Chapter 18
A Dawning Jealousy
Later that night, Caroline naturally apprised her cousin of what had happened in her afternoon. “A musical soiree at Lord Stokeford’s house?” Sophie echoed dazedly at the end of her short narrative.
“Yes, isn’t it famous? Your mother was very delighted when I confided it to her before she set off for Mrs Weber’s card party. She said, ‘why, my dear, you’ve made quite a favourable impression to the Countess!’ But I told her no, it must have been you, Sophie, for the Countess said she met you in a soiree, and found you lovely and charming — although you never breathed a word to me about it! Well, that was what eventually cast my Aunt Emilia in rapture! Perhaps the prospect of you being the next Lady Stokeford thrilled her prodigiously so.”
“Oh, I quite forgot to tell you about it; I’m sorry!” replied Sophie with a sheepish smile, picked up a brush and ran it through her hair. “Yes, it was at Lady Jersey’s soiree, and you weren’t there because you had an headache and stayed at home. But pray, do not talk fustian, Caro! Mama does not cherish hopes for so far-fetched a prospect! Do tell me, what do you think of the Countess? Isn’t she a beauty?”
“Yes, she is,” agreed Caroline, but her brows furrowed as a thought occurred to her. “You know Sophie, I think she and Lord Stokeford do not get along quite well,” she quietly remarked.
“Oh? But how could you tell?”
“Well,” she said slowly, “I just observed how — coldly polite Lord Stokeford was towards her. He seemed rather detached that one could almost say he might have been talking to a stranger. As for the Countess, I daresay she does not care a button for him, either.”
“You’re an acute observer, my dear,” returned Sophie with some amusement. “But perhaps they are just being ceremonious — it is rather de rigueur among the peerage, you know. Besides,” she said matter-of-factly, “Lord Stokeford strikes me as an impassive man for the most part, except when he is in a fit of temper, of course. It wouldn’t surprise me if he treated his relatives with no more than due courtesy.”
These observations, however, sounded terribly unjustifiable to its hearer. Caroline was moved to differ with her cousin, declaring indignantly, “If that is what you think, then I’d say your reading of his lordship’s character is grossly wrong, Sophie! He may appear to be impassive, but he is not as cold as you think he is, for he could be charming and a horrid tease if he chose to be!”
“I see that my little cousin has been very friendly with someone these days!” exclaimed Sophie in laughing tones.
“Well, it doesn’t signify anything at all!” she retorted, but was aware of reddening cheeks. Her cousin shrugged and assented, though the quivering on her lips did not abate in the least. “And besides,” persisted Caroline with a petulant look, “he is your beau, not mine!” When no answer was returned, she demanded impetuously: “Do you care for him, Sophie? Even — even just a little?”
The laughter died on her lips. With a sigh, Sophie stood up and walked away from her vanity table towards Caroline, who was perched on the bed. She sat beside her and clasped her hand. “My dear,” she began softly, “if you must know, my feelings for Lord Stokeford is nothing more than a profound respect. To care for someone requires some — weightier sentiments, you understand. I won’t pretend that I am not flattered by his attentions; truly, I do, but I can assure you that he doesn’t cherish any warmer feelings for me any more than I do for him.” As if an afterthought, she added candidly, “And he overwhelms me sometimes.”
“I—I see,” came the reluctant reply. “And Cedric?”
Sophie smiled, but shook her head. “We shall leave Cedric out of this. After all, he ranks as one of my dearest friend, and not a suitor!” She rose and tugged Caroline’s hand. “Come, it’s late, and we must get you to bed now, Caro. You do not want to wake up late tomorrow, don’t you? Why, your Mr Beaumont might just finally appear on our front door!”
“I do not rise up late, Sophie and you very well know that!” she retorted and got up. “And he is not my Mr Beaumont!”
“As to that, my dear, I fear I must disagree!”
She dimpled at her. “Well, you are a monstrous tease, but I know better than you do! Good night!”
As it happened, the fate saw fit to bring Mr Beaumont to their front door the very next morning. Nothing could have been a more opportune moment for Mrs Winscott, who was arranging flowers on her drawing room when the butler appeared to announce Mr Beaumont. Her lips slightly parted in unadulterated surprise, she stared eagerly at the doorway, and barely a second later there emerged the worthy young man, garbed immaculately in dark blue coat, primrose waistcoat and light-colored trousers, of whose visit she secretly awaited in anticipation. She received him with wont affability, but was careful not to betray the excesses of enthusiasm that brimmed in her bosom; enquired solicitously after his condition, conveyed her regrets for the injuries he’d sustained, and finally embarked on a monologue of gratitude. “For I am sure, Mr Beaumont, that my poor, dear niece would have suffered a worst fate in the hands of those brutes had you not been there! Indeed, I couldn’t begin to imagine the whole horrid thing at all, for I’m sure my nerves couldn’t stand it! There are simply no words, sir, to express how indebted I am to you for her deliverance!”
To which the young man replied with a self-effacing smile, “It was nothing, ma’am, really. I just did what anyone would when confronted with such an outrageous circumstance.”
“Nothing!” exclaimed Mrs Winscott, both in shock and awe. “Why, it wasn’t nothing at all! Oh, but won’t you sit down, Mr Beaumont? I shall fetch Caroline presently, for I believe she’s in the bedroom with her cousin. You won’t mind if I left you for a moment?”
“Not at all, ma’am.”
“Well then, I shan’t be long!” Bestowing him yet another of her gracious smiles, Mrs Winscott departed in a hurry, and betook herself to her niece’s bedroom in the upper floor. She found her and her daughter in front of the vanity mirror, trying different hats acquired from her daughter’s shopping at Bond Street yesterday. Mrs Winscott beckoned to her niece smilingly. “Caroline, dear, you have a visitor — oh, take that off!” she strode towards her and practically flung the confection aside, which provoked a protest from her daughter. “Well, that isn’t a pretty hat, my love, and I wonder at you why you even bought it. I do not like how it curled on the brim, and the ruffles only looked as — no, never mind that! Caroline, smoothen your hair, will you? There! A pity your maid hasn’t chosen a more fashionable coiffure today. Well, I must say that lavender dress becomes you, dear! But you must run along now!”
Before Caroline could even demand some enlightenment as to the identity of this visitor, she found herself being pushed through the threshold. When she was out of sight and earshot, Mrs Winscott made no move to follow her niece, but lingered on the doorway with a look of satisfaction on her countenance.
Her daughter threw her an amused glance. “I think I have an inkling who this visitor might be, Mama, though you didn’t need to rush poor Caro like that!”
“It would be unseemly to make Mr Beaumont wait,” replied her Mama sensibly. “I don’t see why females must needs keep their gentlemen visitors waiting, when they are quite ready to receive them forthwith. One wouldn’t want to appear overeager, of course, but I deem such habit to be extremely affected! Don’t get me wrong, my dear, for I certainly am an upholder of propriety; however, it was my direct manner that hooked your poor Papa in a trice!”
“Yes, yes, of course it was,” Sophie agreed somewhat hurriedly. “But I wonder why you stay here? Doesn’t your sense of propriety offended if you left those two alone?”
“Nonsense! We are both here in this house as well, so it is hardly improper,” argued Mrs Winscott, completely deviating from her decorous disposition. She began slowly to pace back and forth, her face deep in contemplation as she said: “You are aware, of course, that I quite approve of him at the outset, for a more amiable young man I couldn’t have met; but I was too sensible not to jump to any conclusions weeks ago, lest I misread his regards for Caroline. Until that horrid affair at Vauxhall, my dear, made it plain to me that the young man is as good as smitten with her! Now, if I am mistaken about that, then I am either blind, or just plainly ignorant of the nature of men, but I do not scruple to tell you now that I am entertaining hopes for the pair. It is a desirable match, and I’m sure your Uncle James would approve as well. Why, a cousin to an Earl is more than even your Uncle could hope for! Not that I doubt my dear niece couldn’t do better, for she has countenance and charm, and such unaffected manners — but I dare not exceed my hopes to a nobleman, for it is very much aiming for the moon indeed!”
“Now Mama, you are talking in a decidedly vulgar fashion that I begin to wonder if you are not yourself today!” remonstrated Miss Winscott.
“I’m sure I do not mean to sound like that, my dear, for there’s nothing I despise more than a pact of odious, scheming harpies like Mrs — well, I won’t name names, of course! But what I am trying to say, Sophie, is that such alliance will put our dear Caroline to an advantage, don’t you agree?” she persisted, not in the least abashed.
“Well, yes, it is,” Sophie agreed, but with slight reluctance. “But has it not occurred to you, Mama, that Caroline is far too young to be even contemplating marriage? It is too early to speculate; and whether or not she holds Mr Beaumont in a particular regard is yet to be seen.”
Mrs Winscott pondered on this. “Of course, every girl in their first Season would not immediately think of marriage; very likely she cares more for balls and dresses! But depend on it, Sophie, when she harbors even the slightest tendre for the young gentleman, that could be easily rectified. Nevertheless, she shall meet others, I expect, and she’ll have her own choice one day, so long as it is an agreeable match!”
Sophie finally let out a sigh of relief. “Quite right, Mama! You are, as always, very sensible!”
“Fiddlesticks!” protested Mrs Winscott with a beam. “Now, I must order refreshments for them. You could join them downstairs in a while, Sophie!” she said sharply, and left the room.
Meanwhile, downstairs, Caroline was both relieved and elated upon seeing Mr Beaumont again. The bright smile wobbled though as she scanned his face, back-and-blue bruises still visible under his eye and on his jaw; her heart wrenched a little when she glimpsed those white, graceful hands marred with ugly abrasions on the knuckles. Instinctively, she reached out her own towards him, and for a moment they were arrested in his warm clasp. “I should have known that it is you, but how odd that my Aunt didn’t even drop any hint at all! How are you, Mr Beaumont?”
“I am well, thank you! I do beg your pardon for not calling on you sooner. I was under the strictest advise to stay abed for a few days, having, besides bruised ribs, contracted a very severe headache. Believe me, it was the most tiresome week in all my life! I was never sick, you see, so the experience left me a golden lesson: I would take care of my body in the future!”
Miss Davis laughed and withdraw her hands. “You very well should, sir! I’m sorry to hear that you had been terribly unwell.” Her green gaze were clouded with fleeting anxiety. “But — but are you sure you are entirely healed? The bruises — do they still hurt?”
“Well, my ribs devilishly hurt still. The doctor said it would take another week or two for it to be completely healed, but you need not be worried, Miss Davis! I assure you, I am now in fine fettle,” he smiled down at her in a laid-back manner. “As for my face, it might appear unsightly for now, but the bruises are healing as well. Tell me, how have you been this past week?”
“Oh, I’m right as rain! Believe me sir, your face isn’t unsightly at all, but I cannot help wondering if your friends were quite inquisitive as to how you came by your injuries?”
“They hadn’t had a chance last week, for I was making myself scarce, you see, though I’m dead certain they will plague me about it, now that I am up and about again! I’ve already met two of my acquaintances on my way here, and Lord, the look on their faces were priceless!” he grinned. “I greeted them casually enough, of course, but the only answer they had for me was ‘what the devil!’ and when they just stood there like waxworks, I made a swift escape, leaving them gaping behind.”
A gurgle of laughter escaped from Miss Davis’ lips again. “At least they never had the chance to plague you!”
“None, indeed!” Mr Beaumont replied cheerfully. “Devilish nuisance it would be, to be sure.”
They maintained a light flow of conversation, and minutes later were joined by Sophie, who, possessing more sensibilities than her mother, was quite overcome the instant her eyes alighted on their morning caller. She gasped in horror, but speedily recovered her wits and gave him a sympathetic smile, expressing her heartfelt thanks for what he’d done for Caroline. The conversation steered to the various goings-on of the week that Mr Beaumont missed, although he found none that stirred his interest. Caroline also told him of her meeting with the Countess of Stokeford, but was bewildered of his reaction when she’d asked if he would be attending the musical soiree on Thursday.
A shadow momentarily hung on his face as he said: “Oh, yes! Robert told me about it, although I am not certain if I should go.” There was something noncommittal in his manner that Caroline didn’t press the topic further. He did not stay long to even partake refreshments, but left a promise to call on her again soon.
On thursday night, at around eight o’clock, the two cousins arrived by coach in front of an imposing townhouse at number five, Upper Brook Street. A handful of fashionables was mounting the stairs outside the house by the time they alighted; and instead of making haste to join the throng which was already being ushered inside, they spent a brief moment appraising the well-lit, five-storey white edifice looming aboved them. “So this is the home of Lord Stokeford,” Caroline breathed to her cousin. “Though it doesn’t really differ from any other houses, does it?”
“I daresay,” Sophie nodded, but after a cursory glance at the portals of the Earl’s home, an urgent whisper was emitted from her. “We must not tarry long, though. I have the most dreadful feeling that his lordship’s butler has cast a reproving eye at this direction, and if I’m not mistaken, it was meant for us. Come!” However, his lordship’s butler did not betray an indication of disapproval, nor in fact, any emotions at all as he divested the two young ladies of their cloaks. Miss Davis stole a curious glance at him, but was instantly caught by his hard, grey gaze that there was nothing for it but to affix a sheepish smile on her countenance. The Earl, who was presently engaged in a somber talk with an equally somber sprig by the doorway of the saloon, caught sight of the newcomers, and politely excused himself to meet them.
“Good evening, Miss Winscott,” he murmured and turned to the other lady, who was gazing at him with a disconcerting twinkle in her green eyes. “Miss Davis,” he gave her a nod, and when she irresistibly dimpled at him, he felt his own lips tugged at the corner.
“It is so kind of you and Lady Stokeford to invite us tonight, my lord,” said Miss Winscott warmly. “Regrettably, Mama has the most unfortunate time to be afflicted with migraine, so she couldn’t be able to attend with us tonight. It’s the dreadful summer heat, you see. I hope Lady Stokeford will not mind us being unchaperoned.”
“Not at all. I hope it’s nothing too serious?”
“No, thankfully not! All she needs is a long rest, and she’ll feel better by morning.”
Accordingly, the Earl offered an arm to Miss Winscott, and escorted her to the saloon with Miss Davis behind them, covertly observing everything about her, her little black head occasionally twisting and turning. A small assembly of at least thirty people had already gathered in the salon — a spacious, rectangular room with walls painted in dove grey, and the rococo ceiling in a soft shade of lavender, where two intricate chandeliers were hanging. The Countess approached them to exchange greetings, and was gone the next instant to welcome another knot of guests coming inside. Sophie, who had spotted a few acquaintances across the room, also excused herself from the Earl and her cousin.
“Do you care for music?” asked Lord Stokeford. “My mother has invited a quartet and an opera-singer to play tonight. I hope it will be to your liking.”
“I’m afraid not much. To put it plainly, music is not really my forte,” she replied. “I find playing the piano forte most tiresome, and there’s no use of asking me who is my favorite among Bach, Mozart and Beethoven, because the shocking truth is, I know so little of their music that I cannot at all tell their pieces apart! However, I have tolerant ears for good music. How about you, my lord?”
“Not really, although I used to play the piano and a little of violin when I was young. Only that I’d fallen out of habit, and realized one day that I no longer cared for it. I think,” he halted, as if unsure of his next words. “I think partly because no one would have likewise cared to listen to my play anyway.”
Miss Davis eyed him speculatively. “How I wish I could hear you play one day,” she softly uttered.
“Do you?” replied his lordship in somewhat husky voice, momentarily transfixed by the big green orbs. “I — ” he broke off, because he didn’t know what to say next. All of a sudden, his attention was diverted somewhere else, and when he spoke again, his countenance had resumed indifference. “Forgive me, Miss Davis, but I believe my mother desires me to come to her at once.”
Miss Davis absently nodded, but her gazed followed him to the doorway where he was met by a modishly pretty young woman who extended a hand to him in a friendly, almost intimate manner. She wondered for a moment if she was a relation of the Beaumonts, for not only was the Countess fondly chatting with her, but Lord Stokeford was also attentive in her every word; and she couldn’t help thinking how cosy they appeared together.
Forcibly, Miss Davis dragged her eyes away from the group and let it sweep around the room; by the window across her, Sophie was immersed in a lively talk with two ladies, seemingly oblivious to the gentleman at her elbow who was evidently experiencing calf-love; at the far end, Sir Wallace had accosted a footman for another glass of wine, laughing boisterously at something his companion had said. Several faces were known to her, but not even their nods and murmured greetings could alleviate the notion of how friendless she was here, like the somber young man who’d retired on a divan a few paces away from where she stood, watching in solitude the unfolding bustle with a dispassionate eye.
As she averted her sight away from him, she saw another familiar — and this time, very friendly — face who was drawing nearer to her with a ready smile. “Aren’t we feeling abandoned tonight, Miss Davis?” began Lord March as he reached her side. “My companion had deserted me in pursuit for a more enthusiastic converser, which was really puzzling, because I’ve always thought myself to be exactly like that. Well, I’m just glad I’ve found you,” he grinned at her. “For I know you are ready to appreciate me more!”
“Good evening, Lord March,” greeted Miss Davis cheerfully, her earlier gloom slipping away all at once. “But I had not seen you when we arrived. Where have you been, sir?”
“Skulking in the library,” the Viscount flippantly replied. “I believe that your cousin has successfully captured a few hearts already,” he remarked, his amused grey eyes resting on the small pack of young men gathering around the lady. “Now, where can Stefan be, I wonder?”
Miss Davis pointed in the direction of the doorway, where the Earl’s party still lingered. “There he is. Do you — ” she glanced tentatively at her companion. “Do you know who is that lovely lady with him?”
“By Jove, yes!” struck his lordship. “Why, it is Miss Marianne Carstairs, the Countess’ niece. I believe she’s just arrived from France.”
“Niece? So she is Lord Stokeford’s cousin, then?”
The Viscount nodded. “Her father, the Viscount Mislington, is the Countess’ older brother although,” his voice lapsed into an undertone as he leaned toward her. “When Stefan’s father was alive, there had been — er, a slight discord between him and Lord Mislington, so they did not often rub shoulders with back then, y’know. It also impelled Stefan to put a little distance from her mother’s kin.”
“Is — was,” she amended, looking at him with blatant curiosity. “Was the late Earl a — an unrelenting man?”
Lord March shrugged. “I cannot really say. As far as I am concerned, he was a man of a very complex character, besides being a mighty unsociable fellow.” He said no more, and Miss Davis felt a strong inclination to ask for more, but was checked by the arrival of Sir Wallace. “Well, m’dear,” he jauntily said in response to her greeting. “Did I just hear it right, that that blonde filly is your cousin? The one my godson is dangling after, eh?”
“No, no — not exactly dangling, sir,” interposed Lord March smoothly. “Your godson is not as assiduous as that!”
“Damn right you are, March! Why, if it’s left to me, I’d dismiss the whole thing as moonshine! Not making offense to your cousin, m’dear, for she’s truly a dainty piece. But Stefan courting — !”
Miss Davis laughed. “You might not know it, sir, but I think Lord Stokeford has a soul of a romantic,” she replied as a vivid memory of that afternoon when he’d said a few pretty things intruded her mind. Sir Wallace, however, was extremely incredulous. “If that don’t beat all!” he ejaculated. “Romantic, indeed! ‘Pon rep, March, I cannot begin to imagine Stokeford as cross as crabs one moment, and a smitten lad the next! Dang me if I did!”
The Viscount shook his head in empathy. “Indeed, sir!” And when the old gentleman eventually left, Lord March shook his head again, this time in amusement. “Lord, what a rattle-plate!” he exclaimed wryly.
“He always makes me laugh, you know, but it seems that Lord Stokeford treats him as a pain in the neck.”
“Egad, yes, Sir Wallace’s antics always get on his nerves. Can’t blame him, though. Shall we look for our seats now, Miss Davis? I believe the musicale is about to start — ah, but here’s your cousin!”
Miss Winscott smiled at him. “I’ve a mind to invite my cousin to sit with me in the front row, but I think it would be dreadfully impudent of me sir, to deprive you of a companion, don’t you think?”
“Devilish impudent! Why, I shall be bereft of a companion who has appreciated my company and conversation! But I await Miss Davis’ decision, of course.”
“You can leave me under Lord March’s charge, Sophie, and you shall enjoy the musicale undisturbed,” said Miss Davis with a great deal of truth. Her cousin readily accepted this, knowing that Caroline could not sit still for even half an hour without badgering her by unwarranted whines and absurd observations.
The gilded chairs, which were arranged in neat rows separated by a small aisle, were beginning to be occupied with spectators as the string quartet was poised to begin their play. At the center stood the opera-singer, a stunning Italian in a shockingly revealing gown of silver silk and gauze, who was smiling in a most beguiling manner to the audience which was partly comprised of young coxcombs who ogled at every opportunity. “Is Mr Beaumont coming?” Miss Davis asked as they settled themselves in the middle row, squeezed between two dowagers who, as Lord March pointed out in an undertone, were deaf enough to be bothered by their confabulation.
“Lord, no,” the Viscount replied. “Laurie doesn’t have an ear for music.”
The murmurings were hushed at once when the performance commenced, suffusing the room with music. Miss Davis, still distracted by the singer’s somewhat unseemly raiment, maintained a polite expression while her gaze was surreptitiously straying away. It finally rested at the opposite side of the aisle, particularly at the front row where Sophie was sitting beside Lord Stokeford, their heads bent in a whispered tete-a-tete. Despite Sophie’s admission of cherishing no feelings for Lord Stokeford, she couldn’t prevent herself from thinking what a striking picture they make, or how it would unwittingly make it appear to the other less discerning eyes that they even share a tendre. Once, many weeks ago, the thought would have tingled her with a gush of delight.
Now, for some unfounded reason, Miss Davis was only conscious of a dull ache in her own heart.
*rattle-plate- Regency slang for a silly person.