Death of a Dowager (8 page)

Chapter 12

“Did you read my letters to Pansy Biltmore?”

Up close, I observed that King George IV’s eyes were blurry, and his expensive chypre perfume could not disguise the fumes of his excessive drinking. Although his gaze was imperious, his wig threatened to slip off his head. Various food stains marred his lace ascot. Soiled and tired, he struck me as unspeakably sad. His unkempt appearance seemed totally at odds with his position. While he leaned toward me, the Marchioness busied herself piling choice tidbits onto a plate for him.

“Letters to Pansy Biltmore,” I repeated, hoping to buy time. I had not expected for him to know these were in my possession. But it should not have surprised me. After all, his minions had been charged with rounding up his love letters.

“I sent Waverly to retrieve them after her daughter died. He was told that you are the one who packed up poor Selina’s things. Waverly says you are a bright little minx. He believes they are in your possession. Is that right?”

“Only one.” I could not bring myself to lie. “The others I burned. My intention had been to destroy them all, but my activities were interrupted.”

“As I recall, ah, one of their number illuminates a rather damaging aspect of my private life. Of course, one might postulate that a king has no private life. There is that argument. It could be made honestly.”

I said nothing. That seemed the wisest course. From the corner of my eyes, I noticed patrons in other boxes pointing at us, taking note of our conversation and the private nature of our talk. The Marchioness passed him the plate, but her attention seemed directed elsewhere, to the procurement of more claret.

“Do you still possess the letter to which I am referring?” the King inquired.

“I do,” I said, and my stomach twisted into a hard lump. In my excitement at meeting George IV and in the aftermath of the Ingrams’ insult, my worries about the letter had slipped my mind. Now I chided myself. How could I have been so foolish? Of course the King did not truly want to talk to me to commend me for my bravery. He wanted a chance to regain that which he’d given away: His deepest secret. A record of his marriage to Maria Fitzherbert.

“And what do you plan to do with it?”

“I have no plans for it.” My mouth was so dry, my lips caught on my teeth.

He raised an eyebrow at me. “There are those who would give a great deal to possess that letter. Those who long to have power over me.”

“Yes. So I have heard.”
Why
, I wondered,
did he not demand that I return it?

“Waverly thinks highly of you.” He drummed his thumb against his chair, allowing the huge ring he wore to clack rhythmically.

“The feeling is mutual.”

“He says you can be trusted, and I have taken note of the fact that you have asked us for nothing. Although you could have. Others have.”

I pondered this. I have never been fond of obfuscation. Plain speaking cuts to the core of the matter, establishes trust, and assures all parties that nothing is amiss. I watched the Marchioness fill another goblet of wine for the King.

“Why should I? There is nothing that I need. If the occasion should develop, I would come to you as any one of your subjects approaches her sovereign. Empty-handed and with a hopeful heart.”

For the first time, he showed his humanity. His face nearly crumpled with relief, and I daresay with vulnerability. No longer did I gaze upon a king; I felt I stared into the soul of a man. I saw his heartache, his failures, and his frailty. Out of respect, I looked away and down, so that my eyes met those of nearly everyone in the theater. Patrons on the first floor and in all the upper tiers were gazing at me curiously.

This was exactly the sort of inspection I had ardently hoped to avoid!

“Sire—” I was interrupted when the vast theater curtains began their slow parting, and the orchestra commenced the opening strains of the second act.

Our private conversation was clearly ended. The Marchioness plucked at the King’s sleeve. Taking advantage of the distraction, I looked over at Mr. Waverly. His gaze was steady, bequeathing me a certain comfort. He was a man to trust, and as I watched him, he raised his chin slightly and mouthed the word, “Later.”

Over the course of the evening, the King drank quantities of claret that would have staggered a horse. Lady Elizabeth matched his tippling glass for glass. Nor did they lack for foodstuffs. I had thought Lucy’s basket a bounty, but the King’s box was a constant parade of servers bringing a variety of cheeses, sliced meats, sweet breads, cakes, and other dainties. Lady Elizabeth titrated a few drops from an amber-colored bottle into the King’s glass of claret. “For your pain, Sire. I know how you suffer!”

“Oh, my angel,” he said with slurred speech. “My treasure. Everything you do pleases me so. Dear, dear, Elizabeth. You care so deeply for me!”

The liquid was laudanum; the label said as much.

I caught Lucy’s eye, and she did not speak, but I knew exactly what she was thinking: How can he be drinking so much wine and taking laudanum and yet function?

Paying attention to the stage challenged me, as I believe it also taxed the concentration of others in my party. We were all alert to the possibility that at any moment our King might well topple over and gasp his last. Yet the man continued as though unaffected. Indeed, for the most part, the King chattered nonstop through the performance, whispering to and kissing Lady Elizabeth as the two of them held hands. I did my utmost to forget myself by attending to the heroic story of Tancredi. However, I would only just shut out the King’s antics when His Majesty would tap me on the shoulder to pontificate on some arcane point regarding the performance. His knowledge of history and setting astonished me, but I would have much preferred to have heard his asides later rather than in the midst of the singing. All in all, my sovereign managed to ruin the performance for me. When we stood for the final round of applause, I prayed that the chance had come to pick up my wrap, say our good-byes, and leave.

However, that proved impossible, because the King decided to stay for the pantomimes that followed. Since he wasn’t going anywhere, none of us could leave, either. One glance at the faces of Lucy, Edward, and Mr. Douglas let me know that they were as tired as I. The King could not have missed our exhaustion, as he yawned in tandem with Edward, but he settled his overfed self into his overstuffed chair and proceeded to drink more wine. At this point, we were more like captives than guests. A self-satisfied glimmer in his eyes told me that he reveled in this petty power. Lucy later told me stories about levees where people were nearly dead on their feet, hoping for our ruler to end the festivities—but the night went on and on until the next day. “He seems to enjoy knowing that others are discomforted,” she explained.

I wished with all my heart that I had never come to his attention.

Much of the crowd took their leave. The luster had worn off the evening, and our surroundings had lost their appeal. Soot clung to every surface as the tabletop candles burned down to stubs. Globs of wax had melted and fallen from the candles in the chandeliers overhead. So much beer had been spilled on the main floor that a sharp yeasty fragrance thickened the air.

Oh, how I wished for the sweet, fresh scents of the heather fields surrounding Ferndean!

Chapter 13

“I still don’t understand why Lucy evidenced such distress,” I told my husband when we were alone in our room and snug in our bed with the eiderdown coverlet pulled over us. After looking in on Ned and Adèle, I had been more than ready to retire. “Lady Ingram greeted Lucy without warmth but respectfully. The slight she dealt me is my burden and mine alone.”

Edward sighed and rubbed his forehead. “My dear innocent wife. The customs of the social set hold no allegiance with rationality. Conflate the Dowager’s dismissal with a stain, one that creeps outward and taints its surrounds. So, too, did her rejection of you ripple outward to include Lucy.”

“And what of it? Lucy has friends, alliances, and those who admire her. Her brother told us of her prowess as a society hostess.”

Edward moved closer to kiss my forehead, my nose, and my lips. The crisply ironed pillow slips cracked beneath him. “The Dowager’s slur was so outrageous, so public, that tongues will wag all over London.”

“But the King invited us to sit with him. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“How can I explain this? Let me think. All right. When you were a schoolgirl, did you ever have peers who acted properly in front of the teacher but quite differently behind her back? It is thus. The ton must revere the King if they wish to benefit from his favor, but beyond the peerages he can confer, beyond the alliances such as marriages to minor royals and positions in his household, he means very little to them. The fact that he was attentive to you incites their curiosity. His approval caught their attention. But their world is a shadowy place. Each one in it rises up at the expense of his friend. They would rather have reason to look down their noses at you—and Lucy—than to admire you. Society will happily assume that Lucy deserved Lady Ingram’s disapproval, and they will shun her. Worse yet, they will shun Evans when he arrives.”

“Ah!” My breath quickened as the understanding dawned. Lucy’s concern was for Evans. All the child needed from her was her love and her protection, but she truly believed that her greatest gift would be launching him as a part of the ten thousand.

“If he is accepted, his illegitimacy won’t matter. Doors will open for him. He will be offered a berth at the best schools. Friends of the better sort will be his. Oh, Jane, I know that you and I recognize the insubstantial nature of these benefits. We both prefer to look deep into a person’s heart rather than judge them by their exterior or their background. But make no mistake, such advantages have value.”

I pondered this. “And now because of me,” I said, “Evans might be shunned.”

But Edward had already fallen fast asleep.

I untangled myself from my husband’s arms, slipped out from the many layers of covers, and went to sit on the window seat, where I could gaze out on the silhouette of London after dark. Here and there a gaslight or candle lit a window. The night watchman walked up and down the streets, swinging his lantern. This bustling hub was the Queen of the Universe, and as such, she never slept. Not entirely. At any time of night, one could hear the muffled clatter of horse hooves, the hoots of laughter, and faint strains of music. The ton sampled all of life’s pleasures, living with enormous gusto, determined to wring the most out of every encounter. As I closed my eyes, and rested my head on my forearms, I imagined people talking. About me. About Lucy. About Evans.

Lucy had befriended me, sponsored me, presented me to society, and injured her position because of me, in one fell swoop.

I felt wretched.

Chapter 14

The next morning while Lucy slept late and the children played with Rags upstairs in the nursery, Edward, Mr. Douglas, and I took seats at the mahogany dining room table. Although Lucy’s brother typically stayed at his club, owing to our late evening, he had slept in one of the guest rooms. From the sideboard came the scent of bacon rashers, ham, fried onions and tomatoes, and egg dishes of all sorts. Foreshadowed by the redolent sharpness of bergamot, Sadie, the maid of all work, came in carrying a heavy tea tray. All of us did our best to enjoy a leisurely breakfast and confined our conversation to an evaluation of Corri-Paltoni’s voice. Edward thought her timbre and expressiveness quite fine. Mr. Douglas thought her range remarkable.

“This should prove an interesting morning,” my husband remarked, “as I shall be interviewing Mr. Lerner. Here’s hoping that he’s a suitable candidate for the job. Not every young doctor would want a posting with so much territory to cover. But if he strikes me as competent, and since I know he has Carter’s imprimatur, I shall be happy to offer him lodging as part of our agreement.”

“I suggested to your husband that we meet the young man at Boodle’s, my club,” said Mr. Douglas. “There are private rooms where we can speak candidly.”

“I asked Bruce to join me because my vision is so murky that I fear I am bereft of the ability to make the sort of observations that are necessary for judging a man’s character,” Edward said.

A lump formed in my throat. I knew this admission cost my darling husband dearly. My heart ached for him, and I found myself in the loathsome position of playacting at exaggerated cheerfulness to compensate.

“Of course. I rather enjoy interrogations. They are one of my specialities.” Mischief dripped from Mr. Douglas’s every word, and we all laughed at his sardonic manner.

“Jane, what do you have planned?”

“I was hoping to spend time with Ned. After the press of bodies last night, I believe a walk in the park is warranted,” I said as I bit into a piece of toast slathered with raspberry jam. “But I credit your idea highly. Better for this new doctor to pass muster with you and Mr. Douglas than either of you alone.”

When we could avoid the subject no longer, Mr. Douglas turned to me. “Mrs. Rochester, can you tell me, what was the King whispering to you?”

“He wondered what I had done with his love letters. I explained that I had burned all of them. All but the most telling one. Curiously, he did not ask for it. I guess it is not that important to him.” I shrugged, and added, “So it remains locked away. Perhaps forever.”

“Perhaps he did not ask for it because he recognized it to be safer with you than in the palace,” Mr. Douglas said, as he stroked his mustache thoughtfully.

“How could that be?”

“You saw the state the man was in last night,” he continued. “I’ve heard it said he’s more often in his cups than sober these days.”

“I saw the Marchioness dose the King liberally with laudanum,” I noted.

“I wondered,” said Edward. “The man’s speech became more slurred and incoherent as the night wore on. What do you know of the woman, Douglas?”

Mr. Douglas poured us all another cup of tea and settled back in his chair, crossing his legs as a prelude to a long discourse. “She is not from an aristocratic family. Her father was a wealthy banker, and her fortune was her face and figure. She married Henry Conyngham—Viscount Conyngham—an Irish peer, but she has had many, many admirers, including the Tsarevitch of Russia. Early on, however, she set her cap for the Prince of Wales. Perhaps I am being cruel, but it seems clear that she saw a dalliance with him as the most reliable way to benefit her family of two daughters and three sons. The courtiers surrounding the Regent have always been an avaricious and ambitious lot. The Marchioness seeks only to advance her family. There is talk that her second son, Francis Nathaniel, will be named Master of the Robes and First Groom of the Chamber.

“As you can surmise,” concluded Mr. Douglas, “having an incriminating document in the safekeeping of an honest woman might well be the wisest course of action for the King.”

“Speaking of wise courses of action, I have been thinking.” Edward directed his comments toward Mr. Douglas. “I am heartily sorry for your sister’s distress, and I believe it to be my fault. I should have made my peace with the Ingrams long ago.”

“Lucy does not blame you. I had the chance to speak to her before she went to bed, and I know she doesn’t.”

“Be that as it may, I plan to visit them at Lady Grainger’s home and try to mend our fences. If only I had gone to them at the time and apologized for misleading Blanche about my fortune—”

“You might have married her?” I admit to the mischief in my question.

“Never!”