The Scandal of the Season (26 page)

In thinking about Alexander's part in the crisis, Martha surprised herself. She found that she resented him, too. Had he given any thought to it, he must have known that a breach between himself and Teresa would also end his friendship with Martha. And yet he had not thought of that at all, obviously. In the past, it would have caused her unspeakable hurt. But now she was angry. However clever he might be, Alexander had behaved like a fool.

 

At nine o'clock on the night of the picnic, Lord Petre went to meet James Douglass in the Pen and Hand. The tavern was on a dark and dirty street in Shoreditch, some distance from where Jenkins had left him in the carriage.

“What possessed you to bring me into this part of town?” Lord Petre demanded. He couldn't help but be apprehensive as he walked along the desolate streets, fearing that someone might be watching him from the alleyways.

“Your fellow papists say Mass in this garret after dark. I am surprised you do not know it, my lord.”

“Catholics of quality do not come here to pray,” he replied. “They would likely be knifed to death. You should not have asked me here.”

“I am to meet an agent later.”

Lord Petre said nothing.

“In seven or eight days' time four of our men will enter London from the north,” Douglass said in a low tone. “A fifth will come by water, alone. He will be at your house between two and three o'clock in the morning. Can you be ready?”

Lord Petre leapt to attention, forgetting his anger. “I can,” he answered.

“The agent will be carrying documents from France,” said Douglass. “You are to offer protection for two days until he sails again.”

“I cannot keep him in my family's house, but my servant will take him to a safe place.”

Douglass nodded briefly. “And the other matter?” he asked in a lower voice.

Lord Petre took a packet from his coat and handed it across. It contained three hundred pounds. Douglass looked around the room quickly, and shoved the package into his surtout.

“I must tell you to take care with those, Douglass,” said Lord Petre. “You know that traitors have been discovered among us.”

“Have your rich friends been filling your head with rumors again, my lord?” Douglass asked mockingly.

Lord Petre knew that this indifference was pretended. When he had told Douglass the news about Francis Gerrard's murder, months ago now, Douglass had gone white.

“Traitors in our ranks!” Lord Petre recalled him saying. “Gerrard must have told Caryll before he died.”

“Not directly,” Lord Petre had corrected him. “He told one of the leaders. That night, at the embassy.” He remembered Douglass's aghast expression clearly.

But today he took Lord Petre's caution lightly. “Gerrard was killed months ago,” Douglass said. “Nothing has happened since. Your friend Caryll got his story wrong. We have nothing to fear from traitors.”

Lord Petre pushed his chair away from the table, angry again. “I am certain that Caryll was not mistaken,” he hissed. Douglass could be as careless of his own safety as he pleased, but the money was Lord Petre's. He was determined they would not lose it.

“Steady there, my lord,” Douglass urged him in a low voice, glancing around the room. “Remember where you are. I am sorry to have baited you just now,” he added, as Lord Petre composed himself. “As you say, Caryll's word is sound, and your connections are indispensable. We could not go forward without you.”

Mollified, Lord Petre reached out to shake Douglass by the hand before he left the tavern.

H
enrietta Oldmixon had planned an evening gathering with dancing, cards, and supper. Oldmixon parties were famous: the year before they had given a Roman banquet, where the guests dressed as senators and emperors and reclined on low couches to dine. In the winter Henrietta had arranged a medieval feast at which a flock of starlings was released from a pie just when supper was served, and acrobats and jugglers played tricks among the dancing couples. This assembly, held nine days after Lord Petre's picnic in Hyde Park, was to be a masquerade. But since all her guests would be known to one another, the caution that accompanied encounters at the public masquerade could be suspended.

Arabella Fermor was to be the guest of honor, the newest addition to the charmed group of Henrietta's friends. The town's wits and intellects had been summoned for the occasion, Charles Jervas and Alexander Pope among them. The Blount sisters were invited because of their relation to Arabella.

Before the picnic Teresa and Martha had been looking forward to Henrietta's party a good deal. But Alexander's unwanted declaration, Lord Petre's attentions to Arabella, and Teresa's discovery of her cousin's fashionable new friendships meant that both girls were now preparing for it with more dread than eagerness. They would go, nonetheless; it was unthinkable that they would miss such an occasion. Jervas's carriage collected them shortly before nine on the night of the party. Arabella had not offered to drive them. The coach ride with Jervas and Alexander was awkward, and even Martha, who generally tried to smooth over such moments, sat proudly silent.

Since it was a private party the guests wore evening dress rather than full masquerade costume. Teresa and Martha were each dressed in a silk brocade gown with Venetian masks over their faces, and when they arrived at the house they found that others had done the same. Some of the masks were elaborate: animals and carnival figures; ornate jewels and feathered headdresses. Three of the guests, however, wore full disguise—the plumage of birds—a falcon, a peacock, and a swan. Their costumes were magnificent, all the more so because they did not, in fact, conceal the identities of the wearers. It was apparent that Henrietta Oldmixon was the falcon and Lady Salisbury the peacock; the swan, needless to say, was Arabella.

For each of the three nights before Henrietta's party Lord Petre stood for many hours in the dark stable yard of his house on Arlington Street, waiting for the agent to come. But he did not appear, and there was no news of arrests, or any other signal that something in the plan had gone awry. Lord Petre was sure, therefore, that he must keep waiting. But he was growing tired of these lonely vigils, and he longed to see Arabella again, so he decided to go to the Oldmixon party, and return home just after midnight. He would give the appearance of going to bed, as he had done on the other nights, and would then sneak down to wait for his night visitor. When their business was accomplished, Petre planned to have Jenkins take the agent away to his own family's house—loyal Catholics as the Jenkinses were, Lord Petre knew that they could be trusted.

When all Henrietta's guests had assembled, a stand of fireworks was let off from the yard below, and the maskers crowded into the front rooms to watch. As the display came to an end, Teresa discovered that Arabella had come to stand beside her, and in a moment they were joined by Henrietta.

“You know Miss Oldmixon, of course,” Arabella said to Teresa.

Teresa was surprised when Henrietta greeted her warmly. Until now she had not even bothered to acknowledge Miss Blount as an acquaintance.

“This is a charming gathering, Miss Oldmixon,” Teresa replied in a determined effort to imitate her companions' insouciance.

“I am glad that you are come,” said Henrietta. “I hope that you and your sister will be diverted. Did I not see you both the other day at my Lord Petre's pleasure party in the park? I did not know you were acquainted with him.”

“He is a friend of the family. Our brother is often at Ingatestone,” Teresa replied untruthfully, but she was pleased that Henrietta smiled by way of reply.

“I don't suppose that anybody was long in the park after Lord Petre and I were gone,” Arabella said. “Oh—but you were attended by Mr. Pope and Mr. Jervas, Teresa. Perhaps you remained behind.”

Before Teresa could answer, Henrietta interrupted. “Well, I must say, Arabella, that
you
were gone from the party pretty hastily,” she said. “And when you are seen to act with eagerness, we must conclude that alacrity is now the fashion, and that indifference is a habit of the past. Do you know your cousin's reputation for being more fashionable than any other girl in London, Miss Blount?”

Teresa was sure that she heard a note of sarcasm in Henrietta's voice, and she echoed it in her own reply. “Arabella's reputation is well known,” she said. “We hear of it even in the country.”

Arabella turned away from them with a look of unmistakable irritation and a reproachful glance at Henrietta as she went. Teresa was surprised again. How gratifying it was to discover that the jealousy she felt toward Arabella existed also within the charmed circle of London's belles. She began a more confident circuit of the room, feeling that her fortunes had improved. Lord Petre, standing to one side of the gathering wearing a mask and a cockaded hat over his long curls, no longer seemed a figure whom she would pass by bashfully. She might even smile to think of his weakness for Arabella, since it appeared to have won her cousin fewer friends than it had at first appeared.

She walked up to Martha, intending to make up for some of her recent thoughtlessness. But Martha, accustomed to Teresa's approaching only when she was in need of reassurance, said, “Did Henrietta Oldmixon say something unkind to you?”

“Certainly not!” said Teresa. “You need not be concerned for
me,
Patty.”

“Oh, I know that,” Martha replied, quickly recognizing her sister's mood. “I am only passing by on my way to the supper room. Will you accompany me?”

“If you would like me to,” said Teresa, pleased, in truth, that Martha was there. They left the assembly room to cross the entrance hall. As they did, Martha caught sight of a swan's plumage disappearing rapidly up the stairs. Her eyes followed its progress, and Teresa saw it, too. There was a short silence between them.

“She must know the house,” said Teresa.

But a moment later a tall man, wearing a black mask and a cockaded hat, followed the same course. He made not the slightest effort to greet them, for his eye was trained upward, following the flight of the feathered bird. Martha looked at her sister; it was clear to both that Arabella and Lord Petre had arranged an assignation.

In the main assembly room, Alexander had watched the little exchanges unfold between Teresa and Henrietta, and then with Martha. He followed them to the supper room, trying to meet the sisters' glances. Teresa looked at him coldly; he was not surprised. But with a shock of dismay, he saw Martha turn away. Alexander felt as though he had been struck down. Never had he imagined this! His first impulse was to rush toward her, but she had begun to talk to Charles Jervas, and was seemingly absorbed by what he was saying. Alexander felt winded.

But Richard Steele and John Gay were standing before him: Gay asked how he did, and Steele filled his own plate with ham and urged him to take some. Alexander barely heard them, thinking over and over of Martha's rebuff. But he knew that he must recall himself. Steele and Gay were discussing the dramatic production of
Dick Whittington and His Cat
that they had just seen at Drury Lane.

“Capital, did not you think? A rousing, spirited sort of fellow,” finished Steele.

“The cat was not so distinguished on the night that I saw the performance,” Gay replied. “There was too much of interest for him behind the stage in the way of rats, and only rarely was he present when Whittington wished for his company.”

“I heard that the manager of the theater was wild about it,” Steele answered, “but there is nothing to be done. Pope!” he exclaimed, suddenly. “You should write something of this sort for the town. We would give you a tremendous fanfare in the
Spectator
.”

Alexander forced himself not to frown. “I thank you, sir, but I have no tale that would lend itself to the introduction of either cats or rats. I favor rather those dramas that concern themselves with people. But your audience might feel that a little too closely for amusement.”

There was laughter at this, more than he had expected. He noticed that many people in the room were observing him, smiling and murmuring in low tones. He wondered why. Their stares seemed to contain admiration. Might they have heard of the success of his
Essay on Criticism
? As he glanced around he saw Henrietta Oldmixon coming toward him, bringing with her the Duke of Beaufort, to whom she been speaking.

The duke had unmasked, and his expression put Alexander in mind of some furry, earthbound quarry, lately surprised by a bird of prey that he had not seen approaching. Naturally, Henrietta did not actually hold the duke in her beak, but his limp, slightly bedraggled demeanor conveyed well the nuances of their relation.

“Mr. Pope!” Henrietta exclaimed. “We speak of nothing but your
Essay on Criticism.
You are the most celebrated writer in London.”

Alexander suspected that the compliment was not strict in point of fact, but he took it in the spirit with which it was delivered.

He bowed. “I thank you, madam. Since you are the town's most celebrated giver of entertainments, I am gratified indeed to receive praise from one who understands so well the nature of diversion.”

The Duke of Beaufort, who had the bruised appearance of having been dropped unexpectedly from a considerable height, collected himself and said, “My congratulations, too, Mr. Pope, upon your success. You shall receive a great deal of notice.”

Alexander bowed.

“His Grace judges properly, Pope,” Steele rejoined. “Your writing goes from strength to strength. Is there talk yet of a second edition?”

“Hardly,” Alexander replied, smiling broadly. A large group had now gathered around him, wanting to hear what he had to say. “I have received many good wishes on account of the poem's excellence so far, but not from any party who might reasonably be suspected of having read it—and far less of having bought a copy.” There was a loud burst of laughter at this. “Talk enjoys a reputation for being cheap,” Alexander continued, “and happily for my fame, though not my purse, that circumstance encourages people to indulge in it very freely.” He thought for a moment that the room might actually break into applause. He had never received so much attention before in his life. How bitterly ironic that tonight, when at last the success Martha had prophesied was coming so delightfully to pass, she would not share in his elation.

Richard Steele spoke. “There is one person, however, who
has
read your poem—and who is doing everything in his power to prevent your ever writing another.”

Alexander knew immediately whom he was talking about. Just as he had feared, John Dennis had written a cruel attack, and though Alexander had not expected to feel wounded, it had hurt him considerably. He wished that Steele had not mentioned it. “You are speaking of Mr. Dennis, I imagine,” he said. “His essay was exceedingly ill-natured, but I confess that I had anticipated it.” After a moment he added, to make it clear that he took Dennis's criticism lightly, “But Mr. Dennis's slander is of the kind that rather amplifies one's reputation than diminishes it.”

As he spoke, he saw that Teresa was standing very close to the group.

“I am surprised to hear you say that his attack did not affect you, Mr. Pope,” she said. “His description of you was well calculated to be remembered. How did his essay begin? ‘As there is no creature so venomous, so there is nothing so stupid and impotent as a hunchbacked toad….' Is not that correct?”

He was not sure how many of the people in the room had overheard them, but he stepped back from her, embarrassed. Why had she approached him, to add fresh injury to his regret and vexation? He knew that he should not blame her entirely, but as he remembered Martha's coldness toward him, he felt a flash of anger that he could not control.

“I need hardly tell
you,
madam, that on that one score at least, Mr. Dennis was in error,” he replied. “A creature cannot be both venomous and impotent at once. The venomous animal is to be feared precisely because it does not hesitate to bite.”

Steele cut in quickly, obviously regretting what his remark had engendered.

“Dennis is a fool, and everybody knows it. You need not trouble yourself with him, Pope.”

And Henrietta said, “We are wild to know what you will do next, Mr. Pope. Is it to be a tragedy? Or perhaps an epic?”

“I believe I shall turn next to satire,” Alexander replied, reflecting that this present scene would supply as good a place as any with which to begin.

Much to his relief, he saw that people had begun other conversations again, and that the room was quickly becoming just as rowdy as it had been before the interlude with Teresa. She was nudged out to the edge of the gathering, as Henrietta's guests pressed forward to meet the man whom their hostess had praised as the liveliest wit in London. Alexander did not understand how it had happened so suddenly, but everybody seemed to know who he was. He felt a rush of gratitude, then a feeling of elating self-confidence.