An Impossible Confession (10 page)

T
he dinner party for the Prince Regent was set to commence an hour after dusk, and as darkness fell the guests’ carriages began to arrive, each one escorted from the lodge gates by running footmen carrying lighted flambeaux.

In the grounds the trees had been hung with pretty variegated lanterns, and the garden paths were brightly lit with lamps. Every room in the house was illuminated, with the curtains and shutters left open so the brilliance of the occasion could be seen for miles over the Berkshire countryside. On the ground floor the French windows were open too, allowing the distinguished guests to stroll in and out as they chose. An orchestra was playing in the southern conservatory, which led off the beautifully decorated dining room, and the sweet strains of a Mozart serenade carried out into the night, where the scent of wallflowers and honeysuckle was strong and clear.

Margaret had been frantically busy all day, refusing to listen to Gregory and Helen, who implored her to calm down and take things more slowly. She waved their protests aside, pointing out that she had to supervise the preparations, make certain the kitchens had everything properly in hand,
and
deal with the
various
crises that seemed determined to arise. These crises were particularly vexing, ranging from the nonarrival of the specially ordered Severn salmon to the mislaying of a silver salver the Prince Regent had given to Gregory, which had to be prominently displayed. The flowers, of which there were thousands for such an occasion, required endless arranging and rearranging before she declared herself satisfied with them, although as far as Helen was concerned they’d looked as excellent in the beginning as they had after all the moving around. The despaired-of salmon arrived late
in the afternoon, a trundling fishmonger’s wagon coming slowly up the drive at what seemed like a snail’s pace, and then the silver salver was discovered in a cupboard in the buttery, where it had no business being, and was put in its proper place in the entrance hall so that the Prince Regent would see it as he arrived.

All this had taken up a great deal of Margaret’s time, and it was rather late when at last she’d fled to her rooms to begin her lengthy dressing. As the guests arrived below, to be greeted by Gregory, assisted by Ralph, Helen paced nervously up and down outside her sister’s door, afraid to go down to her first important social
occasion
on her own. It would have been bad enough had the dinner party been a small occasion, with only a few distinguished guests, but for it to be graced by the presence of the future king and the cream of London society made her feel quite ill with apprehension. What if, in spite of Margaret’s instructions, she still did something embarrassingly gauche? What if she said the wrong thing?

She caught a glimpse of herself in a tall gilt-framed mirror. Was the Tudor gown right after all, or should she have chosen something else? The silver taffeta looked exquisite in the candlelight, and so did the jeweled lace ruff springing so stiffly from the low, square neckline. The little puffed sleeves were slashed to reveal a pale pink lining embroidered with loveknots, and the same pink peeped through the parting at the front of the skirt. Her hair was a froth of Tudor curls, and there was a diamond ornament fixed at the front, glittering against her forehead at the slightest movement. There were more diamonds in her necklace and earrings, and she carried a painted ivory fan, with a silver lace shawl over her arms. A blush of rouge prevented her from looking pale and wan, but had Mary applied a little too much? Did she look bold rather than discreetly healthy?

At last Margaret emerged in a flurry of buttercup silk that shimmered with countless tiny sequins. Plumes streamed from her hair, and a white feather boa dragged on the floor behind her. She wore diamonds as well, for it was well known that the Prince Regent liked to see women in diamonds, and the flush on her cheeks came as much from flusterment as the assistance of rouge.

‘Helen, do I look all right? Should I wear the plowman’s gauze instead?’

‘You look lovely, Margaret, so please slow down a little, you’ll
make yourself ill.’

Margaret smiled a little ruefully then. ‘You’re right, of course, just as I’m right to tell you not to worry so about tonight, you’ll carry it off in style.’

‘I wish I could feel as confident.’

‘Besides, you’ll have Ralph at your side, and he’ll see
everything’s
all right.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Don’t look so doubtful, he’s going to look after you, believe me. Shall I tell you how I coped with my dreadful nerves when I first came to London? I kept thinking about something nice that was going to happen
after
whatever ordeal I had to face
immediately
: Tomorrow, you and I are going to Windsor to choose your costume for the Farrish House ball, so you must think of that when your nerves threaten to overwhelm you tonight.’ Margaret smiled again, slipping her arm through Helen’s. ‘But just remember you have Ralph to take care of you, and you won’t really worry at all.’

The thought of being taken care of by Ralph St John was enough to fill Helen with trepidation, but she endeavored not to show it as she and Margaret walked toward the balustrade above the entrance hall. The murmur of refined voices grew louder, as did the lilt of Mozart, and Helen paused to look down past the dazzle of chandeliers at the exclusive gathering below. Margaret wanted to hurry on down, but lingered a while too, knowing how nervous her sister was.

‘Do be quick, Helen, Gregory will be very cross with me if I take much longer.’

‘I know, I just need a final moment to summon up my courage.’ Helen drew a long breath to steady herself, still looking down at the guests. Margaret had described them all so well that she had no difficulty identifying them. There was the sensitive but rather deaf young Duke of Devonshire, and with him his widowed
stepmother
, the still beautiful duchess, shimmering in golden silk and jeweled aigrettes. With them were Lord and Lady Holland, the latter one of London’s most celebrated and critical hostesses; Margaret’s efforts tonight would be under close scrutiny. Nearby stood the Duke and Duchess of Beaufort, and their nephew the young Duke of Rutland, with his astonishingly beautiful duchess.
Deep in conversation were Lord Palmerston, the Honorable William Lamb, and Count Lieven, the Russian ambassador, but it was the three lady patronesses of Almack’s who unnerved her the most, for they looked so very severe and superior, except perhaps Lady Cowper, who had a warmer nature than the others. Lady Jersey was chill, and Countess Lieven positively intimidating, and Helen trembled at the thought of being presented to them more than at the prospect of curtsying to the prince. Still, she could console herself with the knowledge that these three paragons had human weaknesses, for they had all at one time or another taken the charming Lord Palmerston as their lover.

As she took a last look over the balustrade, she couldn’t help thinking that the war had never seemed further away, for there was no hint of it in the elegant, relaxed demeanor of tonight’s guests.

Margaret could wait no longer. Taking Helen’s hand, she virtually dragged her toward the staircase, and then down to where Gregory and Ralph waited at the bottom. Gregory wore a tight-fitting black velvet coat with ruffles at the cuffs and around the collar, a frilled shirt, a white satin waistcoat, silk knee breeches and stockings, and buckled black patent leather shoes. Ralph wore the same, except that his coat was indigo, and he was laughing at something Gregory had said when at last he saw the two ladies descending.

Both men turned, and Gregory gave his wife a slightly
reproachful
look. ‘I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come down at all.’

‘Oh, don’t grumble, for I’ve had such a lot to do today,’ she replied, giving him a disarming smile. ‘Besides, am I not worth waiting for?’

His glance moved over her and he gave a sheepish grin. ‘As always,’ he murmured, taking her hand and kissing the palm.

Ralph turned to Helen, smiling warmly as he drew her hand to his lips. ‘You look enchanting, Miss Fairmead. I vow I’m the most fortunate man present tonight.’

It was all she could do not to snatch her hand away. If he was the most fortunate man, she was the most
un
fortunate woman, having such a toad as her escort. He was a low, spiteful, dangerous reptile, as sly as a fox and as untrustworthy as a wrecker’s lantern. She found herself wondering suddenly why he was interested in
her. On Margaret’s admission he would eventually be a very rich man and was already considered a catch, so why was he prepared to consider her as a bride? She was hardly an heiress of any
standing
; so, why? It was a puzzle to which she saw no satisfactory answer. Surely it wasn’t just that he wished to be connected to Bourne End by marriage, as well as just friendship?

Gregory suggested that they mingle with their guests until the prince arrived, and thoughts of Ralph St John and his possible motives slid into the background as Helen steeled herself for the beginning of her ordeal. For the next half an hour she was presented to important person after important person, including the lady patronesses of Almack’s, and she emerged at the end in such a daze of nerves that she couldn’t remember a word she’d said. She was immeasurably relieved, therefore, when Margaret whispered to her that she was doing very well and hadn’t put a toe wrong.

It was ten minutes past the appointed hour when word came that the royal carriages were approaching. Conversation died away immediately as everyone took up positions around the hall, with Gregory and Margaret facing the open doorway. Helen stood just behind them with Ralph, and as she heard the distant sound of carriages on the drive, her heart began to beat more swiftly.

The running footmen’s flambeaux smoked and flared as they accompanied the first of the three carriages, a yellow berlin drawn by four superb bays. This was the prince’s private carriage, and behind it came the vehicles containing his gentlemen attendants, and his footmen and pages. A detachment of Life Guards rode at the rear, the noise of their horses loud as the procession drew closer. The orchestra in the conservatory ceased playing Mozart and struck up a popular march, for it was well known that the prince liked to think of himself as the commander denied to the army by force of circumstance, since his father the king refused to countenance the heir to the throne taking up military service of any kind.

The berlin stopped before the house, the bays stamping and tossing their fine heads, and Gregory left Margaret to go and greet his royal guest. The berlin’s blinds were down, and at first there was no sign of movement. The other carriages drew up as well, and the prince’s gentlemen, Lord Lowther, General Turner, and Sir
Carnaby Haggerston, alighted, as did the footmen and pages. At last the berlin’s door opened and the prince emerged.

He was nearly fifty-three years old, and immensely fat, his great bulk laced tightly into fashionable evening clothes that did nothing to flatter him. His already highly colored complexion was
emphasized
by the oils, creams, and other cosmetics he applied too liberally, and his chins rolled in folds above his exceedingly tall neckcloth and stock. His thick brown hair and luxuriant
side-whiskers
had a suspiciously artificial look, and altogether he was a little grotesque, but such disloyal thoughts didn’t linger for long once he smiled, for then he appeared irresistibly charming. Nothing could have been more engaging or gracious than his words of
greeting
. ‘My apologies, Bourne, I know I’m late again. I do hope you forgive me.’ His voice was beautifully modulated, carrying quite clearly into the hall above the music from the conservatory.

Gregory bowed low and escorted the prince into the house, followed by the procession of gentlemen and servants. The
waiting
guests bowed and curtsied, the prince acknowledging them all with elegant nods. He glanced around at the floral decorations and then smiled appreciatively at Margaret. ‘My dear Mrs Bourne, I confess I’m instantly delighted with the flowers. So many of them, and all in my honor.’

‘Your Royal Highness is too kind,’ she murmured, remaining in a low curtsy until he indicated she should rise.

He turned to Gregory. ‘Are you all set for the races, Bourne?’

‘I am, Your Royal Highness.’

‘A little bird tells me Lexicon is expected to waltz off with the Gold Cup, but that Musket ain’t up to scratch for the Maisemore. Is this so?’

‘Musket’s a little under the weather, it’s true, but I intend to carry both trophies home, sir.’

‘Do you indeed? Well,
I
intend to lay my hands upon the Maisemore this year, for I’m convinced Cherry Brandy is a better nag than Musket, so mark my words, you’ll have much to reckon with.’

The prince’s glance moved suddenly to Helen, and Gregory immediately hastened to present her.

‘Your Royal Highness, may I present my sister-in-law, Miss Fairmead?’

Helen was shaking so much she was sure she’d make a
dreadfully
clumsy curtsy, but somehow she managed to achieve a certain grace, sinking in a rustle of silver taffeta.

The prince nodded approvingly. ‘Please rise, my dear, that I may see you properly.’

She obeyed, hiding her trembling hands in the folds of her skirt.

He nodded again. ‘Charming, quite charming. Tell me, my dear, are you a turfite too?’

‘I – I’m afraid I know very little about horseracing, Your Royal Highness.’

He chuckled. ‘I’ve no doubt a week or so beneath this roof will soon put a stop to that, and that
The Sporting Magazine
will soon take precedence over Miss Austen. You do read Miss Austen?’

‘Oh, yes, sir.’

‘Excellent. We must discuss the lady later.’ With a gracious nod of his head, he turned to Margaret again. ‘Your sister is delightful, my dear, and will be a definite adornment to society. Now then, I’m at your disposal, so lead on to the feast.’