Chapter Nine
Corbyn had really enjoyed his conversation with Lady Beatrix. Just at the end, though, there was Lord Chester. Once again, it looked as if his dowager was dragging him around, wherever she wished him to go.
It was irritating, to say the least.
She, however, had been everything charming.
Lady Beatrix might be sheltered via a dragon of a governess, but that had not stopped her from developing a certain wit.
She really could be very funny and as far as he was concerned, humor was the mark of a sharp mind.
He’d never yet encountered a humorless person who did not eventually reveal themself as a dullard.
Or if not a dullard, then dull to be around.
As well, there was a certain ease between him and Lady Beatrix.
There were times when one met a person and it seemed as if they’d always known them.
He’d imagined the cause of it to be that minds and temperaments stood in particular attitudes and locations.
Meeting a person whose mind lived in the same neighborhood as one’s own was like meeting a person long known.
He really did think Lady Beatrix lived in his own neighborhood of thoughts, as if it were easy to understand one another.
And then, to top off that pleasant idea, there was the God’s gift of her looks.
There was nobody prettier, nobody with softer looking hair, nobody with brighter eyes. He could stare at her face all day.
Corbyn returned Lady Beatrix to her parents, though he would have preferred not to.
Despite his preference, he would not do anything that might raise her father’s eyebrows.
He intended to stay in that fellow’s good graces.
Especially since he thought the earl had hopes in another direction.
That, however, did not mean he could not remain nearby.
Unfortunately, Lord Monroe seemed to have the same idea, and the dowager was not to be outdone either.
She dragged Lord Chester along with her.
So there they were, Lady Beatrix with her parents and the rest of them in a semi-circle around the three.
It was just as ridiculous as their walk to the sideboard at Lady Thurston’s poetical tableau.
The Duchess of Ralston’s butler helped her up to her dais.
“Welcome my friends,” the duchess said. “I do thank you for being so loyal about attending my ridiculous little entertainment year after year. The ladies have had their say for several years, but now it’s the gentlemen’s turn to make a statement.
Have they been as amusing as the ladies’ descriptions?
Perhaps not. Our ladies have always taken full advantage of the confidentiality of their answers.
The gentlemen have been a bit more cautious.
Nevertheless, there were a few I felt worth reading aloud. ”
Corbyn was not at all surprised the gentlemen had been cautious.
He’d been rather cautious himself. Confidentiality might be assured, but guesses and rumors were assured too.
Every gentleman involved might be terrorized over the idea that they might be the cause of disappointed hopes.
Every gentleman scrupulously avoided saying one wrong word that might cause a mother and father to stare in their direction, wondering when they would be approached with a formal offer.
“Most were very complimentary, which makes me wonder how it could be that every other year the ladies have ripped a few gentlemen to shreds, and yet all the gentlemen seem to view these ladies as angels set to earth,” the duchess said, laughing.
Her audience laughed along with her, as everybody well knew how it could be. A gentleman might silently rip a lady to shreds, or even do it with a few select friends at his club, but not publicly. Were he to do so, he would be far more condemned than the lady he had condemned.
“Well, here we go. This one did charm me. This lady embodies everything that could be wished for and deserves white musk roses and more.”
Corbyn had written it, and he thought the hint of the white musk roses must be sufficient to communicate to Lady Beatrix that he’d written about her.
There might be other ladies who’d received white musk roses recently, and he supposed they’d be attributing it to themselves, but it was complimentary without promising anything so he did not see the harm in it.
He wished to send a message and he had done.
“That could be any lady,” somebody from the back called.
“Who will confess to receiving white musk roses recently?” another shouted.
Corbyn noted Lady Beatrix look down, as if she would be made to own it if someone noted her expression.
“So,” the duchess said, “it seems one gentleman at least is interested in a beginning. Now here is one in a different vein, but interesting nonetheless. This lady is to be applauded for her wide-ranging interest in books, even a book that might incite condemnation, and should be stood by for it.” The duchess laid down the paper.
“Gracious me, I found myself very curious about what book that might be! Alas, I will probably never know.”
Corbyn stole a glance at Lady Beatrix, as he was afraid he did know what book. Fanny Hill. She was pale, and she and her mother and father were staring at one another. They perceived what had happened as well as he did.
Somehow, word had got out. Why would a gentleman write such a thing? Even if he’d heard it, why would he say so in mixed company? Why would he say he admired it? Or would stand by it?
Had Lord Chester been one of the gentlemen participating in this shambles, Corbyn would have instantly blamed him for it. Chester had heard the comment directly and he was such a rogue as to find the matter amusing.
But Lord Chester was not a part of it. It had been somebody else.
How many people knew about Lady Beatrix’s comment about that book? Her misinformed and innocent comment? Was she to suffer any consequences over it?
Corbyn well knew how fast the ton could turn on a woman. A gentleman, and Lord Chester was a prime example, might be excused for a whole host of sins. There was some idea of a man being overrun by his baser instincts and therefore innocent of a crime. A man, it was thought, could be reformed.
But a lady? They were not to have baser instincts, or any instincts at all.
A foot out of place could spell disaster.
A lady could not be ‘too’ anything. Not too bold or daring or opinionated or forward.
She was not to do anything out of the ordinary.
And who were the arbiters of these rules?
Mostly other women. Matrons. It was as if they had been punished by all these constraints and now must be the punishers.
Corbyn wondered if the Duchess of Ralston would be laughing over it if she knew the book in question was Fanny Hill.
Maybe she would laugh, she was relatively unusual though.
He did not think the patronesses of Almack’s would laugh.
He did not think the matrons who arranged parties and charity events, and musical evenings would laugh.
They would band together and shake their heads.
“What is the book, though?” somebody called.
“It has to be The Moor,” someone shouted.
“Or Vathek,” somebody else said.
Fortunately, nobody called out the true book. Nobody would dare.
The duchess went on to read several other offerings, though Corbyn paid little attention.
Fortunately, the duchess did not find too many of the offerings very interesting, so it came to a close sooner than it had done in other years.
The duchess had wrapped it up by saying, “I believe we will go back to the ladies’ opinions next year. ”
Corbyn could not reveal that he knew what had transpired. That would have been embarrassing, and would have required an explanation about Farber. Not every gentleman was in the habit of employing a valet who made it his business to spy and gather information.
He looked over to Lord Chester to see if he’d been at all affected by the mention of a book that could not be mentioned. He did not appear at all affected, though his dowager was glowering.
Lord Monroe was looking somehow giddy, though Corbyn could not imagine why. Unless Monroe was at the bottom of it. He and Lord Chester were friends.
He supposed he ought not spend time wondering over it, they were both idiots in their own ways. He approached Lady Beatrix, pushing his way around Lord Monroe.
“Lady Beatrix, perhaps I could prepare a small plate of savories or sweets? The duchesses’ mushroom vol-au-vents are very good.”
“I already told her about the vol-au-vents,” Lord Monroe said, coming around his other side.
Before Lady Beatrix could answer for herself, the countess said, “Thank you, Lord Harrelston, but I believe we will have an early night.”
“That’s best,” Lord Chester’s dowager said. “Lady Beatrix will attend us on the morrow for a musical evening. She will play the pianoforte for us. It will be well to be rested.”
Corbyn resisted the urge to ask why in the world the earl would take his daughter to Lord Chester’s house. Clearly, neither the earl nor countess had any clear picture of what Lord Chester was. They were decent people, they could not possibly know.
They ought to, though. He knew the earl was deeply involved in politics and Corbyn had not seen him at entertainments in other years. He would not be in the know regarding the stories that went round. But this was his daughter. He ought to get in the know, and fast.
A musical evening at Lord Chester’s house. It was beyond irritating.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Beatrix did not feel she could meet anybody’s eye as they left the Duchess of Ralston’s house. The book had been mentioned. Not specifically, not by name, but it was obvious enough that something about her comment was known in wider society.