The first performer was an opera singer, a
large woman with a clear sweet voice. Belinda gave herself up to the beauty of the music and for the time being forgot about Mannerling and Lord St. Clair.
The opera singer was followed by a pianist who played Mozart with verve. Belinda glanced along the room to where the handsome man sat. He was perfectly still, wrapped in the music. Beside him the fop—what a contrast!—fidgeted and yawned.
A rosy dream began to take hold of Belinda’s brain. Miss Trumble could not object to such a paragon. He certainly looked much older than a man in his twenties, but it was wisdom and experience of life that had shaped him thus, so ran Belinda’s thoughts. They would marry, and she would once more be back home in Mannerling with children of her own running across the lawns to the Greek temple by the lake.
Then Lizzie nudged her and said, ‘We are going in to supper. You were miles away.’
Belinda smiled slowly. ‘I know which gentleman is Lord Saint Clair.’
‘Which? Where?’
‘Do you see that handsome man at the end of the row in front of us, next to that weak fop? That is he.’
Lizzie’s sharp green eyes rested on the tall, handsome figure. ‘Are you sure? You cannot know for sure. Besides, he’s too old.’
‘I know it is he,’ said Belinda firmly. ‘Come
along. I must think of some way to meet him.’
It was a buffet supper. Belinda collected a few dainty items—young ladies were not supposed to eat much—and, forgetting all about Miss Trumble and Lizzie, boldly headed for the end of one of the long tables where the handsome man was just about to sit down.
To her irritation the fop was there before her. But she found a place opposite her quarry and gave him a blinding smile. He answered that smile with a quizzical look and turned to talk to the fop.
Belinda became suddenly aware of Miss Trumble glaring at her across the room. She blushed miserably. She realized in that moment that she had not been introduced to Lord St. Clair, and she could hardly speak to him without a formal introduction.
And then she heard the handsome man say, ‘Stop pestering, Saint Clair. I know you are expected to visit the country, but I cannot be of your party.’
Saint Clair? But
he
was Lord St. Clair. Why was he calling the fop St. Clair?
Because, answered the calm voice of returning reason in her head, you made a mistake.
‘I have to go to Mannerling,’ said Lord St. Clair. ‘M’father’s furious that I won’t even look at the place. You’ve got to come, Gyre.’
Gyre, thought Belinda. The handsome man
had coached her carefully in the names of all the suitable gentlemen at the London Season.
‘What is Mannerling?’ asked Lord Gyre.
Belinda bit back an exclamation.
‘It’s that curst place in the country m’father bought for me,’ drawled Lord St. Clair. ‘He orders me to marry and live there. Got to find a bride. Get one at this Season and then go to Mannerling and have a huge party, lots of larks.’
‘Have you any lady in mind?’ asked the marquess.
‘No, but anyone will do, provided she’s quiet and biddable.’
‘Then you’d better get on with it.’
‘I am getting on with it,’ said Lord St. Clair. ‘I’m at this damned musicale being bored out of my wits, aren’t I?’
‘I thought the music very fine.’ Lord Gyre glanced at the beautiful face opposite him, wondering who Belinda was, and also wondering why she was so intently listening to their conversation.
Mrs. Tamworth came up. ‘I trust you are enjoying your evening?’
‘Very much,’ said the marquess. A mocking gleam lit up his eyes. ‘Pray, will you not make it perfect by introducing me to this beautiful young lady opposite me?’
With a certain bad grace, Mrs. Tamworth effected the introductions.
‘Beverley,’ mused Lord St. Clair. His fine
hair was so back-combed that it gave him an air of perpetual surprise. ‘Oh, I know, you used to own that place, Mannerling.’
‘It is the most beautiful place in the world,’ said Belinda, her eyes shining.
‘Then, pon rep, why did you leave it? Papa in Queer Street?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Oh, well, I wish you were saddled with it and not I.’
‘Did you enjoy the musicale, Miss Beverley?’ asked Lord Gyre.
For one moment she hesitated, and then Belinda took the plunge. She gave an affected little laugh and said, ‘No, I thought it most horrendous boring.’
Lord St. Clair beamed. ‘There you are, Gyre. A soul mate.’
‘Obviously,’ said the marquess drily. ‘What part did you find boring, Miss Beverley? The singing or the piano playing?’
‘Both,’ said Belinda airily.
‘Does anything about the Season amuse you?’ he pursued.
Belinda giggled and cast her eyes down, giving both gentlemen a good view of her long black eyelashes. ‘I like the balls and parties,’ she said, ‘and we saw an excellent farce at the playhouse.’
‘Was that
The Beau’s Revenge?’
asked Lord St. Clair eagerly.
seen it at all, but had read all the very long reviews of it and shrewdly guessed it was just the sort of dismal trite thing to appeal to this fop.
‘I say, you are a clever lady. That was the most funniest thing I had ever seen.’
A look of weary distaste crossed Lord Gyre’s face. He rose to his feet. ‘Excuse me. I see some friends over there.’
‘Glad he’s gone,’ confided Lord St. Clair. ‘Stuffed shirt.’
‘Then why were you pressing him to go to Mannerling?’
‘Oh, Gyre sets the fashion. Bon ton. Can’t see it myself. Clothes so drab and plain.’
He twitched the lapels of his buckram-wadded evening coat complacently.
‘Mannerling is really such a wonderful place,’ said Belinda.
‘Oh, let’s talk about something else. The thought of living in the country makes me feel ill.’
Miss Trumble watched the pair with a sinking heart. What had happened to all the girl’s education, all her intelligence? Oh, Belinda! Simpering and flirting like the most empty-headed of débutantes. Did she not realize that the charade would have to go on for life if she married St. Clair?
What must such as Lord Gyre think of her? Lord Gyre, Miss Trumble knew, was the catch of the Season. I am old and weary, she thought
suddenly. Four girls married well. Why should I trouble further? I promised Lizzie I would stay until she was wed. One failure would not matter.
But her heart ached for silly Belinda.
To Belinda’s amazement, she did not receive the expected jaw-me-dead from Miss Trumble in the carriage home. That lady fell asleep as soon as the carriage moved off, her ridiculous black wig slipping over one eye. Just in case the governess was feigning sleep, Belinda put a finger to her lips, cautioning Lizzie to silence.
On arrival, they both made hurried good-nights, collected their bed candles from the little table in the hall, and climbed the stairs. Miss Trumble stood and watched them go until their bobbing lights and fluttering muslin skirts had disappeared.
In Belinda’s room, Lizzie shut the door behind them and whispered eagerly, ‘How did it go? Someone said that ridiculous-looking young man was Lord Saint Clair. And surely that was the one you said was a fop.’
‘He is a trifle foppish, I agree,’ said Belinda. ‘But he is very agreeable.’ Belinda was now so determined to secure Lord St. Clair as a husband that she was eager to find virtues in him that did not exist. ‘He is very merry and light-hearted.’
‘He is young.’ Lizzie nodded wisely. ‘What if the owner of Mannerling had turned out to be some horrible old man like the one we saw at
the church?’
Belinda gave a mock shudder. ‘Lord Saint Clair is to be at the rout next evening. Let us hope Mama is well again, for if Miss Trumble comes with us, she will no doubt make sure I do not get a chance to speak to him. Goodness knows,’ said Belinda with a world-weary air, ‘it is hard enough to talk comfortably to anyone at a London rout.’
‘Who was that very handsome man with him?’
‘That is the Marquess of Gyre.’
Lizzie sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at her hands. Without looking up, she asked, ‘Did you not find him attractive?’
Belinda manufactured a yawn and then said, ‘I suppose he is well enough, in his way. Do not be afraid. I am not going to rush off and marry some middle-aged man like my sisters.’
‘I should suppose him to be in his thirties.’
‘Well, that is middle-aged, as the Good Lord has given us only three score years and ten. Let us not talk about Gyre. Let us talk about Saint Clair. He would make the perfect husband, amiable and not vicious.’
‘And he is amusing, witty?’
‘Let us say he is the type of gentleman who would be extremely frightened if any female showed the slightest sign of having a brain in her head.’
‘I will be devil’s advocate,’ said Lizzie. ‘I will be Miss Trumble. How will such a marriage
fare, Belinda, when you find yourself tied to a man with no wit or conversation whatsoever?’
‘I will have Mannerling and I will have children, and my lord will be mostly in London. I shall have my own family and my own establishment. I will be able to entertain as we once entertained.’
Lizzie half-closed her green eyes, catlike, as she remembered the splendid balls and parties at Mannerling. Any doubts she had entertained about Lord St. Clair were swept away. She was determined to find him the best of men.
‘Did you not think it odd of Miss Trumble to disguise herself so?’
‘Miss Trumble is a mystery,’ said Belinda. ‘But Mama demanded her references and finally got them from her. I gather they were impeccable.’
Lizzie sighed. ‘I think there is nothing more sinister in Miss Trumble’s past than a broken heart. I think she was jilted and that the man she loved is still on the London scene, no doubt a grandfather by now, and that she does not wish him to see her old and diminished.’
‘A very romantical idea.’ Belinda laughed. ‘I adore our Miss Trumble, but she has always probably been a lowly governess and so she cannot know the passion Mannerling holds for us.
She
has never lived in such a magnificent place.’
‘But if her employers were very grand,’ said Lizzie doubtfully, ‘she would be used to grand
households.’
‘Being a servant in a grand household is not at all the same thing as being a member of the family,’ said Belinda haughtily. She stretched her arms above her head. ‘Oh, remember the days of Mannerling, Lizzie. We were
invulnerable.’
And so both lost themselves in rosy dreams and forgot the rather sterile existence of their early youth when they were wrapped in riches and immense pride.
* * *
‘And how did the affair go last night?’ asked Lady Beverley next day. She was lying on a chaise longue in the drawing-room and the little table beside her was loaded with apothecaries’ bottles. Miss Trumble, to whom the question was addressed, often thought that her employer’s frequent illnesses were caused by the mixture of medicines she took.
‘Well, I think,’ said Miss Trumble cautiously, ‘Mrs. Tamworth was not, however, pleased that I came in your stead.’
‘Then it might teach her to be more careful in her choice of words in future,’ said Lady Beverley.
Miss Trumble went and drew back the curtains, finding the darkened room claustrophobic. The sun was shining outside. Down in the street a group of strolling players
were dancing to the beat of a tambourine. A fish seller came past, the sunlight gleaming on his basket of mackerel.
‘I do not suppose the mysterious Lord Saint Clair was there,’ Lady Beverley went on.
‘Indeed, he was,’ said Miss Trumble mildly.
Lady Beverley sat up. ‘And what was he like? Did he meet Belinda?’
‘He is an empty-headed fop, vacuous and silly, from my observation.’
‘Your observation is not welcome. Remember your place, Miss Trumble.’
‘You did ask what he was like,’ said Miss Trumble placidly.
‘The rout at the Dunsters’, tonight. Will he be there?’
‘I do not know, my lady.’
‘If he has entered the social scene, then he is bound to be there. I am feeling stronger already. I shall escort my girls.’
‘Very good, my lady.’
* * *
‘And,’ said Belinda, over her shoulder to Lizzie, as she sat brushing her hair later that day, ‘I did hear Lord Saint Clair say to Gyre that he was looking for a wife. He said his father expected him to get married. Don’t you see what that means?’
‘Yes,’ said Lizzie, her eyes shining. ‘It means that any compliant lady will do.’
‘Exactly. Do run along and see if Miss Trumble is to go with us. For if she is, then it will spoil everything, for if I have to act the part of the simpering miss, she will find a way to put a stop to it.’
Lizzie left and returned a few minutes later with the glad news that their mother was to escort them.
‘Good,’ exclaimed Belinda. ‘Now we must think up safe topics of conversation.’
‘I gather from Miss Trumble when she is being funny about young misses that gentlemen do not really expect young ladies to have much conversation. The way to a man’s heart is through his tailor. You must compliment the cut of his coat.’
Belinda smiled. ‘So young and so wise.’
‘And you must simper…so. You have very long eyelashes, Belinda, and they must be used to advantage.’
Belinda turned and studied her face in the glass. ‘My eyebrows are a trifle thin. Many ladies wear false eyebrows these days.’
‘Ugh,’ said Lizzie with a shudder. ‘Those hairy caterpillar things. Even old Lady Dunster wears them, and someone told me at her last ball one slipped and she did not notice until it fell into her glass of champagne. Surely all those false things are for people without your beauty or advantages. You do not need those awful false wax bosoms. Cissy Partridge, you know, the little girl with the bad teeth, had
them on last night and she had white-leaded her bosom to hide the join, but they still looked dreadfully false. I told her that she ought to have chosen a gown with a higher neckline and she became quite angry and denied she was wearing anything false.’
Belinda giggled. ‘Do you know they even wear false hair…down here?’ She pointed to her crotch. ‘It is advertised in the
Morning Post.’
Lizzie’s face turned as red as her hair. Then she rallied. ‘You must never talk of such things. What if Lord Saint Clair were to hear you, or any gentleman, for that matter? Oh, sometimes, Belinda, my poor brain feels as if it is cut in half. One half longs for you to marry Saint Clair, but the other guilty half nags me that you are condemning yourself to an empty life and all our excellent education will go unused.’