The Baron and the Bluestocking Page 4

  “You are feeling better then, today, Pixie?”

  “She was even able to take exercise this afternoon,” said Hélène’s last sister, the eighteen-year-old Jacqueline.

  “Splendid! Did you go for a walk, then?”

  “Yes,” said Anne-Marie. “We walked to Mr. Foster’s dairy, and he gave us a bottle of cream for our tea.”

  “That will fatten you up!” said Hélène. “Soon we’ll be able to sell you at market.” Her sister was still pale from her recent influenza, but at least she was recovering. For a while she had been desperately worried. Mrs. Blakeley had sent her own doctor, who had left the girl a tonic and fever powders, but Anne-Marie’s recovery had been slow.

  “It is terribly stuffy in here, and today is a beautiful day for a change,” she said. “Let us have the windows open a bit. Some fresh air will do you all good.”

  A battered kettle whistled from the fireplace, as Hélène shoved the stubborn windows up. Monique retrieved the kettle and poured water over the tea leaves in Mama’s Sevres teapot, their treasure. As they waited for the tea to steep, Hélène told her sisters about her first day at the school.

  “And Beth Hilliard is to give me money to buy you some wool so that you may begin knitting for winter. I will bring it to you here. What colors shall I buy?”

  “Oh!” said Monique. “Splendid. I should like a soft baby blue, please. And we shall write a note of thanks before you leave today.”

  “Jacquie?” asked Hélène. Her sister was tall and unfashionably thin, but had their mother’s glorious black hair, which she wore braided in a crown around her head.

  “Oh, the deepest cherry red, please. One good thing about Chipping Norton is that there is plenty of wool to choose from.”

  Anne-Marie said, “I am so grateful you are enjoying your work, Hélène.”

  How she wished she could afford somewhere better for her sisters to board! But they were getting old enough that they would soon have to provide for themselves. If it were not for Anne-Marie’s youth, Jacqueline would already be searching for a post as governess.

  “How have your studies gone today?” she asked. “Did you complete the reading I gave you, Monique?”

  Her sister made a face. “Euripides! What a dreary play. So impossibly grim.”

  “Her Greek is coming on,” said Jacqueline. “And Anne-Marie’s geography is progressing. She has got Africa down. Now we are moving on to South America.”

  Hélène pulled a book out of her shoulder satchel and handed it to Jacquie. “A treat for you. Mrs. Blakeley just finished it and is now lending it to you. The duchess’s latest novel.”

  “Carroway Park,” Jacqueline said on a satisfied breath. “I shall gobble this up!”

  “And,” Hélène said, pulling a box from the leather satchel, “they decided on wax candles for the orphanage, so I have brought you the tallow ones that are left over. I don’t have to tell you to use them sparingly.”

  Anne-Marie began to cough. Hélène rose to pour the tea which the elder girls had forgotten in their perusal of the Duchess of Ruisdell’s newest literary publication. Pouring the hot beverage into the serviceable mugs, she asked, “Now where is this famous cream?”

  Monique said, “Oh! I’ll get it. I stored it away in the wardrobe so it would stay cool.” As she brought it out, she said, “Tell us, Hélène, have you written to the baron about Samuel’s new wardrobe?”

  Hélène said, “Yes, the letter went off yesterday. If the mail was on time, I suspect it would have arrived in London this morning.”

  Monique persisted, “Tell us about him again. You only described his condescending temperament. Is he very handsome?”

  Hélène rolled her eyes. Her middle sister believed in fairy tales and was convinced that she would one day make a splendid match. As the Baron Shrewsbury was the only nobleman within reach of her circle, Hélène would not be surprised if she was building dreams about him.

  “Very handsome, indeed. But also very aware of his own consequence.”

  “Yes, I know that part,” said Monique. “But what of his physique? Is he well built? Is he a sportsman?”

  “I have no idea. But, yes, he is exceedingly well built.” Hélène felt a flush begin creeping up her neck as she remembered the baron’s broad chest and shoulders.

  “What color are his eyes? His hair?”

  “Monique! Shall I paint a miniature for you to carry about?”

  “Just tell me, so I can imagine him.” Monique was now sitting on the floor at Hélène’s feet, her elbows on her sister’s lap as she gazed up with shining eyes.

  “He has very penetrating green eyes. His face is tanned, and his hair is light. Sun-bleached, I would say.”

  “His chin. That is very important. Tell me about his chin.”

  “He has a very decided chin. With a dimple.”

  Even Jacqueline gave a sigh. “Oh, Ellie, what a wonderful thing it would be if you could attach him!”

  Hélène stood abruptly. “I have no intention of marrying. And if I did, it certainly would not be to a gentleman of the ton. You have no idea what a frivolous life they lead. Added to which, there would be no possibility of equality with one’s spouse in such a marriage.”

  “But Lord Shrewsbury founded the orphanage,” Jacquie protested. “He cannot be completely frivolous.”

  Biting her lip, Hélène went to the dresser where her offering of bread stood, and began slicing it with the all-purpose knife. “If you must know, he does not like me at all. Nor I him. We did not make good first impressions on one another.” Placing the sliced bread on a plate, she handed it around to her sisters. “Now, let us consider this topic closed.”

  { 5 }

  CHRISTIAN APPROACHED his mother’s townhouse feeling mixed sensations of dread and duty. The afternoon post had brought a letter from Frank with a post script from Sophie. His friend had waxed eloquent on the delights of Vienna, the Tyrolean Alps, and Lake Como. Sophie’s brief lines were imprinted on his mind and heart:

  Dearest Lord Shrewsbury,

  I was able to meet with the great master, Beethoven, for an afternoon. We played duets! It was a very great honor. The man is a genius. He is working on a masterful symphony, but his health is so poor and his hearing so bad, I do not know if he will finish it.

  I hope all is progressing well with the orphanage and girls’ school. We have decided to stay in Italy for the winter, and will not return to England until the spring. God bless you, dear friend.

  Sophie, Lady T.

  Christian fingered his cravat as he ascended the stairs to his mother’s door, and raised the knocker. Sims, her mother’s butler, welcomed him. “Lord Shrewsbury, what a pleasure. Your mother is receiving in the blue parlor.” He led him upstairs and announced him.

  His mother stood and walked past all her guests toward him. “Dearest Christian!” Her voice simulated surprise. “How nice of you to call on your mother! Come, you must meet my friends.”

  He met several dowagers and greeted Lady Susannah Braithwaite, a patron of the Orphanage and Lady Clarice’s companion. “And how is your tortoise, Lady Susannah?”

  “Henry Five is always in good health. I have decided to leave him to Elise in my will. Her children adore him.”

  “I am certain the duchess will be thrilled, but it is far too soon to be talking of bequests.” He kissed her aged hand and then turned to a young lady with very large hazel eyes who was watching him.

  “Christian, dear, this is Lady Virginia Mowbray, a new friend of mine. Ginny, please meet my son, Christian Elliott, Lord Shrewsbury.”

  Bowing over her hand, his experienced eyes took in her appearance. She was pretty, but not an outstanding beauty, he decided. A heart-shaped face held those large eyes, a small nose, and a rosebud mouth. Her hair was abundantly golden, and her hunter green and ivory striped gown revealed a pleasingly plump shape.

  “I am happy to make your acquaintance, my lord. Your mother has spoken much of you.”

>   “How frightful for you,” Christian said.

  She laughed a laugh that was neither musical nor loud. Indeed, she seemed neither exceptional nor objectionable. A comfortable woman. Maybe that was what he needed.

  What a depressing thought. His mother had moved away, obviously leaving her seat on the sofa for him. Since it was expected of him, he sat next to the woman.

  “I understand you are opening a school for orphan girls,” she said. “Will you object if I say I find that quite noble?”

  “There are many patrons of the school. It is not my effort, alone. And I believe the teachers we have hired to be very fine.”

  They settled into a comfortable conversation about the objectives of the school. Christian found her to be intelligent but not a bluestocking by any means.

  She asked, “Are you musical, my lord?”

  “I do not play an instrument, but I enjoy music very much.” He wondered fleetingly whether his mother had mentioned Sophie to her.

  “I wonder if you would enjoy a musicale my mother is holding this evening? She has invited a soprano from the opera company visiting from Spain.”

  Soprano soloists were his least favorite musical performers. However, he said, “I would be delighted to come. Thank you for the invitation. Is my mother to attend?”

  He learned that she was and promised to accompany his parent. This having been settled, he rose and prepared to take his leave. “Until tonight, then, Lady Virginia.”

  She smiled. “Until tonight.”

  *~*~*

  The Mowbray Townhouse was tall and narrow, with a front garden showing off dozens of chrysanthemum plantings. His mother on his arm, Shrewsbury went through the open door and followed the other guests to a mirrored music room. Lady Virginia, in a gown of gold satin embroidered with multicolored wildflowers, floated forward to greet them. He realized that she was slightly taller than he had realized; her plumpness actually was quite pleasing.

  “Good evening, my lady, my lord.”

  “Thank you for inviting us, Ginny. I dearly love the opera,” his mother said.

  He nodded pleasantly and bowed over Lady Virginia’s hand.

  “I saved you some seats in the front row. I thought that the baron would appreciate the extra room.”

  “That was thoughtful. Thank you,” he said. Why did that gesture make him uncomfortable? It was thoughtful. He had uncommonly long legs.

  Their young hostess showed them their seats. She went off to greet others, but before the program began, Lady Virginia seated herself by his mother.

  The concert was more tedious than he had even imagined. The Spanish soprano was inclined to trills, which annoyed Christian. He could feel them running up and down his spine, and more than once, he shifted uncomfortably.

  When the interval arrived, he rose to his feet with alacrity. “Mother, Lady Virginia, I am going for refreshments. What shall I bring you?”

  “There is champagne,” their hostess said. “But I will get my own. I shall be mingling with the guests.”

  He gave her a smile and patted his mother’s shoulder. “Will you be all right for a moment, or would you rather accompany me?”

  “I think I shall wander about with Ginny. I will see you when the interval is over.”

  Christian watched them walk away. When they had disappeared in the crowd, he walked back the way he had entered and escaped through the front door. Standing on the front stoop, he took a deep lungful of air. That had been nearly intolerable. Why ever had he come this evening?

  Taking a cigar from his inner pocket, he lit it with a flint and stood smoking, trying to make his mind a blank. But Sophie entered there, as she often did. She was displeased by his behavior. Why was he so hard to impress where women were concerned? The woman his mother called Ginny was very pleasant. If he allowed himself to get to know her, perhaps he would find he liked her. It was not her fault that he detested foreign sopranos.

  Christian’s mind strayed to the delightful form and figure of the strident schoolteacher. She was not his type, but he found himself thinking of her more than was understandable. There had been a refreshing flash in those smoky eyes. A passion that he did not often see among the ladies of the ton. He had not realized until meeting Miss Whitcombe-Hodge how very dull things were in town. Dull and laced with insipid entertainments, such as this evening’s performance. He didn’t suppose this Lady Virginia would disagree with him on any topic of import.

  Grinding out the cigar on the doorstep with his shoe, he returned inside. Lady Virginia seated herself somewhere out of his sight for the second half. He only saw her briefly at the conclusion of the concert, when they said their goodnights.

  “I hope you enjoyed yourself this evening,” she said, her head tilted to one side.

  “Very much,” he lied. “Very much, indeed. Thank you for inviting us.”

  *~*~*

  Days later, Shrewsbury was awakened earlier than usual by his valet.

  “Your lordship, there is a person awaiting you in the green parlor.”

  “A person, Lathrop?” he asked irritably. “You awakened me for a person? What sort of person?”

  “A young man, your lordship.”

  “And why did you not send him on his way? No gentleman would call at this hour!”

  “As I said, your lordship, a person. However, he felt certain you would agree to see him if I told you he was sent by Miss Whitcombe-Hodge. He is known as Mr. Samuel Blakeley, your lordship. He gave me his calling card with her name inscribed on the back of it.”

  “Oh, bother. It is the wool merchant’s son. I suppose I must see him. His dress really must be quite egregious for you to call him a ‘person.’ He is standing for Parliament, Lathrop. I am to see him properly outfitted.”

  Christian did not hasten his toilette inasmuch as he wished to appear perfect in every detail if he was to be a pattern card for Mr. Blakeley. He drank the coffee Lathrop had brought, washed and allowed himself to be shaved. Selecting a white shirt and cravat, a maroon silk waistcoat, navy breeches and his matching topcoat—cut by Weston—he was dressed in style. Once his blond hair was arranged and his silver stickpin found, he descended to the green parlor.

  As he walked across the room, he greeted Mr. Blakeley with manufactured heartiness. It would not do for that opinionated goddess to hear that he had denied her favorite in any particular.

  He was most surprised to find a very plain man, round of face and with a small mouth and small black eyes. Neither was he particularly robust, with a narrow chest and spindly legs beneath his knee breeches. Shrewsbury had been prepared for an at least moderately comely individual, given the saucy schoolmistress’s beauty. If her interest was truly piqued by this young man, he must truly have hidden virtues.

  “I understand you are in need of a good tailor, Mr. Blakeley.”

  “So I am informed,” the man said with a rueful countenance. “Miss Whitcombe has informed you that I am to stand for Parliament at the by-election?”

  “Yes. Are you willing to take a brisk walk this morning, or would you rather go by hackney to Bond Street?”

  “I believe a walk would do me good after two days in the saddle,” he said.

  They left the house and began their walk. “Just what kind of an impression would you like to convey?” Shrewsbury asked.

  “I will be endeavoring to enlist votes from the property owners in the Chipping Norton area. Most are wealthy. Many are of your class. However, I most definitely do not want to come across as a fribble.”

  “And what does Miss Whitcombe suggest?” he asked.

  Blakeley’s figure stiffened. “She believes your style is worthy of emulation. She is convinced that I will gain far more support if I am, as she puts it ‘dressed properly.’”

  “How flattering, to be sure. However, Miss Whitcombe does not have the vote. Why should her advice move you to take the rather large step of coming to London, consulting a man of whom you have no previous acquaintance, and laying out w
hat will be considerable monies for a new wardrobe?”

  The man, who was keeping up a good pace beside him, said, “Miss Whitcombe is well versed in the shibboleths of her class. I am not. I was raised to view clothing in a utilitarian manner—to cover my nakedness, as it were.”

  Shrewsbury ruminated on these words. “But what is it about Miss Whitcombe that would make you trust her opinion as to the ‘shibboleths’ of the upper class? She is but a poor vicar’s daughter.”

  Blakeley emitted a mirthless laugh. “You impressed her, my lord. She thinks if I am turned out like you that no one will dare to refuse me the vote.”

  “Pardon me, but that seems a little double-minded for a woman with Whig or even Radical sympathies. I am surprised you paid her heed.”

  Blakeley did not respond for several moments. “You think her to be mistaken, then?”

  “I do.”

  “You think my raiment sufficient for my purpose?” He looked down at his shapeless black clothes.

  “I think we can improve upon it, but I would not go so far as to rig you out like a town beau.”

  “That’s a relief! I was dubious about that, I must say.”

  “That said, a good tailor is always a wise idea. We shall make Weston our first stop. He is the right one to cut your jackets. No one better.”

  Fortunately, at this hour of the morning, the master tailor was free. Under Shrewsbury’s direction, Blakeley ordered three topcoats—one of gray worsted with black trim and another one of black superfine. For evening wear, the young man was persuaded to order a coat of black velvet.

  Proceeding on to his tailor, Shrewsbury supervised the purchase of numerous waistcoats, all in conservative shades and patterns, a dozen white shirts, collars, and cravats, black and gray pantaloons, and a single pair of black velvet breeches for evening wear.

  With this completed, Christian hailed a hackney and took the man to Brook’s for luncheon. Fortunately, the baron’s reputation in that quarter was good, so he was able to get the unpromising-looking Mr. Blakely past the doorman.

  Over their chops, Shrewsbury thought it prudent to give the man a warning. “I promise you that I am a Whig in good standing in the Lords. As such, I would counsel you to take Miss Whitcombe’s more radical ideas with a grain of salt.”