Death of a Dowager (6 page)

I had so much to learn. My sheltered upbringing offered me no insight into royal politics. Yes, I had studied our national heritage, but I learned it as a schoolgirl does, repeating what was told to me. None of my teachers would have ever dreamed to challenge the divine right of the King, and all its attendant privileges. Yet on a fundamental level, I had always believed that all of us were equal in the sight of our Lord. If we were, every one of us, endowed equally with his love, then it stood to reason that a monarch would be every bit as flawed and confused as the rest of us.

Perhaps even more so.

Chapter 8

A sedan chair passed us with its top propped open so that the rider’s ostrich feathers could protrude skyward. Its curtains obscured the passenger, but Lucy glanced over and said, “Dowager Lady Sefton, one of the patronesses who presides over Almack’s. I recognize the emblem on the doors and the chairmen’s livery. They’ll take her right to the front door—see if they don’t!”

As we moved along in the queue, I watched passengers step out of the broughams and curricles ahead of us. All of the women wore white ostrich feather headdresses similar to mine, which went a long way toward making me feel less foolish. Reluctantly, I admitted to myself that observing the parade of conveyances and the arriving patrons was highly amusing. I had never seen such an array of finery in my life. As persons climbed out of their conveyances and walked toward the entrance, their jewels sparkled merrily in the light from the torchères.

At long last it was our turn to disembark. Bouncing down from his perch, Williams raced to set out the steps for us. When we alighted, Mr. Douglas and I bracketed Edward to help him move forward with assurance. Under the cover of my blue shawl, I took my husband’s arm. To help Edward navigate the steps, Mr. Douglas said casually, “Thank goodness there are only four steps up to the first level. We’ll turn left once we make it inside.” With the movement of the crowd shielding us, no one noticed how we guided Edward into the building.

Once inside the vast theater, the seating rippled out from the stage in a semicircle—and the exuberant level of activity stunned me. While Lucy nodded to this person and that, we slowly made our way forward. Patrons leaped over scarred wooden benches to speak to one another or to hail vendors hawking foodstuffs and offering beer. Others cried out as hot wax dripped down on them from the immense candelabras that dangled from the ceiling. The smell of yeast, sweat, and candle wax nearly caused me to gag.

Williams shuffled along behind us, carrying a picnic basket that Cook had packed. It must have been heavy because he huffed and puffed as we climbed the five flights of stairs to Lucy’s box. At each level the boxes became more exclusive and the number of patrons moving upward along with us grew fewer. Upon arrival at the highest level, four levels above the pit area, it was plain to see why these lofty spots were so highly coveted. Their size and the views from these boxes were clearly superior to their neighbors.

An engineering marvel, the Braytons’ box was cantilevered over the main floor, bringing us intimately close to the stage. The larger portion of the box was a rectangular dining area framed by a set of lush burgundy velvet curtains with gold fringe. If desired, Lucy and her guests could retire to her table and chairs in privacy by closing the drapes. However, the portion of the box facing the stage was flanked on the left and right by cutaway walls, sloping from ceiling to floor in a concave shape, allowing a panoramic view of all the boxes on either side.

Williams set down the picnic basket, bowed, and retreated to a seat in the back. The contents of the basket were glorious. Lucy had instructed Cook to prepare a variety of refreshments for our consumption: fricassee of chicken, sliced ham, veal, asparagus in aspic, carrots in honey glaze, fresh bread, butter, a selection of cheeses, fruit dipped in chocolate, and several bottles of chilled wine.

“Piffle!” Lucy laughed when I expressed my astonishment at this repast. “Bruce and I come to the opera often. This is what I always bring, although I admit it’s a bit more fulsome than usual tonight because I hoped to please the two of you.”

Her brother assisted her in removing her wrap and hung it over one of the gilded chairs. “Don’t let my sister’s casual manner fool you. Lucy is the consummate hostess. Her parties are much praised. Invitations from her are highly sought-after by the ton
.
When she entertains, the whole town rehashes the event endlessly. In short, although she is marvelously flexible and can acquit herself well in any circumstance, Lucy is very much a shining beacon of style on which the beau monde trains their quizzing glasses with great interest. To add to her accomplishment and natural manner, she had to learn this comportment on her own. Our parents did not entertain.”

Lucy frowned slightly. “Let’s eat, shall we?” She gave a brisk clap of her hands. The satin muffled the sound, but it was sharp enough to signal an announcement. “There is claret to accompany the meat, Tokay for taking with the pudding, and of course port and red wine. Williams will serve us.”

Once Edward and I both had our plates filled, I described to him our surroundings. The crush of people below us astonished me. Nor did the noise abate when the first act, a quartet of singers, came out to entertain. If anything, the crowd simply increased its volume to hear one another over the noise onstage.

Men climbed over one another, over the seating, and over any obstacle to greet women or to chat, and women in all varieties of dress milled about on the first floor, some selling refreshments, others whispering in men’s ears. A general distasteful odor of unwashed bodies floated our way. Staring down from our lofty vantage point, the sea of humanity below mimicked a fantastical bouquet of flowers where blushing faces played the part of blossoms. Ordinary visages were framed by colorful headdresses and
chapeaux bras
, the fashionable three-cornered flat silk hats.

The scene in the upper boxes was more uniform. In accordance with the King’s decree, all of us women wore ostrich plumes in our hair, and our gowns were all similar styles in sumptuous shades of lavender, blue, aqua, or mauve. The men had even less variation, since all wore dark tailcoats with frothy white cravats that peeped out above their white waistcoats, partnered with black knee breeches and silk stockings, as well as thin slippers. Except for varying colors, trim, and gems, all of our costumes were nearly interchangeable. Lucy had been right to insist that I dress according to her instructions. In my simple silk gown, I would have looked woefully out of place.

Suddenly the tone of the chatter changed. The musicians in the pit raised their instruments and looked to the maestro in his long black swallowtail coat, who craned his neck to see over the crowd. That proved nearly impossible because the vast throng of people had gotten to their feet and jostled for position.

“The King is coming,” Lucy said quietly, smoothing her skirt. “Rossini is one of his favorites,” she said to me. “After Waterloo, the composer visited London, and the Regent convinced Gioachino Rossini to play a duet with him on the cello.”

“As I recall hearing,” Edward said, “His Majesty could not keep pace with Signore Rossini, but the artist generously suggested that ‘few in Your Royal Highness’s position could play so well,’ thus earning the composer a lifetime of goodwill.”

“There are two sorts of persons that Prinny never forgets: his friends and his enemies.” Lucy’s face remained impassive, but her eyes darkened to that deepest blue that signaled a sea change in her emotions, and I felt her tremble beside me. I recognized there was more to Lucy Brayton than I knew; more than her usual cheerful behavior belied.

“I have heard that there have been numerous attempts on his life.” Edward spoke in a low tone.

“It is true,” said Mr. Douglas. “There are many who would hope to see one of his brothers on the throne, especially since the death of Princess Charlotte three years ago left Prinny without an heir.”

Meanwhile, the royal procession had struggled its way to the fifth level. A young page strode down the hall, calling out, “All stand for His Majesty, the King!”

We rose from our seats and turned toward the opening in the plush velvet curtains. After the page came three pairs of red-uniformed footmen. The gold braids on their shoulders and chests swayed and caught the light as they cleared the way, moving spectators aside. Behind the footmen came two equerries dressed in equally elaborate and stunning costumes.

The courtiers parted. “The King will be next,” Lucy whispered as she sank into a deep curtsy. I did, too, and the men bowed low. From under my lashes, I glimpsed an enormous man so encrusted in medals, ribbons, jewels, and finery that he dazzled the eye as he clanked his way along, with his sword rattling at his side. On his head was an oversized and much- powdered wig of fluffy white curls, which sat almost comically askew. I rose slowly in time to see that he was accompanied by an equally immense and overly decorated woman.

“The Marchioness Conyngham.” Lucy pitched her voice low. “Lady Elizabeth Conyngham.”

“That was our King?” The words came as a gasp. The Prince of Wales had once been called the most beautiful man in our nation—or so everyone had said, praising his finely shaped calves, merry eyes, and pouting lips. But the man who waddled past us, leaning heavily on his cane, was grotesque in the extreme. Even from the back, I could see how his richly embroidered vest strained mightily to restrain his superfluous flesh. Nothing could disguise his bloated appearance, not even the elegance of his apparel. The perfume that lingered in the air was overmuch, cloying with its rich effusion of huile antique and jasmine.

Behind the King and his mistress came men and women of the court, many dressed in elaborate uniforms of His Majesty’s own design. Their purpose was to cater to every whim of the King and his lady. One face in the crowd caught my attention: Phineas Waverly, a Bow Street Runner whose acquaintance I had made some months previously when he’d been investigating the death of Adèle’s schoolmate.

“Look!” Mr. Douglas pointed his chin in the direction of the King’s party. “It’s Mr. Waverly. I’d heard he’d been assigned to guard George IV. Most agree that he’s the best of the Bow Street men. I wonder how he likes his new posting.”

Knowing full well Waverly’s disdain for pretention, I would guess it made him uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable indeed.

Chapter 9

Soon after, once the King’s party had ensconced themselves in the royal box, the conductor waved his baton. A two-measure drumroll heralded the anthem, “God Save the King.” The voices of our quartet joined in. Despite our sovereign’s less than admirable behavior and dissolute character, he was still the lord of our realm, and we owed him our fealty. None of us had any questions in that regard.

The crowd settled down, and a man stepped onto the stage and introduced the opera. The overture began, the curtain rose. The magic of the music, costumes, and set transported us to the Byzantine Empire, with its dazzling onion-shaped domes and sumptuous silken fabrics. Soon, I forgot how awkward I felt in my low-cut gown and elbow-length gloves. Indeed, the outside world melted away.

When the first act ended, I could not move, so engrossed was I still in the story of two families and their struggle against an enemy army. Edward’s hand sought mine, and a quick squeeze brought me back to the present.

“Is it not glorious, Jane?”

“Oh, sir! I never imagined it could be thus! I am quite breathless with the grandeur of it all. I rather wish that Adèle could have come. She would have been over the moon with joy.”

“True, but we would have been pestered unmercifully to give her opera lessons.” His voice sounded stern, but I knew he indulged the French child in the exact manner that any loving father would his own blood.

“That might be worth considering. Singing lessons would keep her occupied and happy.” I tucked that idea away even as I spoke, because a nod of his head assured me the thinking was sound.

To take advantage of the intermission, our party filed out of Lucy’s box, taking care to bracket Edward. Soon we were swept up in the society crowd, a veritable sea of foamy white ostrich feathers. Other patrons milled around us, nodding and speaking to one another. All were patrons from the fifth level, so they presumably occupied the same social strata.

Lucy had insisted that I wear the Rochester diamonds. In this company, they were most appropriate and seemed almost modest compared to the preposterously large pearls and ropes of gold worn by others. In practiced hands, painted brisé fans like the ones that Lucy and I carried spoke a language all their own, sending encouraging or rejecting messages to the gentlemen. Lucy spoke to various acquaintances and made quick introductions, all the while scanning the audience for her friend Lady Grainger. I kept to one side watching the ongoing conversations and silently committing this evening to memory.

Suddenly, I saw Lucy perk up with excitement. “Lady Grainger! At last!”

Lady Grainger was a spindly woman in a dove gray dress that matched her intelligent eyes and slate gray hair. She looked to be in her early sixties, and either time or carelessness contributed to a tired appearance, a bit of threadbare elegance that spoke of better days. The women exchanged kisses on the cheek, although Lady Grainger was so much shorter than Lucy that my friend nearly stooped to deliver hers. Mr. Douglas crowded closer and bent to kiss the woman’s hand.

“Mr. Douglas, so good to see you! Darling Lucy, you are back! Have you heard more about Evans? Oh, I am so excited for you. Which reminds me, I spoke to Claymore the other day. My solicitor. I’ll have to tell you—”

The woman stopped when she noticed us standing behind my friend.

Lucy gestured toward Edward and me. “May I present to you my husband’s dear friend Squire Edward Rochester and his bride? They are the Rochesters of Thornfield Hall in Yorkshire. I was recently their houseguest and now they are mine.”

I curtsied and my husband bowed low.

“Of course! Lucy has spoken so warmly of the both of you. Mr. Rochester, you are Edmund Rowland Rochester’s son, are you not? Rowland was your older brother?” I felt a frisson of alarm, knowing how Edward’s relationship with his father and brother represented a painful portion of his life, a time rife with misunderstandings and disappointments.

“Come closer, please.” Lady Grainger raised her quizzing glass to get a good look at my husband and, in response, Edward almost stepped on her foot, but the faux pas amused her. In that small window of time, I decided I liked the woman very much indeed.

“I am the same, ma’am. Although not so nimble as others in my family.” As always, I found Edward captivating, but at this juncture, I was most impressed by my husband’s bravado. He did not act like a man who was nearly blind. On the contrary, he maintained that dignity and stature so integral to his personality. I marveled at his effort, and I regretted what it must cost him to play his part so well.

“My late husband, Bertram, Lord Grainger, knew your father quite well. I remember Thornfield Hall, especially the huge battlements. What a pity that it has burned to the ground! A grave loss, both to the Rochester family and to the surrounds. We have a country home not far from Millcote. That is the village closest to your estate, is it not?”

“Indeed it is,” said Edward. He and Lady Grainger launched into a discussion of how the county had grown, while I studied the swirling mass of patrons moving around us. Again I noted how, as Lucy had assured me, my sumptuous costume actually afforded me the opportunity to blend in. Despite my discomfort, I felt thankful for her tutelage.

I indulged my desire to surreptitiously glance at the King and his lady, standing in the center of a crowd of sycophants who were eagerly vying for his attention. But my voyeurism came to an abrupt halt when Lady Grainger turned toward the crowd and, with a wave of her fingers, beckoned to others. “I believe you must be well acquainted with my sister-in-law, the Baroness Ingram of Ingram Park, and her daughters, my nieces, the Honorable Blanche and Miss Mary? They are my houseguests.”

Immediately, my hands turned cold as stones in a frozen creek even as my face flamed hot with remembered anger. When I served as Adèle’s tutor, the Ingrams had made much sport of governesses, declaring that they found all of us to be “incubi.”At the time, I was rather pleased with myself that even in my fury at this disparagement, I had not burst out with the correction that “incubi” are male demons, and that therefore the term they were wanting was “succubi.”

“Silvana?” Lady Grainger called to her sister-in-law, Dowager Lady Ingram, and gestured for the woman and her daughters to join us. The three women turned our way. I stiffened my resolve; there was no way to avoid an encounter with them now.

But I had no desire to exchange polite commentary with the Ingram tribe. Blanche, Mary, and their mother all shared the same faults: Their minds were not original, their hearts were barren as weathered rocks, and cold calculation reigned where tenderness should have mounted the throne. Had Blanche been blessed with a loving temperament, or the ability to think for herself, or even a modicum of compassion, my whole being might have suffered the pangs of jealousy, for she was a very handsome woman and, supposedly, one of the best riders in the county, a person who regularly distinguished herself in the hunt.

In the event, I wrestled with my feelings and forced myself to stay right where I was as the trio advanced on us.

After all, I had as much right to be here as they.

All three of the Ingram women combined robust stature with haughty bearing, which, added to the imperious shape of their noses, would clearly indicate to any amateur who studied physiognomy their excessive self-regard. This evening, however, Blanche’s typically dark complexion was unusually pale, and plum-colored circles under her eyes suggested her constitution had been compromised. Dowager Lady Ingram lowered her crimson and ebony fan to stare coldly at Lucy, and as she did those multiple chins of hers set to wagging. When the Dowager spoke, she did so with an air of condescension. “Yes, Mrs. Brayton, I recall our meeting, and I have seen you at Almack’s. You are friends with Mrs. Fitzherbert, aren’t you?”

Lucy nodded. “Among others.”

“I believe you also know Mrs. Brayton’s brother, Mr. Bruce Douglas,” continued Lady Grainger.

“Charmed.” Mr. Douglas faced the Ingrams and bowed deeply, planting a courtly kiss on each of their hands. Blanche and her mother basked in the glow of his approval, though Mary, the lifeless and dull one of the trio, merely stared at her feet without bothering to change her vacant expression. “It’s not often I am privileged to meet three lovely women who share a surname.” He spoke with utter sincerity, but I detected the glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Mr. Douglas, you are too kind.” Blanche fluttered her eyelashes at him and stepped a little too close. Mr. Douglas managed to inch back by pretending to help Lucy square her shawl over her shoulders.

The Dowager turned to urge her younger daughter forward, but Mary only stared off into the distance as though she would rather be anywhere else but here.

I knew exactly how she felt.

However, I am no coward. I am Edward Rochester’s wife, and I would meet their disapprobation with head held high, for I had no reason to fear any of them. After all, in the skirmish Blanche and I had fought for Edward’s affections, I had been acclaimed the victor.

“Lady Ingram? Honorable Blanche? Miss Mary? May I present to you my dear friends? Mr. Edward Rochester and his bride?” Lucy emphasized that last word, and with a flourish she stepped aside slightly to reveal my husband and me.

“Yes, of course we know Squire Rochester. He is our neighbor,” said Dowager Lady Ingram.

Under the cover of my full skirt, Edward’s right hand reached for mine and grasped it tightly. His voice was brittle as a piece of shale when he said, “And my wife. I believe you’ve met her as well.” With that he tugged me slightly forward so I was standing right in front of the Ingrams. I could feel the Ingram daughters’ eyes boring into me, examining my apparel with interest. Once again, I was filled with appreciation for Lucy’s oversight of my appearance. I knew that in every way, I looked my part as the wife of a member of the landed gentry.

As was proper, I waited for the Dowager Lady Ingram to acknowledge my presence.

Very slowly, the Dowager turned her head away from Edward. She adjusted her gaze so as to pinion me with her fierce and hard eyes. Long seconds ticked by. At long last, she slowly and deliberately turned away, so that she was looking past me when she said, “Lovely weather we’re having, aren’t we, Mr. Rochester? Who else is here that we know?”