The Scandal of the Season (17 page)

But Alexander shrugged this off. “Your recommendation makes me into a dull, dry scholar,” he said laughingly, “the sort whose dearest ambition is to write a treatise for
The Works of the Learned
.”

Gay smiled. “
The Works of the Learned
! Is that really a periodical?”

“Most certainly. Unreadable from start to finish.”

“I like its title very much indeed,” Gay enthused. “Entirely absurd and overblown. I hereby make a proposal. I move that we three begin a society in vehement opposition to dull journals and dull men. Our publication shall be called
The Works of the Unlearned
. We shall publish as infrequently as possible.”

“An excellent plan,” said Alexander, carried away with the pleasure of his success with Swift. “We shall be remembered as the great unlearned wits of the age.”

“How much better that, than to be forgotten as its most learned sages!” Swift rejoined.

The music of the opera sounded a particularly strident blast, and the attention of all parties was momentarily drawn back to the action.

Gay, who had been following the drama with even greater amusement than Steele, exclaimed boisterously, “Dear me, I fear that the undertakers have forgotten to change the side scenes. We now have a prospect of the ocean in the middle of a delightful grove. I must own myself astonished to see that well-dressed young fellow in a full-bottomed wig, appearing in the middle of the sea, and without any visible concern taking snuff.”

 

Throughout the merriment caused by the opera, Lord Petre remained uncharacteristically silent. He stood in the corner of the box, trying to concentrate on the performance, but in truth all of his attention was focused on the ladies' boxes. He had noticed Robert Harley glancing toward him, probably wondering what was the matter, but he could not bring himself to care, either for that, or for his obvious inattention to the performers. All he wanted was to know that Arabella was present, and, more important, present because he had requested that she come.

He told himself that it would be only a few minutes until the first act was over. He would leave the box with the other men—neither rushing ahead nor lingering behind as though he were embarrassed. He would greet a few others, and then he would approach her. The thought of Arabella Fermor's standing within reach of him made his throat close over slightly. It felt a little like panic, but it was pure excitement. He would be permitted to kiss her hello, first one cheek, and then the other. It was the fashion.

But supposing she were not there—it would be torment to stand and make conversation. There would be no one else to flirt with; nobody he could bear to make the pretense of flirting with. If Arabella was not at the opera he would have to leave.

He paid no attention to Richard Steele, who was crying out with ever-increasing exuberance, “The birds! The birds! I do believe they have already got into Lady Sandwich's headdress!” The whole party was laughing and peering over the box to watch them, but Lord Petre stood impatiently in his dark corner, longing for the act to be over.

 

Arabella was seated beside the Blount sisters' aunt. From her position, she could see Lord Petre quite clearly on the other side of the theater, standing with the men in his party. Why
did
men always stand? she wondered. To appear impervious to the charms of the Italian opera, presumably. They were achieving that effect without difficulty.

She watched as he moved apart from his friends, turning to look into the audience. She was certain that he was looking for her. How delightful. She had taken care to sit well back, where she could not clearly be made out.

The door of Arabella's box opened, and two elegantly dressed women walked in, Lady Salisbury and her fashionable friend Henrietta Oldmixon. She looked up and smiled as they came forward, hoping that they would acknowledge her. They nodded back and seemed about to speak, but then caught sight of friends seated among the little crowd of women at the front of the box. This fashionable group included Charlotte Castlecomber and Lady Mary Pierrepont, and, disappointed, Arabella watched as Lady Salisbury and Henrietta Oldmixon moved forward to greet them, leaving her behind.

On her left, she could hear the Miss Blounts making a fuss about their friend Alexander Pope. Martha was saying, “I believe that he is enjoying himself, though he struggles to pretend not to. I wonder who that clergyman is? Alexander is looking up at him very eagerly.”

“Alexander's eager look is rather trying, do you not think?” Teresa replied. “If he could learn to view the world with greater detachment, he would find himself a more general favorite.”

Aunt Blount interrupted her eavesdropping.

“What think you of Lady Tewkesbury, Miss Fermor?” she asked. “What color would you give to the lace at her breast? Is it golden or yellow? It looks well beside the rich painting on her face, does it not? And what age would you say she is, Miss Fermor?”

Arabella turned toward old Mrs. Blount with a patient smile. She must give an appearance of interest, of course. She answered that the lace appeared more gold than yellow; that the effect of her paint was fine, and (biting back the temptation to say that she could not be a day more than a hundred and twenty) guessed that Lady Tewkesbury must be something under forty-five.

When she came to the end of this speech, Aunt Blount smiled and said, “I perceive that I am boring you, my dear.”

Arabella started, hoping that her surprise, at least, was imperceptible to her astute companion. It had not occurred to her that an elderly woman could be so observant.

“But you bear yourself with so much charm and gentility, Miss Fermor,” the old lady continued, ignoring Arabella's discomposure, “that I cannot doubt your future happiness. You have not, for example, glanced more than once at the gentlemen's boxes in the last half hour—which is more than can be said for my poor niece Teresa.”

Arabella hardly knew what reply to make. Mrs. Blount smiled and said, “But look; I see that the singers have finally paused for breath. When it comes to making noise, an audience will always outlast the performers in point of stamina.”

Arabella had no time to consider how seriously she had misjudged this exchange, for the act had ended and the box was astir. There was a general current of movement; she saw Mary Pierrepont, Charlotte Castlecomber, Miss Oldmixon, and Lady Salisbury walking toward the supper room, and, beside her, the Blount girls standing up to follow them. She was about to meet Lord Petre. For a moment Arabella sat motionless, and then slowly, appearing to give much attention to adjusting her fur stole, she walked alone to the salon in which the company was assembled.

Lord Petre had positioned himself by the buffet with Robert Harley, who was describing a bill about cattle imports from Ireland soon to be read in Parliament. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, Lord Petre took two glasses of wine from the waiter and offered one to Harley—only to find that he was holding one already.

“So much the better for you, my lord!” said the chief minister with a laugh. Lord Petre smiled back at him mechanically and turned to face the gathering. He wondered whether he should attempt to explain his inattention.

Then he saw her.

In his mind he had imagined and reimagined Arabella—as she had appeared at the Exchange; in her Goddess costume at the masque. By day he remembered her in bonnet and gloves; at night he imagined her as she had been as Diana: hair gathered loosely at her shoulders, stray tresses across her face. But she was a hazy figure in his reconstruction, beautiful and yet without features that could be clearly imagined; alluring and yet with a form that he did not precisely recall. As he looked across the room, however, he beheld the Real Being standing at the entrance.

Her beauty was shocking. There was no whimsy about her dress tonight: her mantua gown was exquisitely composed and cut to her figure, the brocade petticoat full to the ground, the sleeves adorned with gorgeous furbelows, the décolletage deliciously full. She was tall, yet not too tall; her bearing bespoke a confidence and power that would never yield, yet the curve of her face and the freshness of her skin promised sweet consolation.

Both Arabella and Lord Petre had told themselves beforehand that they would not look directly at each other when they met. Arabella reminded herself of this even as she turned into the salon. But each saw the other at exactly the same moment; neither had time to turn away unseen—and as their eyes met the impulse that would have made them move apart fled. Arabella's eyes flashed; she parted her lips—to smile, to speak (though there was nobody by to speak to)—but found that she could go no farther. She stood motionless at the entrance, waiting for him to come to her.

At last he was by her side. She found herself holding one of his two glasses, but neither of them lifted the drink to their lips for fear of a shaking hand.

Lord Petre broke the silence. “How did Miss Fermor enjoy the first act?” he asked her.

“I was hardly able to look away from the stage,” she said in reply. “The drama between the lovers was very powerful. I am wild to know how it will end.”

“The lovers are compelling, are they not?” he echoed.

“Exceedingly, my lord.” She smiled, but could say no more.

“We are a large group this evening,” he observed.

She inclined her head, but again found herself speechless.

He was ready with another question, however. “Did you arrive with the Miss Blounts?” he asked. “I saw them in the box.”

“I came in their aunt's carriage,” she answered.

In his new awkwardness, Petre realized that he had failed to kiss Arabella in greeting. It was too late, the chance lost. He stood in brooding silence, while Arabella looked about the room with an attempt at nonchalance.

They were rescued by Richard Steele and Robert Harley, who approached with a view to sharing in more merriment at the expense of the singers and the audience. Then Teresa walked over with her friend Margaret Brownlow and asked Arabella whether she knew the name of the gentleman standing talking to Sir George Brown. With immense effort Arabella looked over at the person they described.

“Yes,” she said shortly, “it is Francis Perkins.”

“Are you acquainted with him, Arabella?” Teresa asked, determined to take her attention away from Lord Petre.

“I have met him once or twice.” But instead of Teresa's voice in reply, she heard Lord Petre's.

“You danced with Mr. Perkins at the masquerade, did not you?” he asked in a low tone. She only just stopped herself from turning to him instantly.

“My Lord Petre has an excellent memory,” she said to Teresa with a light laugh.

There was more talk, more laughter. One moment Arabella thought that he would walk away with the other men. The next Lord Petre feared that she would turn back to the box with Miss Blount, and that his chance would be lost. The chance for what, he could not say. Neither of them heard a word of the conversation; each of them looked for a reason to address the other. They both wished, vainly, that everybody else would go away. At last, as the audience began returning to their seats, they found themselves face-to-face. Lord Petre stood mute, looking at Arabella intently. She struggled for a pleasantry to break their silence.

Finally she said, a little too loudly, “How eagerly I look forward to the next act.”

Lord Petre continued to stare, and she had time to feel an instant's anger toward him for taking no action—when, abruptly, in a low voice, he said, “I must see you.”

It was Arabella's turn to be silent.

“Will you allow me to find you?”

Arabella might have answered, “Shall we go back to our seats? What a delightful evening this has been.” And had she done so, Lord Petre would have checked himself. If she put a stop to it, he told himself, he would withdraw instantly. But Arabella, very much to his surprise, and somewhat to her own, did not.

“I am not in hiding, my lord,” she replied, and turned to join the approaching figure of Mrs. Blount, who was walking back to the box.

 

Seated again, Arabella thought back over each detail of their conversation. Their exchange had been deliciously fraught, conducted by two persons who thoroughly understood the habits, the small nuances of flirtation. Nothing had been overstated—except for his thrilling, urgent cry:
I must see you.
How unlike he was from the mewling suitors she had endured hitherto, with their hesitant approaches and weak compliments. A warning voice told her that she must not see him alone. But in her heart she knew that she had already gone too far to turn back.

The players had begun again and now their music was delightfully sweet. At last the audience was quiet, captivated by the story. Over on the men's side, even Steele's protests were silenced as the hero vowed to endure all dangers to save his beloved. But his bravado was of a most fragile order, and sure enough, he was soon tempted. A Siren sang to him, and he was powerless to resist her call. Unheeding of his companions' cries, Rinaldo abandoned his heroic journey. The beloved was forsaken; the hero had fallen.