CHAPTER SEVEN #2
“My dear Sophie,” Mrs. Marsh protested laughingly, “I will allow that fashions in speech may have altered in the twenty years since I have been in London, but I am perfectly certain that such a vulgar phrase would never escape a well-bred young lady’s lips in company!”
“I stand corrected, dearest aunt,” Sophia said, her pursed mouth belied by dancing dark eyes. “Shall I call him instead a Town Tulip, a Bond Street Beau … or a Corinthian, perhaps?”
“You do not know enough about Lord Hastings to pin a label on him,” Mrs. Marsh said serenely.
“Especially ‘Corinthian’,” Laura objected, proving that she was not entirely unfamiliar with popular terms of reference. “I suspect a true Corinthian would not have overturned his curricle even in a storm.”
“Shame on both of you,” Mrs. Marsh declared. “Accidents will happen, especially in bad weather, and Lord Hastings looked every inch the proper gentleman — just like your father, Sophie.”
“His shirt points were higher than Papa’s,” Aubrey put in from his position at the tea table, where he was polishing off the last of the refreshments. “And Papa doesn’t wear striped waistcoats either.”
“They were very discreet stripes,” his aunt pointed out, “scarcely different from the background colour. And his air and address were such as must make him acceptable in the most discriminating company.”
“I see what it is, Aunt Annabelle,” said Sophia with an air of discovery. “You are determined to find Lord Hastings a pattern card of perfection because of his handsome face.”
Mrs. Marsh remained unruffled in the face of Sophia’s teasing. “Would you call him handsome, my dear? I would rather say he is a well-set-up young man with an attractive countenance and pleasing manners.”
“Only ‘attractive’? Why, he is a veritable Adonis, would you not agree, Laura? And his eyes are such an intensely bright blue. I vow I have never seen their like.”
“I’d say they are no bluer than Aubrey’s,” Laura replied, grinning at the boy, who was not at all flattered by the comparison. “That reminds me, Mama. Young Henry, the boy who was hurt, was so loath to let us go today that I promised we’d call to see how he did.”
“In Jermyn Street, did you say?’ I am afraid ladies do not frequent St. James’s, my love, and we know nothing of the boy’s background.”
“I have forgotten his surname but his father is Lord Exton, who is quite busy with government affairs, I gather. His mother is dead. He seems a lonely child, without a tutor at present, and the two boys looked like becoming friends right from the start.”
“I will mention the incident to Oswald,” Mrs. Marsh replied, smiling at her hopeful nephew. “If he has no objection, perhaps you might leave a card at Henry’s residence. That will leave it up to his father whether to continue the acquaintance.”
“Thank you, Aunt Annabelle,” Aubrey said. “I’d like to have a friend in town, and Henry is in a worse case than me. He has no one but servants to talk to all day now that his tutor is away.”
“The poor child,” Mrs. Marsh said with ready sympathy. “You may be sure I’ll do my best to put the matter before your father in the most advantageous light.”
Having eaten all the food and enlisted a strong ally in his cause, Aubrey took himself off to the nursery quarters, leaving the ladies to make plans for the next day.
Outside the Albright house Lord Hastings settled his stylish beaver at the proper angle on his head and descended to the pavement. There was a spring in his step and a general air of satisfaction about his person as he strolled away.
He had not been mistaken. The tantalising image of a lovely face that had kept him company for the past fortnight had not been the distorted product of concussion or fever.
Actually, his memory had failed to do Laura Marsh justice.
In the same way a portrait even by a skilled artist cannot capture the life spirit of the sitter, his memory picture had not reproduced the mobility of her expression or the changeable nature of her eyes, appearing blue one moment and green the next.
None of this had been apparent on the night of his accident.
Then she had displayed an almost maternal efficiency and authority.
Her gentle touch and assured presence had penetrated the fog of pain and soothed his spirit.
Today she had entered the room quietly in her exuberant young cousin’s wake.
He’d been drinking in the charming picture she presented in a soft green costume when her cool civility had dissolved into spontaneous mischief on recognising him.
To his disappointment, embarrassment at her temerity had then rendered her nearly speechless thereafter, though he suspected her nature was more reticent than either of her cousin’s in any case.
The exceedingly pretty Miss Albright, with her wide-eyed interest in his every utterance, was a more familiar style of young lady one met with during the season.
If he were any judge of feminine attractions — and he flattered himself that he was — the cousins, apparent foils for each other in looks and style, each equally appealing in her own way, were about to create a minor sensation in the ballrooms of London this spring.
And his call just now had placed him in the enviable role of family friend before these most attractive young ladies made their initial bows to society.
“And what is giving you that ‘cat that swallowed the canary’ look, eh, Hastings?”
The booming voice that shattered his smug reverie belonged to one of his father’s old friends, who had stopped dead in front of him on the pavement.
“Just reflecting that spring may be here at last, Colonel,” he replied, making a quick recovery and offering his hand to the tall, heavy-set figure regarding him with an avuncular gaze from under bushy grey brows.
“Wouldn’t count on it in this blasted climate,” the older man declared, “but what say you join me in a snug dinner at the club? You can tell me how your mother goes on.”
“Thank you, sir, I’d like that,” Jack said, concealing mild regret at missing out on some vague plans to meet friends for dinner.
He’d catch them up later at Cribbs’. The colonel had felt his father’s death keenly, and was also a long-time admirer of his mother.
“Have you been in town long, sir?” he asked, suiting his steps to the other’s military stride.
“I was never so glad to sit down in all my life,” Mrs. Marsh confessed as she settled into the carriage with a smothered groan after several hours of shopping. “I had forgotten what a punishment the streets and pavements of London can be for the feet.
Either I am ageing at a distressingly rapid pace or these shoes were a dreadful mistake.”
Both girls hastened to assure her that unless she chose to announce otherwise the world would certainly believe on the evidence of its eyes that she was their elder sister.
Mrs. Marsh’s laugh was as young and carefree as a girl’s as she pursed her lips at the earnest young ladies. “Now you are pouring the butter boat over my head,” she scolded. “In less than two months I shall be nine-and-thirty, quite old enough to be a grandmother in the ordinary course of events.”
Laura turned a wounded look on her cousin. “Can this be a subtle hint that we are very nearly on the shelf, Sophie?”
“Oh dear, there is clearly nothing for it but to consign propriety and decorum to the winds and learn to cast out blatant lures to any gentlemen unwary enough to speak to us.” Sophia’s expression was all innocent concern.
“I know! We’ll dampen our petticoats to make them cling,” Laura suggested. “I warrant that will give us an edge on the competition.”
“It will give you an edge on contracting an inflammation of the lungs!”
Ignoring her aunt’s dry interjection, Sophia countered, “Or, if that ploy has gone out of fashion, we might disguise ourselves as page boys à la Caro Lamb and confront the men we fancy in their own dwellings. That should make an impression!”
“Your papa would make a fine impression on your backside if you were so lost to all sense of decency. I can see that I had better add classes in deportment to the dancing lessons we’ve arranged for next week,” Mrs. Marsh added as though making a mental note to herself.
Sophia giggled, but Laura, knowing herself to be woefully ignorant about social interaction among people of the ton, or even in country circles, was unsure whether her parent was simply responding in kind to their teasing.
Consequently, she was relieved to discover a twinkle lurking in the sea-green eyes so like her own.
Mama was so much fun lately, like a fairy princess released from a spell.
It was becoming more and more obvious that her mother was an entirely different creature this spring from the loving and sweet-natured but vaguely melancholy person her daughter had always assumed her to be.
It was as if, with the ending of her difficult marriage and this return to the scene of her happy come-out, a joyous spirit, previously unsuspected, had been freed from captivity.
Yesterday when they had called on her godmother, she and Sophia had been astonished to find the two old friends dissolving in fits of laughter brought on by reminiscences of their “salad days”, as Lady Bentley termed their shared bow to society.
The girls had produced sympathetic smiles while secretly wondering what experiences could have been amusing enough to send middle-aged ladies into gales of merriment twenty years later.
Laura experienced a sharp twinge of guilt when she remembered how close she had been to refusing to come to London this spring.
She might never have discovered this facet of her mother’s personality had they remained in the country, mired in the daily routine of life on the farm.
It was not overstating the case to conclude that being in the city had rejuvenated her parent.
And despite Laura’s own insecurity and misgivings, she must own to feeling very alive and interested in the urban scene herself at present.
Certainly she had enjoyed her adventure with Aubrey and Henry the other day, a recollection that brought another twinge of guilt with it. She straightened abruptly on the seat.
“Mama, I nearly forgot! Were you able to speak with my uncle about young Henry yet? He dined away from home the past two evenings, and was gone from the house when I came down this morning.”
“Yes, love, I saw Oswald before he went out today, and explained about the boy. He is not personally acquainted with Lord Exton, who evidently came into the title fairly recently, but he has heard from two acquaintances that his lordship is a man of solid worth. Your uncle has no objection to your leaving a card. Let Aubrey do it. If you remain in the carriage it will occasion no talk. The decision to continue the acquaintance belongs with Lord Exton at this stage.”
“Thank you, Mama. If Aubrey is free when we get home, we might go immediately and then send the carriage back to the mews, rather than call the coachman out again; that is, if there is nothing you wish me to do for you this afternoon?”
“No, my dear. My plans for the afternoon begin with removing these wretched shoes at the earliest possible moment and end with settling into my room with one of the new books we just selected at Hatchard’s. Did you enjoy the lending library?”
“Oh yes, it was wonderful. I didn’t know where to turn my eyes, there were so many new books beckoning to me. I noticed that people met and chatted with friends there also.”
“I noticed that someone tried to meet you at Hatchard’s,” her cousin chimed in.
“What do you mean, Sophie? I don’t know anyone in London except the Chandlers and my godmother.”
“Well, there was a dark attractive stranger watching you for several minutes while you browsed around the shelves. He was just about to speak to you when Aunt Annabelle came up to say she was ready to leave. He looked so crestfallen when you turned to follow my aunt that I nearly lost my countenance,” Sophia added with a look of pure mischief.
“Even perfectly respectable men will try to scrape up an acquaintance with a pretty girl when she is perceived to be unattended,” Mrs. Marsh said matter-of-factly. “I remarked more than one gentleman ogling you also, Sophie.”
“So did I, dear aunt,” Sophia replied with demure satisfaction, “but my cousin was so bemused by mere books that she was oblivious to more vital concerns.”
“Minx!” The smile that accompanied the accusation turned to a grimace of pain as Mrs. Marsh’s sore feet continued to protest their confinement. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the headrest.
Out of respect for Mrs. Marsh’s aching extremities, the girls sank their voices to mere whispers for the remainder of the drive to Mount Street.