Читать книгу A Most Improper Proposal - Molly Ann Wishlade - Страница 10

Chapter Two

‘I do love Wednesday evenings at Almack’s,’ Lady Watson giggled, stepping over the threshold of the exclusive club. She appeared almost ethereal this evening with her translucent skin and her shock of white hair elaborately pinned and decorated with diamonds.

At seventy-nine, Lady Watson displayed an energy and zest for life that Isabella admired. The ageing lady was keen to squeeze every last drop of excitement into her days whilst she was able. Some might say that the yellow shade of her gown did little for Lady Watson’s complexion, but she was unperturbed by the opinions of others ‒ which was just as well, Isabella thought, or she would not be in the position of companion to the elderly lady.

‘Come here, dear.’ Lady Watson grasped for Isabella’s arm with fingers like gnarled twigs. Though old and appearing frail, she had a surprisingly strong grip and her fingers pinched a little, conveying her excitement. ‘And how are you feeling this evening?’ The lady’s breath was fragranced with the violet and liquorice of her cachou lozenges.

‘Why I am well, Lady Watson.’ Isabella met the inquisitive grey eyes. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I heard something of your afternoon’s adventure, dear.’ Lady Watson chuckled. ‘Some awful, boorish man lost control of his horse and nearly ran you over. Is that right?’

Isabella blushed and tried to look away, but Lady Watson reached up to firmly take her chin between thumb and forefinger.

‘How did you hear about it, Lady Watson?’

‘Why, from the lovely Miss Pembrey, dear. How else?’

Isabella shook her head as it filled with thoughts of exactly what she’d say to little Henrietta when she saw her next.

‘Now, now, Isabella, it wasn’t like that. Henrietta is a sweet girl and meant no harm. She was just concerned for your welfare. She has your best interests at heart and she is a sensitive little thing. Why, she was so upset by the incident that it gave her a headache, leaving her confined to her bedchamber this evening.’

Lady Watson gave Isabella’s chin a gentle squeeze, then took her hand, placing it in the crook of her arm where it rested upon the fine silk of her glove and the equally soft, loose freckled skin.

Isabella walked slowly along the hallway with the sprightly lady and mulled over Lady Watson’s comments about Henrietta. It seemed that Lady Watson had taken it upon herself to actively seek out young ladies in distress in order to offer them the security and protection of her age, experience and class. She had come to Isabella’s aid when she was at her lowest point and more recently she had swept up little Henrietta and her set of problems.

Lady Watson patted Isabella’s arm, returning her to the moment.

‘Come, dear, let us enjoy the evening ahead. You do look quite delightful this evening, you know.’

Isabella smiled at the compliment. She had to admit that she did feel good in the dusky-pink taffeta-silk gown. The low neckline with its pink rosebud trim accentuated her pert, round bosoms and the long skirt fell like a shimmering silk waterfall.

‘And, dear,’ Lady Watson continued, ‘I do love what Georgina did with your hair.’

‘She is most talented.’ Isabella smiled and tucked her fan beneath her arm, then moved her free hand to her hair, where she twirled a finger in a ringlet at the nape of her neck. Her chestnut curls were pinned loosely so that a few tendrils hung prettily down and her maid had styled tiny ringlets at the front so that they framed her face.

They approached the grand stone staircase. Although she had attended Almack’s Assembly Rooms several times since her appointment as Lady Watson’s companion, its splendour never ceased to amaze her. Perhaps this was heightened by her vulnerability, as she knew how strict the club’s patronesses were, and how at any moment they could withdraw membership vouchers, leaving man or woman, lord or lady, literally out in the cold. She shivered.

‘Do you have a chill, Isabella?’ Lady Watson asked.

‘No, Lady Watson, I am quite well, thank you.’

‘Then why did you shiver, child?’

Isabella considered fabricating a reason but knew that Lady Watson was too perceptive to deceive.

‘I was thinking of the patronesses, Lady Watson,’ she whispered.

The board of women, including Lady Sarah Jersey, Lady Castlereagh and Lady Cowper, were strict and draconian in their control of the club and they ruled Almack’s with a collective iron will. They had, it had even been rumoured, recently turned away the mighty Duke of Wellington, the nation’s hero, because the gentleman was wearing trousers instead of the required knee breeches and because he had arrived at the club after eleven o’clock.

The broad grin that graced Lady Watson’s face brought her immediate comfort.

‘Have I not told you that you have nothing to fear from that coven?’

Isabella gasped at the derogatory term but hid a smile behind her fan.

‘I must admit, Lady Watson, that the ladies in question do remind me somewhat of the witches in Macbeth.’ It was wicked to speak about others in such a way but Lady Watson brought out her mischievous side.

Lady Watson smiled and winked. ‘Do you mean in the way that they act like puppeteers of London society, my dear, making or breaking people’s reputations through their collective manipulation?’

Isabella inclined her head.

‘I wish I knew exactly how you persuaded them to allow me to accompany you to Almack’s, Lady Watson. I mean… so many have tried but failed.’ She peered coyly up at the great lady from beneath her lashes.

‘A lady never tells, Isabella’ – Lady Watson tapped her closed fan against her lips once before continuing – ‘but feel secure in the knowledge that everyone has secrets and that I know a few that some of the lovely patronesses… despite their insistence on members of Almack’s having untarnished reputations… would prefer not to have bandied about in public.’ With that, Lady Watson winked again, leaving Isabella wondering at the power that the seemingly frail old lady wielded in London society. She was fearless and Isabella’s admiration for her filled her chest so that she had to resist throwing her arms around Lady Watson and hugging her tightly.

As they passed the spacious supper room to their left, Isabella could already hear the musicians warming up in the rooms above. Her stomach fluttered in anticipation and she pressed her free hand over it. Even though she worried about being an object of mockery or disdain, she could not help but be caught up in the collective excitement and buoyancy that permeated the atmosphere at the club.

‘It will be another busy evening at Almack’s, Lady Watson.’

‘Certainly, dear,’ the old lady replied. ‘And I hope to see you enjoying the dancing well into Thursday morning.’

Isabella inclined her head and suppressed her reply. She knew that any gentleman who claimed her for a dance would likely be a rake who was under the impression that she was his for the taking. In the past, to her mortification, she knew that certain young men of the ton had even danced with her as a wager, just so that they could claim to have touched the flesh of the disgraceful, wanton Miss Adams.

They climbed the grand stone staircase and Isabella was reminded once again of Cinderella as she ran from the prince and lost her glass slipper. How unfortunate to finally find your prince then to be forced to tear yourself away from him just as he was falling in love with you. What if they had not found each other again? Mayhap Cinderella was lucky to have found him at all. Isabella certainly doubted that she would ever find such happiness, let alone a prince.

‘What is it, Isabella?’ Lady Watson questioned. ‘Are you sure you’re warm enough?’

‘Yes, thank you, Lady Watson. I really am quite comfortable.’

‘I do hope that you haven’t caught an ague after being in a damp dress this afternoon.’ Lady Watson shook her head and tucked her companion’s hand more securely into the crook of her arm.

At the door to the ballroom, Lady Watson paused to catch her breath. ‘Now, dear, remember: head up, shoulders back and hear only what is favourable.’

Isabella nodded.

‘We will have a good time, my dear, no matter what.’

‘No matter what,’ Isabella repeated, though she felt her serenity of just moments ago begin to drift away from her like clouds on a breeze and she wondered if she would ever feel completely at ease amongst London’s high society.

* * * *

The ballroom was a truly magnificent sight. It was almost one hundred feet in length and forty wide, and when fully illuminated it was like a night sky full of stars. The walls were divided with panels and paired pilasters and decorated with festoons and paterae, giving the rooms a Roman feel. Isabella felt that this was appropriate as the decadence enjoyed by many of le Beau Monde who attended Almack’s, did echo that of the ancient Romans she had read about.

Walking into the ballroom was a bit like walking the gangplank, then plunging into shark-infested waters. Isabella watched as they started to circle, clearly the scent of her blood and the nervous thrumming of her heart had alerted them to her presence. She pressed the hand holding her fan against her stomach so that it rested like a shield in front of her body.

‘Ah!’ Lady Watson exclaimed. ‘My dear Lord Howden. How are you?’

The elderly gentleman took Lady Watson’s hand and bowed low, brushing his withered lips against her fingers. He reminded Isabella of a balding old crow in his black jacket and breeches, with his bony legs clearly outlined in their silk stockings. At any moment she could imagine him stretching out his arms like wings and strutting around the room, bobbing his head backwards and forwards in the funny way crows do.

‘I am very well, Lady Watson, and all the better for seeing you.’

Lord Howden leered as he turned to Isabella and openly eyed the low neckline of her gown. She flickered her eyes over the dome of his head where his sparse hair had been greasily combed from one ear to the other in a futile attempt to conceal his expanding scalp.

She bobbed a curtsey and he took her hand, then leant over and kissed it more sloppily than he had Lady Watson’s. Isabella fought the urge to pull her hand away and frowned with dismay at the damp patch his kiss had left on her silk glove. She yearned to wipe it against her dress to rid herself of his drool but such behaviour would not be proper or comely.

‘You must save me a dance later on, Miss Adams.’ His wolfish grin seemed all the more sinister because of the missing teeth and the foul stench of his breath. That smell would now be clinging to her glove.

‘Of course, Lord Howden. It would be an honour.’ That I dream not of…

‘So lovely,’ he muttered, then turned and walked away, lifting his right leg slightly as he unabashedly adjusted his manhood.

‘An honour, dear?’ Lady Watson smiled.

‘I am afraid not, Lady Watson.’ Isabella shook her head. ‘I have tried to show the gentleman good manners…’ She wondered if it would be awful of her to confess her thoughts, but Lady Watson was not easily shocked. ‘However, I cannot bear to dance with him for he whispers the most awful things into my ear, then claims that it is his age and that his mind wanders.’

Lady Watson laughed. ‘Yes, dear, like his hands. Lord Howden has not altered in the sixty years during which I have been of his acquaintance. Outliving three younger wives and dallying with countless mistresses has done nothing to dull his ardour. I thought that he would fall head first into your gown the way he was leaning over to peer down your neckline.’

‘Lady Watson!’

Despite her shock, Isabella laughed, for the old lady’s wicked humour was most infectious.

As they approached a circle of ladies, Isabella felt her laughter die in her throat. Lady Watson coughed and the nearest two turned and quickly assessed the new arrivals, evaluating hair, clothing and jewellery in one sweeping glance.

‘Lady Watson.’ Lady Herridge bowed her head in acknowledgment. ‘And the lovely Miss Adams.’ Though the lady smiled, her tone was icy and her pale-blue eyes were hard as flint.

‘Well, ladies…’ Lady Watson addressed the small circle of women in their colourful evening gowns and headwear. They reminded Isabella of a picture she’d once seen in a book about parrots in a jungle. ‘May I ask what you were discussing?’

‘My dear Lady Watson’ – Lady Herridge drew herself up to her full height and paused for effect – ‘we were discussing the latest arrival in London.’

The ladies tittered and fussed and Isabella glanced quickly from one hard face to another. There was much flickering of fans and exchanging of knowing smiles.

What did they know? She felt her vulnerability once more, as the unswallowable lump rose in her throat and began to choke her. Was it someone from her past? Was there a chance that her former shame would be resurrected and bandied about this season as well? Her head began to ache and she felt certain that her knees would give way.

Lady Watson applied a gentle pressure to her hand, squeezing it just a fraction in the crook of her elbow.

‘The latest arrival.’ Lady Watson stared hard at Lady Herridge. ‘And whom might that be? The Duke of Wellington, mayhap?’ She smiled broadly at her suggestion, well aware that the snobbery of this club had kept that honourable gentleman from entering its social circle.

‘Oh, no, Lady Watson!’ Lady Herridge announced triumphantly. ‘Someone far more interesting. At least, someone you will find far more interesting.’

Lady Watson shook out her golden fan with its decorative yellow feathers and raised it to her face.

‘Pray tell me the name of our new arrival, Lady Herridge.’ Lady Watson’s voice was calm but Isabella sensed her tension. It made her long to stand between the two ladies in order to block out the mocking face of Lady Herridge. She wanted to whisk her saviour away from this gladiators’ arena because she feared what knowledge Lady Herridge was about to impart, but she forced herself to stand still and silent and to imitate the unflinching dignity that Lady Watson displayed.

‘None other than…’ Lady Herridge sniffed and her companions giggled behind their fans. ‘Lord… James Crawford.’

Isabella heard the collective intake of breath and waited as it was held. But if the colourful vultures expected to feast upon the remains of a devastated Lady Watson, then they were as disappointed as the hyenas at their edges, because the lady showed no sign of weakness or surprise. Instead, she smiled, as if already privy to the information.

‘Oh, I say, Lady Herridge, that is no news to me; I thought you spoke of another.’ She chuckled. ‘Of course I am aware of my nephew’s return. And, I believe, he will make an appearance here this evening.’

Lady Herridge frowned.

‘You knew of his return?’

‘Of course, Lady Herridge.’ With a proud nod of her head, Lady Watson smiled at the circle of disappointed women, then turned on her heel, practically dragging Isabella behind her.

As soon as they had escaped to the coolness of the hallway, Lady Watson peered around to check that they were alone, then leant against the wall and fanned her face furiously.

‘Lady Watson?’ Isabella’s stomach churned and her hands shook as she reached out to still the lady’s fluttering hands. ‘What is it? Why did that disturb you so?’

Lady Watson was silent for a moment then she turned her moist grey eyes to Isabella and held her gaze. Isabella watched as a tear escaped and ran down the withered cheek, leaving a pale trail through the pink circle of rouge.

‘Because, dear girl, I knew nothing of his return. He has not contacted me to inform me that he is here in London, nor to make arrangements to see me before we meet up in society.’

Isabella’s heartbeat quickened as she registered the insult to Lady Watson and a slow anger began to burn in her belly at the poor manners of the man she had yet to meet. But her desire to comfort the old lady dominated.

‘Well, perhaps he has not had time, Lady Watson, or perhaps…’

‘Perhaps, nothing,’ the old lady shook her head. ‘It is clear that my dearest nephew, once the light of my life and my pride and joy, has not yet forgiven me. He still blames me, perhaps he even hates me. I have not set eyes on him in five long years and I had hoped that time would help him to heal, but for him to slight me in this way is evidence that I am out of his favour still.’

Isabella’s eyes filled with tears of compassion.

‘But what did you… what could you have done to make him treat you in this way?’ Lady Watson was so kind, so compassionate and so sincere that she could not imagine her doing anything so wretched as to merit this ill treatment.

‘None of us are straightforward, Isabella, and we learn, hopefully, from our mistakes. I have never set out to hurt anyone but, at times’ – the lady stared off into the distance and her eyes clouded over – ‘my decisions may not have been the right ones.’

Suddenly aware that someone was standing right behind her, Isabella twisted around and found herself staring into a familiar face. Instantly, colour rushed into her cheeks and her fan took up its defensive position across her chest.

‘Why, Miss Adams, is it not?’

She fell back against the wall next to Lady Watson as she tumbled into the intense, dark-brown eyes of the horseman from Hyde Park.

‘And Lady Watson.’

He bowed to them both and Isabella noted that he was wearing a tight smile that did not reach his eyes.

‘Good evening, Nephew,’ Lady Watson’s response caused Isabella to stare at her, open-mouthed.