Chapter 4
Princess Alexandra nearly canceled Saturday’s ball. She’d thought it callous to hold the entertainment the day after the Clerkenwell Prison explosion. But in the end, Alix relented. Bertie wanted to dance, and she wouldn’t deny her husband his pleasure.
Susan stood at the top of the grand staircase, watching a rising stream of ladies lift yards of peach, periwinkle, and golden tulle away from their slippers.
Mostly, they kept their backs straight and their eyes forward.
But occasionally, a lady glanced at the left-hand wall and its large-as-life battlefield picture.
The supine corpse and dead face of the Duke of Marlborough’s aide-de-camp stared back.
Susan smiled in sympathy as one young woman nearly missed her footing.
“Could be worse,” someone drawled in her ear. “Chap in the picture had his head blown off by a cannonball.”
Susan turned. A tall, spare, dark-haired gentleman in his middle thirties, wearing a black tailcoat and white tie, looked at her with an amused glint. “The painting is dreadful enough without adding that detail.”
“Good evening, Sir Lionel.”
He raised her hand to his lips. “Lady Styles.” His smile spread slowly. “The truth … not quite the thing to hang on one’s wall.”
“I would draw the line.”
People called Sir Lionel Dermott “an amusing fellow” who did “something at the Home Office.” Susan wondered if that meant they didn’t know or chose not to disclose his role there.
“When the dancing begins, would you honor me with the first waltz, Lady Styles?”
“Delighted, Sir Lionel.”
He leaned forward. “The lovely Alix is looking your way. I’ll leave you to the evening’s greetings. But promise you won’t forget me.” He bowed and walked away.
A footman announced the guests as they reached the landing.
Susan’s job was to prompt Princess Alexandra by repeating the name, speaking clearly and distinctly.
Hearing loss plagued Alix, although she was only twenty-three, a problem that had grown worse in the past few months.
When the flow of arrivals trickled to an end, Susan followed the prince and princess into the ballroom.
Princess Alexandra, aided by a walking stick and her husband’s arm, made her way slowly to a chair.
The Prince of Wales bowed and walked away.
Seeking companions more entertaining than a lame, deaf wife, Susan thought.
Since the winter, Alix had been ill with a list of strange symptoms; the most persistent and debilitating was a swollen knee that made movement painful and difficult.
Bertie’s response was to absent himself from the domestic scene as often as possible.
Lady Styles shivered near a chilly window.
The outside world looked black on the moonless, mid-December night.
She wondered how many additional soldiers and policemen ringed the residence.
Inside, the ballroom blazed, lit by bronze chandeliers and wall torchiers that had turned the rose-and-cream room golden.
Officers in scarlet, Scots in black velvet and tartan, and gentlemen in ebony tailcoats and snowy ties twirled their partners around the room.
After a difficult autumn, Susan was happy to see Princess Louise in better spirits.
The queen’s prettiest daughter looked stunning in a silvery, avant-garde “aesthetic” gown.
The unfussy lines of the dress suited her.
She held the white-gloved hand of a scarlet-coated colonel, leading the company through the opening quadrille.
Time away from Her Majesty is better than a tonic, Susan thought.
Most of the queen’s children masked their frustration with the queen’s incessant demands and gave in. Louise fought back.
The evening marked Susan’s first ballroom appearance in half-mourning mauve.
After two years and more of widowhood, etiquette’s stringent rules finally allowed her to dance.
She had enjoyed waltzing and sparring with Sir Lionel Dermott in the past, so she smiled when he claimed her hand for the second set.
Susan suspected her partner’s air of arch amusement was a pose. But what does it mask? She wasn’t sure.
For all his languor, Lionel waltzed beautifully. But that evening, her usually chatty companion made only glancing stabs at conversation, spending much of the time scanning the room.
Mildly miffed, Susan asked, “Have you lost something?”
He said without a trace of chagrin, “Unforgivable bad manners, Lady Styles. Let me think … Shall I mention the excellence of the orchestra? What about the weather?”
“If you must.”
“Perhaps a comment about the dancers will do. Princess Louise looks radiant this evening on the arm of her handsome colonel.”
“You never wear your uniform, Sir Lionel. May I ask why?”
His smile faded. “I’m afraid my glory days are behind me. I left them in the Crimea.”
There was an undertone, a hint of something in his voice like a spice one tasted but could not place. Is it bitterness? Susan asked, “What were you searching for over my shoulder?”
“I’m on the lookout for old G-H,” Sir Lionel said, referring to the home secretary.
“Mister Gathorne-Hardy? Why?”
“Tedious business, m’dear. Too sleep-inducing to talk about.”
“It seems oddly energetic of you,” Susan said with a smile. “Mixing work and pleasure.”
“Energetic?” His eyes widened in horror, and he looked left and right. “Don’t let that rumor get about.” His catlike smile spread. “I aim to keep expectations low. The bottom rail on the fence is all I’ll jump.”
“You’re not a show pony, I know. But eager matrons with eligible daughters long to put you through your paces.” Susan tipped her head. “Look.”
He glanced to his right. “Ah … but one becomes so distracted by the whistling sound.”
“Whistling?”
“Nothing from ear to ear. Now you, Lady Styles. With you, I have the opposite fear. All that gray matter behind eyes that put me on my mettle.”
When the waltz ended, Sir Lionel said, “I see the lovely Alix has attracted half the Marlborough House set.”
“Marlborough House set? You read the illustrated weeklies, Sir Lionel?”
“Avidly. One must be au courant in everything. Shall we join the entourage?”
Susan wasn’t surprised to find the ever-faithful Oliver Montgomery among Alix’s courtiers.
Captain Frederick Locock, the doctor’s son, was there as well.
Both men wore the blue uniforms of the Royal Horse Guards.
Major FitzGerald blazed in the scarlet tunic and gold shamrock lace of the 4th Royal Irish Dragoon Guards.
His wife, Harriet, was there, too, chatting with the seated princess.
But looking over Alix’s head at Princess Louise, Susan thought, amused.
Harriet FitzGerald and Princess Louise shared the same abundant fair hair. Lately, Peter’s wife wore it long and loose in imitation of the princess. That night, she seemed to be eyeing Louise’s dress. Harriet will visit her dressmaker on Monday.
“Lady Styles.” Susan turned and took Peter’s offered hand.
“Major FitzGerald, you know Sir Lionel Dermott, I believe.”
“Oh, FitzGerald and I are old friends and adversaries,” Lionel said. “We pitted our yachts in sail-to-sail combat last summer at Cowes.”
The major smiled. “I believe you had the better of me that day.”
“A lucky shift in the wind.” Lionel turned and clapped Oliver Montgomery on the shoulder. “Ollie, old man, how are you? And Trev.” He extended his hand to George Trevor. “How was the shooting?”
Peter drew Susan aside. “I haven’t seen you since … Any news from the Isle of Wight about that business over the girl?”
“Nothing from the Cowes Constabulary,” Susan said. “But the officials at Dublin Castle—”
Lionel turned around. “Dublin Castle? That lot makes my sleepy corner of the Home Office look sprightly. What do you want with them?”
“Information about a murdered girl’s family,” Susan said. For once, she blessed Alix’s hearing difficulties as Captain Montgomery lowered his voice and explained the tragedy to Lionel.
“You’d be better off applying directly to the efficient Dublin police,” Dermott said. “Although their plate is full just now.”
“Dublin Castle’s officials were helpful, as it happens,” Susan said. “They provided the address once I knew the town’s name and the family that employed the girl,” Susan said.
“How did you discover that?” FitzGerald asked.
“Princess Louise and I sat with a map of Ireland, and it spur red her recollection. Then I exchanged notes with Brigid Dowling. A last letter from her sister had arrived in the post, and she—”
“After all this time?” FitzGerald said.
“Miss Dowling had been in Dublin. When the family returned to their country house, she found a note from her dead sister and my letter.” Susan frowned. “She wrote, asking to come to London to speak to me.”
“Seems odd,” Captain Montgomery said.
Susan frowned. “Something is bothering her.”
FitzGerald asked, “Did she explain her concern?”
“I’ll find out on Tuesday. She’s coming to see me after luncheon.”
Lionel asked, “Coming from where?”
“County Cork. I suggested lodgings at the Chapter House near St. Paul’s.”
“A modest, respectable hostelry,” Lionel said. “Your concern does you credit, Lady Styles. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” He bowed and walked away.
Susan watched Lionel cross the room. He took the elbow of a balding man with the sagging face of a Labrador and steered him to one side. Mister Gathorne-Hardy listened, smoothing his wispy side whiskers. Then he nodded and returned to his wife.
Next, Lionel threaded his way through the knot of men around the Prince of Wales.
Each year, the ever-stouter Bertie was easier to find in a crowd, and Lionel and the prince made an amusing contrast. The pencil and the powder keg, Susan thought.
Lionel had Bertie’s ear, holding his attention while he spoke.
Bertie nodded when he finished, and Lionel bowed and slipped away.
“Funny chap.”