A Scandalous Publication (4 page)

* * *

The spring of 1817 was glorious, a succession of warm, sunny days that made the dreariness and horror of the previous year seem like a nightmare; that nightmare at last seemed to be a thing of the past when one morning in May, just one month before the anniversary of George Wyndham’s death, the long-awaited letter arrived from Richard Pagett in America.

The day began ordinarily enough, with Charlotte and her mother taking their usual plain breakfast together. Mrs. Wyndham disliked plain breakfasts, having in better times enjoyed the full range of delicacies provided at Kimber Park, and so she grumbled a little when Polly brought in the boiled eggs and toast.

“Oh, dear, not eggs again. No doubt they’re as hard-boiled as they were yesterday and the day before.”

Polly eyes were wide, like a frightened rabbit’s, and she gathered her skirts and fled before any blame could be attached to her for the condition of the eggs.

Mrs. Wyndham looked disapprovingly after her. “Foolish chit, why must she always take fright like that? I vow she would not have lasted a single week at Kimber Park.”

“Mrs. White is rather hard on her.”

“Nonsense. Mrs. White is exceeding tolerant, it’s just her gruff manner. Now, then, where’s the paper? Ah, yes.” She picked up the paper began to glance through it.

“Your eggs will indeed be hard-boiled if you leave them for much longer,” Charlotte pointed out.

“Mm?”

“I said your eggs…. Oh, it doesn’t matter.” Charlotte could see that her mother was lost in the paper and would be for some time.

Mrs. Wyndham looked up after a few minutes. “Some good news at last, it was announced from Claremont House yesterday that Princess Charlotte is expecting her first child in October or November. There, isn’t that excellent?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Let’s pray that she keeps well and has a fine boy.” Mrs. Wyndham read on. “It goes on to say that the princess is at present sitting for her portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence.”

“Then I pity her.”

“Why ever do you say that?”

“Sir Thomas is a dreadful man, all roving eyes and too-warm glances. And he lacks discretion.”

“That cannot possibly be so.”

“He gossips like an old hen.”

“Hens don’t gossip.” Mrs. Wyndham rustled the newspaper crossly, for Sir Thomas had been very charming and flattering when he had stayed at Kimber Park, and she didn’t care to think that she had been fooled. “Now, then, what else does it say about the princess? Ah yes, it seems that in view of her delicate condition, she will probably not now be among the royal guests attending the grand state opening of the new Waterloo Bridge on the eighteenth of June. Well, that I can understand, for no doubt she shudders at the thought of bobbing around on the Thames. As I recall, she suffers as much as I do from
mal de mer.
”

“Mother, I hardly imagine that the Thames will induce seasickness, especially not when one is in a vessel as large and comfortable as the royal barge.”

“The Thames can be positively stormy, Charlotte. Still, I must confess that although I’m a martyr to the waves, I would still move heaven and earth to attend such an occasion.” Mrs. Wyndham gave a little sigh. “If your dear father was alive, he’d see to it that we had a fine pleasure boat and he would secure us an excellent vantage point from which to view the ceremony.”

Charlotte smiled gently. “Yes, he would, and you’d have adored every minute of it, even though you’d undoubtedly have turned a delicate shade of green before the day was out.”

Her mother smiled. “Well,” she went on more briskly, “it won’t be happening, and society will have to struggle along without us as best it can.”

“I sincerely hope there’s a gale and they
all
succumb to seasickness.”

“That’s hardly charitable, Charlotte.”

“After the way they’ve snubbed us recently, I don’t feel charitably disposed toward any of them. In fact, I feel so little sympathy that I’m positively
relishing
the thought of reading the book I’m collecting from the library this morning.”

“Book? What book?”

“Glenarvon.”

Mrs. Wyndham pursed her lips disapprovingly. “That book is a disgrace, and Lady Caroline Lamb should be ashamed of herself for writing it.”

“Why should she? Oh, I know it isn’t the thing at the moment to speak up for her, but I believe she’s been very shabbily treated by society, especially the Lambs and everyone else at Melbourne House.”

“You surely do not condone her conduct with Lord Byron?”

“No, of course not, I’m just saying that she isn’t the only one to blame.”

“Her poor husband, William Lamb, did not deserve to be attacked in print like that; he’s a positive angel. It was bad enough that she was so wildly indiscreet in her affair with Lord Byron, but to then further punish poor William by perpetuating the scandal in a
roman
à
clef
as ridiculously easy to decipher as
Glenarvon
puts her quite beyond the pale as far as I’m concerned. How
can
poor William be feeling when every drawing room he enters has a copy of his wife’s literary stab in the back lying open on a table? That horrid scribble bares all the intimate secrets of his marriage to the world, and I for one am solely with him and not with his spoiled, hysterical, unprincipled wife.”

Charlotte sat back, smiling at such a long and fervent speech in William Lamb’s defense. “Well, what a tiger you are, to be sure.”

“I happen to like him, although I confess that he’s the only person at Melbourne House I have any time for now.”

“Yes, I suppose I must concede that he has suffered unfairly because of the book, but the rest of his family and their odious friends have received their just desserts.”

“Maybe so, but I do not know that I approve of that book in this house.”

“You will not ban it, surely? Not when I’ve been waiting so wretchedly long for my name to reach the top of Wyman’s list?” protested Charlotte.

“No, I won’t ban it, for if I did you’d only take it out anyway and read it secretly.” Mrs. Wyndham smiled, “Well, it so happens that I already know a little about the book, enough to know that Lady Melbourne makes an absolutely horrid appearance as a character called the Princess of Madagascar, and that Lord Byron himself is the Glenarvon of the title.”

Charlotte poured herself some more coffee. “Oh, I
am
looking forward to reading it and solving the key so that I know exactly who each character is really meant to be. I’m hoping against hope to identify Judith Taynton as someone perfectly loathsome, for she has insinuated herself at Melbourne House like a flea on a dog in recent years, and she and Lady Caroline cannot possibly have got on.”

“My dear, you are in an exceeding uncharitable mood this morning. It’s quite unlike you.”

“Nonsense, it’s very like me indeed, especially after the way everyone’s ignored the very existence of the Wyndhams in recent months.”

“You cannot with any honesty say that
you’ve
minded,” pointed out her mother, “for you’ve never liked socializing.”

“I know. I’m angry on your behalf. In fact, there have been times of late when I’ve been positively tempted to write a
Glenarvon
of my own.”

Mrs. Wyndham was appalled. “Charlotte, you wouldn’t!”

“If one more of them affects not to have seen me in the street, I shall be giving the matter my deep and dark consideration.”

At that moment they heard the letter carrier’s bell in the street, and Mrs. Wyndham’s breath caught as he knocked at the door. “Oh, Charlotte,” she breathed, “do you think it could possibly be…?” She didn’t dare to finish the sentence, for it seemed like tempting providence to say aloud that she hoped it might at long last be a letter from her brother.

Charlotte looked anxiously at her. “Please, Mother, don’t build up your hopes.”

They heard Mrs. White go to the door, and a moment later she came hurrying into the room. She was a plump woman of about fifty, with a rosy complexion and shiny cheeks, and she wore a blue-and-white-checkered dress and an apron so crisp that it crackled when she walked. A large mob cap wobbled on her frizzy gray hair, and her brown eyes shone as she brought a letter to Mrs. Wyndham, putting it quickly down upon the table. “Begging your pardon for coming straight in, ma’am, but I know you’ve been waiting for it. It’s a letter from America.”

Charlotte put her cup down quickly, staring at the letter, and her mother gazed at it too, so overcome that for a moment she couldn’t move. Mrs. White tactfully withdrew from the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Charlotte pushed the letter toward her mother. “Please read it, I can’t bear to wait.”

Mrs. Wyndham broke the seal and unfolded the sheet of paper. Her hands were trembling and her voice was a little shaky as she began to read aloud.

My dear sister, Sophia,

It was with great sadness and shock that I read Charlotte’s letter, and my heart goes out to you both in your sad loss. George was not only my brother-in-law, he was also my mentor and friend, and I grieve deeply that he has been taken from us all.

To tell you now that Charlotte’s letter arrived on the very day I had decided to return to England anyway might seem to stretch coincidence too far, but it is the truth. Much as I’ve come to love America and its people, I’ve been missing England more and more, and recently I’ve yearned to come home. America has been good to the black sheep of the Pagett family, Sophia, with the result that he has had the opportunity to rebuild the fortune he squandered before leaving England. I am once again a very wealthy fellow, and very much in a position to take care of those most dear to me. You and Charlotte need me now, and if I am honest, I need you too, for I’ve been without my family for far too long. I will not fail you. Kimber Park may be gone, but there are other estates, and other town houses to take the place of the one you lost in Berkeley Square. I shall leave America as soon as I am able to put my rather complicated affairs in order, which might unfortunately take several months, my assets being scattered over three states, but I estimate that I shall be home in England some time next spring.

You will not hear from me again as I shall be quitting this address and moving about the country attending to my business affairs, and anyway, you know by now that I’m the world’s worst correspondent. I look forward with all my heart to being reunited with you both, and want more than anything to be able to restore you to your proper place in society.

Until next spring, I am, most affectionately, your loving brother,

Richard

Mrs. Wyndham’s cheeks were wet with tears as she put the letter down. “I hardly dare believe it,” she whispered. “Charlotte, he’s coming home! Richard’s coming home! And he’s wealthy enough to put an end to all this.” She glanced around at the plain dining room. “Oh, I’ve been hoping and hoping, and then, just when I’d begun to fear the worst…. Oh, how I wish he’d written straightaway, and how I wish next spring wasn’t so very far in the future.”

Something was puzzling Charlotte and she picked up the letter. “But he didn’t delay, Mother, he wrote immediately he received my first letter, look at the date. The first of August 1816. He then left his New York address and that’s why all my other letters have gone unanswered; he never received them. I don’t know what happened to this letter of his, but it went horridly astray somewhere between here and America; it’s taken ten months to reach us.”

Her mother stared at her and then gave a squeak that was half-delight, half-horror. “Then it’s
this
spring he’ll be arriving? Good heavens, he could be here at any moment! The spare room must be aired and cleaned from top to bottom, and all sorts of preparations must be made. I must speak to Mrs. White immediately.” Without further ado, she got up, gathering her rustling skirts to hurry out calling the cook.

Charlotte smiled. How good it was to hear that sudden brightness in her mother’s voice. And how good it would be to have Richard with them again after all this time. She felt suddenly close to tears herself, for she too had really begun to fear the worst, that Richard Pagett was no more.

But now all such fears could be forgotten, and with them their present reduced circumstances, for Richard would return a wealthy man.

She was lighthearted when a little later she left the house to go to the library in Wigmore Street to collect
Glenarvon.
Her black bonnet ribbons fluttered in the warm May sunshine and her tread was quick, and she had no inkling of the extremely interesting and rather shocking conversation she was about to overhear; nor did she know that before she returned to the house in Henrietta Street, she would have come face to face again with the subject of that conversation, Sir Maxim Talgarth.

Wyman’s Circulating Library of Wigmore Street was second in size only to Hatchard’s of Piccadilly, but in quality it considered itself London’s foremost such establishment.

When Charlotte arrived, there were already a number of ladies and gentlemen browsing at leisure through the cluttered shelves, the low, discreet drone of their conversation almost muffled by the countless books. There were books everywhere, even piled on the floor, and the shelves rose so high toward the ceiling that those near the top could be reached only by using one of the tall ladders provided.

Assistance was given to all by a coterie of personable young men who ruled their domain from behind a grand circular counter in the center of the floor. These young men were helpful and polite, if a little haughty with those whose circumstances were not as fortunate as might be, when they were also inclined to be officious. Charlotte had to endure this latter treatment, but her determination to make full use of the library’s facilities made her immune to their superior airs and graces; besides, she could now comfort herself with the thought of committing their sins to paper if and when she wrote her version of
Glenarvon
.