Chapter 3
Charles Barnfield was the leader of a group of young people enjoying the pleasures of London society. Colourful as a flock of parrots, the girls delighted in their new dresses and accessories—they loved to talk about clothes, or gossip endlessly about their conquests.
The men vied with them in the fashion stakes, decorating themselves with flowery waistcoats, a multitude of fobs and seals, jewelled snuff boxes and quizzing glasses through which they peered at objects of curiosity.
Their hair was arranged in a variety of complicated styles, their neckcloths tied in a dizzying array of knots.
Their starched collar points were so high they prevented much movement of the head.
Marguerite, not having any siblings and being of a sociable disposition, appreciated being a part of this crowd of friends, some having known each other since childhood.
Most of the girls had just emerged from the schoolroom.
They delighted in flirting, and putting to practice the skills they had acquired during boring lessons.
However, since the contracting of marriages was the main purpose of the London season, this preoccupation was never far from their minds.
Alice, Marguerite’s cousin, was voluble about this: ‘My mother expects me to find a suitable husband as soon as possible. She says bringing me out has cost a pretty penny, what with clothes and entertainments. She is giving a ball for me, and is always complaining about the price of flowers, and beeswax candles, and engraved invitations.’
Another girl said, pouting a little, ‘Mine is exactly the same—and keeps reminding me that my younger sister will need to come out soon. But I have not had any offers so far.’
Marguerite kept silent, thinking how lucky she was her parents were not pressing her yet.
Alice asked the other girl, ‘Don’t you have that dashing officer dangling after you?’
‘Yes, but it is just calf-love. Much too young, and hasn’t a sixpence to scratch with. He’s very handsome, though. Nice for flirting and dancing with, but my mother thinks he’s beneath my touch.’ The girl sighed.
‘Well, I have had an offer, but I don’t like him in the least. He’s old and ugly. But swimming in lard, and fancies himself all the crack. Pomaded hair brushed in a Brutus style, rings on his fingers…’ Alice shuddered. ‘I had better find someone else fast, in case my parents are tempted.’
‘And I had better not fall in love with my officer, for I would only be bound for disappointment,’ said her friend, sighing again.
The problem was, as the girls agreed amongst themselves, that the men who were the most entertaining company were too young to be contemplating matrimony, even if they possessed a considerable fortune—they wanted to amuse themselves with gambling and light-skirts before becoming leg-shackled, as they called it.
The older men who were on the lookout for a wife and acceptable as husband material were usually not as dashing.
The Duke of Argyle did not fit into either of these categories because, although only five-and-twenty, he was too austere to join in the frivolous amusements favoured by Barnfield’s cheerful group.
Parents considered him a prize catch, even though he was meant to be averse to marriage, but most girls were intimidated by him.
Her friends had teased Marguerite when he had danced with her, while watching her a little enviously.
The men admired or envied him for his casual elegance and sporting prowess, but were so awed by him that they did not look upon him as a friend.
He was known for having few friends his own age, but never lacking for older and sophisticated women seeking his company and the luxuries he could offer.
* * *
Marguerite loved riding in the park with her friends, on the feisty grey mare her father had given her for her eighteenth birthday.
The group moved like a flock of starlings, jostling each other and chattering, sometimes becoming elongated as a few enjoyed a brisk canter while the less proficient riders remained walking at the rear, accompanied by a couple of grooms—then re-grouping into a lively bunch.
Marguerite, dressed in a becoming blue riding habit with frogging and gold buttons and a velvet hat with a small veil, was always at the forefront, followed by Charles and some of the other young men, and sometimes one or two girls.
They stopped to talk to people strolling along, or riding in carriages—sometimes their parents, or their parents’ friends.
Lately they often came upon the Duke of Argyle, riding an impressive dark bay stallion, who arched his neck and snorted at the other horses. He would overtake them with a brief greeting, pausing a second to say to Marguerite, ‘Good day, Lady Marguerite.’
His face remained grave, and she would answer, also unsmiling, ‘Good day, Your Grace.’ He would touch his high-crowned hat and ride off, his black coat plain but tight-fitting, his top boots highly polished.
As soon as he was out of earshot, comments would fly about:
‘What a prime bit of blood.’
‘Yes, I heard he paid a fair price for him at Tattersalls.’
‘A most handsome animal! And the rider is as handsome.’ A feminine laugh.
‘But forbidding. He never smiles.’
‘How do you know him, Marguerite? I saw him dancing with you the other night.’
‘He is acquainted with my parents.’ In fact, it was a friend of theirs who had introduced him to her.
‘He must be difficult to talk to.’
‘He is.’
‘But a true Corinthian. Did you see the way he rides that brute?’ This from one of the young men.
‘Well, I wouldn’t mind if he danced with me.’ A giggle.
‘I would. I would be terrified.’
‘Do you think he will propose, Marguerite?’
Marguerite laughed. ‘Hardly! He has seldom said more than three words to me.’
Sometimes Argyle drove his curricle, drawn by a team of beautiful matched bays. He would pause and nod at Marguerite, then drive off at a rapid pace. This provoked more talk:
‘Did you notice how that curricle is sprung?’
‘And those bays…Wonderful high-steppers.’
‘Argyle’s cattle are always sweet-goers.’
‘Well, he is known for having an eye for a horse.’
‘And he’s a top sawyer, to boot.’
‘Yes, a first-rate whip. Did you see him overtake that barouche? The ladies in it were swooning.’
‘True, he drives to an inch.’
‘Has he ever taken you for a drive, Marguerite?’
‘No, he hasn’t. But I admit I wouldn’t mind driving those bays.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t. Not under his eagle eye.’
‘He is a true Nonpareil.’
When he saw Argyle approach, Charles always made sure he was riding next to Marguerite.
Argyle never addressed him directly, only nodding in a general direction towards the whole group and riding off before Marguerite could introduce anyone.
This annoyed her, but she decided against mentioning it to Charles, who also kept silent; although she could see he too was irked.
However, these episodes were so short that they were quickly forgotten as the group was accosted by other people known to them.
* * *
There was one occasion on which Marguerite might have had reason to feel grateful towards His Grace: at a fashionable crush which they were both attending, one of her older admirers, a plump and pompous man of florid countenance and even more florid vocabulary, had cornered her in a secluded niche.
He had been steadfastly pursuing her for a while, and she had been as steadfastly avoiding him.
After refusing him a number of times, using a variety of excuses, she had no choice but to accept standing up in a set with him.
He had somehow managed to manoeuvre her into this corner where he was now engaged in kissing her hand, which he had imprisoned in both of his, murmuring flowery compliments all the while.
‘Lady Marguerite, my dearest, dearest lady, I have always been your most fervent admirer. Your exquisite beauty…your charm…have enchanted me…’
Marguerite, appalled, was trying unsuccessfully to pull her hand away—she could feel his hot breath through her thin silk glove. His glistening lips and pudgy hands with their hairy knuckles and longish nails made her shudder; he wore a ring with a large ruby on one finger.
Just as she had decided that, however impolite it might be, she had no other choice than to give him a sharp kick in the shins and make good her escape, the Duke of Argyle’s tall figure loomed above them; his dark eyes veiled by lowered eyelids, his lips curled in a sneer.
He drawled, ‘My dear fellow, pray stop being such a dead bore. You should be able to comprehend when your advances are not welcome.’
The man started, a belligerent exclamation escaping his lips—but when he looked up and met the duke’s forbidding expression, he straightened up and, flushing, retreated.
Marguerite, who had paled under his onslaught, now regained her colour, but did not acknowledge her debt to her rescuer.
A flash of devilry replaced her relief, and she said, opening her eyes at him, ‘Shame on you, Your Grace. How inconsiderate of you to interrupt the only romantic interlude I have had this evening.’ She gave him a mischievous smile, a quick curtsy, and turned to go.
Argyle watched her retreating back, his eyes fixed on her slim and graceful figure.
* * *
On another occasion, as Argyle stopped to greet Marguerite in the park, he saw she was not riding her grey mare, but a big, raw-boned chestnut gelding. He asked, ‘Is that a new horse?’
Marguerite smiled. ‘No, only my mare has knocked her fetlock and needs a rest, so I borrowed this one. He is rather large, isn’t he?’
Argyle was on the point of answering when Charles, no doubt annoyed that Marguerite was conversing with him, set off at a canter. He called, ‘Let us go. Come, Alice—come on, Marguerite.’
She gave him an apologetic glance and turned to go, and Argyle stood looking after her for a moment.
She and Alice followed Charles, but soon Marguerite passed him at a gallop.
Charles called, ‘Marguerite, slow down!’ and he heard her shout back, ‘I cannot!’ She was pulling on the reins, but the horse did not reduce his pace.
Alice, who had drawn close to Charles, cried, ‘He’s bolted with her!’
Argyle saw Charles urge his horse on. He kicked his own horse to a gallop, and the big stallion did not take long to overtake the others and reach Marguerite. He planned to catch hold of her rein and try to pull the horse to a halt, when he saw she had the situation under control.
Sitting upright and solid in her saddle, she pulled on her left rein only, aiming the horse at a wide expanse of grass to the left of the track.
The horse veered and kept galloping, but in a circle, while she continued pulling on the inside rein and talking to him in a soothing voice, gradually managing to decrease the circle.
Argyle saw she had no need of him—he pulled up his stallion and stood watching until the horse slowed to a canter then, after a few more turns, a trot and finally a walk.
Alice and Charles had caught up to her. Alice asked, her voice high with anxiety, ‘Are you all right, Marguerite?’
Marguerite’s cheeks were red and she was breathing hard, but she managed a laugh.
‘Yes. I will now take him back home at a sedate walk. I hate bolters! I am never riding this horse again.’ Yet Argyle saw her lean forward and pat the animal on the neck.
A lock of hair had come loose from her chignon and was trailing on her shoulder.
He said, ‘Well ridden, ma’am.’ She turned to smile at him, and he touched his top hat and rode off.
* * *
Argyle walked on towards the lake in the park, oblivious of his surroundings, barely acknowledging people greeting him as they passed by.
His thoughts were consumed by images of Marguerite: teasing him when he had rescued her from the unwanted attentions of that boor; sitting calm and steady on the runaway horse until she brought it under control.
She was turning out to be a lot more than the new, exotic beauty about town.
Her Parisian elegance and poise concealed a brisk sense of humour and a lot of pluck.
At first glance, she appeared to be an integral part of the fresh batch of debutantes of the season, giggling and flirting and dancing and preening about in their new gowns, ambitious mothers in tow—but there were other, unexpected sides to her.