Chapter 4
Anew girl had arrived in town for the season—on dits had it that she was the daughter of some kind of merchant, a Mr Swinton, who had inherited a baronetcy from a distant cousin, and was now become Sir Robert Swinton.
He had made a fortune in trade and was looking to elevate himself in society, via his eldest daughter who possessed a considerable dowry.
Marguerite had heard the gossip, and the quips exchanged amongst her friends.
At a dance one evening she saw the Swinton family come in, attired in their new finery—the father portly and sporting luxurious side whiskers, mother and daughter attired in over-elaborate gowns adorned with endless flounces, ribbons and furbelows.
Their ample bosoms, ears and arms were laden with jewellery, their hair dressed and studded with pins and flowers.
They were introduced to a few people who talked with them briefly and then escaped to rejoin their acquaintances.
The three sat down on some vacant chairs by the side of the dance floor.
Nobody asked the girl to dance. However, she did not seem very put out by that, only watched the dancing with wide eyes and a smile on her face.
Marguerite asked one of the ladies she had seen talking to them to introduce her, curtsied to all three and sat down next to the girl.
She said, ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Swinton—or may I call you Elisabeth? You are new in town?’
‘Oh, please do call me Betsy, ma’am—my family and friends all call me that. Yes, we arrived a few days ago—we have taken a house in Finsbury Square. We do not know many people yet.’ The girl, though not pretty, had a pleasant, open face and beautiful blue eyes.
‘Well, now you know me, Betsy—and please call me Marguerite. I too was a stranger but a short while ago, for I used to live in France.’
Betsy looked at her with interest. ‘I have never been to France—or to London, before. We live in Yorkshire, near York.’
‘I have never been there, but I have heard it is very beautiful.’
‘It is. I love living there, and I miss home already.’
‘And how do you find London, Betsy?’
‘Oh, it is very beautiful, my lady—I mean, Marguerite. And very interesting.’ She pronounced her name ‘Margaret’, but she had a lovely, melodious voice, with a slight northern accent.
Her face clouded over. ‘I am a country girl at heart, but now my Papa wants me to be a lady, and make a good match.’
‘Well, do not worry about that yet, try to enjoy yourself for a while first. Do you not like to dance?’
Betsy smiled. ‘I do, but at home, with boys I know well. I should make a fool of myself here.’
‘Nonsense. You will soon make friends. Come, let us get some lemonade.’
Marguerite rose and saw the girl’s parents smile benignly at them.
She led the way to a table where drinks were served.
As they sipped their lemonade, she realised her task would be difficult: her friends, quick to flock around her usually, were all keeping away.
Then one of her group, a young man named Selby, having failed to notice her, came to the table for a glass of wine.
She said, putting a hand on his arm, ‘Mr Selby, here is Miss Swinton, just arrived from the country. She does not know many people yet.’
The young man bowed, said a couple of polite words, and looked ready to make his escape, until he saw the glint in Marguerite’s eye. She said, ‘I am sure Mr Selby would like to dance with you, Betsy, would you not, Selby?’ She glared at him.
Selby knew that when Marguerite was on the warpath, there was no denying her, and he was smitten by her like many another, so he said, ‘Of course, ma’am. Will you do me the honour, Miss Swinton?’ He bowed.
Betsy was blushing to the roots of her hair. ‘Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t.’
‘Of course you can. Mr Selby is a good dancer, he will lead you.’
To his credit, Selby smiled at the girl as he took her hand to lead her into the set.
Marguerite sighed—it would not be easy for Betsy.
The beau monde were so entrenched in their codes of conduct, their ridiculous self-regard—being in trade was a death-knell.
She stood for a moment by the table sipping at her lemonade, and saw Argyle approaching.
He said, ‘Who is your new friend, Lady Marguerite?’
‘Miss Swinton. They are just arrived in town—her father is a baronet.’
‘Seeking a husband for the girl, I assume. They are very vulgar, are they not?’
‘Vulgarity is not a sin, Your Grace. Unkindness is.’
‘Still, I do not think she will make a suitable friend for you.’
‘Are you afraid she will contaminate me? She is only guilty of bad taste, not of a contagious disease. I will try to make life easier for her amongst the young people. One cannot help one’s birth—one is only responsible for one’s character.’
Argyle bowed and turned to get some wine.
She saw she had annoyed him and was amused—he really was too high in the instep for his own good.
She thought she might take Betsy riding in the park for, being a country girl, she was sure to ride well.
She went to talk to Betsy’s parents, who were both wreathed in smiles, watching their daughter dancing.
They acquiesced readily, thanking Marguerite with dignity and warmth.
* * *
Her idea proved excellent, because the next day at the park gates, Betsy, accompanied by a groom, arrived mounted on a spirited hunter.
She was dressed in a severe if tight-fitting blue velvet habit which showed off her curves and brought out the colour of her eyes, and was only embellished by a couple of pheasant feathers in her hat.
She rode beside Marguerite, smiling at her with shining eyes.
‘Thank you so much, my lady, you have been so kind. I feel more comfortable on horseback than in a ballroom, dressed up like a turkey. Papa is so proud of us he spares no expense, and I am afraid it is all a little…much.’
‘It is understandable, though, don’t you think? He wants the best for you.’
Betsy said frankly, ‘He wants us to become gentry. He has sent my brothers to Harrow, and then they will go to Oxford. He is bringing them up to be gentlemen. At least they are both clever and will benefit from a good education. And he wants me to be a lady, which I’m sure I am not.
I like horses and dogs, and the farm. And I love going to his warehouses. ’
‘Warehouses?’ Marguerite was curious.
‘Yes, he trades in cloth. Oh, Margaret, you cannot believe the beauty—cashmeres from India and silks and brocades…big rolls of them. I love running the lengths through my hands…the whole county buys from us.’
Marguerite smiled with genuine interest. ‘I would like to see it.’
‘You must visit us sometime. That is, unless I am made to marry some stuffy old gentleman and live in the city.’ Her face clouded over.
‘I am sure your father wants you to be happy. He will not force you.’
Betsy laughed. ‘He says he wants me to marry for love. Love, attached to a title.’
Marguerite laughed with her, and said, ‘Come, let us have a canter.’
When they slowed to a walk Betsy patted her horse on the neck. ‘It is a pity we are not allowed to gallop here. When you come to Yorkshire, I will race you.’
‘I will gladly take up the challenge.’
Charles, seeing Argyle approach, rode up beside Marguerite and Mr Selby, who was following him, took up her place by Betsy and was soon engaging her in lively talk. Marguerite cast a glance over her shoulder and was satisfied.
Argyle, having watched the group for a little while before coming closer, was forced to admire Marguerite’s determination and efficiency as well as her kindness.
* * *
A few days later, as Argyle walked home from his club, he noticed Marguerite walking ahead of him with her maid, each carrying a few parcels.
She wore a simple gown of rose linen, with a high waist defined by a broad satin ribbon; strands of her dark blonde hair escaped from a straw bonnet.
Lengthening his stride in order to catch up with her, he saw a beggar woman approach her, a hand held out, clasping in her other arm a baby bundled in a filthy shawl.
He quickened his step, meaning to chase the woman away, when Marguerite reached out to grasp her arm.
A hackney cab was coming down the busy street; swerving to avoid oncoming traffic, it came too close to the woman.
Before Marguerite could pull her out of the way, the horse’s shoulder struck into her and she fell to the ground.
Marguerite bent over her to help her up.
The hackney driver, seeing a member of the quality, stopped to offer help, and was met by Marguerite’s fury.
‘You stupid man! Could you not watch where you were going? Look at what you have done.’
‘Begging your pardon, milady, I were only trying to avoid a gent in a curricle going too fast.’
‘You were going too fast as well.’ Marguerite gave the woman her hand to pull her up and, seeing her flinch when she put her weight on one foot, gave her parcels to her maid and took the baby from her arms, saying, ‘Here, lean on me. Have you hurt your leg?’
The woman was quite a young girl, and she pushed the hair out of her eyes. She lifted her skirt to reveal a badly scraped knee. She said, ‘It is my ankle, miss, I cannot step on it.’
Marguerite peered at the leg, and said, ‘You must have twisted it, and there is quite a deep cut on your knee. You ought to see a doctor.’
‘Oh, miss, don’t you bother your head about me.’
‘No, I insist. You,’ she said to the hackney driver, ‘I see you do not have a customer. Take us to the hospital. I will pay you, of course.’ She still held the baby in her arms.
Argyle, who had been watching this scene, intervened.
‘Lady Marguerite, please allow me.’ He took some notes from his pocket and gave them to the man.
Marguerite had been helping the woman into the cab and handed her the baby. She had not noticed him, and now looked at him in surprise. She said, ‘Thank you, Your Grace, but there was no need.’
He said, ‘It is of no matter. I will escort you home.’
‘I am not going home, I am taking this girl to the hospital.’
He was astonished, and his voice showed it. ‘Surely you are not going with her? The jarvey can take her, he has been well paid.’
‘Oh, don’t be so stupid, of course I must go. She will be turned away, otherwise.’ She climbed into the cab and said to her maid, ‘Flossie, take the parcels home and tell my mother I might be late for dinner.’ She closed the door, saying, ‘Goodbye, Your Grace. Thank you for paying the driver.’
The hackney moved off to join the traffic in the street and Argyle and Flossie remained standing on the pavement. He said to the maid, ‘Is your mistress always like this?’ He could hardly believe Marguerite had called him stupid.
Flossie, a young, plump girl with a pleasant round face and curly hair peeping out from under her cap, smiled. ‘Oh, yes, sir, she does have a mind of her own. I knew it was no use offering to go with her.’ She curtsied and turned to go, clutching the parcels.
Argyle stood looking after the carriage, not knowing whether to be furious, shocked, or admiring. Then he was struck by a blinding revelation: there was only one thing he could do about this girl—he would marry her.
* * *
Argyle was spoiled, high-handed, and used to getting his way but, despite Marguerite’s deprecating remark, he was far from stupid.
After a night’s consideration, and before pursuing the rash course of action he had set for himself, he decided to consult the only human being whose opinion regarding his personal life he respected: his great aunt, Lady Montgomery.
This redoubtable old woman was his only living relative, or at least the only one he could abide; she was shrewd and opinionated and did not mince her words.
A widow for many years, she lived in a large, gloomy house in Mayfair, attended by an elderly butler and his wife, who had been her lady’s maid for many years.
To this house he made his way the next morning, at a respectable hour, wearing the formal attire he knew would meet with her approval.
He gave his hat, gloves, and cane to the butler and was ushered into a dim and cluttered drawing room.
His aunt sat by the fire in a high-backed armchair, wearing a dark, high-necked gown whose skirts swept the floor, with a large diamond brooch pinned to the front.
She looked up from her book and eyed him disapprovingly.
‘Oh, you’ve finally remembered I’m still alive, have you, Argyle? ’
‘I came to see you last week, Aunt Eliza, don’t you remember?’ He bent to kiss her withered cheek and a rare smile lit up his face.
‘Oh yes, of course you did. Will you have some tea?’ She closed her book, placing it on a small table next to her chair.
‘I would rather have a glass of your excellent port, ma’am, if I may. And I hope you will join me.’
‘Oh, why not? Life is meant to be enjoyed.’ She nodded to the butler and waited until he had come back with the wine. Argyle poured them each a glass. Then she said, ‘So tell me, Argyle, what brings you here today?’
‘I seek your advice. I’m thinking of becoming a tenant-for-life.’
She turned her faded but sharp eyes upon him. ‘Oh? In love, are you? And who is the object of your affections?’
‘I don’t know about love. She is one of the most annoying persons I have ever met. I just know I have to have her.’
‘That is indeed interesting. Who is she?’
‘The daughter of Lord Lennox.’ He took a sip of his wine.
Lady Montgomery nodded. ‘Oh yes. A sound man. He married a Frenchwoman—pretty little thing, as I remember.’
‘Yes, Lady Marguerite is half French.’
‘Is she intelligent?’
Argyle rose and took a few steps about the room, staring at the dark and forbidding portraits of ancestors on the walls.
‘I notice you do not ask if she is pretty. She is beautiful, in my eyes, even if not a classic beauty. As for intelligent, yes, I imagine so. And she is kind. But headstrong, stubborn, opinionated, and rude.’
‘As you can be, my dear. Also, very arrogant. It sounds as though she could keep your interest for more than two minutes. I like the sound of it. But will she have you?’
He shrugged. ‘Why wouldn’t she? I am full of juice, and a duke to boot. Prime marriage material, wouldn’t you say? Her parents should be all for it.’ He sat down again.
Lady Montgomery sipped her wine, another large diamond flashing on her thin hand.
She looked at him with a small, sardonic light at the back of her eyes.
‘Well, that remains to be seen,’ she said.
‘But by all means try your luck, it is perhaps time you thought about acquiring an heir. And if you succeed, bring her to see me.’
‘I will.’ Argyle leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs before him. He smiled a secret little half-smile, as if he had made up his mind about something.
His aunt noticed it and said, ‘Something tells me she might lead you a pretty dance.’