Death of a Dowager (5 page)

Chapter 6

Despite the familiar irregular features and hazel eyes, the woman in the mirror scarce resembled me. My reflection wore a blue silk bandeau in her hair, which supported a gathering of white ostrich plumes and blond court lappets. A white satin slip with an embroidered border of blue flowers peeked out from under a blue petticoat festooned with miniature blue rosettes and clusters of seed pearls. Over the dress, she wore a robe train of gros de Naples in a darker shade of blue, ornamented with miniature blue rosettes. In addition, that strange mannequin staring back at me wore white satin gloves that stretched from the fingertips past the elbows. And around her neck was a strand of diamonds that caught the candlelight and broke it into rainbows with a million splendid colors.

Jane Eyre, governess, would never dress in such a flamboyant manner.

Mrs. Edward Rochester, wife of the country squire, might.

Surely one might fight for a middle ground!

I lifted my blue and silver wrap to decorously cover my décolletage and shoulders.

“No, no, no!” Lucy scolded as she readjusted the drape around my upper arms so that more of my skin was uncovered. “This shawl should softly embrace you, not bundle you up as if you were a parcel. Besides you want the Rochester diamonds to show. Their sparkle matches that of your eyes.”

Lucy peeped over my shoulder and into the cheval mirror at our reflections. Our twin ostrich feather headdresses mingled in a flurry of downy white fluff. Behind us, I saw the sumptuous gold and white decor of Lucy’s guest room. Rags, Lucy’s beloved little white dog, stood watching us from the bed, his tail wagging like a king’s standard flaps in the breeze.

“But I feel too exposed. This can’t be proper.”

“It’s not only proper but required. The King sets the rules for court dress, and court dress is de rigueur at the theater. At least George IV has decreed that we won’t be wearing hoops under our skirts. But the décolletage, bare arms, and ostrich plumes are still expected.” Lucy admired her handiwork, since it had been her instructions that the mantua-maker followed when creating my lavish gown. “You look a picture, and I can’t wait to introduce you. Shall I call you my sister?”

“I would be honored.”

Any observer who compared Lucy’s blond curls to my smooth wings of dark hair would quickly dispute the notion that we shared a similar provenance. However, if outward appearances were cast aside, one might soon discover that Lucy and I harbored the sort of affection for each other that would rival that of any two siblings.

“Polly? I daresay we won’t be back until very, very late. I’ll be sorry to wake you, but of course we’ll need your help.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Polly quivered with happy expectation rather than inconvenience.

Lucy treated her abigail with much more familiarity than most treated their lady’s maids, but rather than making the young woman impertinent, Polly seemed to revel in helping her mistress dress for august social events.

I cast a longing glance at my old brown muslin dress—a gown so plain that in it I could pass for a woman of modest means, the woman I once was. Polly noticed and placed the dress over her arm.

“I’ll clean this for you and mend the tear, Mrs. Rochester.”

A tear. Even that felt symbolic to me of my conflicted state of mind.

“I promise you,” said Lucy, turning me so our eyes met, “this evening will be a revelation. A distraction. A reminder of what the larger world has to offer both of you. Even now.”

“Lucy, I appreciate all you have done,” I said taking her hand, “but I would feel much more comfortable in simpler attire. We are going to the opera house to watch the performance onstage. Why should anyone care what I am wearing?”

“You have so much to learn.” Lucy shook her head. “A vast portion of tonight’s entertainment will be in watching the audience. Everyone who is anyone in London will be attending tonight to see Corri-Paltoni’s triumphant return to the London stage. They will use the evening to catch up on the latest gossip. The actors and singers will need to strain to be heard over the chatter and commotion!”

I touched my shawl and watched the silver threads glisten most alluringly. Lucy had given it to me as a wedding gift, and thus I treasured it. “Are we to be the object of such attention because your box is so prominent?”

“That is but one reason. For another, the entire routine of social calls is excruciatingly boring, so the appearance of any new personage infuses much-needed excitement to the mix. You wouldn’t want to cheat the others of the spectacle, would you? As a newcomer to the social scene, tomorrow you will be the subject du jour!”

“I have no desire to be the subject du jour. I am attending the opera because my husband is eager to revive his memories of hearing Corri-Paltoni on the Continent, not because I wish to make a spectacle of myself!”

“Aye, there’s the rub. You cannot do one without the other.”

Polly draped our trains over our forearms so we would not trip over them, and I caught the scent of lily-of-the-valley perfume as Lucy moved me toward the doorway.

I admit I dragged my feet a little, scuffing my lovely silk slippers. “Won’t the other patrons have more important subjects to discuss? Such as the quality of Corri-Paltoni’s voice?”

“Bah! What does society know of musical talent? Not much, I assure you. But to see a new face in a fifth-level box, that is a subject they can explore with great amusement. Think of this as a grand lark, and you are perfectly prepared for your part.”

I hardly thought so.

In fact, I felt a bit ill.

Chapter 7

Solemn male voices echoed off the marble floors in the entry hall of the Braytons’ residence, where my husband and Mr. Douglas conferred in hushed tones. Lucy’s brother looked wonderful in his impeccable eveningwear, but he was nothing compared to my husband. A rogue lock of hair fell over Edward’s brow, and white hairs had recently joined the dark ones in his sideburns. I thought these signs of maturity a most appealing addition to his natural charms.

The men were discussing the trial of Caroline of Brunswick, King George IV’s wife. Caroline insisted on being named Queen Consort, as was her right, but the King wanted her barred from his coronation, two months hence. To prove his wife unfit, he had collected salacious evidence of her adultery. The proceedings moved along slowly, even as George IV planned a coronation more elaborate than any ever held. But the previous autumn, Caroline had been found not guilty—and the crowds in the street went wild with joy. Whatever flaws Caroline had, they paled in comparison to the King’s profligate behavior, his out-of-control spending, and his blatant disregard for the common man.

The men’s low voices were overshadowed by giggles coming from Adèle and our son, Ned, nestled in the arms of his nursemaid Amelia.

Lucy’s rapping of her fan on the walnut banister alerted all to our arrival. With her other hand, she stayed my progress, so that she and I stood paused at the top of the stairs, allowing the small assemblage below best opportunity to inspect our grandeur while Rags preceded us down the stairs, barking all the way.

“
Très belle! C’est magnifique!
” Adèle Varens, Edward’s ward and my former pupil, clapped with excitement and turned a pirouette of pure joy. “
Chère Madame, tu es fantastique
!”

She rattled off a steady stream of French sentences that left her quite breathless, including the hurried comment that “the house wren has turned into a peacock!”

I did not correct her by pointing out that the peacock is the male of that species, and the female peahen is dull by comparison, but I did tuck the comment away for her future edification. Once one has served as a teacher, the urge to correct mistakes is a pressing desire, not because the teacher believes in her natural superiority, but because inaccuracy is the breeding ground of ignorance.

As Adèle hopped from one foot to the other, Ned caught the festive spirit and erupted with hoots of baby laughter.

Edward addressed his ward in her native language and suggested that she show the sort of restraint that the English admire in a young woman of breeding. But this chastisement was accomplished with warm affection in his voice, and although she bit her lip, Adèle’s face did not sacrifice its effervescent expression of happiness.

“What visions of loveliness!” Mr. Douglas announced as Lucy and I made our way down the stairs. “Mrs. Rochester, the blue of your gown reminds me of spring bluebells in the forest, but the white of your ostrich feathers is more like freshly fallen snow.”

Mr. Douglas has a kind heart. His description was solely for Edward’s benefit. My husband squinted at Lucy and me, struggling to see us for himself. My heart plummeted at this additional evidence of continued deterioration in his vision. Lucy’s method of decorating, which tended to excess, meant there were no clear pathways in her house, which further complicated Edward’s attempts at self-sufficiency. Only hours earlier, he had tripped over an ornate needlepointed footstool and taken such a fall that I feared for his safety.

As I’d helped him to his feet, he’d admitted he could see less and less each day. “I had hoped to hide it from you, darling Jane.”

I’d guided him toward a wingback chair, capturing the offending footstool and pulling it near him.

“Sit here, sir,” I had said, before taking my place on the low stool. I sat with my head against his knees so that he could stroke my hair. Silently, I wondered to myself what would become of my husband when he could no longer navigate his way through the world without assistance.

“Mr. Rochester,” I had then said quietly, “I thought we had agreed: There are to be no secrets between us.”

“Ah, as if I could keep it a secret! You suspected as much, darling girl. There was no reason to alarm you further by confirming it.” He’d sounded jaunty. As a postscript, he’d added, “At this rate I shall be blind as a tree stump in a month or two.”

“No, no, my darling,” I’d assured him, winding my arms around his calves. Privacy was a luxury in Lucy’s busy home. “I am confident that Mr. Lerner can help you. As for your care after the fact, I think your idea of hiring him to work for us and among our tenants is a good one. Whatever obstacles your vision poses, your insight is still good. Once you meet this Mr. Lerner, if you think highly of the man, I say we should engage him. We need another doctor in the county, and as squire it’s your duty to take care of your tenants.”

“How do you feel about the fact that he is a Jew?”

“Our Lord Christ worshiped in temple. The Jews are God’s Chosen People. I am not sure what the farmers will say, but if he comes with Mr. Carter’s approval, I think they’ll give him a fair shot, don’t you?”

“I hope so. I certainly hope so,” Edward had said. His large hand caressed my face. “It has never been my wont to pray for myself, as that always seemed so arrogant coming from one who had received more than his fair share of life’s bounty. However, in odd moments, my mouth forms the words, ‘Please, God,’ and I am stunned by the ferocity of my desire to regain at least a portion of my sight. Yet who am I to ask for more than what I already have? What sort of ingrate am I?”

“No ingrate, sir. Only a human being.”

A little later, I’d told Lucy about Edward’s diminishing vision. “Perhaps it is prudent to alert your staff to the matter. I do not wish—nor do I expect—for you to change your household to accommodate him. However, they can keep a sharp watch on trivial matters that could anticipate a crisis.”

“Like a cigar ash rolling onto a tapestry chair?”

“Oh dear! Has that happened?”

“Yes, but it was quickly extinguished. You do not need to worry—my servants have already come to me individually to say they are being watchful.”

My heart ached with relief and thankfulness. “How can I let them know their efforts are appreciated?”

“You’ve already shared with them your greatest treasures, Ned and Adèle. The sound of children’s voices in this house is as welcome as the sound of eventide bells in the local church. Believe me, if the servants are half as thrilled with Evans when he arrives, this place will hum with happiness.”

Now as I watched how tenderly Lucy’s brother shepherded my husband toward the front door, I reflected again on how fortunate we were to have such stalwart friends!

After saying good-bye to Adèle and giving Ned a kiss, I took my husband’s arm. Higgins grabbed Rags or he would have gladly accompanied us out the door. Mr. Douglas nudged Edward toward the carriage by shadowing his other side. To the casual observer, nothing would appear amiss.

Keeping up his end of this ruse, my husband initiated gay banter with Lucy about the merits of a castrato’s voice versus that of a soprano’s. I noted how sincerely cheerful he sounded. Yes, my husband was painfully aware of his infirmities, but I hoped that diversions such as this would go a long way toward making him happier.

As Lucy, Edward, and I took our seats in the carriage, Mr. Douglas leaned out the quarter light to remind Williams that our destination was the Italian Opera Theatre in Haymarket.

“Haymarket?” Edward mused.

“You’d scarcely recognize the place,” said Mr. Douglas. “Totally redesigned. One of the architects is a fellow named Nash. A great favorite with our new King.”

“And like our sovereign, another man who revels in excess,” sighed Lucy. “This monstrous building can seat two thousand and five hundred souls.”

I could not imagine so many people in one place at one time!

Williams urged the twin bays forward. Peering through the curtains and enjoying the passing scenery, I caught myself before pointing out a trifling landmark to my husband. There was no need to make Edward more aware of his plight. Seeking to ease the awkwardness of the moment, I said, “By the way, Mr. Rochester, you are looking very dashing with your top hat and morning coat. You are turned out quite nicely, too, Mr. Douglas.”

“I am sure we will both be as drab as dirt next to His Majesty. What a dandy he is!” Mr. Douglas laughed.

“What? Are you suggesting our sovereign will be in attendance?” My heart crowded my throat. This was a turn of events I had not foreseen.

“It is possible,” said Lucy. “Perhaps even likely. But he is often surrounded by a large crowd of those currying his favor, especially because invitations to the coronation are so highly coveted. Those on the periphery of his circle seek to improve their chances at attending. We’ll probably get our best look at him as he processes into his box.”

“The letter?” That was all I needed to say; everyone in the carriage knew of its existence.

“Is still locked away,” Lucy assured me, “and I have spoken of it to no one.”

“Are you worried, my dear little Jane?” asked my husband gently.

“Don’t be,” said Mr. Douglas before I had the chance to answer. The role of protector came easily to him, and since he meant his rebuke kindly, I took it as such.

“Our King has been exceedingly fond of writing to his paramours. With the coronation approaching, his couriers are busily scouring the countryside and buying up his errant love notes. Your letter is but one of many.” Mr. Douglas smiled at me in a reassuring way.

“But will he be here tonight? The King?” I could not decide whether the shiver that swept through me was the result of being thrilled or dismayed. After all, who would have guessed that I, an orphan girl shuttled off to a charity school, would have risen so high? Never did I dream that I might glimpse the sovereign of our realm, arguably the most powerful man in the world. No matter how dissolute or disappointing, this was our liege, and he was still our ruler.

I did hope for a good look at him.

“One can never tell in advance if he’ll be in attendance, but he does enjoy performances,” said Mr. Douglas. “Rather fancies himself an amateur thespian, or so I’ve heard. If he is here tonight, he might be escorting the Marchioness Conyngham, his latest mistress. He does fall for them with alarming regularity.”

“Yes, he’s had one woman after another and is rumored to have fathered many illegitimate children,” said Lucy, “but there’s a fundamental discontent driving his actions. The only woman he has truly loved is a person he can’t keep by his side, Maria Fitzherbert, the woman he married without his father’s permission. Furthermore, dear Brother, I am sure Jane’s letter is unique, since in it the King acknowledges that he married Maria and that Minney Seymour was their own child, and therefore, an heir to the throne, albeit an illegitimate one. His affection for Minney is well-known. She is the one who nicknamed him ‘Prinny’ because as a child she could not manage the title ‘Prince.’ Thus they became ‘Minney and Prinny’ to all.” This last bit Lucy directed to me.

“Why would he dote on this particular girl when he has other illegitimate children?” I asked.

“He loves Minney because he loves her mother,” said Lucy. “Isn’t that one of the reasons parents long for children? To see their love for another person incarnate? Maria is not the most beautiful woman the King has wooed. She is six years his elder and had been twice widowed when he married her in 1785. Worse, she’s not only a commoner but a Roman Catholic! Her nose is too long and her chin too prominent, though her eyes are huge and her complexion flawless. But she has such a gentle and loving nature that everyone who meets her is captivated.”

“You speak as though you know Mrs. Fitzherbert personally,” I said.

Lucy inclined her head. “We have been friends for many years. I respect and admire her. Minney is a darling, only a few years older than you.”

“This is still confusing,” I admitted. “If Minney is Maria Fitzherbert’s daughter, why is Seymour her family name?”

“Officially, Minney was born to Lady Horatia and Vice-Admiral Lord Hugh Seymour. But that was all a sham, a way of protecting Maria from idle gossip. Moreover, as a ruse it almost went too far. When the Seymours died, one after another of illness, Minney was safe at home with Maria. But knowing the child was favored by His Majesty, Lady Horatia’s sister tried to gain custody. Can you imagine? For that I do give him credit. Our King fought the one battle of his life in persuading the House of Lords that Maria should be able to keep the girl and raise her as her own.”

“The man presents a total contradiction.” I voiced my innermost thoughts as our carriage arrived at the theater and joined the others in the queue.

“What about Caroline of Brunswick? Will she be here?” wondered Edward. “I confess I am curious about her. Surely she cannot be as uncouth as she’s made out to be.”

“Her personal habits are appalling, her lack of modesty is an affront to all women, and her behavior is unbecoming,” said Lucy. “Do you know that she has appeared in public with her breasts exposed? That she has told visitors quite plainly that she enjoys intimate relations and then she has gone on to invite her guests to join her in partaking of such?”

I felt a blush rise to my cheeks.

“Yet, Sister, the common folk love her,” said Mr. Douglas. “They identify with her plight. She, like them, has been wrongly used by our King.”

“When you compare them—the wife he chose for himself versus the wife his father forced him to marry—it is easy to see why the King prefers Maria,” said Lucy.

“True, and yet the King must distance himself from Mrs. Fitzherbert. Especially now when he has not yet been consecrated as our sovereign.”

“The coronation.” Edward nodded. “That is the key. He must be presented to and acclaimed by the people, before he receives our homage. Perhaps he believes that once the ceremony is over, when he has been anointed, crowned, and blessed, the populace will have no choice but to accept him despite all his peccadilloes.”