The Waltzing Widow (4 page)
"One can hope, can't one?” Lady Mary said with a smile. She ran her finger lightly over the embroidery that bordered the train of the white satin gown. “The roses are truly exquisite, Maggie. I do not think that I have ever seen a more beautiful gown."
"Oh, do you truly think so? I so wish everything to be perfect for Betsy and—” Mrs. Evesleigh choked up and tears came to her eyes as she stroked the silken roses. “I shall miss her so very, very dreadfully."
Lady Mary put her arm about her friend's shoulders and hugged her. “I do know, believe me. It seems only yesterday that we carried Abigail and Betsy to church for their christenings. Now they are young ladies and so terribly grown-up. Oh, dear, now you have me started as well!” Crying and laughing at once, the two friends eventually mopped their eyes and blew their noses.
"Well, we
are
a pair of watering pots. We mustn't let our daughters discover us in such a state or they will think us the silliest gooses alive,” Lady Mary said.
"No, indeed,” Mrs. Evesleigh agreed with a watery smile.
One week later, Miss Betsy Evesleigh exchanged vows with the Reverend Clarence Coates in the old neighborhood church that had seen her christening seventeen years before. The bride and groom were resplendent in their bridal clothes, Betsy in her white satin gown standing beside the reverend in his smart dark blue frock coat with its gleaming gilt buttons. Mrs. Evesleigh quietly cried her eyes out, all the while clinging to Mr. Evesleigh, who appeared every inch the proud beaming sire.
Lady Mary's gaze traveled from the bridal couple to her own daughter. Abigail appeared nearly as radiant as the blushing bride, and it was hardly any wonder, she thought without rancor, when one considered the cost of Abigail's gown. Abigail had positively insisted upon the most expensive cloth that one could possibly acquire. There was not much that Lady Mary had ever denied her daughter, but yet she was satisfied that she had brought a firm-enough hand to Abigail's raising.
Lady Mary frowned slightly. It was just in the last few months that she and Abigail seemed to have more frequent differings of opinion. She thought that she could directly attribute those instances to the increasing influence that Viscount and Viscountess Catlin had on an impressionable and unworldly young girl. Abigail's grandparents had always indulged her and cosseted her, but now that she was seventeen and on the verge of womanhood, they filled her head with inflated expectations of life. Their wishes for Abigail included a distinguished social position gained through marriage, with the accompanying prestige, rich living, and unending parties and shopping that went hand in hand with it.
Lady Mary knew from her own childhood just how seductive such promises and expectations could be. She would have made the advantageous and socially prominent marriage her parents wanted for her and lived a life of glittering dissipation, bored with herself and with her neglectful husband, who would naturally have had his mistresses and his gaming and his own life quite apart from hers. She would have given her husband the obligatory heir and then perhaps have taken a lover or two of her own.
So would she have spent her life, caught in a marriage of convenience that was made on considerations of birth and wealth alone, if it had not been for meeting Sir Roger Spence.
From that fortuitous moment on, Lady Mary's whole perspective had changed. In Sir Roger she glimpsed the possibility of a different sort of marriage, one entered into with mutual love and respect. She had blithely assumed that her parents would give their blessing to her chosen suitor. It had come as a distinct shock when they did not, and even went so far as to forbid her ever to speak of or to acknowledge Sir Roger Spence's existence again. All of her tearful and disbelieving entreaties and Sir Roger's humble assurances could not alter the viscount and the viscountess's unequivocal decision.
Lady Mary had not known where to turn or what course to pursue, especially when she received a letter of farewell from Sir Roger. That evening she learned from her maid, who was sympathetic to the star-crossed lovers, that Viscount Catlin had threatened Sir Roger that he would disown his only daughter if she married to disoblige him, before he had had Sir Roger whipped from the house.
On the spot, Lady Mary had packed her portmanteau and in the company of her maid had gone brazenly to her beloved's lodgings. There she had discovered him burning with fever from infection. He had not been in the most reflective frame of mind, and upon her proposal that they fly to Gretna Green, sent his manservant out to purchase a special license.
When the fever broke, Sir Roger had awakened to discover Lady Mary at his bedside, quite unconcerned that he was shirtless, and caring for his wounds. He had earnestly begged her to return to her parents, which she refused to do, and they had had the first quarrel of their acquaintance. In the end, Sir Roger had reluctantly come to agree with Lady Mary that if they were ever to be together the marriage would have to be born out of a scandalous flight to Gretna. So they had set forth, and upon the quiet exchange of their vows, they had spent the night as man and wife.
The following morning during breakfast, the door of their private parlor had burst open and Viscount Catlin had stalked in. He was verbally abusive to Sir Roger and ordered his daughter down to his carriage. Lady Mary had calmly told her father to swallow his threats and cease his demands that she return to London with him. “I am with child, Father,” she had said proudly, not then realizing how truly she had spoken.
The viscount had drawn himself up and in an awful voice he had declared that she was no longer his daughter. Then he had stormed out, leaving Lady Mary in tears and seeking what solace her husband could offer to her for the loss of her family and all the life she had ever known.
But she had survived, and splendidly so, thought Lady Mary. Her eyes contemplated her daughter's lovely face. It had been the right choice, and more than anything in this life she wished her own daughter to have the opportunity to seek the love that should be hers. She was more glad than ever that she was taking her daughter away to Brussels, where Abigail would be far from her grandparents’ insular, one-sided view of what constituted a proper marriage. Free of her grandparents’ destructive influence during this important first Season, Abigail would have the opportunity to try her wings, and hopefully she would discover that there was more to life than an unending round of parties.
As Lady Mary watched the expressions flit across Abigail's face during the lovely and solemn ceremony, she could not but smile. It was definitely in her daughter's interest to remove to Brussels, but Abigail would be appalled if she knew that was what her mother thought. Better to let her think that the main purpose of the journey was that it be one of pleasure.
Betsy's wedding day ended in a flurry of good-byes as the bridal couple was seen off in their carriage. Abigail shrieked that she would write to her friend. Betsy blew Abigail a kiss before she pulled her head back inside the carriage window.
Abigail and Lady Mary stood with the other guests waving until the carriage had rolled out of sight behind the trees and hedgerows. “I shall miss Betsy,” Abigail said, discovering it for the first time.
"I know you will,” Lady Mary said, hugging her briefly. She did not say it, but she rather thought that they would both miss their former comfortable lives once they reached Brussels.
Two days later the Spence ladies set off on their journey, accompanied by Miss Steepleton in their own carriage and followed by a second carriage that carried their maids and the majority of their baggage.
The trip by carriage across England, with only a brief delay in London to call on Emily Downing and the agent who had procured the house in Brussels, ended at Dover, from whence they took sail across the Channel. As they traveled once more by carriage, the ancient cities of the Low Countries passed in a fascinating panorama: Ostend, fishing port and terminus of the Dover mail boat; Bruges, with its lofty thirteenth-century square bell tower that stood like a crowned giant over the flat expanse of West Flanders and the humpbacked bridges, swan-graced canals, and mellow brick dwellings; Ghent, with the soaring towers of the Cathedral of St. Bavon, the Belfry, and St. Nicholas Church.
Miss Steepleton was profoundly grateful to be allowed to travel to countries whose histories she had only read about. In anticipation of the journey she had procured for herself an extensive guidebook from which she was wont to quote entire passages.
When the travelers entered Belgium she volunteered the information to her companions that the country derived its name from “Gallia Belica,” used by the Romans to describe all of the southern region of the Low Countries, and that the political division of Holland from Belgium, decreed in 1609, had lasted until the present, when the Netherlands and Belgium were united into the Kingdom of the Netherlands under King William I in that year of 1815. “And that, of course, explains our own countrymen's eagerness to travel to Brussels. We have always loved the pomp and ceremony connected with royalty,” Miss Steepleton said with satisfaction.
In Ghent, the ladies stayed in the oldest hotel in Belgium, the Cour St. Georges, which had been erected in the thirteenth century. Abigail had thought herself too old to be lectured on antiquities and history, but she was fascinated to learn that the hostel was the early headquarters of the honorable crossbowmen of St. George. She felt herself to be in love with the city of abbeys, castles, canals, quays, guilds, churches with chimes, and cobbled market squares. “Mama, is it not the most romantic place?” she sighed, staring up at the weathered stone facade of yet another ancient abbey.
Lady Mary laughed at her daughter. “Indeed, and is that not the same thing you have said about each of these fine old cities?"
Abigail shook her head. “Oh, Mama, you do not understand.
This
city speaks to my soul, truly it does."
Miss Steepleton uttered a faint but definite agreement of her young companion's passionate sentiment. “Oh, so true, Miss Abigail."
"Let us hope that Brussels does so as well,'’ Lady Mary said, taking her daughter's elbow and urging her toward their carriage. Miss Steepleton hurried behind, casting several lingering glances back at the old abbey. To her mind, it was such a pity not to spend more time in awed admiration of such magnificence.
Though Abigail went with a laughing protest, she was actually as eager as her mother to continue their journey across Belgium, which had become an exciting exodus in itself. The flats and dikes near the coast had given way to a land of sweeping fields, beech forests, and weather-worn hills, all laced with rivers and sliced by canals. Tidy farmhouses and grand chateaus marked the distance like small jewels. Every vista, every personage and experience, was new and to be savored, serving to bring Lady Mary and Abigail closer in ways that they had never been before. Their mutual enjoyment of the traveling allowed them to relate more as friends and equals rather than as mother and daughter, and each discovered a peculiar delight in the emerging change in their relationship.
Lady Mary was glad to note that her sensible and sweet-natured daughter was still very much in evidence beneath the flashes of self-indulgence that Abigail exhibited and that had so concerned her for the past several months.
As for Abigail, she wondered when she looked at Lady Mary why she had never really noticed how young or how lighthearted her mother was. It was akin to discovering a dear friend. Abigail was also conscious of a new respect for her mother. She had always taken for granted Lady Mary's air of quality, her frank friendly manners, and her quiet and efficient organization of their home life. But until stepping foot on the Continent, Abigail had only rarely seen the steel that underlay her mother's character.
At rare points during their travels, even though the ladies were accompanied by Miss Steepleton and their small entourage of servants, they were sometimes accorded scant attention by hostelkeepers who were busily serving other and more ostentatious travelers. These individuals quickly learned their mistake, however. Lady Mary Spence could in an instant draw herself up with all the pride worthy of the daughter of an English viscount and in her well-modulated French inform the hostelkeeper of her wishes. Her icy hauteur left no room for misinterpretation, and Abigail was always amazed at the swift improvement in the service accorded them. She wondered whether she would ever be able to claim such respect simply by the way that she carried herself.
Upon arriving in Brussels, Lady Mary directed their driver to the address that she had been given by the agent who had acquired the house for them. During the drive through the city, the ladies exclaimed over the beauty of the buildings, the wide boulevards, the canals, restaurants, and shops. Their first sight of the Place Royale awed them. It was a great square that consisted of four-story seventeenth-century structures of brown stone and hundreds of windows, and decorated with elaborate gilded carvings, built around paving stones upon which rough-capped vendors offered roses, carnations, and chrysanthemums to promenading, mostly uniformed, gentlemen and their ladies.
Miss Steepleton quickly located the Place Royale in her guidebook, and she was able to tell the ladies that the buildings retained the original names of inns and noble abodes, though the structures presently housed the guildhalls. Abigail made a game of picking out the various guilds by the different adornments on the buildings. The House of the Fox was the residence of the haberdashers’ guild and was topped by a statue of St. Nicholas; the Horn, which was the boatmen's guild, wore a gable in the form of a ship's stem; the She-Wolf housed the archers’ guild and sheltered under an eagle with outspread wings; the Sack, which belonged to the cabinetmakers’ guild, had a small gilded globe riding proud above it; the Wheelbarrow, house of the grease and tallow traders, was topped by a gilded conch shell; and the bakers’ hall was marked by a gilded dome accented by a Greek statue balanced on one foot.