Читать книгу Rumours in the Regency Ballroom - Diane Gaston - Страница 13

The Ceremonial for the Internment of her late Most Excellent Majesty Queen Charlotte of blessed memory, will take place in the Royal Chapel of St George at Windsor, on this day, Wednesday of the second day of December, 1818.—The New Observer, December 2, 1818

Lydia stood at her window watching the carriages roll by. It looked as if the funeral procession for the Queen had begun in Mayfair, rather than Windsor. Most of the peerage, it seemed, would be in the procession for the Queen.

She felt apart from it all, separated from the life into which she had been born. It was true that wives and daughters of peers would not be greatly in attendance at the funeral, but they would have been intimately involved in conversations about its planning and would hear every detail of the ceremonial at the end of the day. She had no one with whom to converse about it.

One fine carriage after another rumbled by, the gentlemen wearing tall black beaver hats or plumed regimentals just visible through the carriage windows.

Would Adrian be among them?

Lydia groaned. She ought not to think of him, but with her empty days it seemed he came much too often into her mind. Even when she ventured to Piccadilly Street to browse in Hatchard’s or to purchase jams at Fortnum and Mason, she found herself searching for him among the passers-by.

At least now she was able to walk to the shops unmolested. The reporters had vanished from her doorway when it became known that the ailing Queen had reached the end of her suffering. Lydia could not be glad the beloved Queen had died, but she was ecstatic that the reporters’ attention had turned towards the King, the Prince Regent and the Royal Dukes and Princesses. The newspapers were filled with every step the royals took. Speculation was rampant about the Queen’s will and the fact that she had only recently composed the document. Who would she remember in her will? And who would she leave out?

The Queen had always seemed like a formidable figure to Lydia. She had shaken in terror when she’d been presented to the Queen during the Season of her come-out. Lydia imagined all sorts of mishaps, like tripping on her skirt or losing one of the huge feathers she wore in her hair. When it had been her turn to be announced to the Queen, Lydia had been convinced she would faint, but somehow she’d made her approach and performed a graceful, if overly practised, curtsy.

The Queen had actually spoken to her. “Why, you are quite a beauty,” Her Majesty had said. “Quite a beauty.”

Lydia smiled at the memory of herself, so young and giddy and full of hope. It had been a time when she’d dreamed of love and marriage and children.

It had been a long time ago.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said aloud, curtsying again, just as she’d done that day.

Lydia had dressed in black today. She’d wear black to honour the dear Queen. She turned to leave her bedchamber and to make her way to the morning room where her breakfast would be served.

When she entered the corridor, the sweet sound of Mary humming a happy tune reached her ears. Lydia smiled.

Two weeks ago Mary had met a young man who’d put stars in her eyes and a skip in her step. Mary had seen the fellow only twice, when Lydia gave her permission to spend a little time to meet him at Gunter’s, where they shared some treat together. Those two meetings had been enough to keep the girl humming through all the other days.

“You must be thinking of your young man,” Lydia said when Mary came into view.

Mary blushed. “Oh, I suppose I should not hum on such a sad day. I do beg pardon, my lady.”

“Do not be silly, Mary,” Lydia scolded. “It is perfectly acceptable for you to be happy.”

It was more than acceptable. It was the one bright spot in Lydia’s life.

Mary beamed. “Well, I am very happy and that is the truth.”

Lydia reached out and touched the girl’s hand. “And I am happy for you.”

Lydia turned to walk down the stairs. As she descended she heard Mary’s cheerful tune again and almost felt like humming herself.

But a wave of queasiness came over her, so strong she almost missed a step. She grasped the banister to keep from falling.

She’d had such a feeling before, but that had been when she—

No. It could not be. It must not be.

“I’m hungry, that’s all,” she said aloud, although the thought of food made her stomach roil again. She pressed a hand to it and walked more slowly to the morning room.

She glanced at the food set out on a little table in a spot where the sunlight shone in from the window. The fare was simple. A pot of chocolate, a cooked egg, toast and jam, but her stomach rebelled at the sight. She took deep breaths and walked over to the window to wait for the nausea to subside.

There were still plenty of coaches rumbling by to entertain her. From this window it was easier to see the crests on the sides of the carriages. She recognised some of them. They were numerous enough to form a queue on her street, all waiting for the traffic to clear at South Audley Street, she supposed.

A fine shiny black town carriage came to a stop directly in front of her house. She examined the crest, but did not know to whom it belonged. Her gaze lifted to the window of the carriage. There staring back at her was Adrian. He nodded to her, and she quickly stepped back out of sight.

“By Jove, I believe that is Lady Wexin at the window.” Adrian’s father leaned over him to see better, but Lydia had already disappeared. “Did you see her?”

“I was not looking at the windows,” Adrian lied.

He’d seen her. His stomach muscles had clenched when his eyes met hers, like some besotted whelp in his first infatuation, but she’d quickly stepped away when he acknowledged her.

The message was clear. She had no wish to see him, even by accident.

“I am certain it was she.” His father leaned over him to get another look, but Adrian could have told him she would not show herself again, not while their carriage stood in front of her house. “Cannot mistake her. She is a beauty, that one. Can see why Wexin wanted her.”

“Mmm,” responded Adrian, not wishing to encourage this turn in their conversation.

It was merely his vanity that was wounded when she did not smile at him or nod in return, nothing more. Besides, not every woman he met wanted him. Why would they? He did not want every woman he met, including Lady Denson, the widow who seemed to appear at any society affair he attended.

“Did you hear?” His father chuckled. “Bets have been placed in White’s book on the identity of this Lord C who was connected with Lady Wexin in the newspapers.”

Adrian glanced over at him in surprise. “Indeed?” He’d hoped the story would have been forgotten in the wake of the Queen’s death.

His father lifted a finger. “Odds are on Crayden, you know.”

“Crayden?” Adrian should have been glad his father had not named him, but why Crayden, who was an impoverished Irish Viscount?

His father shrugged. “Word is he was a suitor of hers before Wexin. Never married. Needs the money from her dowry and a rich father-in-law as much as Wexin did.”

It ought not to matter to Adrian, but this news depressed him, even though he knew he was the Lord C of The New Observer’s story. He also knew her financial situation was not likely to attract Crayden, if the man knew of it, that is.

Betting on her at White’s didn’t please Adrian either. He disliked this manner of attention on her. She did not deserve it. Wexin had been the villain, not Lydia.

Adrian had discovered that Lydia had hired back most of her servants. Or rather his valet had discovered it at Adrian’s request. He had no idea how his man had accomplished it, but within a day Hammond had produced the information of how many servants had been dismissed originally and how many had returned. The number was sufficient to ensure her comfort.

He leaned back against the padded upholstery, trying to feel some satisfaction in having helped her.

The coach lurched forwards, the unexpected motion causing both father and son to grip the seats.

His father frowned. “I do hope the springs in this carriage are up to a trip of this length. I do not relish being jostled about.”

This was Adrian’s first ride in the elegant carriage bearing the Earl of Varcourt’s crest. “It is a damned sight better than the last hack I rode in.”

His father huffed. “Why you ride in those things is a mystery to me. Our old coach is at your disposal any time you require it.”

“That is generous of you, sir.” Adrian’s father was always generous.

This carriage did have a tendency to sway to and fro in a manner as lulling as a ship in gentle waters. After leaving the busy streets of London, they lapsed into silence. His father dozed and Adrian lost himself in thoughts that seemed as unfocussed as his life. The day promised to be long and tedious, but it was their duty to be present at the Queen’s funeral.

“When duty calls, a gentleman must always rise to do what is required of him,” his father always said. And always added, “So enjoy life while you can, my son.”

His father would deny it, but Adrian knew he relished doing his duty in whatever form it took, and probably had enjoyed it even from his youth, when he inherited the family title. Adrian’s father was a man who could be counted upon to do what must be done, but he also tended to glorify what he’d missed, the chance to be a frivolous, pleasure-seeking youth. His father could not fathom how such trivialities could grow tiresome over time.

When they reached Kew Palace there was a jumble of carriages, cavalry and foot soldiers, royal grooms and pages. Also in attendance were the royal physicians and countless other members of the royal entourage. Somehow this multitude sorted itself into a dignified and orderly procession, moving solemnly towards Windsor and St George’s Chapel.

The procession kept its snail-like pace the whole distance, reaching Houslow Heath shortly after noon and the chapel at seven in the evening. By that time most of the London carriages had turned off, making their way back to town. It was appalling how few peers actually endured the day long enough to attend the Queen’s funeral service.

Adrian and his father endured it, as duty demanded. By the time their coach was again pointed in the direction of London, his father’s energy had flagged and his rhythmic snores joined with the sound of the horses’ hooves and the creaking of the coach’s springs.

Adrian stared at the darkness outside, alone again with his thoughts.

What was there to look forward to in the weeks ahead? Within days London would empty, the ton fleeing to country houses or the Continent, places where they might find entertainment. With the official mourning of the Queen, the London entertainments would disappear. The theatres were already dark, and no one had hosted a ball or dinner or rout since the mourning commenced.

Adrian supposed he could accept his mother’s invitation to spend Christmas at the Varcourt estate. No doubt several of his parents’ friends would be in attendance. There would be card playing at night and perhaps he could ride in the mornings. There would be plenty of land to give his horse a good run.

Tanner had invited him to Tannerton, as well, but Adrian had already begged off. He knew Tanner would prefer to be alone with his new wife.

Perhaps he should travel somewhere, somewhere like…Paris.

Yes. Paris would be a novelty. Things were a bit gayer there now than they had been right after the war, he’d heard. More money was pouring in to the city each day. There were plenty of casinos he might visit, as well as the various sites of interest in the city.

Yes, he made the decision. He would go to Paris.

Anywhere to battle this cursed ennui.