The Marquess and Miss Davies (6 page)

But her brother would not hear of it; nor would Isolde, when the plan was broached.

“We are not,” said Isa, “joined at the hip. I will learn ... cooking while you are out.”

“Ah. Ha.”

But Isolde insisted, adding that she would feel responsible for the loss to Carys should her twin stop riding, and this would materially affect her appetite. She would most probably waste away from the guilt.

“All alone! In my room! Unable to down the tiniest morsel of—”

“Oh, for goodness sake, enough,” said Carys, laughing. “I give in.”

So Carys rode alone. But she had never stopped hoping—as Isolde well knew—that someday her sister would be willing to try again.

Bringing them to the present negotiations.

“Very well,” she told Isa. “I will go to the Lincolnshire’s ball. And one week from today—”

“A week!”

“And one week from today,” insisted Carys, “we will have our first lesson. ‘Twill be only two days after the ball, which I think is reason enough to make an early night of it.”

“Posh.” But Isolde could count herself satisfied.

* * * *

Carys did not want to think about the upcoming ball. Nor did she wish to think about the Marquess of Clare. Not about the dance they might share—would he ask?—nor about the chance that they might walk out onto the balcony afterwards for a bit of cool air and private conversation. Perhaps he would comment that her robin’s-egg blue slippers matched her robin’s-egg blue gown. Perhaps she would make some charming reply.

Perhaps she would rest her hand on his arm, and he would place his warm fingers over her own, a light caress—

No, the Lincolnshire’s affair was the last thing on her mind. Carys applied herself instead to the question of riding lessons for Isolde. She would need, first of all, to purchase a horse.

Two horses, actually. Her own mount, Leopold—an animal she loved and missed terribly—had been left behind at Pencarrow, as Carys had decided that it would be selfish to subject an animal accustomed to the wild spaces of Cornwall to the traffic and chaos of town. As a result she now rode only occasionally, borrowing cattle from one friend or another, and then only when Talfryn could accompany her. Which of course he could not, of late. Her brother had suggested a year ago that he buy her another horse—we’ll find one who
loves
the city, he promised—but Carys had demurred, claiming it an unnecessary expense.

What an idiot I’ve been
, she thought, recognizing her real motive in refusing Tal’s offer.
I’ve been like a sulky child, who refuses to play if she can’t have the
best
toy.
The truth was that she had turned up her nose at the parks of London. She told herself that they had nothing to offer her, au young woman who was accustomed to ride for hours over the moors of Cornwall without seeing another soul.

But Hyde Park was really quite large. And perhaps Lord Harcourt would accompany her, as Tal sometimes had, as far as Richmond Park, where one might see fallow deer.

So, two horses. The viscount could well afford them, as Carys had known all along.

* * * *

But which two? The common idea in those days was to give a frightened rider the oldest and slowest of animals, a plodder who could be relied upon never to lift an unnecessary hoof. Carys very much disagreed. A horse like that was likely to have been poorly trained—why would one bother?—and none too intelligent. She needed a smart, self-possessed animal who could handle a frightened young woman on its back.

A horse knows when its rider is nervous and scared. It tends to make them nervous as well.

And so Benjamin Harcourt received a short note the morning just after Carys made her pact with Isa, a note suggesting that he accompany Miss Davies to Tattersall’s the very next day, where his assistance was needed in the selection of a pair of ladies’ mounts.

Lord Harcourt replied that he would be perfectly happy to do so.

The evening before her expedition with Benjamin Harcourt to Tattersall’s, Carys again went to the Royal Society, drawn by the combination of Sir Everard Home speaking on the nests of the Java swallow, and the chance to advance her acquaintance with Mr Torvald.

Isolde merely rolled her eyes. “Why are you encouraging that nodcock?”

“He’s hardly a nodcock! He’s an intelligent, sensible gentleman.”

“Who does not recognize you.”

That was a shot, indeed, and Isolde immediately apologized.

“I am sorry,” she said, hugging her sister.

“I know you are only—”

“Which you can—”

“—but—”

“In any event—”

“‘Tis my choice—” said Carys, shrugging.

Isa sighed. “Only do not forget,” she said, “the Lincolnshire’s ball.”

* * * *

They spoke at the first interval, after a somewhat dry presentation on the temperature of sea water.

“Miss Davies!” said Mr Torvald, brightening as he saw her near the refreshments table, making a selection of a small sandwich and pastry. Carys had decided to take Isa’s advice on this occasion, and eschew hiding in a corner, inconspicuous.

And the sweet biscuits did look, surprisingly, quite good.

“Mr Torvald,” said Carys.

“How marvelous to see you!”

She wondered if he was attempting to make up for their last encounter.

“Did you enjoy Sir Archibald’s description of his recent work?” she asked. Sir Archibald had been the first speaker that evening.

“Entirely!” said Mr Torvald, with more enthusiasm than he had shown on any previous occasion. “Entirely! I believe he is entirely correct to ignore Wollaston’s objections.”

“Ah,” said Carys, “then you believe that Mr Wollaston is mistaken?”

“Very possibly, yes.”

They chatted rather amiably for a few minutes, and Carys had nearly forgotten her previous irritation with the man when Mr Torvald said, to her surprise, that he would appreciate the chance to speak further on such topics, and would Miss Davies like to join him for a carriage ride in Hyde Park that next Tuesday afternoon?

Indeed, Miss Davies would.

* * * *

Isolde was outraged.

“No!”

Carys stared at her. “Why on earth not? If nothing else, it will make our mother happy.”

“The viscountess’s happiness can wait. He’s not right for you.”

“Right for me!” Carys laughed. “We are not becoming engaged, you know. ‘Tis a drive in the park.”

Isa made a rude noise. “That’s always how these things begin. Next he will be holding your hand and talking about ... leeches.”

“He studies the green-winged orchid.”

“As I said. The poet was bad enough, but this—”

“I should think you would be pleased that I have caught the attention of some young man.”

“You could have the attention of any number of young men if you would only attend a ball now and again,” retorted Isolde.

“I should think a young man at a ball and a young man at a lecture are very much the same thing.”

“No,” said Isa. “‘Tis not the same thing at all.”

And not too long afterwards ...

“His name is Jesse,” said Carys.

“Jesse.” Isolde stared at the animal. Her face was white.

The horse—a stallion, albeit a small one—turned at its name. His eyes were calm and the deepest brown Isa had ever seen. She felt as if the animal recognized her.

That was nonsense, she told herself.

“Talk to him,” said Carys.

“What?”

“You don’t need to go any nearer. Just talk to him. Tell him why you are afraid.”

Isa decided that her sister had finally lost her mind. “It’s all that fresh air,” she said to Carys. “It has unhinged you.”

But Jesse was looking at her, and Isolde could have sworn that his gaze was curious.

“All right,” she said. She sat down on the nearest bale of straw.

* * * *

Isolde and Jesse had several long conversations over the next week. Isa found it strangely easy to talk with the animal, who seemed an excellent listener and to sympathize with everything she said. She started by explaining about horses, how large they were and how intimidating, and what it felt like to be perched so high above the ground.

The stallion’s gaze said he entirely understood.

She told him of her impression that Rose—who was a perfectly lovely animal, please don’t misunderstand—but that Rose was only one twitch away from bolting the entire time she had sat on the mare’s back.

She said that she was sure that he, Jesse, would never do such a thing.

The stallion agreed.

She said that she
wanted
to ride, and that she had felt guilty for months that Carys did so little of it in London.

“She is bored and restless. If I could only accompany her—”

Ah, yes.

After that the discussion became more general, moving into more of Isolde’s worries about Carys, their mother’s obsession with marriage, and her own opinion of young gentlemen. At one point Jesse snorted at Isa’s description of the Baron Tremontaine, with timing so perfect that she laughed and felt the sudden urge to hug the animal’s neck, but it was so high—

Carys left her sister and the horse completely alone.

Isa’s objections notwithstanding, Carys and Mr Torvald rode out on the following Tuesday. If the gentleman’s handling of his team was not quite up to snuff—Carys’s hands itched for the reins, as she could have done far better herself—he did manage to get them to Hyde Park without mishap.

“Here we are!” said Mr Torvald, evidently in some relief. He was sweating.

“Ah, yes,” said Carys, who was merely glad they were in one piece and that Isolde was nowhere nearby. The sisters were accustomed to their brother’s driving, which was faultless.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” said Mr Torvald. “I’m delighted the daffodils are still with us.”

“Umm,” said his passenger.

“Hyde Park may be a bit rough at the edges—”

Miss Davies forbore comment. Hyde Park was a
park
, bloodless and tame, albeit somewhat quieter than the streets. And she liked daffodils well enough, but could not, at present moment, see a single bloom. What was the man talking about?

“—but I’m sure you will agree that—”

Did Lord Leighton ever ride in the park?

A few moments later Mr Torvald stopped speaking and looked at her expectantly. Carys realized that her mind had been wandering, and that he must have asked some question. She had no idea what.

“I also find Richmond Park an enjoyable ride,” she said, hoping this made sense. “The fallow deer are quite beautiful there.”

She saw the shock on his face, poorly masked.

“Richmond—! But my dear, ‘tis nearly rustication!”

She thought this an odd comment for someone whose interests centered around a type of orchid difficult to find outside of the wild meadows and grasslands of southern England.

“I’ve particularly enjoyed seeing them in the winter.” Meaning the deer. Mr Torvald was unimpressed.

“From a considerable distance, I would hope,” he said, smiling genially.

“Ah. Yes, of course.”

The conversation soon turned from the London parks to town society. Mr Torvald seemed quite interested in what she knew of the lords and ladies of the
ton
, and Carys supposed that she could understand that curiosity, but ‘twas far from her favorite subject. “I believe they are quite the same as everyone else,” she told him finally, “except with better clothing.”

Mr Torvald raised his eyebrows at this frank appraisal.

I
must watch every word, every
word,
Isa, not a single syllable left unparsed for hidden meaning—

The Marquess of Clare was too much to hope for, but even Lord Brabury would have been an improvement to present company, thought Carys. His poetry was really not bad at all, and she was entirely relaxed in his presence. Just a sennight ago they had a spirited conversation about John Dryden, occasioned by her comment that she did not like his
Annus Mirabilis
, which Tobias found unbelievable, making attempt after attempt to convince her of its worth.

“A full stop after every quatrain! ‘Tis exhausting!” argued Carys.

On that point Lord Brabury was forced to agree. “But—”

Mr Torvald was still talking.

The Duke of Lincolnshire’s ballroom was an enormous place, and already full to bursting.

“I wonder,” said Isolde.

“What?”

“No matter when we arrive at a ball, the room is always full. Does anyone ever arrive first?”

“Someone must,” said Carys.

“One would think.”

The fashionable colours that season tended toward the soft and the pastel, although there were always a few ladies who chose differently, encouraging the impression that they were independent-minded and rather bold. The twins had recently seen Lady Cheveley in a flame-red silk, but Lady Cheveley was a widow with no need of blunt, and a law unto herself.

“Do you suppose men become bored, dressing always the same?” said Isolde.

“I should think it a relief,” replied Carys.

The Misses Davies were soon joined by a small group of young ladies. These were primarily friends of Isolde, but they were all happy to include Carys in their number, especially as the twins, together, inevitably attracted the attention of a fair number of young gentlemen. The talk turned to the ongoing saga of Alice Montvale’s engagement to Peter Wilmott. All agreed that ‘twas a complete muddle, and something really ought to be done.

“They’ve been engaged
forever
. And the wedding is supposed to occur a fortnight from tomorrow!” said Samantha Godfrey.

“Lord Peter is said to be nearly living at White’s.”

“I wonder,” whispered Cicely Vale, “if she is frightened of ... the marriage bed.”

Which did sound like Alice Montvale. Isolde and Samantha laughed, but Carys found herself considering the matter further, with an attempt at the clear-headed and unsentimental point of view. Having spent two years on a country estate, and being possessed of a curious nature and a twin sister with whom she could share anything, she was not naive with respect to the general mechanics of the act. Which did seem a bit odd, and almost unimaginable when one considered—