The Scandal of the Season (23 page)

“Young ladies now do not follow those habits so much as they used to,” said Arabella obstinately. “They are regarded as old-fashioned, ma'am.”

“Whatever you might like to believe, Arabella, the habits of married life are not subject to fashion. If a girl wishes to marry well, she shall be handsome, genteel, chaste—and accomplished in keeping a household. Men do not like lazy wives, even in the year seventeen-eleven.”

Arabella was not at all chastened by the rebuke, for she knew that her mother was mistaken. She repaired to her carving lesson, thinking how very much less affectionate and open-minded were the married lives of her parents and their acquaintance than her own was going to be.

 

The next morning Alexander paid a visit to the Blount sisters to see how they did, only to find that they were not at home. He told the footman that he would wait until they returned, and he sat down in the parlor, asking for a sheet of paper. He wanted to make note of a new idea that had come to him on the way there, which he was afraid he might otherwise forget. The footman shot him a look of surprise, obviously thinking him eccentric, but Alexander paid no attention.

In due course, he heard the sound of a carriage outside, and the echo of voices in the hall. The parlor door was thrown open, and Teresa bounded in.

“Hello, Alexander—we were expecting to find you here. Oh, you are writing. You are always writing—'tis a dreadful affectation.” She put her parcels down on the floor and handed her bonnet to the footman. “Do you know that we saw your friend Jervas coming out of the bagnio near Covent Garden half an hour ago? Since he was alone, we guessed that you had either drowned in the hot bath, or come to pay us a morning visit.”

“I see that you have recovered your spirits, Miss Blount,” he said censoriously, sorry that the subdued Teresa of yesterday was gone.

“Oh, quite recovered,” she rejoined, collapsing into an armchair, and fanning herself energetically.

“What a diverting morning we have had,” she added in a tone that came much closer to Arabella's languid accents than Alexander had heard before. “Martha bought gloves,” she continued, “I bought lace, and we saw many friends. I have forgotten the episode with Mr. Douglass already, there is so much else to entertain us. Indeed, it is fortunate that I discovered him to be a rascal—for when he met me today he was just as attentive as ever—but I was not taken in. He was in company with Henry Moore, Mr. Chettwin, and the Duke of Beaufort. My Lord Petre was there, too, being very charming. We are to form a pleasure party with them tomorrow in Hyde Park.”

“That makes it sound as though the party were intended for us,” said Martha. “But they were making the plan when we met them, and so Lord Petre invited us to come,” she explained to Alexander. “It was very civil of him. Perhaps he will have invited Mr. Jervas, too,” she added.

“Lord Petre is to bring champagne,” said Teresa.

Alexander returned home after only a short visit, regretting that Teresa's experience in St. James's Park had not cured her of her boundless capacity for misguided optimism. Hope springs eternal in Teresa's breast, he thought sardonically. She never
is,
but always
to be
blessed. He laughed out loud, and wrote it down. The visit had supplied him with a good couplet, at least, if not very much else.

When Jervas came home later in the day, he burst into the room where Pope sat writing, and announced, “There is to be a pleasure party tomorrow in Hyde Park, Pope. My Lord Petre asked me to bring you with me. Indeed”—Jervas added with a cordial smile—“I half believe that he invited me solely in order to secure you! He is a great admirer of your poetry, and is determined to be instrumental in your becoming famous.” He walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine. “Mind you, Pope,” he continued, “the nobility are altogether too fond of declaring that they will make the reputation of this person or that, so I should not set much store by what he says. But you may be sure that he means to flatter you.”

With an ironic smile Alexander thanked Jervas for the encouragement and turned back to his verses.

T
he party in Hyde Park the following day was very cheerful.

Lord Petre arrived with Jenkins early in the morning and marched about the meadows for half an hour, directing his footman to set the baskets down first in one spot and then another, before finally settling on a small patch of rising ground. Jenkins had brought two underfootmen, a groom, and the cook's help, and the five of them set to work with hammers and wooden stakes to make an awning under which Lord Petre's guests might sit. Then they set up trestle tables and seats, covered the tables with damask cloths, and laid out glasses, napkins, plates, and silver. Lord Petre himself carried the basket of champagne from the carriage, leaving the bottles lying in the straw that had protected them on the journey over from France. Jenkins had been to Covent Garden market that morning, and brought baskets of strawberries: little red
fraises
that peeked from a nest of leaves and flowers. There were dishes of clotted cream, plum cake, and bread and butter for the ladies, a roasted sirloin for the men, and two pyramids of fruit.

Alexander arrived at the party with Jervas, Martha, and Teresa. They were among the first of Lord Petre's guests; Lord Petre could be seen talking to the Duke of Beaufort, but he rushed out from under the awning to greet them as Jervas's carriage pulled up. His clothes were already a little rumpled from his morning's efforts, and his chestnut curls had strayed from the ribbon that tied them back. His look, Alexander decided, was that of a nobleman striding across his fields with a bouquet of grouse—though happily he had no actual birds in his hand. Lord Petre bowed to them all, offered both Martha and Teresa an arm, and led them forward to the marquee.

“You see it is not a formal party,” he said, waving his hand across the general landscape. “Comfort and pleasure are our guiding principles. Will you take a glass of wine, Miss Blount? There are strawberries by the dozens—I have heard that ladies are fond of them—and cherries, too. A cherry for Miss Blount!”

Teresa was mightily gratified by his attention, and she looked about herself with a wide, complacent smile, just as she had seen Arabella do in St. James's Park.

“Few ladies can claim the distinction of being intimate friends not only with the town's foremost painter, but poet, too!” Lord Petre exclaimed, very nearly tipping him a wink, Alexander observed with amusement. Teresa looked somewhat less delighted with this remark than with his previous attentions, but she still smiled graciously, pleased at least to be the foremost poet's favorite. The foremost painter, meanwhile, had walked over to the sirloin, and was helping himself to a large slice while he chatted to the Duke of Beaufort, whose picture he had made some months previously.

Lord Petre turned from the girls to Alexander, and said, “I am honored indeed to have you here, sir,” he said. “I have been told on good authority that your
Essay
is superior to Dryden's on dramatic poesy.”

Alexander wondered on whose authority he was relying—it sounded like the sort of exaggerated remark that he himself would make as a joke to Martha—but he bowed cordially. Lord Petre pulled out a chair for Alexander to sit upon, saying, “You will have some wine, sir, and a slice of meat, perhaps? Or a strawberry. Pray, take a strawberry.” Alexander did as he was told and sat back in his chair; he was enjoying himself more than he had expected.

Teresa exclaimed, “How sweet these cherries are! Nicer than any I have had before. Alexander, I hope that you will have one of my cherries.” Alexander smiled to hear her, and turned to take a cherry. But Martha was sitting between them at the table, and Teresa leaned directly across her sister to offer the dish to Alexander.

Alexander stopped her. “I will not take cherries, Teresa, but I hope that Martha will. Come, Patty—I have not seen you eat anything. Let me give you a slice of cake, too.” Martha smiled at him, and began to eat some of the fruit.

“What do you think is making Lord Petre so gracious today?” she asked Alexander in a wry tone.

But before he had time to reply, he heard a new voice beside him. It belonged to a lady he did not recognize, though she seemed familiar, as if he had seen her before.

“My Lord Petre describes you as the town's foremost poet, Mr. Pope,” she said to him. “Do you write satire? I hope that you are not one of those wits who laughs at everybody except himself.”

Alexander looked up in surprise, and hurried to his feet. She was young and pretty, elegantly dressed, but displaying a charm and animation that took away the imposing air she might otherwise have had. When he studied her more closely, he saw that she was more than pretty: she was a beauty. He wished that he knew her name.

“Be not afraid, madam,” he said. “Necessity will force my hand. Unless I laugh at myself, I shall have nothing at all to write about—which would render me ridiculous indeed. Ten thousand men cannot yield so much satire as ten minutes' reflection upon one's own follies.”

“Ah! But ten thousand women might supply the need,” she answered with a flash of laughter.

“Are you a satirist yourself, then, madam?” he asked. Caught up in the conversation, they had unconsciously stepped away from the others. Alexander hoped that the tête-à-tête might continue, at least until he had discovered her identity. “Wit comes to you more readily than to two-thirds of the men who make a living from it,” he said.

“I am a woman of fashion—which amounts to the same thing,” she answered, also obviously enjoying the exchange.

“You mean that you live by your wits?” he asked.

“Indeed—and like most satirists, I live beyond my means.” She met his eye, and smiled. It exhilarated him.

“Then you must live more extravagantly than anybody I have met,” he rejoined. “Your wit is prodigious.”

“A compliment indeed from the famous Mr. Alexander Pope,” she said with a bow more like a man's than a woman's.

“Since my name is known to you, madam, I beg that I might know yours,” he said.

“I am Mary Pierrepont.”

Mary Pierrepont! The Earl of Kingston's daughter. He took a step backward, and said, “I am relieved that I did not know it before, my lady, for I might have been too afraid to answer you.”

She laughed. “You do not seem a timid man, Mr. Pope.”

“My timidity is well concealed. I am very shy beneath all this bluster.”

She responded readily. “Then you are not shy at all, since shyness is a matter of manner, not of character.”

Alexander bowed. He was dazzled by the speed with which her conversation moved.

She stopped to think for a moment, and then said, “But I shall allow that you may be reserved. Is that what you meant, Mr. Pope?”

“Your correction is just, my lady.”

As they talked, Lady Mary grew increasingly animated, her cheeks flushed and eyes engaged. Her manner was uniquely delightful. She was confident, not simply of being clever, which might have repelled him, but confident in the pleasure that her cleverness gave. He knew that she had a reputation for being “intellectual,” but such a description belied her. She was animated by her beauty, her energy, and her intellect all together.

They were prevented from continuing by the arrival of a carriage bearing the Salisbury coat of arms. It pulled up not far from where the group was situated, and Lord Salisbury, who was riding on horseback beside the equipage, sprang down and stood by the door, waiting for his lady and her friends to descend. A pair of footmen threw open the doors and the heads of all Lord Petre's guests swung around to watch the new arrivals.

Lady Salisbury stepped down first, a plume of ostrich feathers nodding on the top of her bonnet as she took her husband's arm. Next came Henrietta Oldmixon, in a dress of apple-green silk, brocaded in gold leaves. She passed a lapdog to one of the footmen to carry across to the marquee. Finally the third member of the party appeared, smiling as she waited to be helped down: it was Arabella.

Lord Petre had arranged for her to come to the gathering in the Salisburys' carriage. He strode across the grass alongside the Duke of Beaufort, and as Arabella appeared at the coach door both men were ready with their hands to assist her. She sprang down, kissing each of them in turn. The three girls then took off across the grass together, and Lord Petre, Lord Salisbury, and the duke hurried along behind, with the footmen following at a respectful distance.

Henrietta was describing the difficulty they had had in finding the party. Her clear voice rang out across the grass—she did not trouble herself to turn her head to address anyone in particular. “His Grace said ‘under a pair of oaks,'” she trilled, “
not
the most useful directions to give when we are to meet in a park!” The three girls laughed, and the men followed suit.

“
I
am astonished, madam, to see you out of bed at this inhumanly early hour,” the Duke of Beaufort answered her. “You were still at cards when I left the assembly at four this morning.”

With a roll of her eyes, Henrietta drawled, “It cost me no small difficulty, Your Grace, let me assure you. I am ravenous for a cup of coffee and toast—though I daresay that we are too rustic for that this morning.” There was more laughter. Alexander turned to Lady Mary but saw that she had moved away, distancing herself from the new arrivals. He wished that Teresa might have shown the same disdain; instead she was leaning forward eagerly, hoping to be noticed.

“Oh, very rustic indeed!” said Lord Salisbury. “I see that there is nothing but two dozen bottles of champagne, thirty yards of damask, and half the silver plate in London.”

“Will you take a glass of champagne wine, Miss Oldmixon?” Lord Petre asked.

“It seems that there is nothing else to be had,” Henrietta replied raising her eyebrows as she dropped into the chair that had been held out for her by a footman.

Martha watched their arrival, amazed by the spectacle of Arabella and her new friends. These must be the people Teresa had seen at the morning levee, she thought, noting that the defining trait of all successful girls seemed to be their refusal to show the faintest surprise or pleasure in their surroundings, however remarkable they might actually consider them. While they settled into the splendor of Lord Petre's luxurious arrangements, the three of them carried on their conversation as though they had done nothing more than walk from the sofa to the tea table at home. They talked of parties attended, jokes passed, remarks made, all of which were vastly entertaining—and from the enjoyment of which the other guests were subtly, but determinedly, excluded. Lady Salisbury and Henrietta Oldmixon had been schooled in well-bred indifference from the nursery, but Martha owned herself to be impressed by Arabella's performance. The mirthless laugh, the world-weary smile, the disdainful air: she had made them her own.

All three of the principal men in the party flocked around Arabella.

“Will you take something to drink, Miss Fermor?” Lord Salisbury asked.

“Can I bring you refreshment?” offered the Duke of Beaufort.

“I fear that Miss Fermor is too much in the sun,” said Lord Petre, with an ironic smile. “Is there something that we can do to relieve her?”

As he watched them fawn upon her, Alexander entertained for an exquisite moment a fantasy of Arabella asking the men to move the tent so that she could better enjoy the view. He believed that, had she done so at this moment, her request would have been honored.

But she merely said, “I thank you, Your Grace, I shall take a glass of the wine. And a strawberry or two, my lord,” looking not at Lord Petre but Lord Salisbury, “though without any cream,” she added, just as he put a spoonful over the fruit.

Martha watched with a mixture of amusement and dismay as they scurried around Arabella like eager dormice. Her beauty was the kind that men found particularly alluring, but Martha had never entirely understood the attraction. Today, however, she saw what it meant to describe a woman as frighteningly beautiful. It was literally true. The gentlemen were hypnotized by Arabella's mere presence, and at the same time they were terrified of her. They seemed to sense that she might ask them to do anything, and that if she did, they would be powerless to refuse her.

Sitting beside Martha, Alexander wondered what Lady Mary made of the trio. It was clear that she had no desire to be thought of as part of their set; she was seated on the other side of the awning, talking to a man whom Alexander had never seen before. He glanced back at Arabella, noting that the uncertainty she had betrayed during the conversation with Lady Castlecomber in St. James's Park was gone, replaced by an ever-more steely self-confidence. But his opinion as to the cause of her magnetism differed somewhat from Martha's. It did not derive simply from her extraordinary good looks. He believed it came rather from her knowing that one day her beauty would cease to hold sway in the way that it did now—and that her power, though formidable, was of short duration. This was what infused her actions with their remarkable force, giving them a suppressed urgency that no performance in languor and indifference could entirely efface.

But these subtleties, perceived by Martha and Alexander, were lost upon Teresa, who reeled from two stinging discoveries. The first was that Arabella had excluded her from the new friendships with Lady Salisbury and Henrietta Oldmixon. And the second, seemingly insignificant, but of the greatest importance to Teresa, was that all three ladies had arrived at the party wearing riding habits. She could not believe it! Arabella had specifically said that she rode only pillion when she was in town, whereas she, Teresa Blount, had been acknowledged in the same conversation as a very fine horsewoman. This might have been the one opportunity she had to outshine her cousin, and yet no one had bothered to let her know that there was to be riding. The unfairness of it was hard to bear, and as Arabella sat in her new black habit, surrounded by the concentric circles of her aristocratic admirers, Teresa thought that she had never tasted such bitter gall.