No Place for a Lady (11 page)

“You are not accustomed to working for a living, eh? Tell Dolman I was asking for him.”

Lady MacIntyre nudged her butter-toothed daughter forward to make a curtsy, then hauled her away.”

“Now the crowd is down to ninety-eight. A definite flop,” Alger said.

“I suppose you think I am a flat, thinking a hundred is a crowd.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, then throw them back in my face. I do not think you a flat; provincial, perhaps,” he added, with a reckless smile, and raised his hands as if to ward off a blow.

“A Bath Miss, and proud of it, sir.”

“Now you are giving yourself airs. A Radstock Miss, I would say. Do they have as many as a hundred people in Radstock, or do the thundering herd of a hundred come from Bath for exhibitions?”

“It is quality that counts, not quantity. At least they go to look at the pictures, not gawk at the other viewers.”

“I have not noticed you paying much attention to the pictures.”

“That is because the pictures are so inferior. We have better exhibitions at Radstock.” I made a point to examine the pictures for a moment after that jibe.

A moment later a pair of bucks came pelting down the stairs from the upper gallery and spotted Mr. Alger. They came forward, running their eyes over me in a blatantly assessing manner. They reminded me of Mr. Cruikshank’s caricatures of young bucks. One was tall and slender; the other shorter and stouter. Both looked like fops.

“This is a sad excuse for an exhibition,” the shorter one scoffed. “Trees and barns, and not a pretty woman in the lot.”

“Indeed it is. We are about to leave,” Alger replied. “Nice meeting you, gentlemen.”

“Hold on, Algie! Why don’t you introduce us to the lady?”

Alger introduced the short one as Sir Giles somebody and the tall one as Mr. Soames. “I have not seen you before, Miss Irving,” Sir Giles said. “Algie has been keeping you to himself, sly dog.”

“We were about to leave,” Alger said at once, and put his hand on my elbow to lead me out.

“Can you not wait a moment?” the one called Soames said, with a sly look. “Lord Evans is joining us.”

For some reason, the name Evans rattled Alger. “No, we really must be going,” he said.

We left, while a trail of laughter followed us. “Selfish, I call it!” Sir Giles called. “All your hard work is going to your head, Algie. Don’t worry, Evans won’t tell Lord Dolman you are taking an unscheduled holiday.”

We left at such a lively gait that I was short of breath by the time we reached the carriage.

“Tell me, Mr. Alger, why are we running? Are you avoiding work, and afraid your patron will discover it? If that is the case—”

“Of course not!”

“Then I can only assume you are ashamed to introduce me to your friends. Had I known green mantles were de rigueur, I would either have obtained one or remained at home.”

“Green mantles? What the devil are you talking about?”

“You must have noticed, all the ladies wore them.”

“No,
I
was busy looking at the pictures,” he riposted.

“If it is not my pelisse, and you are not due at work, then what—? You owe them money!” I exclaimed.

Alger gazed at me in disbelief, then a small smile lifted his lips. “What a refreshing lack of vanity,” he murmured. “Most ladies would have judged—correctly in this case—that I did not wish to share you with other gentlemen.”

“But then other ladies, one assumes, are unaware of your doings with Mr. Sharkey. I daresay your eagerness to keep me to yourself recommends a rapid return to Wild Street. We are certainly not likely to be pestered by the ton there.”

“You want to meet the ton,” he said. “And I more or less promised I would enlarge your circle of acquaintances if you remained in London.”

“You need not worry about that. I have definitely decided to sell the house and return to Radstock at the earliest possible date.”

“Mrs. Hennessey will be happy to hear it,” he taunted. “But before you go, I must try once more to tempt you. I would not want you to base your idea of London do’s on that appalling exhibition.” I waited hoping to hear a mention of Lady Bonham’s rout or some such thing. “Are you free this evening?”

“After being out this afternoon, I cannot desert Miss Thackery again this evening,” I replied, hoping he would not take me at my word.

“I hope Miss Thackery will join us at Covent Garden.”

The name conjured up visions of London high life. It seemed a shame to leave without seeing something of the real London. Miss Thackery would enjoy it, too.

“I have tickets for a performance at Covent Garden. A revival of Sheridan’s
The Rivals.
I think we can all do with a little comedy after recent events.” He waited while I pretended to vacillate. “No bribe, no reward—just an evening at the theater.”

“I daresay Miss Thackery would enjoy it. Very well. We shall go if she agrees.”

I did not foresee any difficulty there. As it was still early, we went for a drive out the Chelsea Road before returning to Wild Street. We did not meet any more of Alger’s friends. I still had a lingering notion that he had been embarrassed by my provincial toilette and determined to do better that evening.

Just one other point bothered me, and I inquired why all his friends called him Algie, when his name was Alger.

“It is a nickname, as people named Smith are often called Smitty, and as I have heard Miss Thackery call you Cathy. Your name, I collect, is Catherine?”

“Yes.”

“The privilege of calling you so, of course, is limited to your friends,” he said soberly, but with a laughing look in his eyes. “Would it be impertinent of me to call you Catherine? Not actually encroaching on familiarity, you see, but as a sort of bridge to friendship?”

He was looking at me as he spoke—and drove right over a clump of sod that had been dropped by a farm wagon. “Algie! Look out!” I exclaimed, without thinking. I also clutched at his arm, as the curricle had very high seats, with little in the way of protection.

“I shall take that as permission,” he said.

“We hardly know each other well enough to be on a first-name basis,” I said stiffly. I pulled my fingers away when I noticed I was still holding on to him.

“I see it as a question of which comes first—the chicken or the egg. Using a first name hastens intimacy along, and as you plan to leave soon, we must either become friends rapidly, or not at all. A friend is a precious thing to lose, Miss Catherine. Did you notice the clever way I phrased that—just a little encroaching, but with the “Miss’ to lend it a touch of propriety.”

“You don’t know the meaning of the word. Furthermore, Miss Catherine is completely inaccurate. I am not a younger sister.”

“You are quite right. I should have omitted the ‘Miss’ entirely. That will teach me to try to straddle the fence.”

I was in a good mood with the pending trip to Covent Garden and did not argue when he continued to call me Catherine, although I made a point to continue calling him Mr. Alger.

After a few miles he turned the curricle around and returned to Wild Street. Mr. Alger left as soon as he took me home. As his friends had been joshing him about skipping away from work, I felt he was probably going to Whitehall. Within an hour, a lovely corsage of orchids arrived for me.

“I look forward to the pleasure of your company this evening,” it said. The card was initialed, not signed. In fact, the initials were illegible, but there was no doubt in my mind who had sent it. The footman who delivered it was a splendid-looking creature in green and gold livery. I assumed Alger had borrowed him from Lord Dolman.

Miss Thackery and I spent the latter part of the afternoon planning and arranging our toilettes. We had not come prepared for such high living, but with a few borrowings from Aunt Thal’s wardrobe we felt we would not disgrace Mr. Alger. I found a veritable peacock of a silk shawl, all embroidered with flowers and sprinkled with sequins and with a long fringe to boot. Miss Thackery thought it had a slight aroma of the lightskirt, but we knew we were years out of fashion and decided it would do. It would lend the necessary touch of style to my pomona green gown. Miss Thackery was to arrange my curls high with a pair of my late aunt’s pearl combs. Miss Thackery found an elegant ecru shawl that she felt enhanced her own dark gown.

I kept an ear out for Alger’s return. When he came in at six-thirty, I went into the hallway to thank him for the corsage. He blinked in astonishment and looked completely bewildered.

“But I did not send you a corsage,” he said, and seemed a little embarrassed that he had not. “For the theater, you know, I did not think it necessary.”

“Who could have sent it?” I asked. “You are the only gentleman I know in London.”

He frowned, but soon came up with the answer. “Sir Giles! I knew that scoundrel was rolling his eyes at you! You see now that I had reason for hustling you away from my friends. Do you have the card?”

I had tucked it into my receipt book and showed it to him. We puzzled over the initials a moment. “That last letter looks like an
s,”
he said. “Not Sir Giles, but Harley Soames.”

“Oh, the tall one,” I said. He was also the more handsome.

“I see you have been assessing them as potential escorts!”

“A lady always does so, Mr. Alger.”

He gave me a conning look from the corner of his eyes. “I wonder how I stacked up? I am as tall as Soames. And considerably taller than Sir Giles. How the devil did he discover where you live? He must have followed us all the way out the Chelsea Road. I made sure no one would—” He came to a guilty stop.

“No one would see you squiring a provincial? You have been caught out in your sin, Mr. Alger. Your reputation is ruined.”

“Kind of you to be concerned, but I have no reputation worth speaking of.”

“I should let Mr. Soames know I will not be going out with him. The footman did not wait for a reply. He has very elegant servants, does he not? All that gold lace. Do you have his address?”

“Yes, but—footman? Soames doesn’t have any footmen. He hires a set of rooms at Albany. He makes do with a factotum who serves as his butler and valet and general dogsbody.”

“It must have been Sir Giles who sent the corsage.”

“Ah, yes, the
short
Sir Giles.” Mr. Alger shrugged. “It is demmed presumptuous of him to assume you will be at liberty. Let him come—and leave without you.”

“It seems an ill-bred thing to do, but really I cannot think of any other course, as he did not even include his address. Although the orchids are very nice,” I added forgivingly. “Two of them. Quite extravagant.”

“You like orchids? I shall bear it in mind, Catherine.”

He managed to put some accent on my name that lent it an air that went beyond familiarity to encroach on intimacy. Or perhaps it was his smile that did the trick. He used his nice smile, which looked warm and open.

When he came to call that evening, he carried a corsage of orchids—three orchids. Miss Thackery wore the smaller corsage. We were all dressed and just about to leave when the door knocker sounded.  Alger opened the door, and there on the step stood old Colonel Stone.

His lined and serred cheeks folded into a smile. “You are all dressed and waiting. Splendid! I knew I might count on you. And you are wearing my corsage. Most obliging, Miss Irving. I have hired a private parlor at the Clarendon.” And oysters, no doubt. His rheumy old eyes struggled for a glimpse of my bosom, using the corsage as an excuse.

“I am afraid I am busy this evening, Colonel,” I said, trying to quell the laughter that wanted to bubble out.

“Eh? What do you mean?”

“Miss Irving is going out with me this evening, Colonel,” Alger said firmly.

The colonel measured his competitor’s broad shoulders and grumbled into his collar. “Is Renie here?” he asked.

She had heard the rumpus and came peering over the stair railing, “Colonel! Are we going out this evening? I swear you forgot to mention it to me. Lucky I am free. I turned down an invitation to dinner just a moment ago.” I knew perfectly well she had not had any callers. “You really should let me know beforehand. You can wait for me up here. I shan’t be long.”

The colonel looked at the stairs and replied, “I shall await down here, Renie. Do hurry. I am famished.”

It was a comical beginning to an evening that was to hold further excitement before I got back to Wild Street.

Chapter Ten

We were wafted to Covent Garden in the unaccustomed splendor of velvet squabs and silver appointments, with a crest on the carriage door to tantalize the hearts of less favored mortals. In other words, Mr. Alger borrowed Lord Dolman’s rig for the evening. “Don’t I wish Hennessey could see us now!” Miss Thackery said sotto voce to me.

I had thought the Theater Royal at Bath was grand, but it could not hold a candle to Covent Garden. Covent Garden had burned down a few years previously—and had been rebuilt as magnificently as a cathedral. The imposing marble facade gave way inside to more opulence. It was constructed on classical lines with porphyry columns, plaster statues, and plush sofas in the long gallery. The boxes were similarly grandiose. I felt like a queen when we were shown to our box on the grand tier.

Around and below us, a sea of turbans, feathers, jewels, fans, and opera glasses waved gently. We arrived early on purpose to ogle the audience. Mr. Alger was busy pointing out Lord and Lady Castlereagh, a royal duke or two, and other celebrities. With my embroidered shawl and my three orchids—and Mr. Alger—who made as fine an appearance as any of the gentlemen, I felt I was finally a part of fabled London. If this was how life could be, then I must revise my notion of running home to Radstock.

Mr. Alger saw I was ravished with delight. He leaned over and whispered, “I have asked for wine to be brought to our box during the first intermission. I expect a few friends will drop in. During the second, we shall go on the strut in the lobby.”

“Splendid, Mr. ... Algie,” I said, and smiled to show my pleasure.

A hush fell over the audience. A man in formal clothes appeared onstage to announce the play, and at that precise moment, a page boy came into our box. I looked to see what other treat Alger had arranged.