Maulever Hall (28 page)

He laughed. “I could hardly forget what I have never known. Very well then, we start tomorrow, Miss Lamb. What shall it be? The
Times
or the Tower?”

“But, surely, you have so much to do—”

“Nonsense.” She had already learned that he could be quite as dictatorial as his aunt. “I have nothing to do that I shall enjoy half as much as this. And, besides, who could wish to stay in this house, in the state of chaos to which you ladies have reduced it.”

The Duchess rapped his knuckles sharply with her paper k
ni
fe: “You are an ill-conditioned, ill-mannered boy, John. When did you hear of a ball being given without a little preliminary chaos? You should be grateful that we do not leave the organizing of it to you.”

“I am, aunt, believe me, I am. I’d rather organize a General Election than a ball.”

“And so you may be doing any day soon, by the sound of things. Thank goodness, Parliament will be in recess by the night of the ball—and I hope without rioting this time. I find the town quieter than I expected.”

“It’s the news of the cholera, I think. It’s not good, you know. And, that reminds me, I do not wish to interfere in your arrangements, aunt, but I do suggest that you do not serve either fruit or water ices.”

As bad as that, is it?” she looked at h
im
sharply. “Very well. It will be a saving, at all events.”

“A drop of frugality in your ocean of extravagance?”

She threw her snuff box at him. “And to
think
I told Marianne here that you were a mild and biddable man. Why didn
’
t I know how you’d come on? I should have been back here long since.”

He had caught the box neatly and now opened it and took a pinch, saying reprovingly: “A deplorably outmoded habit, my dear aunt. I am glad you thought me
mil
d and biddable—once.”

He was still the easiest and most courteous of cavaliers, and Marianne was amazed at how much she enjoyed her series of sight-seeing excursions with him. Indeed, it seemed almost ungrateful that all the time her eyes were at a stretch, willfully turning one stranger after another into the familiar figure of Mauleverer. If only they could have gone to the House of Lords; but she had to admit the sense of the Duchess’s prohibition. The old lady had also dealt ruthlessly with Marianne’s timid suggestion that she would
like
to call on Mrs. Mauleverer. “No, no. You are not here. Practically speaking, you do not exist until the day of the ball. I’ll not have you spoiling everything with your sentimental pilgrimages. Mrs. Mauleverer and her son have accepted my invitation—and so, by the by, has Lady Heverdon. You must just wait till then to see them. After all, you are not too desperately bored in the meanwhile, are you?”

“Far from it. The Duke has been wonderfully kind.”

“He is kind. I told you that, long since. Afraid you’re taking advantage of him, eh? I wouldn’t worry, if I were you. Not many girls would, anyway, but I like it in you. Pining all the time after that bad-tempered Whig of yours, aren’t you? Never mind; won’t hurt John if he does break his heart a little; good practice, if you ask me. Get over it, find another girl; you wait and see. And in the meantime, just don’t worry: it’s a bad habit.”

Marianne laughed. “Of course you are right, as always, ma’am, but I wish it were as easily done, as said.”

“And you’re thinking I’m a fine one to talk of getting over broken hearts, aren’t you? But, remember, I was married to my James. Quite another matter. Besides, you might change your mind yourself. I’m sure John would think the chance worth taking; if he thought about it at all, which I’m sure he doesn’t. No need to frown like that; you may surprise yourself yet. Look at the way he’s carrying on with Lady Heverdon.”

All too clearly this last “he” referred to Mauleverer, or rather to the new Lord Heverdon. Unluckily for Marianne’s peace of mind, his behavior in first refusing and then taking his title for political reasons had caught the public’s fancy, and there were almost daily paragraphs about him in the newspapers. The ones reporting his speeches in the Lords gave her much pleasure. He was losing no time in making a name for himself. But the others—and there were many more of them—were a misery. Hardly a day passed without his being reported as appearing at this ball or that rout in atten
d
ance on “his cousin, the beautiful Lady Heverdon.” To add piquancy to the situation—for the gossip columnists—all the world, apparently, knew that Lady Heverdon had another devoted slave in her cousin, Ralph Urban, and the chances of the two suitors were discussed in terms reminiscent of the race track or the stables.

These mentions of Ralph Urban gave Marianne some hope, for she remembered the affectionate terms in which Lady Heverdon had spoken of him long ago at Maulever Hall. But a Visit to Covent Garden plunged her once more into despair. She had persuaded the Duchess to let her and the Duke make a surreptitious visit to the pit, where no one was likely to know them, in order to see
Fra Diavolo,
but her evening was ruined by the spectacle of Lady Heverdon flirting outrageously with Mauleverer in a stage box. And—he showed every sign of enjoying the languishing glances so lavishly bestowed upon him by those huge blue eyes. To see
him
for the first time, after all this misery, and to see
him
thus! It was almost more than Marianne could bear. She pleaded headache and they went home before the end of the performance.

But at least the day of the ball was almost upon them, and though she could not quite share the Duchess’s conviction that someone would recognize her and solve all her problems for her, at least she could look forward to seeing Mauleverer—Heverdon, she must remember to call him. Neither he nor Lady Heverdon had seen her at Covent Garden, having been far too much absorbed in each other to spare so much as a glance for the pit, and since her name was not mentioned in the invitations, their surprise at her unexpected appearance should be complete. Sometimes, she managed to get pleasure out of the prospect of her butterfly transformation, but mostly it was anxiety and fear that haunted her. When she tried on her ravishing dress of white and silver it was possible, faced with her reflection in the glass, to imagine some Cinderella happy ending, but at night the terror was back, and time after time she woke sweating from dreams of pursuit, to which, now, was added the new terror of fire. Or—oddly—was it the oldest of all? Sometimes, in her dreams, she was convinced, with dream logic, that this threat of fire, in which she could not get out of her room to wake the others, was merely the repetition of an earlier terror.

It was all nonsense, of course, but she came down to breakfast tired and heavy eyed, and for the last few days before the ball the Duchess vetoed any more sight-seeing excursions, insisting instead that the Duke take her for early morning walks in Hyde Park. Warmly wrapped in the Duchess’s sables, she felt her spirits rise at the brisk exercise in clear December air. Suiting his stride to hers, the Duke walked beside her in companionable silence and she let herself think what good company he was. If only
...

Meanwhile Lord John Russell had introduced a revised version of the Reform Bill in the House of Commons and it had been triumphantly carried by a two-to-one majority very early on a Sunday morning in mid-December. “Thank goodness for that,” said the Duchess. “Now they are in recess at last we can be sure of our guests.” Even the Duke, deploring it, considered the Bill as good as carried, and his aunt teased him unmercifully about the failure of his Tory party to hold back the tide of progress. She liked to quote Sydney Smith’s Taunton speech about Dame Partington and her broom at him, and Marianne was constantly amazed at how sweetly he bore it. Imagine teasing Mauleverer when the world was going against him.

“Anyway,” said the Duchess, “town should be quiet for a while and we need not fear that our guests will be pelted with mud, or paving stones, when they arrive tomorrow. What shall we worry about instead? The hothouse flowers being killed by frost? The musicians getting drunk? Or a case of cholera among the guests?”

Marianne shuddered. “Do not joke about it, ma’am, I beg you.”

“Or if you insist upon worrying,” suggested the Duke, “why not choose some really probable subject, as for instance my going mad in white linen at the confusion of the house. When I met my steward in the study this morning, we found ourselves forced to confer between a potted palm tree and a half-erected bandstand. I go in hourly terror of finding that my bedroom has been converted into a retiring room for the ladies.”

“An excellent idea,” said his aunt. “Why did we not think of that, Marianne?”

In fact, she was an admirable organizer, and the evening of the ball arrived without any worse disaster than the discovery that the moth had got into the red carpeting for the front entry. And that, as the Duchess lost no time in pointing out, merely proved that her nephew had been grossly remiss in the discharge of his social duties. “As if it needed proving. I am convinced our enormous number of acceptances are as much out of curiosity about you
as about me, John. I am sure a misanthropic Duke is quite as much of a phenomenon as a mere Mad Duchess. It is going to be a terrible crush I am afraid.”

“Yes, I am certainly misanthrope enough to wish it were well over. We shall be lucky if we do not have several faints and a case or two of the vapors. Which do you propose to indulge in, Miss Lamb?”

“I shall wait and see,” said Marianne.

XIV

The Duchess refused to let Marianne take any part in the final preparations for the ball, but sent her firmly to bed for the afternoon: “I want you in looks tonight. You are not to get up until Isidore arrives to do your hair. Here; this just arrived.” She handed Marianne the latest volume of Sir Walter Scott’s
Tales of My Landlord.
“That should keep you quiet.”

The whole house smelled of hothouse flowers and echoed with the manifold noises of last-minute preparations. Someone was hammering in the room below Marianne’s; farther away, a violinist was trying out a few bars of his music; the caterer’s men were bringing chairs and tables for the supper, and, apparently, dropping most of them. And, above, in the servants’ quarters, there was a constant scurrying of feet as they, too, made their last-minute preparations. The very idea of sleep was an absurdity; Marianne lay down on her bed and opened her book.

She was waked by Fanny, the maid the Duchess had insisted on engaging for her. It was dark already, and the girl’s candle made flickering shadows on the ceiling.

“Good gracious, Fanny. Is it very late?”

“No, no. Just time to eat this.” Fanny put down the tray she was carrying, removed the candle to a place of safety, and crossed the room to draw the heavy blue-velvet curtains. “It’s a fine bright night,” she said. “There won’t half be a squeeze. Everyone’ll come, I should think. You should
hear the questions they ask one about Her Grace—and about

you, too, miss. Ain’t you excited?”

“Yes, I rather think I am.” She made herself eat some of the cake and milk the Duchess had ordered for her. “Is Isidore here yet?”

“Yes, he’s with Her Grace.” Fanny took the silver-and
-
white ball dress out of the closet and shook out its folds before laying it lovingly along the full length of a small sofa, where it looked, Marianne thought,
alm
ost complete in itself. “Isidore will want to see it,” the girl explained. “We’d best be getting you into your underdress now, miss, if you’re ready.”

Since Isidore and Fanny were both perfectionists, it was a long and exhausting time before the last tiny silver button was fastened and Marianne was pronounced ready.

“You’ll be the belle of the ball, miss, and no mistake.” Fanny handed Marianne her long white gloves and stood back to survey her handiwork. “Oh, miss, do you
think
he’ll pop tonight?”

“Pop?”

“The question, miss. The betting’s even in the servants’ hall. I don’t see as how he’ll be able to help it, the way you look tonight. Oh! Your Grace!”

The Duchess stood in the doorway and looked Marianne over: “Excellent,” she said at last. “Just what I intended.” And then, with a laugh: “And what do you think of me? Will they think they’re getting their money’s worth of Mad Duchess?”

‘They must think you superb, ma’am.” And indeed Marianne was amazed at the transformation that Isidore, dark-brown velvet, and diamonds had made in her friend’s appearance.

“I think they will treat me with respect, which is what I intend. A great bore, but worth it for once. Come down and let’s see what John thinks of his reformed aunt. Not that he’ll have eyes for me. Time we were down anyway. I asked the Duke to come early.”

“The Duke?”

“
The
Duke. Wellington, of course. Wellesley, when I knew him and no higher in rank than my James. A long
tim
e
ago, but not one to forget his friends. Said he’d be early; he’ll be early. With two Dukes to support you, I should think you’ll do. There, John”—he was awaiting them at the bottom of the sweeping stair—“what do you think of us?”