Althea (12 page)

“I am generally thought to have some conversation, ma’am.
And if
I
sounded condescending before, I humbly beg your pardon.”

Althea felt herself blush at his look. “I am overwhelmed,”
she said quickly. “But now you are lapsing into civility, and that will never
do from you. If I cannot sharpen my wits by battling with you, I shall
suffocate. And I see we are here. I will not trouble you to see me in, but thank
you for the enjoyable ride. Good afternoon.”

Althea was swung down from the carriage by a lackey, cast
Calendar a brief smile, and turned into the house, leaving him to watch after
her with a very quizzical look indeed.

Mr. Edward Pendarly’s company, his very evident admiration
of Miss Ervine, had the effect of making that company, that admiration, and in
fact, Mr. Pendarly himself, increasingly welcome at the Bevan house. From
merely esteeming him as a friend (and enjoying the sensation that was caused by
her friend’s possession of a profile straight from a Grecian coin), Althea
began to wonder if perhaps her feelings were not growing to greater warmth.
True, Maria was not overpleased by his attendance, but as she was embroiled in
her own heedless intrigues, she had little time to observe the pass to which
Mr. Pendarly’s particularity had brought him and her sister. It was her hope
that sooner or later some more eligible male might be found to tempt Althea,
one who would dislodge Edward Pendarly from his position as favorite. She spent
some little energy toward this end, noting with pleasure that certain prizes in
the Matrimonial Mart were to be seen now and again in the drawing room at
Grosvenor Square. She forever quizzed her sister if she did not think Lord
So-and-So had a charming address, or if Mr. Such-a-One did not present a modish
figure.

“Certainly he ties his neckcloth well,” Althea would murmur
to this sort of question.

Maria only threw up her hands in pretty despair, wondering
what besides his beauty made Edward Pendarly superior in her sister’s eyes to
the luminaries she bludgeoned Althea with.

Sir Tracy Calendar came several times to call upon Althea.
The first time after the outing in the country she was not at home. Since the
conclusion to their talk on the return from Danning Hall, Althea had had mixed
feelings about the gentleman, and her feelings were just so mixed when she saw
his card upon the tray and realized she had missed him. Upon his next visit
Miss Ervine was at home, but Calendar found himself rather coolly received:
Althea, feeling awkward in speaking to him, was somewhat more reserved in her
manner than she had meant to be. This Sir Tracy seemed to sense: he set out to
charm her. Against her better judgment, she
was
charmed. By the time
Calendar left, Althea was altogether in charity with him again, although she
confided to Maria that he was still the most outrageous person in her
acquaintance.

“Althea, that is certainly no accomplishment,” Maria chided.

“I know it.” Althea laughed. “But it seems that Sir Tracy
does not.”

Upon the next occasion of Calendar’s calling Althea was
invited to drive out in the Park with him. As the tiger, Eustace, handed her
into the curricle, she remarked to Calendar that the only reason she had been
persuaded to ride out with him was that she was sure that it increased her
credit in the
ton
. Eustace was so scandalized by this remark that he
almost dropped Althea down into the street again. A reproving look from
Calendar sent him racing to his perch behind with a look of displeased
wonderment upon his face. “There’s morts what’s usual glad enough to ride with
us,” he muttered under his breath. “I seen ’em looking as how they’d cry for
the ’onor we do ’em.” One stern look from Tracy halted this dark muttering,
however, and Eustace subsided, fixing his glare at the back of Calendar’s neck.

Sir Tracy exerted himself to be as outrageous as possible
with Althea for the sheer pleasure of stinging her into retort. His amusement
was compounded by the fact that when he said something outrageous, she would
cap it immediately, and only then recover her sense of propriety and blush.
Althea caught on to this plot in short order, however, and soon adopted a trick
of making her scandalous pronouncements in the tones of a respectful and awed
schoolgirl. Eustace, who disapproved on principle of all women except possibly
his mother and certain of the kitchen maids at his master’s establishments, hid
his displeasure as best he could, reckoning that this temporary aberration
could not last with Calendar.

Within the week of her first appearance Althea had met
Brummell and had appeared at Almack’s, these two occasions marking the true
arrival of a lady in First Society. She had been prepared to dislike Brummell,
and had been rash enough to say so, which, since she subsequently admitted to
him it was impossible to do, pleased the Beau very well. He was disposed, he
said lazily, to bring her into fashion, if she was not very much opposed to the
notion. Since his hints were kind — far kinder than most of the remarks
Brummell was apt to make about his fellow creatures and their dress — Althea
took them with good grace and appreciation.

Maria’s pleasure in Brummell’s approval was all but
overturned by Althea’s reciprocal statement that she approved of
him
.

“You are pleased with him? Better he be pleased with you —
which, thank God, he is. Dear Ally, never let him hear you say such a thing. Of
course you are pleased with him!”

“It is too late now, Sister — I told him when we met,”
Althea said gravely.

“Althea!” Lady Bevan said in tones of outrage. “Have you no
idea at all what you are about? Oh, dear heaven, told him to his very face.”
Maria sank back gingerly into one of the gilded chairs Almack’s provided for
the discomfort of its patrons. “But you have taken, there’s no doubt about it,”
she continued after a refreshing moment with her salts. “I am not at all
ashamed.”

“Thank you, Sister,” Althea began. She was spared Maria’s
further animadversions upon this subject by Edward Pendarly, who advanced upon
them and asked for Miss Ervine’s company during the waltz. With relief Maria
waved her sister away and sat, regaining her spirits, until Mr. Wallingham
could advance and tender his admiration.

Maria was truly, if fitfully, pleased by her sister’s
success. When she remembered that Althea had been to a party or a dinner and
had been much admired, she would fold her hands complacently and nod like the
dowagers who sat at the sides of the room nodding and smiling benignly at their
daughters. But most of her time was taken up in proving, or trying to prove,
that Francis’s absence meant nothing at all to her. She danced, flirted,
gossiped, and generally worked herself into a state of feverish gaiety.
Gentlemen called as often to see her as to see her sister, and she was as
likely to be seen driving or dancing, usually with John Wallingham, the most
persistent of her beaux. By the same token, Althea, who was equally absorbed in
social pastimes, took time from her schedule to fret over Maria and her health,
as she saw her sister grow pale and thin. When she suggested an evening’s
respite, however, she was repulsed in no uncertain terms.

o0o

Althea was speaking with Harriet Leveson-Gower one night, a
little more than a fortnight after her first appearance at Almack’s, in the
Leveson-Gower box at the opera, where she was a guest. Harriet was directing
Althea’s attentions to the people her guest had not yet met.

“Who on earth is that quiz of a woman over there?” Althea
interrupted, pointing to an amply built, hideously dressed matriarch.

“That is Mrs. Laverham. Dreadful, isn’t she? Helena designed
that dress for her — after she had a falling out with Mrs. L. I cannot conceive
why she continues, after this time, to wear that rag, but I suppose that Helena
made it dear enough, and that woman is a tiresome nipfarthing. She’s rather a
dragon — I don’t think she’s very good ton, but she is received everywhere, and
her cook makes a lovely iced cup.”

Althea, watching the figure in lime green and chocolate
satin stalk by, prayed that fate and heaven would deliver her from ever
quarreling with Madame Helena.

“She’s got a daughter, too,” Lady Leveson-Gower continued
with an odd look at Althea. “Miss Laverham isn’t at all in her Mama’s style,
and dresses to please herself. That is the only thing I can imagine she
disobliges her mother in, such a weak-willed little thing she is. And now these
last weeks she has been laid up with the measles, locked up at home, which I
think is exactly like her.” Lady Leveson-Gower’s attention was claimed by her
brother-in-law at that moment, before Althea could inquire what connection
there could be between lack of character and contracting the measles. She had
stood to consider this, smiling obscurely, when she was joined by Mr. Pendarly,
come to inquire how she liked the program.

The two of them enjoyed a few minutes of rational
conversation, as much as was permitted over the pleasant roar of well-bred
manners at an intermission; it was plain to any and all interested spectators
that Lady Bevan’s sister and Mr. Pendarly enjoyed each other’s company greatly.
After five minutes’ exchange about the voice of the diva, Mr. Pendarly noticed
that his companion was glowing from the heat. He immediately pressed her to sit
down and wait until he could return with a cup of punch. Unfortunately this
idea was scotched when, in retreating toward the door of the box, Pendarly put
a heedless foot through the flounce of Althea’s muslin skirt, obliging her to
go in search of a needle and thread. Mr. Pendarly could not apologize profusely
enough; after the third time Althea told him good-humoredly that it was no
great thing, and she would seek some aid in the retiring rooms.

Pursuit of needle and thread was less easy than she had
imagined, for the crush in the hallways was shocking, and it was some minutes
before she could find and retire to the powdering room, set aside for just
those repairs a lady of fashion might find expedient within a night. An
attendant was shortly engaged to mend the flounce, while Althea assumed a
stance that put her forcibly in mind of the hours spent towering over Helena’s
seamstresses. It was as she stood there that she heard her name mentioned
outside the door of the room by some unseen woman. Normally she would have retreated
to avoid hearing more, but positioned as she was, she could hardly move without
causing a commotion.

“. . . think the poor chit has any idea of it at all. It is
scandalous of him, certainly, but I don’t think she knows of it,” the first
voice was saying.

“I don’t know. She appears to be a rather dashing thing to
me. Throwing herself at another’s betrothed is certainly not a well-mannered
piece of behavior.”

“Throwing herself? Unjust, Selina. Would you say she was
throwing herself if the boy were not engaged to Fulvia Laverham’s daughter? It
is my opinion that young Mr. Pendarly is relying upon his handsome face to get
him out of the scrape of courting one while his betrothed is ill. I still
maintain that Miss Ervine is not guilty.”

Althea missed the next few words of the conversation. Her
mind was clamoring for explanation. Edward Pendarly engaged to Miss Laverham?
How he must be laughing at her gullibility even now. And what a jest to tell
his betrothed when she came out of the sickroom. It was beyond belief.

“I am persuaded that Fulvia cannot know of his attentions to
her, for you know she is not one to be backward in protecting her daughter’s
rights,” the second voice cut through Althea’s thoughts.

“She is all taken up with Georgiana’s sickness, and if she
has heard anything of Pendarly’s defection, you may depend upon it she expects
the money will bring him back soon enough. What with the debts his Uncle Paul
and that poor dear Celicia have piled up — and heaven knows his brother will
not give him any help — why the family is completely to pieces. No wonder he
has to marry the chit.”

The voices had become less distinct and Althea realized that
now she was actively listening. She stopped herself angrily, forcing her
attention back to the patch of carpet she had been studying while the maid
mended the flounce, but she wore such a look of fury that the girl, on her
hands and knees at Althea’s feet, gave a yelp of terror and accidentally
stabbed Althea with the needle. Althea forced herself to smile at the girl, and
the flounce was hurriedly mended. It took Althea another few minutes to compose
herself enough to face returning to the Leveson-Gower box.

Fortunately when she returned the act had begun and there
was darkness in which she could sit and brood. Her dread was that at the next
intermission Pendarly would return again and seek her out, and that she would
be forced into a scene there and then, which would rival the scene on the
stage. To her profound relief it was Tracy Calendar who approached her, armed
with two glasses of lemonade. They spoke for some minutes, mostly indulging in
the sort of commonplaces that allowed Althea’s mind to continue its feverish
considering. One thought in particular suddenly struck her with such force that
she choked on her lemonade, causing Sir Tracy to cast her a look of concern,
sympathy, and mildest amusement.

He knew.

In the Park, when he had spoken so peculiarly to Pendarly,
he had been trying to warn her. And that was why Pendarly disliked his company.
Althea was honest enough to admit that had Calendar just come out with the
truth, she might have refused to believe him. Now, rather than be impatient
with him for his strange behavior, she was grateful.

“Are you feeling ill, ma’am?” He took her fan from her hand
and waved it a few times for her, gently, as if he were accustomed to fanning
distressed ladies at the opera.

“It is the heat,” she said weakly. “And the noise. Oh dear.”
The look of a moment ago had vanished; all that remained in his eyes was
concern. He murmured something about the paucity of ventilation and the quality
of the air in the Opera House, and Althea nodded gratefully, too low to rankle
at the suggestion that she could be undone by a little heat. In the pause she
tried to think of some way she could convey her gratitude for his warning
without being too specific — but could think of none, and grew increasingly
uncomfortable with his solicitude.