CHAPTER SIX
Some subtle alteration in the atmosphere of the small room impinged on Laura’s concentration, causing her to lift her eyes from the volume in her lap. It was another second or two before, glancing vaguely about her, she recognised the change.
“It has stopped raining at last!” she exulted, rising to go over to the window.
By craning her neck she could make out a small area of blue sky off to the left, the first breach in the interminable grey vault that had crowned the seven days following their arrival at Mount Street.
Intermittent rain had added to the gloomy aspect often enough to keep the family indoors for all but the most urgent of errands.
The ladies had been twice to the shop of Mrs. Reyburn, the dressmaker engaged by Sir Oswald, and twice to visit purveyors of fabrics and trimmings to augment those displayed by Mrs. Reyburn.
Yesterday Mrs. Marsh had escorted her charges to the Chandler residence to return the call Mrs. Chandler and her daughter had paid soon after their arrival in town.
This had proved a mildly pleasant diversion as everyone exchanged civil inanities with the good manners of well-intentioned strangers.
Though grateful for any insights to be gleaned about this alien culture into which she’d been plunged, Laura had found her attention wandering when the conversation, after touching on the best places to purchase everything that might be considered to enhance a young woman’s appearance and wellbeing, drifted to personages inhabiting the fashionable world, all of whom were currently unknown to the Marsh women.
As a loyal subject, she was naturally pleased to learn that the harmonious turn to the frequently strained relations between the Prince Regent and his only child brought about by Princess Charlotte’s recent betrothal to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld had persisted.
The activities and scandalous antics of other members of the ton featured in Mrs. Chandler’s revelations had no power to entertain her, however.
They certainly possessed the power to shock her country-bred sense of propriety, but Laura deemed it prudent to keep such opinions to herself, since she had no desire to play the impressionable rustic before these worldly people.
She did not believe that Mrs. Chandler was mean-spirited at heart — her willingness to take strangers under her wing testified to her general good nature.
Watching their hostess’ animation while blithely traducing the character of various acquaintances and nominal friends, Laura had wondered idly if a lack of mental acuity prompted her to substitute personalities for ideas in her conversation.
The attendant speculation that this might represent the general level of conversation among those with whom she would be associating for the present was appalling enough to send her prowling restlessly about the small room.
As she stood in front of the window, Laura faced the fact that her sanctuary was beginning to feel like a prison after a week of bad weather.
With all of London waiting to be explored, she was prevented from setting foot outside the door by her uncle’s clear prohibition against any solitary jaunts.
At lunch today she’d asked Sophie if she’d like to go for a walk should the skies clear that afternoon, but her cousin had looked astounded at the suggestion, then hastily declared her intention of putting in some much-needed practice on the pianoforte.
Young Sukie was still adjusting to the many and varied demands on her time in the city household.
Her mother always rested in the afternoon, leaving her daughter to her own devices.
At such times Laura was content to lose herself in a book, but once the vagrant sun had peeked out she found her previous interest in Miss Austen’s charming tale had ebbed away.
Accustomed as she was to roaming freely about the farm at all hours, Laura at this moment could wholeheartedly echo Macbeth’s complaint of feeling “cabin’d, cribb’d, confined.
” Newly conceived rebellious thoughts were beginning to circle in her consciousness when a series of emphatic sounds penetrated the walls of the room.
Welcoming any diversion, she followed the sounds to the schoolroom, whose door was ajar.
Pushing the door wide, Laura glanced quickly around the room before settling on Aubrey, its sole occupant, who was kneeling on the floor amongst a number of books.
“Is anything amiss, Aubrey? I heard some odd noises.”
“Yes, I knocked a pile of books off the table. I am sorry if I disturbed you, Cousin Laura.”
“Not at all,” Laura replied, retrieving a book he had missed and depositing it on the table. “I was just surprised to hear any sounds from the schoolroom. You and Nora are generally out of doors on pleasant afternoons.”
Aubrey pulled a wry face. “Nora had the toothache this afternoon, so I told her to go and lie down.” A hopeful expression came over his countenance. “Do you play chess, Cousin Laura? Would you play a game with me?”
At Aubrey’s eager suggestion, Laura’s ennui vanished and she was seized with an inspiration. “I have an even better idea. I have been longing to see something of the neighbourhood. Would you do me the honour of acting as my guide?”
“Of course. Today?”
“This very minute, if it is quite convenient for you.”
“Oh, it is! I am not permitted to go out without Nora, but I do not suppose it makes any difference that it is you and not her,” Aubrey said cheerfully. “Now where is my coat?”
“I’ll go fetch my pelisse and bonnet,” Laura said, ignoring any qualms about enticing the boy into what might be considered an act of disobedience.
Naturally she would accept full responsibility should Sir Oswald disapprove, she assured herself in her room a moment later as she shrugged into the new pelisse that had been delivered from Mrs. Reyburn’s shop just that morning.
Spurred on by what she recognised as a childish fear of being thwarted in her escape plan, she quickly donned the matching bonnet, all but unaware of the charming effect achieved by the finest of sheer wool fabric in a soft sage green colour that had been fashioned by a master hand.
Snatching up a pair of tan gloves and her reticule, she entered the corridor just as Aubrey was closing the schoolroom door behind him.
Grins that the suspicious might deem conspiratorial adorned both faces as the pair headed for the staircase.
As they rounded the landing, notes of music drifted up to meet them, giving Laura pause for an instant.
“We’ll just mention to Sophie that we’re going out, shall we?
” she said brightly, reaching for the handle of the drawing-room door.
“Sorry to interrupt your practice, Sophie,” she called from the doorway.
“I just thought I’d mention that Aubrey and I are going out for a little walk. ”
The girl at the pianoforte lifted one hand in a brief acknowledgment without losing her place in the Beethoven sonata she was playing.
Laura kept the quiet relief that she recognised unwillingly from showing on her face, but she descended the main staircase with more celerity than was quite becoming to a young lady of fashion.
No one was in the entrance hall to impede their progress, and the pair gained the flagway in short order.
Laura drew in a deep breath of fresh air and turned to her companion, whose cherubic face was merry and knowledgeable. Ignoring the latter, she said lamely, “Well, here we are.”
“Where would you like to go?” Aubrey asked in a practical spirit, when she would have turned automatically toward Berkeley Square.
“I have been dying to see the abbey and Westminster Hall, or wherever the Houses of Parliament meet. Do you know how to get there? Is it very far?”
“Well, I know where to go, but it is a fair distance,” Aubrey replied, eyeing her dubiously.
Laura raised her skirts a few inches, displaying sturdy half-boots as she assured him, “I am shod for the occasion, as you see, and well accustomed to tramping about the farm for hours at a stretch. If we get tired we may always curtail our walk.”
Aubrey seemed to find this reasonable, and the cousins set off briskly southward toward Hyde Park Corner. Laura was suitably impressed by the large new houses along Park Lane and delighted by the pastoral little spot known simply as Green Park.
“Goodness, those are cows!” she cried, looking from the small herd contentedly grazing in the middle of the metropolis to her cousin in astonishment. “This is the last thing I would have expected to see today.”
“If we had come out this morning you might have bought milk right from the cows,” Aubrey assured her. “The chef is forever complaining that the milk that is delivered to the house is watered.”
“If I had known I might have brought Guinevere with me,” Laura said with mock disappointment. Laughter bubbled up in her suddenly as a picture flashed before her eyes, of her uncle’s face upon witnessing such an arrival.
“Who is Guinevere? What are you laughing about?” a mystified Aubrey demanded.
Unwilling to divulge the source of her mirth, Laura launched into an elaborate description of her spoiled pet that brought a laugh to the boy’s lips as they left the park behind.
They skirted St. James’s Park in order to stroll past the Queen’s House, bought from Lord Buckingham more than a half-century before by the king for Queen Charlotte.
Laura admired the red-brick complex, which had obviously been much added to over the years to make it a suitable residence for the large royal family.