Danse de la Folie (11 page)

Clarissa was silent, aware of her own disappointment, but
she was also curious to know more about this young lady to whom St. Tarval was
attached. First impressions could be deceptive, and she must not judge too
hastily.

Kitty turned a troubled gaze her way. “I think... I think
this invitation is in your honor,” she said tentatively.

Clarissa said the proper nothings, and a few hours later, found
herself welcomed by Lady Bouldeston herself, a round woman dressed very
stylishly, with a quantity of curling light brown hair done up in a youthful style
under her lace cap.

She conducted Clarissa to the best chair in a pleasing
salon, where the sideboard was loaded with good things to eat. Then Lady
Bouldeston brought forward her second daughter, Lucasta, to introduce to
Clarissa.

Lucretia poured out the tea, and Lucasta — who looked very
much like her sister but with darker hair and a higher voice — said, “Oh Miss
Harlowe, you cannot conceive how excited I am to enter society at last, and yet
my trepidations. You will laugh at me, I know, when you see how shy I am.
Everyone teases me about it.” Her head drooped forward, but not far enough to
hide how assiduously her eyes darted about to see the effect her words were
having.

“Another cream cake?” Lady Bouldeston said, gesturing
impatiently at the neat maidservant. “Pray, bring Miss Harlowe another cake.”

“No thank you,” Clarissa said.

“You must know that my cook is French. Escaped the
guillotine, just barely, though the rest of the family did not. They were
noblesse présentée,
of course. Sir Henry
is quite particular that way. It is said that these almond cakes were favored
by Queen Marie Antoinette herself, but the receipt was not for sale.”

Lucasta had been waiting impatiently for her mother to
finish speaking. “Oh, Miss Harlowe, surely you have a French cook. You must be
accustomed to everything of the best, situated as you are with respect to the
Devereaux family, and her grace of Norcaster, your grandmother.”

Lucretia interpolated a remark here. “Lucasta, you ought not
to trouble Miss Harlowe with such questions. She told me herself, upon our
introduction, that she seldom sees any of her Devereaux connections, except in
town.”

Clarissa was surprised that Lucretia should remember so
threadbare a politeness. She had become accustomed to young ladies offering a
kind of mendacious friendship in order to obtain an introduction to Clarissa’s
handsome cousin, the Honorable Philip Devereaux, or failing an invitation, at
least to insinuate through questions news of where he might be expected next.

Clarissa had become skillful in deflecting such ruses,
though not without sympathy. It was the business of young ladies to marry as
well as they could, and Cousin Philip was not only eligible, he was very rich, third
in line to a dukedom, and she had grown up hearing everyone praise his handsome
countenance.

“It is true,” Clarissa said, feeling safe enough in that.

Lady Bouldeston pressed more refreshments on Clarissa, who
refused politely while noticing that none of the Bouldeston ladies bestirred themselves
so assiduously on Kitty’s behalf.

But by now she suspected the cause behind this invitation
and the fulsome treatment. It was a passport to claim acquaintance in London.

It was no more than so many others did. She should not be
angry, but she could not prevent the thought that this was another reason why
she detested the London Season as Lady Bouldeston leaned toward her and said with
a rehearsed air, “Perhaps we may amuse ourselves with a little music. Lucasta?
Pray entertain us with that German air you have learnt.”

Lucasta protested, hiding her face. “Oh, pray, Mama! Miss
Harlowe is sure to have such exquisite taste, hearing London performers!”

Lady Bouldeston lifted her hands. “Miss Harlowe is certain
to be charmed, Lucasta, and as for Lady Catherine, we quite count her as one of
the family, old friends as we are.”

Clarissa’s middle sister, who alone of the family had a
lovely voice, commonly made just such protestations, so Clarissa offered polite
assurances.

Even so, Lucasta displayed a tendency to dramatize her
reluctance until her elder sister said in a sweet tone, “If you cannot overcome
your apprehensions, Sister, I shall offer an air of my own.”

Lucasta tossed her head. “I would not wish to disoblige
Mama.” She moved with alacrity to the pianoforte on the other side of the room.

Lucretia sat down to play, and Lucasta took up a stance,
eyes soulfully turned toward Heaven, and began to sing Schiller’s “The Song of
the Bell.”

Lucasta’s voice was nothing remarkable. In point of fact,
she did not always hit each note true, but seemed to feel that adding
embellishments such as trills, and striking affecting poses, masked these
shortcomings. If she was even aware of such shortcomings, for her mother
exhibited every evidence of enjoyment.

When Lucretia joined her on a French ballad, the two sisters
dragged one another off the note entirely. They sang the louder, or perhaps that
was the effect, while their Mama beat the time on her knee, and as she turned
her smiling face to Clarissa, it was clear from her countenance that she
believed she had offered her guests a rare treat.

“As you can see, my girls have had the benefit of superior
training,” Lady Bouldeston said at the end, and leaned forward with an air of
confidence. “I understand that it is not always the thing to mention Lady
Hamilton, and yet she was once received everywhere—her entertainments were
tres jolie
, as I am certain you are
aware, Miss Harlowe, therefore you will not mind when I confide to you that
Lady Hamilton was present at a little gathering when Lucasta was still very
much a schoolgirl. So she did not go out into company. But Lady Hamilton
positively begged to hear my girls sing, and afterward, pronounced them quite
distinguée
—agreed that had they not had
the disadvantage of being ladies of birth, they might have performed anywhere on
the European stage, even before kings.”

This call for compliments was too loud to be ignored, and
perforce Clarissa must provide the expected praise, which Lady Bouldeston and
her daughters took as a request for further entertainment.

Kitty largely remained silent throughout, betraying a faint
wince during a high note, which Clarissa secretly found reassuring. She was not
being too
nice
in her tastes. Still,
when at last the visit drew to its close and there must be a bustle of further
compliments and thanks, and assurances of seeing one another in town, as hats,
gloves, and coats were putting on, Clarissa wondered if her own mother might
have boasted in like manner of Clarissa’s modest talents, had she lived?

Lady Bouldeston had loathed Lady St. Tarval for her beauty
and her instant popularity in the parish after her disgraceful marriage. It was
(she had assured anyone who listened) a disinterested dislike, as she was a
just woman, and faulted the marquess for jilting her elder sister in order to
make this runaway match. She had put a mourning band to her hat when the wretched
woman had killed herself riding a half-tamed horse, but as she had observed to
Sir Henry on the way to the funeral, “It can only be regarded as an act of
Providence.”

Sir Henry, who had very much admired the dashing marchioness,
had wisely kept silent.

Providence had been dilatory in administering justice. By
the time Lady Catherine reached the age of ten, it had been obvious to all that
she had inherited her mother’s beauty. Lady Bouldeston had done what she could
to aid Providence by talking everywhere of the girl as a “sad romp” when the
present marquess had permitted his sister to gallop around the countryside, and
lamented Lady Catherine’s brazen lack of humility when she came to church in
her mother’s turned gowns.

She had instructed Lucretia, being the same age, that it was
her Christian duty to administer hints at Lady Catherine’s sad lack of social
grace. Lucretia, who had inherited much of her mother’s nature, was an apt as
well as enthusiastic pupil to her mother’s teachings.

Kitty was only aware that this visit had gone much better
than most of her visits to Riverside Abbey. She was certain she had Clarissa to
thank. She had never seen Lady Bouldeston more cordial than when, on their
departure, she had said, “It is a pleasure to observe that we will all see one
another in London quite soon.”

So her spirits were high as they returned to the quiet of
Tarval Hall, where they found the marquess in the warm study. Kitty had pulled
off her hat, and, swinging it by its ribbon, she said, “Do find Ned, Carl. I
propose an evening of whist—I feel as if I shall win thousands!”

At the marquess’s behest the cook had put forward the salt
pork in keeping for Sunday; his intention was to offer their departing guest a
fine meal, after which he would keep himself occupied in another part of the
house. But he could not forebear to glance at Miss Harlowe—he saw her smile—and
he thought,
It’s only an evening
. Why
should he not enjoy it, as it would be the last?

Clarissa’s thoughts ran along the same path, and so, entirely
due to Kitty’s and Ned’s wish for untrammeled wild play, Clarissa and St.
Tarval found themselves partnered for the game.

The poets would never laud the words spoken that evening,
any more than the wits of London would hail the speakers. There was no flattery,
no clever references to Cupid’s shafts or slain hearts or the powers of the
cruel fair—the sort of flirtatious talk that Clarissa hated most. Praise of the
excellent dinner led to the weather, and thence to roads, subjects so mundane
they could be tedious, and yet weren’t. The marquess would occasionally
interpolate mild observations, such as his comparison to the roads of Sicily,
which adventure the marquess described so well that Clarissa forgot that it was
her turn to play, and kept the Decourceys waiting until she recollected
herself.

She would have been glad to hear more, but Edward
interrupted his brother, saying, “We’ve heard all that times out of mind. Who
cares about places we shall never see? Your trick, Kit, I believe.”

St. Tarval might have been justified in expressing affront,
or even irritation at being so summarily interrupted, but he only said, “Quite
right, Ned. I do not have license to bore my auditors about my travels until I
have passed fifty. Did you say clubs are trumps?”

There could be no intimacy in such a gathering, and yet in
Clarissa’s eyes, a gentleman who took evident pleasure in a family party was
more interesting than the best dancer or whip she had ever heard extolled. She
found herself distracted by the humor in his voice, by the glimmer of firelight
in his eyes, by the fine shape of his hands.

Soon—too soon—there would be a Lady St. Tarval sitting in
this very chair. Clarissa could envision Lucretia Bouldeston in her place, a
thought that hurt so much she almost missed a trick, and had to scold herself
into self-control.

She ought to have known better, she thought when—too
soon—the evening came to an end, and Kitty lit the way to their bedchambers.
There, Clarissa found a candelabra lit, a generous gesture that only hurt the
more. When she blew the candles out, she resolved that she would keep to her
room until it was time to depart.

As she climbed into bed, she lay staring up at the blurred
shapes of angels, she tried to banish the images of the evening,
unexceptionable as they were.

It was strange that her Cousin Philip—well established in
town as the handsomest of men—stirred no such emotions in her. She valued him,
she liked him, but she had never listened for his voice, or wished to sit close
enough to catch the firelight glowing golden along the edges of his eyelashes.

What did the term ‘handsome’ even mean? The marquess’s eyes
were not nearly the deep green of his sister’s, or his smile the flashing,
dimpled grin displayed by his younger brother. She had met many men with black
hair, both curly and straight, and hazel eyes were to be found by the dozen, as
were firm chins, high brows, and good limbs.

His coat was well-brushed, very near to being shabby. Why
should the sum of ordinary parts add to an extraordinary whole from whom the
awareness of parting caused a regret sharp enough to term pain? She was only
aware that he was the dearest man she had ever met.

But he was promised to someone else.

o0o

After a sleepless night, St. Tarval rose with the sun and
stayed busy until Ned came to find him. “Hey day, Carl, I’ve searched all over
for you! Kit was looking for you—wants to bid you adieu.”

The marquess said, “Tell her I will be there directly. I
must wash my hands.”

He was there to hand the ladies into the coach. He smiled,
they smiled—though Kitty’s smile was teary—everybody smiled until the coach
door was shut, and the driver nodded to the boy at the leader’s head to let go.

As the coach rolled away, the marquess was seized by a sharp
sense of regret. But he was accustomed to regret. It was a part of life. As he
followed Ned back inside, he told himself that things were better this way; now
he could school himself to duty.

Inside the coach, Clarissa gripped her hands, controlling
the impulse to press her nose to the glass for one last glimpse.

After a time, Kitty’s soft voice broke the silence. “Are you
unwell, Clarissa?”

“I must confess that being confined in a closed coach can
sometimes bring on the headache, but it is winter, and there can be no open
carriage. Pay me no mind, I beg.”

Kitty did her best to sympathize, and settled back,
thoroughly enjoying the deep squabs of the cushions, and the hot brick on the
sheepskin-covered floor.

After a time the newness wore off a little, and as they
passed through the familiar countryside, she began to nod. The night before,
she’d scarcely slept a wink for excitement.