The Dowager's Daughter (6 page)

Althea had seen the wisdom in Lizzie’s words and pursued the subject no further, resigned to the fact that at least in private, their friendship was worth the price of accepting Lizzie’s occasional lapses of propriety.

Now, on this particular morning, Althea watched Lizzie thread a needle and apply herself to sewing the lace back on the hem of her dress. It occurred to her that whereas Lizzie might lack the flair for styling hair that her mother’s abigail, Colette, possessed, no one could fault her skill with a sewing needle.

In what seemed to be no time at all, Lizzie finished the task and, wielding a pair of small, ivory-handled scissors, snipped the thread with a triumphant flourish. “There,” she said, displaying her work for Althea to admire. “Good as new.”

Althea concurred, then concealed a tiny yawn behind the back of her hand.

Lizzie gave her a quizzical stare, then said, “Good gracious, you look terrible. I hope you are not coming down with the grippe. Mary Grimes, Lady Alcott’s maid, told me it was making the rounds.”

She dropped the dress on a chair and took Althea firmly by the jaw and stared into her eyes, a worried look on her face. “Those circles under your eyes make you look like a raccoon. I can’t think why I didn’t notice them before. You know, Lord Alcott was taken real poorly. Before his fever broke they feared he would die.”

Althea pulled away from Lizzie’s grip. “Such is not the case with me, so stop worrying. I am merely suffering from a lack of sleep, a condition I hope to rectify by going to bed early this evening.”

“Am I right in thinking that you have finished seeing to the household staff?”

“Well, yes,” Althea replied, wondering where the conversation was leading.

“And you’re not thinking of delivering soup to the old widows of the village, are you?”

“No, not today.”

“Then there is no reason why you cannot remove your outer garments and take a nice nap on your daybed, is there?”

“I suppose not. But…”

“Then I would be shirking my duty if I did not see to it that you got out of those clothes and did so, wouldn’t I?”

Without waiting for a reply, Lizzie proceeded to untie the back of Althea’s dress and did not leave the room until her mistress was lying on the daybed with a quilt tucked about her.

Althea had been somewhat irritated by Lizzie’s high-handed actions but as she snuggled under the coverlet, had to admit that she was grateful to be there. It did not take long for sleep to descend upon her like a dark, warm cloud and sweep her into a series of dreams, none of which reached a conclusion, but rather, skipped from one improbable scene to another.

Ultimately, she found herself walking on Camberly pier, painfully aware that she was wearing her nightclothes with a cloak of scarlet satin flung carelessly over her shoulders. Even while dreaming, it occurred to her that she had never owned such a garish garment in her life.

To add to her shame, an angel with light brown hair hovered over her, a sorrowful look on his face. Suddenly a gust of wind tore the cape from her shoulders, leaving her exposed to the shocked expressions on the faces of several passersby who suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

The angel descended in front of her and seemed to grow to an enormous size, blocking all avenues of escape.

“If you dared to be beautiful, this never would have happened,” he scolded. To her consternation, his face transformed into that of the impudent mariner she had encountered on the pier earlier in April; then his huge form slowly faded away until there was nothing left of him save a faint wisp of smoke.

Althea was in the process of making her escape from the pier, running past a host of strangers all eyeing her with great disdain, when she was awakened by the sound of an angry voice.

The booming stentor, puffed up with its own sense of importance, could only be that of her great-uncle, the Marquis de Maligny. It seemed to come from directly outside the door to her own chambers, heralding his return to Camberly Hall like a tan tar a of trumpets.

“Be careful with my trunk, you clumsy peasant,” he roared. “It cannot be replaced in this sorry country.”

The prince’s soiree at the Pavilion in Brighton would not be taking place until the first week in June, so for him to forsake London could only mean that invitations to participate in the social round had ceased to flow.

Althea’s musings on the subject were interrupted by the sound of Lizzie’s voice countering that of the marquis. Lizzie was the only person in her employ who was not intimidated by the Frenchman’s arrogant manner of dealing with servants.

“If you please, my lord, Lady Camberly is getting a much-needed sleep, and I am sure you would not wish to disturb her.”

Althea was relieved that Lizzie did not add fuel to his irascible mood by adding anything further. She surmised that his foul humor was brought upon by a flare-up of his rheumatism, no doubt the result of a damp April.

He uttered a grumbling response to Lizzie’s objections, but by then he was too far down the hall for Althea to catch the rest of his words.

That evening at dinner he lost no time in voicing his outrage at the appalling lack of respect he had received at the hands of her maid.

“Why, if any servant on my estate had dared to show half the effrontery, they would have been sent packing to die of starvation in some ditch, and not before having the skin flayed off their impudent hides, I might add.” As he spoke, his face grew red with indignation.

Celeste spared Althea the trouble of a response by taking up the gauntlet in her stead. “Perhaps, Uncle, if you and the rest of the French aristocrats had dealt with their peasants in a more humane manner, it is quite possible that this evening, you would be dining under your own roof and not subjecting poor Althea to your constant criticism of all things English.”

The marquis put down his napkin and stood up. “You overstep yourself, niece. If I had not taken the trouble to save you, you would not be alive this day to hurl such abuse upon my head, and ‘poor Althea’ would not be here to witness your ghastly behavior.”

Seemingly unruffled by the vituperation directed toward her, Celeste countered, “I think Althea would be here. She might have looked a little different, of course, but not much. She is inclined to favor her father in looks—and in disposition too, thank God. You see, Uncle, I do not deny that my behavior is ghastly. We de Malignys are a dreadful lot, would you not agree?”

Althea held her breath, wondering how much further her mother could provoke their kinsman before she found his hands around her throat She just wished both of them would exercise within the walls of Camberly Hall the same restraint they managed to muster when moving among polite society.

To her relief, the marquis gave her mother a wry smile and sat down in his chair once more.
“Touché,
my dear. I will not admit to being dreadful, as you put it, but I suppose we French are inclined to get a trifle overheated. After all, we are not coldblooded Englishmen.”

“Uncle Jean-Claude! You have done it again. Now apologize to Althea.”

Althea waved him off. “Please do not concern yourself, sir. I know full well that you are a sham, and do not mean half the things you say at this table. Pray let us finish dinner, and Mama and I will leave you to your cognac and cigars.”

“Yes, Uncle darling, please do, although it is a shame our dear Philippe is not here to keep you company. When do you expect him back from Bedfordshire?”

The marquis smiled at the mention of his grandson. “You may be sure that he will return in good time to attend the prince’s soiree. I am sure he would have returned home a lot sooner, but his late mother’s father takes advantage of his sweet nature and makes it very difficult for him to leave.”

“Philippe should develop more backbone,” Celeste inserted.

“It is not that easy. That dreadful man holds Philippe’s inheritance over his head like a weapon. The baron claims that should he die, Philippe would be ill prepared to run Bainbridge Manor after him. He is constantly drumming into the poor boy’s head matters that are far better left in the hands of a good steward.”

“I am sure Lord Bainbridge means no harm,” Althea rejoined. “He must be dreadfully lonely since his wife died. Philippe is the only one left for him to cling to in his old age.”

“That is no excuse. The man should pull himself together and get on with it. I would not dream of interfering in Philippe’s life in such a manner.”

“Of course you would not, Uncle dear.” Celeste said, casting an impish smile in Althea’s direction. “You are far too sophisticated to indulge in such petty tyrannies.”

Althea held her breath, wondering how he would react to her mother’s tongue-in-cheek remark. Apparently it went right over his head, because he responded with a preening smile.

Althea exhaled. She should have known that her uncle held too smug a belief in his own perfection not to take a compliment at face value. In any case, the family spat had blown over as swiftly as a summer squall. She deemed it a mercy that the French contingency of the family could end such dreadful scenes seemingly without bearing grudges, one to the other.

Once alone with her mother, Althea was tempted to bring up the subject of her midnight tryst with the stranger, but could not bring herself to do so. This troubled Althea because she knew that it was something that had to be faced sooner or later. Because of her indecision, she ended up subjecting her mother to a very indifferent game of whist.

As far as Althea was concerned, June arrived alarmingly soon. Cousin Philippe arrived home a scant three days before the Prince of Wales’s soiree was to take place.

She had mixed feelings about attending the affair. She held up her dress in front of the pier glass in her dressing room several times before the event, marveling how well it seemed to suit her. However, in the back of her mind lurked the horrible fear that those attending the affair would deem the green-and-white dress cause for ridicule, not admiration.

She cast the dress upon the bed and shrugged.
It is too late to do anything about it now,
she thought
I shall hold my head high and stare the dragons down.

On the eve of the soiree, Althea and the other three members of her family and their personal servants set out for Brighton. Althea owned a well-appointed house there on the Marine Parade.

Like most of the neighboring houses, it boasted bow windows and was embellished with Corinthian columns. Her father had bought it in a rare fit of extravagance, deeming it only fair to provide his young wife with the summertime pleasures of Brighton.

Althea had mixed feelings over the honor for which her family had been singled out She considered most of the prince’s friends to be raffish and not quite respectable. However, the one time His Royal Highness had taken the time to converse with her at any length she had been pleasantly surprised at his erudition on diverse subjects. The prince was a gentleman with many facets to his character.

Their invitations to the pavilion were for five-thirty, much to the disgust of the marquis. It seemed that the Prince of Wales liked to dine at six-thirty.

That afternoon, it was Lizzie who coifed Althea’s hair. Under Colette’s tutelage, Lizzie had become adept at the task. Colette had convinced Althea to cut the front of her hair short so that it fell in tendrils to frame her face. The rest of her hair was dressed high on the crown of her head and bound with bands of pearls intertwined with a ribbon of white satin.

Knowing that she would likely question every attempt on Lizzie’s part to change her appearance, Lizzie and Colette agreed that Althea should not be allowed to look at the results until she was securely tied and pinned into her dress.

When the moment finally came, her mother led her to the looking glass and cried,
“Voila!”

Althea stared into the glass, momentarily speechless as she studied her reflection.

I actually look quite pretty, but it is just an illusion. Just clever little tricks that abigails use.

Finally she turned to her mother and said, “Mama, will not people think it odd of me to fuss so much?”

“Au contraire, ma petite.
Mark my words, those present will wonder why it took you so long. Besides, you should not give a fig what others think. It is far too exhausting.”

“Then you approve?”

“But of course,
chérie!
You look absolutely lovely. Do you not agree, Lizzie?”

Lizzie bobbed. “Oh, yes, ma’am. But I have always thought so.”

Althea’s eyes shone. “Mama, I am so looking forward to this evening and yet I am also filled with this deep dread. Why do you suppose this is?”

Celeste tapped her on the cheek with her fan. “Did I not tell you that it takes courage to be beautiful?”

Althea knitted her brows. “I must confess that I do not know what you mean. It is such an odd thing to say.”

“Before this night is over, I am certain my meaning will have become crystal clear.”

Althea turned from the tall glass and her self-absorption and noticed for the first time that her mother was an absolute vision in a gown of ivory-colored Pekin satin, a material distinguished by a subtle stripe in the weave. Save for a piping in the seams, the dress was free of adornment, the perfect setting for a magnificent emerald necklace and pendant earrings that intensified the green fire dancing in her eyes.

Althea never ceased to be in awe of her mother’s beauty. “Mama, you must be the bravest woman in the world, for I declare, in all of Society there is none lovelier.”

Celeste rewarded her with a dimpling smile. “Thank you, darling. What a charming compliment.”

The marquis and Cousin Philippe were effusive with their compliments of both ladies’ attire when they joined them downstairs. The marquis was elegantly attired in black. His coat fashioned of a heavy grained silk.

Philippe was similarly attired, save his waistcoat was more colorful, being made out of blue- and- silver brocade. Philippe was a handsome young man, tall and slender, with clear hazel eyes and hair as dark and glossy as a raven’s wing.

They rode to the Marine Pavilion in a dark blue carriage, a fine-looking equipage with the family crest of three unicorn heads emblazoned on the side.

At that time, the Marine Pavilion was a dignified but plain structure, the focal point being a center dome flanked by a semiperistyle of Ionic columns and bow windows.

When they were ushered into the corridor, a long hall a hundred and sixty-two feet in length, Althea was struck by the fact that however often she saw it, the spectacle never ceased to amaze her.

She was overcome by the rich colors. Pinks and jades fought with blues and vermilions and golds for attention. Adorning the walls were murals of lush blue waves of bamboo painted against a background of a deep pink hue. Cabinets of satinwood fashioned to look like bamboo, their doors emblazoned with insets of magenta, were laden with brilliantly colored porcelain pieces.

Tables and chairs also made of satinwood fashioned to emulate bamboo, or lavishly adorned with intricately carved ormolu, lined the room. Every nook housed gilt statuary perched atop porcelain and ormolu plinths. Life-size figures dressed in luxuriously embroidered kimonos stood against the wall.

With equal disregard for the cost involved, magnificent staircases of wrought iron, also fashioned to emulate bamboo save for the handrails, which were made of mahogany, flanked each end of the corridor.

This rich array was repeated to infinity by the strategic placement of wall mirrors, causing Althea to be dizzied by the excess. She found the clash of colors unsettling, and wondered how their host could possibly wish to surround himself with such dazzling
éclat.

A cursory scanning of the people who had arrived before her party proved to Althea’s relief that their host was not numbered among them. Not counting the four members of her family, there were fourteen in number. Either there were more guests due to arrive, or it would prove to be a very intimate little group.

She noticed that as usual, the gendtlemen huddled together in a corner, seemingly engaged in heated debate. Althea surmised that various aspects of the war taking place on the Iberian Peninsula were under discussion. She found it amusing how gendtlemen who had never set foot in Spain or Portugal knew exactly how the war against the French should be waged.

Four of the ladies had paired off and were strolling the length of the corridor, chattering away like magpies, no doubt exchanging
on dits
regarding the peccadilloes of persons who had the misfortune not to be present to defend their good names.

The other three, aging beauties with faces heavily made up in the manner popular in the era of powdered wigs and panniered dresses, sat at an ornate gilt table with their heads bent towards each other, deep in earnest discussion. Their rouge bled from their lips and cheeks into a network of fine wrinkles, reminding Althea of dolls that had been left out in the rain before their paint had dried.

The tallest and the thinnest of the group she recognized as Margaret Greenleaf, the Earl of Whitbrook’s wife, known for her vicious tongue. She had torn to shreds the reputation of more than one innocent. Usually, it was slyly suggested, ladies known to be diamonds of the first water.

To Althea’s dismay, probably at the prompting of the harpy facing the entrance to the corridor, the marchioness had the effrontery to turn around and subject her to deep scrutiny through a diamond-studded quizzing glass.
Perhaps it is this sort of behavior that leads Mama to say that beauty requires courage,
she thought grimly.

As if reading her mind, Celeste squeezed her hand and said, “Remember,
ma petite.
Care not a fig and consign the beldam to the devil—if he will have her.”

“Mon Dieu!”
the marquis exclaimed. “Is
she
still alive? I had thought the Horned One to have claimed her years ago.”

“The old chap is probably terrified at the prospect of the mischief she could cause,” Philippe added.

“In which case,” the marquis continued, “I fear the lady just might be the first human ever to achieve immortality.”

Her fears allayed by their wicked humor, Althea relaxed, and as soon as their presence was announced, she raised her chin and glided into the room with all the regal dignity she could muster, her mother by her side, resolutely keeping pace.

The marquis and his grandson escorted them as far as the ladies promenading in their direction, then, with a few pleasantries and brief bows, scurried to join the other gendtlemen.

A few minutes later, the arrival of a Mrs. Howard and her daughter Mavis was announced. Mrs. Howard was a fine-looking woman of an uncertain age, well endowed in the bosom with hair a suspiciously bright shade of red. By her appearance, it would seem that her daughter was well entrenched into a life of spinsterhood.

“Who are they?” Althea asked.

“Mrs. Howard is a colonel’s widow,” Celeste replied.

“How sad. Lost his life in this dreadful war, did he?”

Celeste nodded. “At Trafalgar.”

Althea knitted her brow. “But I have never encountered the lady before.”

“I should not wonder. But now that His Highness has singled the Howards out with special attention, I suspect you will see them everywhere.”

Althea put Mavis Howard under close scrutiny. “I say. She is hardly the sort of female for whom I thought His Highness would harbor a
tendre.”

Her mother raised a brow. “And never would,” she whispered. “It is the
mother
who has captured his interest”

Althea’s eyes grew wide. “But she must be several years older than the prince.”

“Really, child, how can you have reached your fourth Season in Society and not know that our prince has a weakness for matrons?”

Althea gasped. “Surely not”

“Do not look so shocked. I suspect that of late, his attachments are more platonic in nature. A little motherly sympathy along with his brandy must be very soothing.”

Before Althea could answer, she was surprised to hear George Delville’s name being announced. She wondered how someone of George’s lack of consequence had managed to be numbered among the very cream of the
ton.

It did not take her long to find out. After a searching glance down the corridor, George made a beeline towards Althea and her mother, whereupon he made a deep bow to the older Lady Camberly with an accompanying effusive greeting before turning his attention to Althea.

His jaw immediately dropped.

“I say! Do forgive me. I did not recognize you for the moment.”

Althea gave him a cold stare. “Really, Mr. Delville? How odd.”

“I meant nothing untoward, your ladyship,” he responded, echoing her formal manner of address. “It’s just that you look so dashed beautiful and I was not paying close attention. It is quite understandable, I am sure.”

Althea dismissed him with a brief nod and turned her attention to her mother. George hovered about, looking absolutely miserable. Realizing that he was too intimidated to join the lofty ranks of the other gendtlemen, Althea took pity on him and accorded him a brief smile.

George snapped up the offered crumb like a starving puppy. “I say. I did so enjoy your ball last spring. It was the crush of the Season, don’t you know?”

Without taking a breath, he plunged headlong into a topic so beloved by any right-minded person in possession of even the slightest drop of English blood. “By the way, this has been a glorious day for so early in June. Would you not agree?”

Althea leaned forward and whispered, “For goodness’ sake, calm down, George. These people do not bite—at least, not in the literal sense, and I doubt they will subject you to any unpleasantness.’’

George looked crestfallen. “No, I suppose not. I lack the consequence to even be noticed. I wish the Prince of Wales had not invited me. These intimate little affairs are far more difficult to handle than a crush.”

“Cheer up,” Althea soothed. “Having the good will of Prinny should give you enormous cachet. To what do you owe your good fortune, do you suppose?”

“Baron Lampson invited me to a ball they hosted directly after you left Town in such a hurry. Prinny happened to overhear a comment I made with regard to Beau Brummel’s neck linen.”

Althea raised a brow. “Oh? Please elucidate.”

“I would rather not. But you must have noticed that of late, the points of Brummell’s collars and the elaborate fall of his cravats have reached such impractical extremes he can scarcely move his head.”

George took on a haunted look. “Just let us say that it was not the sort of remark a chap wishes to be known for, and it was but the merest whisper in Francis Lampton’s ear. Imagine my horror when I heard this great guffaw directly behind me and turned to face no less a personage than the Prince of Wales, taking high glee in my remark.”

“I have heard that Mr. Brummell’s odd behavior toward the prince of late is driving a wedge between them.”

“But do you not see? The prince has accorded me his regard on the strength of this one remark. Good heavens, Althea, I am not a great wit. I am not likely to trot out another syllable worthy of note if I were to outlive Methuselah.”

Althea laughed in spite of herself. “You underestimate yourself, George. Just be you. His Royal Highness is a kind man and will do nothing to hurt you, but in future please be more circumspect It does not do to make powerful enemies.”

George bowed, and with his brow knitted as if weighing her words, took his leave of the ladies to join the other gendtlemen. Althea shot her mother a rueful glance. “Poor George. The kind regard of our illustrious prince is on the verge of killing him.”