, and there is my grand-nephew Angus with Miss Mercer.
...
I
will introduce you, for he is Kedrington’s heir, you know. I have been
trying to persuade him to look at Miss Thomas’s sister Phoebe for an age
now, but I suppose Miss Mercer will do as well, although I cannot care
for her complexion, which certainly does not complement Angus’s
costume.”

Since Angus’s costume consisted of a pair of snuff-coloured satin
breeches and a yellow waistcoat, which caused Miss Mercer’s sallow
complexion to appear positively murky, Antonia could not help but
agree. She could also not help but notice that, the dance having ended,
Lord Kedrington showed no inclination to return to her side, but was
engaged in earnest talk with Lady Cowper. Then, as Lord Molyneux, ever
mindful of his social duties, approached her to solicit a dance, she was unable to discover immediately whether Kedrington was avoiding her or merely being polite to Emily Cowper, and it was some time before their
paths crossed again.

Lord Molyneux was properly attentive and did not even mind when
Antonia’s attention was diverted from what he was saying to watch
Isabel, who, having scrupulously declined to waltz, was engaged in
conversation with Harley Chatham-Hill. They were joined by Lord Geoffrey
Dane, who, although Antonia could not hear their precise words over the music, appeared to be attempting to persuade Isabel to waltz after all.
She smiled at him at the same time that she shook her head apologetically,
but Harley was less sensitive to his feelings and said something that
made Geoffrey throw back his head angrily and take a step toward Harley.
Isabel put one hand on each young gentleman’s arm and said something
which made them draw back again. She then, much to Antonia’s perturbation, released her hold on Harley and went away with Geoffrey
toward the refreshment rooms.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon!” Antonia said, suddenly conscious that she
had missed a step and very nearly tripped up Lord Molyneux, who
insisted that it was his own fault entirely.

Antonia laughed. “Nonsense! You are too kind, sir, to lie for my sake. I
was not attending the steps as I ought.”

His lordship assured her that he understood perfectly and turned his
conversational talents to coaxing Miss Fairfax’s enchanting smile back to
her lips, which by the end of the waltz he had accomplished easily.

“My felicitations, ma’am,” he said. “You may now boast of having
danced the waltz at Almack’s. Let us recover from the agitation with
some lemonade and a little—I have no doubt, stale—bread and butter.”