Anne Barbour (15 page)

Hester could think of no response to make to the implication of his words. Noting her expression, he smiled wearily, “You are not a part of our world, Hester, and for that you should be grateful. Women of my mother’s sort were—and are—as common in the
ton
as bees in a rose garden. Although,” he said consideringly, and Hester was chilled by the flatness of his tone, “few of them had the drawing power of Mama. She invited love—demanded it—and no one to whom she appealed for it could deny her. Not just men, of course. Everyone—man, woman, and child, responded to that blinding smile, that winsome charm that said, ‘I am special. I am warmth. I will be sustenance for your soul’!”

He gazed before him, and Hester sensed that he was watching a small boy, seeking that warmth so many years ago, giving a love that was never truly returned.

“It was not to he wondered at, I suppose, that she turned to other men for worship. Papa paid homage at her altar for as long as could be expected, but he, too, was a product of the world in which we live. He was constitutionally unable to remain faithful to one woman for long, and he was far less discreet in his liaisons than Mama. The pair of them were a byword in the beau monde.”

“Oh!” Hester said again, choking on the word in her dismay. At the sound, Thorne looked at her quickly. He laughed, and Hester thought she had never heard such a mournful sound.

“My dear, do not take on so. To be sure, I suffered some torment of soul when I discovered the existence of first one, then another, of her lovers, and a veritable legion after that. In fact, I was forced to trounce young Weatherby Minor rather severely during my first week at Eton after wearying of his puerile jibes on the subject. After that, I was troubled no further. And, really, it was all so long ago.”

He stood abruptly and drew in a sharp breath. “You must forgive me. I don’t know what possessed me to maunder on so about the travails of my childhood. It is not my habit to do so, I assure you.”

Hester was surprised to feel her fingers curl like rakes into the flesh of her palms. Dear God, what kind of monster could take the open, unconditional love of a little boy and turn it back on him so that he would become the damaged man she saw before her. For there was no doubt Thorne still felt the hurt that had been inflicted on him so many years ago. Hester became aware that he was speaking again.

‘The Debenham ball?” she asked blankly, confused by his sudden turn of subject. “Oh. Yes. Gussie mentioned it this afternoon—or no, it was Lady Barbara—Freemantle.”

Thorne’s eyes lit, and Hester knew a spurt of irritation at the dismayed spasm this stirred in her own interior.

“Barbara! I did not know you and she had met.”

Hester relayed the story of her afternoon encounter with Lady Barbara.

“Splendid!” exclaimed Thorne. “I’ve been meaning to introduce you myself, for I knew you would hit it off. I’m glad Gussie invited her to dinner. We can all proceed to the ball together.”

Hester smiled a faint agreement, determined to produce a headache on the evening in question. She had acknowledged to herself that she would be little more than a nonentity in the Bythorne household during her stay there, but somehow the idea of appearing in the shadow of the magnificent Lady Barbara Freemantle was more than she could bear. No, she would remain safely in her room on the night of the Debenham Ball. She needed to spend her time more productively, anyway. With all her shopping and visiting with Gussie, she had fallen sadly behind on the book. Yes, she would busy herself with her work, thus remaining almost totally unaware of Lady Barbara’s presence in Thorne’s house and in his life.

Alas, her virtuous intentions came to naught. Gussie’s plans for a small dinner party to be held at Bythorne house quickly evolved into a rather grandiose affair, and Hester was called in to participate from the start. After compiling a list of those to be invited, which, to Hester’s astonishment included the Duke of York, (“Oh, yes,” Gussie had responded airily to Hester’s choked inquiry, “the duke and Bracken have been friends since they were boys. He’s extraordinarily condescending, you know, to his cronies.”) Gussie had turned to the all-consuming question of What to Wear.

“If it were just the ball, we could get by with your blue silk and my Russian satin, but with the dinner party—well, there is no help for it, we must apply to Madame Celeste for new gowns for each of us.”

“Oh, I don’t think—” began Hester.

“Nonsense. None of the things you have purchased recently is even remotely acceptable for a truly elegant evening affair.”

“Gussie, when I began the nonstop shopping spree on which I seem to have been engaged ever since I arrived in London, I had no intention of becoming part of the social scene. I see no necessity—

“Hester,” responded Gussie with awful majesty, “if you are going to recite that tiresome litany about being a simple woman of the people, I shall be forced to—hit you with something. Did we or did we not agree at the outset that you are family? And that being the case, you cannot simply sit in a chimney corner while your wicked stepsisters—or cousins, or whatever—regale themselves at parties and balls. What would people think? And don’t you dare tell me—again—that you don’t care what people think. You are going to appear at the dinner party, and the ball and--” She cocked her head in an odd attitude of appraisal.  “--and you are going to dress bang up to the nines.”

Thus, some evenings later, Hester stood before the mirror in her bedchamber, gazing at herself in the mirror with undisguised astonishment.

Parker had labored mightily over her appearance, creating a coiffure that would have done justice to an illustration in
La Belle Assemblée
. Despite her vociferous protests, she had been denied her cap, and Monsieur LaCosse had been called in and given carte blanche to work his will on her mahogany tresses. He had attacked with combs, brushes, and worst of all, scissors, and the result was a mass of glossy curls that tumbled from a chignon atop Hester’s head to cluster about her neck and cheeks in silky tendrils. The effect, thought Hester dazedly, was pure magic. Her eyes had become much bigger and her neck appeared positively swanlike.

As for her ensemble, which consisted of a gown of orange blossom crepe underneath a tunic of gossamer sprinkled with spangles, it clung lovingly to curves she hadn’t known she possessed. It also, Hester considered with guilty delight, displayed entirely too much of her bosom. Her efforts to drape her shawl of spider gauze over the expanse of bared flesh only served to accentuate nature’s bounty. It was a great deal too bad, Hester thought in irritation, that nature could not display a little more discretion in her dubious gifts.

Her fingers touched the pearls that lay about her neck. The necklace was her one good piece of jewelry, inherited from her mother. Feeling oddly nervous, she stood smoothing her skirts one last time.

“Oh, miss,” said Parker behind her, “you do look a fair treat.” She handed Hester her reticule and followed her to the door, brushing imaginary lint from the gown and twitching a recalcitrant curl into place before opening the door to allow her mistress to leave the haven of her chamber for the perils of the social swim.

Downstairs, Hester found she was the last of the family to enter the drawing room. Gussie, garbed in an ensemble of Venetian silk, topped with a massive, feathered turban, sat with her head close to Chloe, who wore a charming confection of peach sarcenet and creamy tulle embroidered with golden acorns that glinted in the firelight. Thorne had taken up his usual position before the hearth, looking absurdly magnificent in satin breeches, a dark coat and lacy cravat from which winked a single diamond.

Hester had the odd impression that his eyes darkened to an even deeper jet as she entered the room, and his gaze swept over her appreciatively. Chloe jumped up from her chair.

“Oh, Hester! You look wonderful. You will take the shine out of all of us, won’t she. Aunt Gussie?”

Gussie nodded consideringly. “Indeed, my dear, you show to great advantage.”

Hester decided to ignore the silent, “Who would have believed it?” that she could hear in Gussie’s tone. Indeed, she could hardly believe it herself.

Before she could seat herself, the first dinner guests arrived. She had met Lord and Lady Sebford at the Wery party and was able to converse with them with equanimity. A steady stream of personages were announced then, most of whom were strangers to Hester. It was with some relief that she noted the entrance of Lady Barbara. Before she could move in her direction, however, the young woman was appropriated by Thorne, who greeted her warmly with a kiss on the cheek.

Slipping an arm through his, Barbara moved among the growing throng and eventually bumped up against Hester, who was by then conversing with a lady to whom she had been introduced earlier, but whose name had by now fled from memory.

Barbara, however, had no such difficulty. “Mrs. Tufts!” she exclaimed prettily. “I was hoping you would be here tonight. I understand you just returned from the Continent. I am so anxious to hear of your travels. Did you see Byron?”

“Goodness, no,” replied Mrs. Tufts. She was short, plump, and rather red of face and her spurt of laughter put Hester strongly in mind of a guinea fowl in distress. “We did not travel to Greece,” added the lady. “Though in any event, we certainly would not have sought him out.” She sniffed, and the feathers in her headdress quivered indignantly.

At that point, Gussie appeared at Barbara’s elbow with a lean, fair-haired gentleman in tow.

“Hester,” said her ladyship purposefully, “I wish you to meet one of my dearest friends. Or, rather, his aunt and I— that is—” She drew in a deep breath. “Hester, may I present Mr. Robert Carver? Robert, Miss Hester Blayne.”

At the sound of his name, Barbara turned suddenly, catching Mr. Carver, who was at the moment midbow, on the chin with her reticule.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flooding with crimson. “I do beg your pardon. I...”

To Hester’s surprise, she trailed off and fluttered her hands in an unwonted loss of composure.

“Good evening, Lady Barbara,” said Mr. Carver, a touch of frost in his voice. “It has been a long time.” He bent over Hester’s extended hand. “Miss Blayne, my pleasure. I have read all your works—even the novels, and I wish to express my admiration not only for your writing talent, but your sentiments.”

Hester glanced wonderingly between Lady Barbara and Mr. Carver, but the two seemed to be determinedly ignoring each other. “Why, thank you, sir,” she replied to the gentleman at last. “It is rare to meet a man who espouses the view that women are not fairly treated in England.”

Mr. Carver smiled, and Hester was struck by how very nice a smile it was. “I suppose that is true. I have my mother to thank for my enlightenment. She was a staunch believer in the equality of the sexes, and watching her in operation, I could only conclude that had she been born a man, she would have made an excellent field general.”

Hester laughed in return. “The same can be said of many women, to be sure.”

After a moment or two more in general conversation, Robert Carver moved on to circulate about the room. Hester hesitated a moment before turning to Barbara, who had stood silently during their exchange.

“Are you and Mr. Carver acquainted?” she asked at last.

Barbara started. “Oh. Yes. That is, his brother, the Earl of Wickham, and my brother are great friends. I have known him off and on since I was in leading strings. We— ah—saw quite a bit of each other several Christmases ago when he spent an extended period of time at Whitebrothers Abbey—my home.” She uttered a short, brittle laugh. “I had thought he was my friend, as well, but events proved otherwise.” Abruptly, she raised a gloved hand in a spasmodic gesture. “Oh, look, there is Sylvia Moreland. You must come and meet her.”

Grasping Hester’s hand, she pulled her through the growing throng.

Hester greeted Mrs. Moreland, and a great many other persons before dinner was announced, including the Duke of York—who proved to be just as jovial and expansive as Gussie had predicted. Knowing she would be unable to remember half the names she had just heard, she was grateful to note when she entered the dining room that she was seated next to Mr. Carver. Thorne was seated farther down the table, next to Barbara.

Observing Thorne’s dark head bent over the spun gold of Barbara’s elaborate coiffure, Hester was forced to admit they made a stunning couple. Why, she wondered, had they not married long ago? From what Gussie had told her, Hester could only assume that it was Thorne who resisted the union. Barbara, said Gussie, had been ready to accept his proposal, should it ever come, for donkey’s years.

Watching him as he laughed warmly into Barbara’s eyes, it was hard to believe that he was averse to taking her as a wife. She was the perfect choice, after all, blending breeding with beauty and a knowledge as to what was expected of her as the wife of a man who had no intention of giving up his outside interests for a triviality such as the marriage ceremony.

And why, she wondered further, was Barbara willing to wait submissively for Thorne to propose? It was perfectly obvious she could have any man in the kingdom. Was she so wildly in love with Thorne that she was willing to wait until he finally decided to commit himself? Or had she simply made up her mind it was Thorne she wanted to marry, and was unwilling to admit defeat?

She shuddered inwardly, thanking whatever gods were charged with the fates of unmarried women that she had escaped the necessity of enslaving herself to the whim of a man.

She turned to Robert Carver, on her right, who was speaking again of her feminist activities.

“Of late,” he said, “I have been holding meetings in my home for a small group of kindred spirits. I hesitate to refer to us as intellectuals, for that seems a little pretentious, but we enjoy good books and good conversation. I wonder if you would care to join us some evening. That is, if Lord Bythorne would not mind.”

“It sounds quite delightful. Thank you, I should love to attend one of your meetings. And, may I say that, though I’m sure Thorne would not object, I am not governed by his feelings in such matters.”