Chapter 5
S itting on the floor of the upstairs parlor of Ravenel House, Pandora brushed the pair of black cocker spaniels who had been with the family for ten years.
Josephine sat obediently while Pandora drew the soft bristles over her floppy ears.
Napoleon lounged nearby with his chin resting on the floor between his paws.
“Are you ready?” Cassandra asked, coming to the threshold. “We can’t be late for the train. Oh, don’t do that, you’ll be covered in dog hair! You have to look presentable for the duke and duchess. And Lord St. Vincent, of course.”
“Why bother?” Pandora rose to her feet. “I already know what they’re going to think of me.” But she stood still as Cassandra moved industriously around her, walloping at her skirts and sending black hairs floating into the air.
“They’re going to like you—” Thwack. “—if only—” Thwack. Thwack. “—you’ll be nice to them.”
Pandora’s traveling dress was made of leaf-green batiste wool with a waistcoat jacket, and a flaring white lace Medici collar that stood up at the back of the neck and tapered down to a point at the top of her basque.
It was a smart and stylish ensemble, accessorized with a little feathered emerald velvet hat that matched her sash.
Cassandra wore similar garments of pale blue, with a sapphire hat.
“I’ll be as nice as nice can be,” Pandora said.
“But don’t you remember what happened at Eversby Priory, when a goose built her nest in the swans’ territory?
She thought she was enough like them that they wouldn’t mind her.
Only her neck was too short, and her legs were too long, and she didn’t have the right sort of feathers, so the swans kept attacking and chasing the poor thing until finally she was driven off. ”
“You’re not a goose.”
Pandora’s mouth twisted. “I’m an awfully deficient swan, then.”
Cassandra sighed and drew her close. “You mustn’t marry Lord St. Vincent for my sake,” she said for the hundredth time.
Slowly Pandora laid her head on her twin’s shoulder. “I could never live with myself if you had to suffer the consequences of a mistake I made.”
“I won’t suffer.”
“If I become a pariah, no gentleman of rank would ever offer for you.”
“I would be happy regardless,” Cassandra said stoutly.
“No, you wouldn’t. You want to marry someday, and have a home and children of your own.” Pandora sighed. “I wish you could be Lord St. Vincent’s wife. You would be perfect for each other.”
“Lord St. Vincent didn’t give me a second glance. All he did was stare at you.”
“In sheer horror.”
“I think the horror was all on your side,” Cassandra said. “He was merely trying to take in the situation.” Her light fingers came to smooth Pandora’s hair. “They say he’s the catch of a century. Last year, Lady Berwick encouraged him to take an interest in Dolly, but he would have none of it.”
Cassandra’s hand came just a little close to her ear. Flinching reflexively, Pandora drew back. Certain parts of her ear, inside and out, were painfully sensitive. “How do you know that? Dolly never mentioned it to me.”
“It was just some ballroom gossip. And Dolly doesn’t talk about it because it was a great disappointment.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I didn’t think you’d be interested since we’d never even seen Lord St. Vincent, and you said you didn’t want to hear anything about eligible bachelors—”
“I do now! Tell me everything you know about him.”
After glancing at the empty doorway, Cassandra lowered her voice. “There’s a rumor that he keeps a mistress.”
Pandora gave her a wide-eyed stare. “Someone told you that in a ballroom ? During a formal dance?”
“Not openly, it was whispered. What do you think people gossip about during dances?”
“Things like weather.”
“It’s not gossip when it’s about weather, it’s only gossip when it’s something you know you shouldn’t be listening to.”
Pandora was indignant at the thought that she’d missed so much interesting information during those hideously dull occasions. “Who is his mistress?”
“No one mentioned her name.”
Folding her arms across her chest, Pandora commented sourly, “I’ll bet he has the pox.”
Cassandra looked bewildered. “What? ”
“Heaps of it,” Pandora added grimly. “He’s a rake, after all. Just like the song.”
Cassandra groaned and shook her head, knowing exactly which song Pandora was referring to.
They had once overheard one of the stablemen singing a few lines of a ballad called “The Unfortunate Rake,” for the amusement of his companions.
The bawdy lyrics had told the story of a rake’s demise of an unnamed illness after having slept with a woman of ill repute.
Later Pandora and Cassandra had badgered West to explain the mysterious malady, until he had reluctantly told them about the pox.
Not smallpox or chicken pox, but a particular strain that infected promiscuous men and women.
Eventually it drove one mad and made one’s nose fall off.
Some called it French pox, some called it English pox.
West had told them never to repeat any of it, or Kathleen would have his head.
“I’m sure Lord St. Vincent doesn’t have the pox,” Cassandra said. “From what I saw the other night, he has a perfectly handsome nose.”
“He’ll catch the pox someday,” Pandora persisted darkly, “if he hasn’t already. And then he’ll give it to me.”
“You’re being dramatic. And not all rakes have the pox.”
“I’m going to ask him if he does.”
“Pandora, you wouldn’t! The poor man would be horrified.”
“So would I, if I ended up losing my nose.”
A s the Ravenels rode in the private first-class compartment on the London, Brighton, and South Coast line, Pandora’s nerves became more strained with each passing mile. If only the train were headed in another direction, anywhere other than toward Heron’s Point.
She couldn’t decide whether she was more worried about how she would behave with the Challons, or how they would behave toward her. There was no doubt that Lord St. Vincent resented her for the situation she’d put him in, even though it had been an accident on her part.
God, she was so tired of causing trouble and then having to feel guilty about it.
From now on, she would behave like a respectable, proper lady.
People would marvel at her restraint and dignity.
They might even become a bit concerned—“Is Pandora quite well? She’s always so subdued.
” Lady Berwick would glow with pride, and advise other girls to emulate Pandora’s remarkable reserve. She would become known for it.
Sitting by the window, Pandora watched the passing scenery and occasionally glanced at Kathleen, who sat in an opposite seat with little William on her lap.
Although they had brought a nursery maid to help with the infant, Kathleen preferred to keep him with her as much as possible.
The dark-haired baby played intently with a string of spools, investigating the various sizes and textures, and fitting them against his mouth to gnaw industriously.
Entertained by his son’s antics, Devon lounged beside them with his arm resting along the back of the bench.
While Cassandra occupied herself with knitting a pair of Berlin wool slippers, Pandora reached into her valise and unearthed her journal, a weighty Coptic-bound volume with a leather cover.
Its linen pages were stuffed with clippings, sketches, pressed flowers, tickets, postcards, and all manner of things that had caught her fancy.
She had filled at least half of it with ideas and sketches for board games.
A silver mechanical pencil dangled from an attached cord that wrapped around the book to keep it closed.
After unwinding the cord, Pandora opened the book to a blank page near the back. She twisted the lower half of the pencil barrel until a nozzle with the lead emerged, and began to write.
JOURNEY TO HERON’S POINT
OR
The Impending Matrimonial Doom of Lady Pandora Ravenel
Facts and Observations
#1 If people think you’re dishonored, it’s no different from actually having been dishonored, except you still don’t know anything.
#2 When you’ve been ruined, there are only two options: death or marriage.
#3 Since I am gravely healthy, the first option isn’t likely.
#4 On the other hand, ritual self-sacrifice in Iceland cannot be ruled out.
#5 Lady Berwick advises marriage and says Lord St. Vincent is “bred to the bill.” Since she once made the same remark about a stud horse she and Lord Berwick bought for their stable, I have to wonder if she’s looked in his mouth.
#6 Lord St. Vincent reportedly has a mistress .
#7 The word “mistress” sounds like a cross between mistake and mattress.
“We’ve crossed into Sussex,” Cassandra said. “It’s even lovelier than the guidebook led me to expect.” She had purchased The Popular Guide and Visitor’s Directory to Heron’s Point at a bookstall in the station, and had insisted on reading parts of it aloud during the first hour of their journey.
Known as the “land of health,” Sussex was the sunniest region in England with the purest water, drawn up from deep chalk wells.
According to the guidebook, the county possessed fifty miles of coastal shore.
Tourists flocked to the town of Heron’s Point for its mild, sweet air, and the healing properties of its seawater and hot spring baths.
The guidebook was dedicated to the Duke of Kingston, who had apparently built a seawall to protect erosion of the shore, as well as a hotel, a public esplanade, and a thousand-foot public pier to provide harborage for pleasure steamboats, fishing vessels, and his own private yacht.
#8 The local guidebook doesn’t include even one unfavorable detail about Heron’s Point. It must be the most perfect town in existence.
#9 Or the author was trying to toady up to the Challons, who own half of Sussex.
#10 Dear God, they’re going to be insufferable.