Читать книгу A Poor Relation - Joanna Maitland - Страница 8

Sophia looked around with glowing eyes. ‘Oh, Isabella,’ she breathed, ‘I have never seen such beautiful fabrics. It’s…it’s like Aladdin’s cave.’

‘Just wait until you have seen Madame’s designs.’ Isabella smiled.

Sophia’s dark eyes opened even wider, as Madame Florette’s elegant black-clad figure re-entered the room, followed by a bevy of attendants carrying yet more bolts of splendid silks. Madame waved them into the background, before inviting the ladies to seat themselves on her delicate spindle-legged chairs.

‘Bien, mademoiselle.’ Madame was beaming at Isabella, no doubt in anticipation of a very large order. ‘I am at your service.’

‘Come, Sophia, let us make a start by choosing some simple morning dresses.’ Isabella smiled encouragingly. ‘Madame Florette has impeccable taste. You may trust her judgement.’

‘Mademoiselle Winstanley is most generous,’ responded the modiste with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘Mademoiselle Sophia will be a pleasure to dress. Such colouring, such a figure.’

Over the course of the morning, a bewildering collection of gowns was selected for Sophia. Isabella was glad she had taken pains to ensure that there was no mention whatever of price, for it was vital that Sophia’s feckless parents should not find out how much was being spent on their eldest daughter. What little they had was devoted to educating their five sons—and paying their debts. They did not seem to care that Sophia and her sisters were destined to become penniless old maids. As a spinster herself, Isabella had determined that Sophia, at least, should have the best possible chance of making a good match. And she was quite prepared to conceal the expense of the Season from Sophia’s stiff-necked parents, knowing that they would welcome a wealthy suitor with open arms.

‘And for you, Miss Winstanley,’ urged Madame, ‘I have just received the most beautiful jade-green silk shot with gold. With your colouring, it would make an exquisite ball-gown.’ With an imperious wave of the hand, she dispatched a hovering attendant to fetch the bolt of cloth.

The jade and gold silk was irresistible. ‘With a lighter green underdress, mademoiselle, in this aquamarine satin, to bring out the colour of the silk…and then a gold gauze scarf for your arms.’ Madame was sketching rapidly. ‘We will fashion a special ornament for your hair too, I think, to pick up the greens of the gown and of your eyes. It will look ravishing, I assure you.’

‘Isabella, it is too beautiful for words. You must have it, truly.’

Isabella yielded. She knew just how well the gown would become her. Partly as a result of Madame’s beautiful creations, Isabella Winstanley could hold her own among the best-dressed women in London. She was now wearing a carriage dress of emerald green, with a jaunty little hat of the same colour perched on top of her honey-gold curls. Even though Sophia’s dark colouring was the prevailing fashion, it was Isabella’s striking looks that had drawn every eye since their arrival in London.

Isabella was laughing gently with Sophia as they emerged to return to their carriage. Sophia, concentrating on their conversation, failed to notice a gentleman in her path and almost collided with him.

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir,’ she began. ‘Why, it is Mr Lewiston! Oh!’ Her face was suffused with the deepest blush, and she began to stammer uncertainly, ‘I…I had not thought…to see you in London. I…’ Her voice trailed off; she was unable to utter another word.

Mr Lewiston saved her, at least for the moment. ‘Miss Winstanley, how delightful to meet you again. I cannot think how I was so remiss as to fail to ask you for your direction in London. I hope you will permit me to call?’

Sophia had no choice but to acquiesce. ‘I am staying in Hill Street with my godmother, Lady Wycham,’ she said. ‘I am sure she would be delighted to meet you.’

‘And would you do me the honour of making me known to your companion?’ asked Mr Lewiston, casting an appreciative glance at Isabella.

‘Com…companion?’ stuttered Sophia, suddenly ashen.

‘I do not think I have been introduced to this lady,’ said Mr Lewiston patiently, ignoring Sophia’s apparent want of wits.

Isabella intervened to save the situation. She extended her hand, noting with satisfaction how steady it was. ‘I am Isabella Winstanley, Mr Lewiston, a distant cousin of Sophia’s. Lady Wycham would welcome a chance to meet you, I am sure. We have heard about your chivalrous rescue of Sophia in the north.’

It was Mr Lewiston’s turn to stammer as they shook hands. ‘Indeed, ma’am, I…I did nothing more than any gentleman would have done for a lady in distress, I assure you.’ Recovering his composure, he continued gamely, addressing Sophia once more, ‘I shall call tomorrow, if I may?’

Sophia answered with a smile and a slight nod. She was still incapable of speech. With an elegant bow, Mr Lewiston handed them into the carriage and stood watching as they drove off.

Sophia sank into the cushions, as far as possible from the window. She had turned extremely pale. She sank her head into her hands, pushing her modish new bonnet askew in the process, and began to sob weakly.

Isabella, too, was a little pale, but she despised such missish behaviour. Her keen intellect was busy searching for a solution to their dilemma. Mr Lewiston had not recognised her, she was certain. If she was careful both in her appearance and her behaviour, she could continue to dupe him. She could not afford to fail.

‘Do not distress yourself, Sophia,’ she said firmly, grasping Sophia’s shoulder and giving her a tiny shake. ‘He did not know me. Nor will he, if we are careful. I shall continue to act as though he and I had just met, and so shall you. If he should ask after your “companion”—though I dare swear he will not so lower himself—you will say that she is with her family.’

‘Oh, I could not,’ protested Sophia, trying to dry her tears with a scrap of lace. ‘I have not your talent for acting a part. Pray do not ask me to, Winny.’ Her voice was quavering; the tears threatened once more.

‘But I require you to,’ replied Isabella resolutely, giving Sophia a stern look, which stopped the gathering tears immediately. ‘Remember, Sophia—what I am asking you to say is no more than the exact truth. “Winny” is with her family.’ Isabella softened her gaze with a slight smile as she continued. ‘However, you must now cease to call me by that name. It would certainly betray us.’

They did not have much time to reflect on the possible horrors of the forthcoming visit from Mr Lewiston, because they were preoccupied with the preparations for Sophia’s first party—Lady Bridge’s soirée—that very evening. Although London was as yet quite thin of company, Isabella had judged it wise to allow Sophia to make some acquaintances at a few small gatherings, before launching her into her first grand occasion.

For this first party, Sophia chose the prettiest of the evening gowns she had brought from Yorkshire. None of Madame Florette’s creations could arrive for some days yet, however many seamstresses she might set to work on them. But Sophia’s home-made gown would by no means disgrace her, since she possessed real skill both in cutting and in stitching.

‘Thank you so much for lending me your pearls,’ said Sophia, as soon as she joined Isabella in the hall.

‘You look lovely,’ replied Isabella warmly. ‘Pink does indeed become you.’

‘While you look quite beautiful,’ responded Sophia promptly, casting admiring glances at Isabella’s classical gown of old-gold silk, and the necklace and earrings of intricate gold filigree. ‘You look like a princess from a fairy-tale.’

Secretly pleased, Isabella thanked her cousin demurely. ‘But you should not say such things, you know. At my age, I am more likely to be the wicked witch than the good fairy.’

‘Nonsense,’ chimed in an older voice. ‘You do yourself an injustice, as ever, Isabella. You look very well indeed, my dear.’

‘Oh, Aunt,’ protested Isabella. ‘How can I retain my countenance, if both of you put me to the blush?’

Lady Wycham ignored that protest completely. ‘Come, my dears, the carriage is waiting.’ The elderly lady, clad in imposing purple and leaning lightly on an ebony cane, led the way to the steps.

Barely ten minutes after their arrival, Sophia was chattering gaily with their host’s two nieces, while the hostess herself was seated by Lady Wycham, enjoying a comfortable coze.

‘Will you favour us with some music, my dear?’ asked Sir Thomas. ‘It is always a delight to hear you sing.’

Isabella inclined her head towards her host and moved to open the pianoforte. First she played a German minuet, its demure rhythm making little impact on the hum of conversation in the salon. Then she turned to a book of Italian songs, accompanying her low, rich singing voice with soft arpeggios. Almost as soon as she started to sing, the level of noise in the room fell, as the guests stopped to appreciate her beautiful voice. Sir Thomas watched her with a beatific smile on his face. Hardly anyone moved.

At the end of three songs, she made to leave the instrument but was met with a chorus of requests for an encore. She felt the warmth of a flush on her cheeks as she nodded her acquiescence. ‘Very well,’ she smiled, ‘but just one more.’ Her choice this time was completely different, a sad Italian ballad, which she sang very quietly, but with great expressiveness. The room remained totally hushed until the last note had died away, and then there was a burst of enthusiastic applause.

Isabella felt pleased; she knew she had performed well. She raised her eyes from her music to acknowledge the applause—and looked straight into the hard, dark eyes of Lord Amburley.

For a moment she sat immobile, stunned. How could this be happening? She felt her flush return and deepen under his gaze, while she strove both to regain her composure and to find an escape route from this nightmarish encounter. What could she do? It was so terribly difficult to order her thoughts with his penetrating gaze resting on her face. Had he recognised her, perhaps? Heavens, he was coming over to the pianoforte. She rose hurriedly in an attempt to avoid him, but it was too late. Sir Thomas was before her.

‘I think you cannot have met Amburley,’ began her affable host. ‘He has not been in town for some years. The wars, you know. He arrived a little late this evening but, luckily, in time to hear you sing. May I make him known to you?’

Isabella nodded dumbly, trying to recover control of her decidedly wobbly limbs. Her mind was still in a whirl. Foremost among her thoughts was the awful certainty that he could not possibly be the libertine she had earlier judged him to be. Rakes were not received by the upright Lady Bridge.

‘Miss Winstanley,’ continued Sir Thomas formally, turning slightly to be sure of including his lordship, ‘may I present Lord Amburley?’

‘Your servant, ma’am.’ His lordship had stopped by the far end of the instrument, Isabella noted, just near enough to avoid being impolite. He now bowed distantly to her, without moving forward to shake hands. ‘My compliments on your performance. You have a most…unusual voice.’ His voice was cool and expressionless, his manner stiff.

Curtsying politely, Isabella contrived a slight smile which did not reach her eyes. Inwardly, she was suddenly seething, her anger forcibly expelling her earlier weakness. She had been much too generous in her previous assessment of this man. Not a rake, perhaps, but both arrogant and overbearing in the extreme. She had received many compliments on her singing in the past, but a cold and patronising ‘unusual’ was certainly not one she would cherish. Better that he had refrained from voicing his evident disdain. Hateful, hateful man!

She would not allow him to overset her. Let him begin the polite conversation, if he dared. The spark of challenge was unmistakable as she raised her head proudly to look him in the eye.

If Lord Amburley observed that fiery spark, he gave no outward sign of recognition as far as Isabella could tell. Indeed, he seemed to be completely devoid of any human feeling—he just stood motionless by the pianoforte, surveying Isabella through half-closed lids.

Isabella refused to be cowed. Clearly his lordship did not desire to prolong their conversation. She certainly had no wish to do so. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I must rejoin Lady Wycham,’ she said politely, turning to leave. Sir Thomas nodded genially. Lord Amburley responded with only the slightest bow, keeping his hard eyes fixed on Isabella throughout. She could feel his gaze boring into her back, as she moved away to join her great-aunt once more, keeping her pace measured and deliberate. She might feel like running from him, but nothing—nothing—would be allowed to betray her inner weakness to such a man.

‘Why, Isabella,’ exclaimed Lady Wycham, ‘whatever is the matter? You look quite ill. Have you the headache, my dear? You really should not have agreed to perform for so long.’

‘I am quite well, truly. It is just a little warm with so many people in the room. I shall be recovered in a moment, I assure you.’ Taking a deep breath, Isabella raised her eyes to survey the company and discovered, with a sigh of relief, that Lord Amburley was no longer anywhere to be seen. A little of her colour returned.

But she had forgotten about Sophia, who was signalling urgently from across the room. Isabella swallowed a moment of panic. What should she tell Sophia? She reminded herself sternly that he had shown no sign of recognition—with luck he had completely forgotten his encounters with ‘Winny’.

Sophia drew Isabella into a shadowy alcove, desperate to know what had happened. ‘What did he say? Did he recognise you, do you think? Oh, what are we going to do?’

‘Be calm, Sophia,’ answered Isabella, doing her utmost to appear so herself. ‘There is no reason to be agitated, I am sure. Lord Amburley did not know me. We were introduced by Sir Thomas, that is all.’ She cut Sophia’s protest short, lest the child fret herself into an attack of the vapours. ‘He will, of course, recognise you when you meet, and you must acknowledge him, as you would any other gentleman. Remember that your “companion”—“Winny”—has gone to stay with her family. You may say, quite truthfully, that you are staying with your godmother and your distant cousin Isabella. Can you do that, do you think?’ She laid a gloved hand gently on Sophia’s arm.

‘I shall try,’ promised Sophia, looking pale and strained.

The inevitable meeting with Lord Amburley took place at supper, towards midnight, just when Isabella had begun to hope that he might have left. Isabella and Sophia were seated in the midst of the same group of young people they had joined earlier, and all were enjoying Lady Bridge’s generous hospitality.

Isabella felt, rather than saw, Lord Amburley’s entrance. Turning her head fractionally so that she could observe the doorway out of the corner of her eye, she saw that he was lounging near the door, apparently engrossed in discussion. She clenched her hands together in her lap to stop them from shaking.

Let him not notice us, she prayed silently, and if he does, I will not blush. Heavens, why cannot I have more self-control? What can it be about that man that oversets me so? He may be used to intimidating others, but I refuse to let him do so to me.

Trying to hide her confusion, she sipped gingerly at her champagne flute.

‘Miss Winstanley,’ said the well-remembered voice immediately behind her, ‘how delightful to meet you again—’ Isabella started and turned, only to find that he was clearly addressing Sophia, not herself ‘—I beg your pardon,’ he corrected himself, ‘I should have noticed that both Misses Winstanley were present. Miss Sophia, I hope you are well after your ordeal on the North Road? Are you fixed in London for the Season?’

Sophia answered with commendable self-possession that she was. A short, polite exchange ensued, after which Lord Amburley quickly withdrew. Sophia visibly relaxed.

Isabella noted that his lordship had not enquired after ‘Winny’, nor had he favoured her with any further conversation at all. She concluded that he had not given her another thought. Unaccountably, she felt piqued.

‘Lord Amburley is not much given to light conversation, it seems,’ she said softly to Sophia. ‘Perhaps that is just as well, in the circumstances.’

‘I am glad he is gone,’ confided Sophia. ‘There is something about his eyes that frightens me. I felt as if he could read my very thoughts.’

Isabella’s eyes widened in sudden recognition—for that was exactly how she had felt earlier, at the pianoforte. Then, she had not been able to put it into words. Now…now she had to admit that Lord Amburley would be a very dangerous man to cross.