Chapter Three Thursday at Winterbourne House
Winterbourne House did not look like the sort of place in which respectable women were invited to say improper things over supper, which Clara decided was probably part of Lady Winterbourne’s pleasure in it.
The house stood on a broad Mayfair street behind black railings and two stone urns overflowing with early spring greenery, its pale fa?ade symmetrical, elegant and entirely incapable of scandal.
Tall windows glowed against the damp evening, while a pair of lamps burned on either side of the entrance and reflected warmly upon the pavement.
Nothing about the place suggested rebellion, unless rebellion happened to include excellent masonry, polished brass and a butler who accepted cloaks with the solemnity of a bishop receiving state papers.
Clara had been to Winterbourne House before, though never in circumstances quite like these.
There had once been great dinners here, assembly evenings, musical parties and one memorable reception at which an Italian count had mistaken Sir Edmund for a poet and spent twenty minutes praising verses Clara was fairly certain her father had never read, much less written.
Lady Winterbourne had entertained more conventionally during her husband’s lifetime, although even then she had possessed a talent for placing unsuitable people beside one another at dinner and observing what happened.
Since Lord Winterbourne’s death, her gatherings had become smaller and, according to rumor, considerably more interesting.
Clara handed her cloak to the butler.
“Her ladyship is in the drawing room, Miss Whitcombe.”
“Thank you, Hargreaves.”
The butler’s eyebrows moved a fraction, whether in surprise that she remembered his name or approval that she had done so, Clara could not tell.
She followed a footman upstairs. The drawing-room doors stood open.
Warmth, lamplight and conversation met her before Lady Winterbourne did.
For one moment Clara remained just inside the threshold, taking in the room.
Winterbourne House had always been beautiful, but Augusta’s widowhood had altered it.
The formal arrangement of chairs she remembered had vanished.
Sofas had been drawn toward the fire, small tables appeared wherever one might conveniently abandon a book or glass, and several lamps had been moved closer to comfortable chairs rather than positioned according to symmetry.
A writing desk occupied the bay window, covered with correspondence, and an enormous bowl of hothouse tulips stood beside a pile of newspapers that would never have been permitted in the principal drawing room under the late Lord Winterbourne’s management.
The result was not disorder. It was habitation.
Clara liked it immediately. Lady Winterbourne stood near the fireplace wearing dark green silk and a necklace of amber stones.
She was speaking to a fair-haired young woman Clara recognized only vaguely from across drawing rooms, though the woman’s beauty was difficult to forget.
Two others sat near the sofa, while a fourth had taken possession of the hearthrug with the confidence of someone who had decided chairs were merely suggestions. Augusta saw Clara and lifted one hand.
“At last. I was beginning to suspect you had recovered your judgment.”
“I considered it,” Clara said as she approached. “Then I remembered you promised wine.”
“A motive I respect.”
Augusta kissed her cheek and turned toward the others.
“Clara Whitcombe, whom several of you already know by reputation and none of you will mention by it unless you wish to leave before supper.”
That produced a startled laugh from someone near the fire. Clara looked at Augusta.
“You do make people comfortable.”
“It is one of my gifts.”
The fair-haired woman beside her smiled.
“Lady Winterbourne believes discomfort builds character.”
“Only in other people,” Augusta said.
Clara recognized the woman then. Cecily, Lady Vale.
The widow. Even without the whispers attached to her name, Cecily would have attracted attention.
She was twenty-seven, perhaps twenty-eight, with pale gold hair, gray-green eyes and the sort of composed beauty artists described as serene because they did not know how to paint wariness.
Her late husband had been more than thirty years older.
Lord Vale had died less than a year after their marriage.
The official cause was apoplexy. Society preferred poison.
Clara had heard all the theories. Too young.
Too beautiful. Too financially fortunate.
Lady Vale had inherited a substantial jointure, which in London was sufficient evidence of guilt if combined with a widow who did not faint prettily enough at the funeral. Cecily extended a hand.
“We have met once, I think. At Lady Carroway’s.”
“Yes. You rescued me from an elderly admiral who had mistaken me for someone interested in naval tariffs.”
Cecily’s smile deepened.
“I remember. He found me instead.”
“I remain indebted.”
“Then we are already friends.”
There was an ease in the remark Clara had not expected. Augusta moved on.
“Miss Beatrice Hart.”
A dark-haired young woman rose halfway from the sofa before apparently deciding ceremony could be dispensed with. Beatrice was perhaps twenty-three, with lively brown eyes, a mouth made for laughter and a bright coral gown that would have looked overbold on someone less confident.
“We have not met,” she said, “but I once saw you defeat Lady Fenmore over the matter of a card table.”
For a moment, Clara could find no answer.
“I was unaware there had been a battle.”
“There was from where I stood.”
“Lady Fenmore wanted the table moved six inches.”
“And you said no.”
“There was a lamp behind it.”
Beatrice looked delighted.
“Exactly.”
Augusta sighed.
“Beatrice admires unnecessary conflict.”
“Only when well managed.”
Clara liked her at once. The woman seated beside Beatrice was quieter.
“Miss Eleanor Finch,” Augusta said.
Eleanor stood fully. She was thirty-one, plainly but neatly dressed in dove-gray, with warm brown hair, clear eyes and the slightly guarded posture of someone accustomed to entering households where she possessed responsibility without authority.
“A pleasure,” Eleanor said.
“The same.”
“You were governess to the Halloway girls, were you not?” Clara asked.
Eleanor looked surprised.
“For four years.”
“I met the eldest in Bath last autumn. She speaks of you with great affection.”
The surprise became something softer.
“Charlotte was a dear child.”
Augusta gave Clara an approving glance, as though she had passed some examination no one had warned her about. Near the fire, the woman occupying the hearthrug rose at last.
“Miss Arabella Trent,” she announced herself before Augusta could do it.
Arabella was striking rather than conventionally beautiful, with black hair, bold brows and a crimson shawl draped over one shoulder in a manner suggesting she knew perfectly well several people considered crimson inappropriate for unmarried women and had purchased it for that reason.
Clara knew her reputation. Everybody did.
Arabella had been seen alone in a gentleman’s curricle after midnight.
She had once danced four times with the same man at Almack’s.
She had refused to explain either incident.
London had punished her accordingly. Arabella offered her hand.
“Do you gamble?”
“Poorly.”
“Excellent. People who gamble well are tedious.”
“Do you?”
“Also poorly, but with greater enthusiasm.”
“Arabella,” Augusta warned.
“What? I have not invited her to a gaming hell.”
“Yet.”
“Precisely.”
Two quieter women completed the circle near the window.
Miss Sophia Lennox, composed in navy blue, greeted Clara with a calm smile and the air of someone who had long ago stopped mistaking privacy for apology, while Mrs. Eliza Grey, modestly dressed and even more reserved, offered only a brief greeting.
Clara knew little about either woman and, for once, found herself grateful that no one supplied a scandalous biography on introduction.
There would be time to learn whatever they wished to tell her.
The thought itself felt unusual in a London drawing room, where other people’s stories were normally treated as public property.
“Miss Whitcombe.”
“Now that everyone has arrived,” Augusta said, “I shall state the rules.”
Arabella groaned.
“There are rules?”
“There is one.”
“That is already too many.”
“Nobody comes here to find a husband.”
Beatrice laughed. Eleanor looked amused. Cecily lifted one brow. Arabella considered the declaration seriously.
“Are accidental husbands permitted?”
Augusta closed her eyes.
“I knew inviting you was a mistake.”
“You say that every week.”
“And every week you prove me right.”
Clara felt laughter escape before she could stop it.
It came easily here. That surprised her.
At most gatherings she spent half the evening measuring conversations, anticipating offense, steering Lucy away from errors or allowing other people’s curiosity to break harmlessly against her composure.
Here nobody appeared interested in pretending life had unfolded exactly as intended. Augusta looked around the room.
“What happens outside these doors remains outside them unless the owner chooses otherwise. Nobody is required to explain how she arrived here. Nobody offers advice without invitation. Nobody apologizes for being unmarried, widowed, notorious, poor, difficult, disappointing or otherwise insufficiently convenient to society.”
“Can we apologize for being dull?” Sophia asked.
“Only if you intend to improve.”
“Then I shall remain silent.”
“Excellent.”
Hargreaves appeared at the doorway.
“Supper is served, my lady.”
Augusta rose.
“Come. Before Arabella asks whether accidental elopements are covered by the rules.”
“I had not thought of that.”
“I knew I should move quickly.”