The Scandal of the Season (28 page)

“She has,” he answered. “Your sister is not, perhaps, a person capable of being sincerely happy. She cannot find a way to be at rest.”

Apprehensive of Alexander's reaction, Martha steeled herself to speak candidly. “And yet she is happier than you would like to believe her,” she replied. “You are sometimes unwilling to accept that her pleasures take a form that is very different from your own.”

Alexander looked at Martha with surprise. It was not the sort of remark that he expected from her. His first impulse was to dismiss it angrily, but he made himself pause. “There is one respect in which I do believe that we are alike,” he replied. “She, like me, would be happier if she were not so bent upon being admired by people for whom she feels no real regard—and who are themselves incapable of disinterested feeling.”

For a long time, Martha had suspected that Alexander criticized her sister in this way. She knew that she could not lose this chance to articulate her real feelings.

“It is very important to Teresa that she feel part of the fashionable world. In a curious sense, I consider it a mark of bravery,” she said. “She will not submit to being less than our cousin Bell, or any of the other girls. I cannot reproach her because it is a part of her character that I admire.”

“But it is a kind of courage that proceeds from being frightened,” he insisted.

Martha stood her ground. “Is not all bravery an attempt to overcome fear?” she asked with a frank gaze.

In a voice that made her think he understood what she was saying, he replied, “In matters of the heart, I am at last coming to understand that Teresa is determined to choose; she will not be chosen.”

“But I hope that she
will
be chosen, for it is of the greatest consequence to her.”

“You are never swayed by willful inclinations or transient passions, Patty,” said Alexander, after a thoughtful silence. “Why should those things fall only to your sister's part? Could not you both have taken more even shares in good sense and folly?”

“Teresa is not so foolish as she seems to you,” Martha answered strictly. “I do not care to choose for myself. I wish to be chosen.” She was conscious of breathing quickly. The silence before Alexander answered was wretched.

But at last he said, “Ah! Well, that requires nothing more than that you be endlessly patient and infinitely wise.”

Martha feared that he was making fun of her, but his face was solemn as he said, “Remember that a man values only the prize that it has cost him trouble to obtain—nothing that comes easily could be worth the winning. And your misfortune, Patty, is to be just such a prize. So must you be patient until your hero—a vain, idle, misguided fellow, whom you shall watch despairingly as he loses his way and his nerve a thousand times—finds his path to you with infinite slowness. Few women have the stomach for such sluggishness, and take matters into their own hands. But I know you to be a different sort.”

Martha felt a thrill when she heard Alexander's words, but it was followed immediately by a sense of deflation. “That is a gallant way of saying that if I will wait to be chosen, I must accept that I shall be chosen last,” she said. But she was determined not to be low. “But I do not think of you as an idler, nor a flatterer, Alexander,” she continued. “I am surprised to hear that you have wasted time in seeking admiration from those you do not admire. I am not sure that I believe you.”

“When I am in the town, Patty, I have no choice but to become such a person,” he said with a shrug. “In London a man is everywhere but at his own house; he minds everything but his own business; he kisses everybody but his own wife. It is the fashion. I spend my time in anything but that which should employ me, and I spend whole days talking to men I have no value for.”

Martha relaxed, and their conversation continued in this way for a little longer. Toward the end of their exchange, Martha said, “Do you know that Teresa and I return to the country at the end of next month?”

He nodded. “Your sister has told me,” he answered, “and I warned her that I shall follow you both close behind.”

He meant to be charming, but she knew that he had hoped to write a new poem before he returned to the country. “Yet the town becomes you better than the country in many ways,” she replied. “You are able to enjoy so few rural diversions.”

“Indeed I am no great hunter,” he answered her, “but I am a great esteemer of the sport; unhappy only in my want of constitution for it—and for drinking, of course.”

“These are the chief pleasures of the country! It is a pity you are so sickly.”

“It is a pity everybody else is so healthy.”

Martha laughed. “This talk of hunting makes me sad to think that the summer will dwindle away so soon. The nights are long now; it will begin to grow light almost before we are in bed. But soon the days will grow shorter again.”

“Then we must make time stand still a little longer,” he said in reply. “An idea has come to me, Patty; tell me if you like it. Did you ever see the Lambeth Gardeners upon the river in the mornings, bringing their wares to market?”

“I did not.”

“They are said to be a fine sight; a river of barges filled with fruits and flowers. If this morning is light, the water will already be in early sun by the time they come. What do you say to a trip upon the river at sunrise?”

Her face lit up. “Oh, but I have longed for many weeks to see the boats coming into market from Lambeth,” she said excitedly. Then she paused, and asked, “But what of your health? You are delicate, and will catch cold. It is not wise.”

“Wise it may not be—but I am saving all of my wisdom for when I am so much crippled that I cannot leave the house. Ours is no age for being wise! Now it is midnight. I shall come for you at five. Four hours is sleep enough for any person less than twenty-five.”

T
he Blount sisters were gone from the party, Jervas and Alexander with them. Lord Petre was gone, too—indeed the only guests remaining were hardened gamesters, friends of Miss Oldmixon's brother, who had settled in to play until dawn. Henrietta, Arabella, and Lady Salisbury were sitting together around the remnants of the tea table, congratulating their hostess upon the great success of her assembly. Henrietta had invited Arabella beforehand to stay the night, so she was still there, but conversation was desultory, and there was much yawning.

“Do you know, Henrietta, I think that I shall go home to bed after all,” Arabella said. “It would be great fun to stay here, but my costume will be a difficulty in the morning, and it is too much of a trouble to send a servant now for other clothes. I shall ask one of the footmen to find me a chair.”

“But your parents believe that you are to spend the night here,” Henrietta protested, being one of those girls who do not like anybody to alter a plan she herself has decided upon. “Their house will be closed up—it is nearly one o'clock.”

Arabella was adamant. “A night servant is always about,” she said. “I shall not have trouble getting in. At least my cousin Teresa will not rouse me early in the morning, since she will believe that I am here with you. She often asks me to accompany her on morning visits and trips to her dressmaker. Very tiresome—it
almost
makes me long for the country, where there is nothing to do.”

She arranged with the footman to have a sedan chair ordered, and set about freshening up her plumage, which had lost some of its fullness while she was sitting. The chair arrived, and Arabella was handed in.

The chairmen started out toward the street in St. James's where Arabella lived, but shortly before they would have arrived at the Fermors' town house she tapped on the box and asked that she be taken instead to the Petre family's house on Arlington Street. When they arrived, her chair was carried around to the stables. The back of the house was in darkness, but at the sound of the chairmen's steps, Lord Petre's footman appeared from within, carrying a candle.

“Miss Fermor!” he whispered, sounding surprised. Arabella wondered who else he could be waiting for at such an hour, and concluded that the worthy Jenkins must be anticipating a meeting with his own mistress. Jenkins took her inside, and she followed him up the back stairs, now so familiar to her that she hardly needed a light. They walked silently, Arabella having learned to place her feet exactly where the boards would not make a sound. Jenkins pushed upon the door of Lord Petre's chamber, and Arabella saw Lord Petre spring forward, a look of alarm shadowing his features.

“Arabella!” he exclaimed, and the whole expression of his face changed from apprehension to excitement. It was gratifying, and Arabella had no desire to inquire too closely into his reasons for the original apprehension. “You are here! My darling girl,” he said, “I thought that you would never come.” Almost before his servant had withdrawn, Lord Petre took Arabella's face in his hands and kissed her violently.

“How desperately I longed to spend inside you at the assembly tonight,” he murmured. “With my arms around you in that dark gallery, I could barely contain my ardor. The sight of you in all those feathers—”

She drew back and held her hands against his face, pushing the curls away from his eyes. “Had I let you have your way with me a moment longer,” she said with a smile, “Sir Anthony van Dyke would have crashed down on top of us both. The frame of the picture was directly against my back when you pushed me onto the wall. One should not stumble about in the dark in other people's houses.”

“One should not, but I am helpless when you are in sight.”

“Not
quite
true, my lord—for you could not see me.”

“But I can see you now, and so I shall take you by force or fraud, whichever is quickest.” He pulled her to the bed, trying to remove her dress as they went. “If we are to accord with the characters in mythology,
I
should be the swan, and you a naked maiden. Zeus appeared to Leda thus disguised before he ravished her.” He threw her down onto the covers. “Let us get at least one part of the tableau right,” he said, biting at her neck. “Off with the swan!”

Arabella laughed, protesting that Lord Petre was removing the clothes too forcefully.

“You are pulling at my feathers,” she said, standing up to help him. “No; it is like this.” She turned around. “Take care with the silk or you will tear it. Yes; very well.” The dress came off, and she stood in her shift.

“Now you are in character,” he said as he pulled that over her head as well. “Though you looked so enchanting in that costume that Zeus would have taken you feathers and all.”

“Shall I put it back on?” she asked with a smile as he pushed himself down upon her.

“Certainly not,” he mumbled, wrapping her legs around his waist.

Afterward, when they were lying together in the darkness, and Arabella was settled softly and quietly in his arms, he whispered gently that he would return in a moment, and Arabella murmured an incoherent reply.

He withdrew to his servant's closet, where he dressed by the light of a candle that had been left burning and joined Jenkins in the stable yard.

Jenkins was keeping a drowsy watch. He started as Lord Petre came in, and stumbled to his feet.

“Nothing yet, my lord.”

“It is near three. I shall stay with you here.” Lord Petre shuddered.

“Are you cold, my lord?” Jenkins asked.

“It is a little chilly, is not it?” Lord Petre gave a low laugh, though not a very hearty one. A few minutes later, a tremendous clatter was heard in the dark. Both of the men jumped. There was a distant laugh, and muffled tones of recrimination.

“The next yard,” said the servant. “The drunken groom dropping a lantern.”

Again there was silence.

At last they heard a scuffle of footsteps not used to the rough cobbles of the alley. Lord Petre stood, motioning to his servant to keep back, as a man came into the shadowy court.

“Who goes?” he asked sharply.

“Messenger for the baron,” said the stranger.

Lord Petre took the man's arm and led him into the stables.

“Who are you, and whence are you come?” he demanded, shining his lantern up into the man's face, forcing him to shield his eyes as he winced at the light.

“Menzies, my lord,” he said, struggling to stand farther back from Lord Petre's lantern. “Just arrived from Scotland.”

“I am the baron,” said Lord Petre.

Menzies handed him a packet of papers.

“Within are named the other men, and details of the action. The King's troops are ready on the coast, and the northern bands will be in position. Is the Queen certain to be present on the occasion?”

“She is.”

“Your role is described within.”

Lord Petre nodded.

“You will hear of the arrest of other agents tonight, entering from the north. None of them carried papers of value. These are the proper directions. I came by water for safety's sake. Am I to remain in this house?”

“My servant will take you to a place,” said Lord Petre. “You will receive two days' protection there.”

“Very well. Good luck, my lord. In the name of the King.”

“In the name of the King.”

A moment later Menzies was gone with Jenkins. Lord Petre turned inside and crept back to his apartments, locking the package in his desk. It seemed incredible that the rebellion would take place at last. He was struck afresh with amazement that it should be happening to him; that he, of all people, should play so pivotal a role. He longed to know the details of the plan, but the papers would be in code, and he knew that he could not leave Arabella for as long as it would take to read them. He undressed to his shirt and slipped back into bed beside her, naked and relaxed in slumber. It was nearly four o'clock.

Just before five, unable to sleep, Lord Petre shook her awake and lit a candle.

“No—it cannot be time yet,” she murmured. “It is still dark. My parents believe that I am at Henrietta's.”

“I have a surprise for you,” he said, unable to bear his predawn solitude any longer, and wanting a distraction from his thoughts of the impending action.

One eye opened warily.

“Of what kind?”

“Of a kind that necessitates your rising from the present position,” he said, pulling her to him.

“I cannot,” she answered, pushing him away, though not very earnestly.

“It will soon be light,” he insisted. “We shall go by boat on the Thames to watch the sun rising. It is among the finest sights in London. But we must be gone before the house is astir.”

“But I have only my swan's costume,” she said, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes.

“Put it on again,” he said. “I will give you a cape to cover it when we are in the boat.”

 

When Lord Petre returned to bed after the meeting in the stables, Jenkins delivered Menzies to his parents' cottage on the outskirts of town. By the time he got back to Petre's house it was time to begin the new day's work; he had not slept at all. Walking into Lord Petre's chamber to light the fires for morning, he saw that the pair had already gone out. But he noticed irritably that they had left the floor by the fireplace strewn with little white feathers. It would take him at least half an hour to pick them up, and he would be late to work downstairs. The butler, envying his position as the baron's footman, would surely use the chance to give him a sharp rebuke. Angrily, Jenkins walked over to the fire, and began tossing little piles of feathers onto the flames. But just as he gathered up the last handful, he changed his mind, and crammed it into his coat pocket. With the faint trace of a smile, he went downstairs.

 

When they arrived home from the party Alexander asked Jervas if he could borrow the carriage for the morning trip with Martha. His host protested that the expedition would prove disastrous for his health.

“You are determined to make me an invalid,” Alexander argued, “but I will not submit to it before my time is come. You, who have nothing to fear on that score, might wish to play the valetudinarian as a novelty. I, for whom every ailment and discomfort is near to hand, need not pretend to be ill in those rare moments that I am well.”

Jervas walked unsteadily to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. “Very well, then, my dear Pope,” he said. “But you must get some rest immediately, though I think I shall stay and have another little glass of wine.”

Alexander came down again before dawn to find Jervas snoring in the chair, the fire gone out, and the empty bottle on the rug beside him.

At a quarter to five, with less than four hours' sleep, Martha did not welcome the servant who told her that Mr. Alexander Pope was waiting outside. But she came down more quickly than Alexander had expected, and stepped into the coach with a sleepy, melancholy air. Alexander gave her a blanket to tuck about herself, for the morning was chilly, and they set off through the half-dark streets.

After a couple of yawns, Martha said, “I confess that I do not have the dew of youth resting lightly upon me this morning. I feel something closer to a fog.”

Alexander concurred. “In the early morning one feels that being young is overrated by the poets,” he said, passing a hand across his face. “Youth is but a betrayer of human life, too—only in a gentler manner than age.”

As their carriage rounded a corner they were presented with an unobstructed view of the River Thames, and despite their tiredness neither party could help exclaiming, “Oh! How fine it is!”

And so it was. The sweep of the river curved down toward the City, its banks sleek and gleaming in the morning light. The first sun upon the water made little tucked shadows between the waves, giving them an appearance of constant and brilliant animation. Along the embankments the flanks of buildings shone like mirrors. Rows of summer trees, planted in twos, and trimmed to salute the sun in one even line of green, softened the view, making the landscape into a pleasure garden that shimmered with fresh life. The sky was wide and clear, polished brightly by the sun's first warmth on its canopy. It seemed newly washed; refreshed with a delicious lucid vapor. The blue was uninterrupted, save for a few sweet, scattered clouds that drifted lightly and daintily across the canvas of the scene.

Coming out of the cool, shadowy streets to behold such a sight was exquisite. Their carriage soon jangled to a halt, and the pair jumped down, longing to be in one of the little craft drawn up on the shores to carry travelers, and upon the water. Alexander handed Martha in, and settled himself.

“Toward Greenwich!” he told the lighterman, and they pushed off into the sparkling current.

Around them the air moved so lightly, so gently, that it could scarcely be called a breeze. And yet it played upon their hands and faces as though it were the breath of Summer herself, warming and cooling together, whispering of pleasure and of passing time. Their boat skipped along on water that was neither rough nor smooth but ruffled into perfect liveliness.