Part I. Scouting Expedition
1
In Consequence Of A Wedding
When the Portuguese Widow took Viscount Stamforth, it was generally agreed in Society that certain noses were well and truly out of joint. Certainly several naval noses. And one or two military noses, too. A few persons whispered that even His Grace of Wellington was not best pleased by the news. Though those who knew His Grace rather better maintained that this was nonsense.
In the case of Commander Arthur Sir Jerningham, R.N. (Rtd.), Society certainly had it right: that handsome straight nose was very much out of joint. Arthur Jerningham retired to his house in Derbyshire, where, though his was normally a sunny nature, he fell into a brood on such matters as what looked suspiciously like a damned molehill on the south lawn, the patch on the stable roof, and his own advancing years and crabbed bachelor state.
The Commander was a handsome man of great principle and steady character, much liked by his peers and much courted for his good looks and charming disposition by the ladies. He had never married: he had been engaged to a lady in his youth, but she had been carried off by a fever while young Arthur Jerningham was at sea with Admiral Nelson. After that, there had been no-one for many years to whom he had seriously considered offering his hand and heart, and the snug little Derbyshire property known as Hortleberry Grene which had come to him on the untimely death of his older brother. The charming lady to whom Society referred, not without malice, as “the Portuguese Widow” had, however, captured his heart. At least, Arthur Jerningham had been quite bowled over by her looks and charm, and had not paused for a moment to wonder if, perhaps, their temperaments should not suit.
Over in Cumberland it had not dawned on the astonished gentry and peasantry in the neighbourhood of Beresford Hall, favoured for the first time in years with the constant presence of “the young master”, that there was a sentimental reason for the presence of Mr Beresford on his family estate. But so it was. Jack Beresford was, if not positively half the age of Arthur Jerningham, his friend Captain Quarmby-Vine, and Viscount Stamforth himself, still young enough to be the son of any of them, the which merely proved that it was not only older gentlemen who had succumbed to the charms of the lady known amongst the Upper Ten Thousand as the Portuguese Widow or “P.W.” His nose was thoroughly out of joint.
But every cloud has a silver lining, and the case of the P.W. and Viscount Stamforth was no exception. The ladies did not receive the news of the engagement of a half-Portuguese upstart to one of England’s greatest matrimonial catches with unalloyed pleasure—no. But nevertheless there was considerable relief—considerable—at the removal to a safe harbour of one of the most notable challengers to be encountered this many a long year by the fair English galleons who jostled upon the tricky, shoal-laden waters of that great matrimonial sea known as the Season.
Gwendolyn Lacey, née Dewesbury, whose own wedding to the youngest son of a duke had been the biggest crush of the previous Season, privily assured Katie, her next sister, that she would not regret the family’s staying in town for this year’s grandest Society wedding, for she should see with her own eyes the P.W. being permanently removed from any likelihood of snaring Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham! –Katie’s tendre for the handsome sailor having been a standing joke with Gwennie ever since Katie had first been launched upon the world at only just eighteen.
But Katie had endured several Seasons now, and was turned twenty-one years of age, and no longer given to flushing up at such sisterly gibes. She shrugged. “Pooh! You are being totally absurd, Gwennie, as usual. Commander Sir Arthur is our relative, and a contemporary of Papa’s.”
“Besides, you are not interested in him!” agreed the irrepressible Gwendolyn with a giggle. “That was not you that spent two whole dances of the von Maltzahn-Dressen ball—she will not succeed in snaring anything above the rank of a baron for that pug-nosed little so-called Princess, mark my words!—Where was I? Yes: that was not you that spent two entire dances glaring while he danced with that cow of a Murray female.”
“Mrs Percy Murray,” returned Katie with horrid dignity, “may, for all I am aware, actually be a female of the bovine sort, under those grimy diamonds and that misguided puce satin she affects. But it does not become you to say so in so many words, Gwennie.”
Gwennie gave a shriek of laughter. “Katie Dewesbury, you dark horse! I would not have believed you had it in you!”
Katie dimpled, the forget-me-not eyes twinkling. “Thank you. I suppose four Seasons upon the town must either sharpen the wits or dull ’em.”
The percipient Gwendolyn, though she laughed and nodded, saw that her guess had been correct, and Katie was still goopy over the Commander.
She was in the midst of packing for their removal to the country for the summer, or at least in the midst of driving her maid to distraction as she packed, when she received a visit from her mamma. Lady Lavinia Dewesbury, née Hammond, was a large, still-handsome, fair-skinned woman with a commanding manner. She did not pass any remark on Gwendolyn’s not yet having finished her packing, but on the whole, she did not need to.
“Where is Katie?” asked the fashionable young matron on an uneasy note as they waited for tea to be brought in.
“I sent her out for a little walk in the Park. She was looking peaked,” said Lady Lavinia on a firm note. “My dear, I wish to consult with you about her.”
That intrepid young fashionable, Lady Ferdy Lacey, did not attempt to say she had guessed as much, or to give an arch look, or even to smile. She merely said feebly: “Yes, Mamma?”
“Setting aside any silly young girl’s fancy, has there been any gentleman over the last few years who has truly appealed, Gwennie?”
Gwennie gulped. “I duh-don’t— Um— What do you mean, Mamma?” she said lamely.
Lady Lavinia gave her one of her driest looks. “Very well, then. Not setting aside any silly young girl’s fancy, which type of man interests her?”
“She—um—I suppose she quite admires the Duke of Wellington,” she offered feebly.
“She and half of the women in London.” She looked at her daughter expectantly, but Gwendolyn did not utter. “Does she admire the military type, then?”
“I wouldn’t say that. Well, she once said something about not agreeing with his politics,” she reported dubiously.
The Hammonds were Whigs, although Lady Lavinia had married a Tory. She sniffed slightly. “I am not sorry to hear it. Well?”
“Er—on the whole, I think she likes prettier gentlemen, Mamma.”
Lady Lavinia bent forward: “Gwendolyn, who is it?”
Most unfortunately the Ferdy Lacey household was in such disarray, what with the conflicting orders in re the packing issued by her Ladyship, his Lordship, her Ladyship again, her Ladyship’s maid, and her Ladyship again, that there was no sign of the tea-tray. With a hunted glance at the obstinately closed door of her salon, Lady Ferdy produced: “Mamma, it was years ago, and since then, she has scarce referred to him! Um, well, Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham,” she muttered.
“Arthur? Gwennie, the man’s my age!”
“Um, I suppose,” she muttered, poking at the carpet with her toe.
There was a short silence.
“Arthur Jerningham… ” said Lady Lavinia slowly.
“He is not your generation, Mamma, but ours. Ferdy and I worked it out. Um, well, for a joke, really. Um, I beg your pardon, Mamma,” she said glumly.
Lady Lavinia took a deep breath. “I suppose I need not ask why you did not mention this before, Gwendolyn, instead of letting me fling her at God knows how many stupid young dunderheads. While,” she noted acidly, “he was wasting his time making a cake of himself over the P.W.! Though in some respects she is certainly Katie’s type: I suppose there is a glimmer of hope on the horizon, there.”
Gwennie did not remark on the naval tone of this last image: it was all too dreadful, really. Nor did she point out that the P.W. was a dark woman with huge, velvety brown eyes, while Katie had the same thick, lint-fair hair and forget-me-not eyes as she did herself. “They are both little and plump. She admires the Duke, too,” she noted with a moue.
“Pray do not screw your face up, my dear, you are no longer a babe in the schoolroom. Ah: tea,” said her Ladyship calmly as at long last it was brought in.
For herself, Gwennie felt her throat to have closed up to the point where she would scarce be capable of swallowing a drop.
… “So!” said Lady Lavinia, setting down her cup with a sigh. “Arthur Jerningham is the type she prefers. Well, he’s pretty enough.”
Gwennie had managed to drink her tea and eat a small cake and so was capable of replying with something almost approaching vivacity: “Oh, stunningly handsome, Mamma. Those long blue eyes and those thick black lashes!”
“Well, yes. Not to mention the shoulders. A fine figure of a man. I would not say he has half your sister’s brains, but that need not prove an impediment. Hmm… I was just saying to Lionel that we could well call in at Bluff Yewby this summer. Well, that decides it; Derbyshire it shall be!”
“Mamma, Commander Sir Arthur has never looked at Katie these last four years,” she said uneasily.
“No, well, we shall give him the opportunity to do so,” returned her Ladyship mildly. “It may come to nothing, but at least now I know what type she affects, I may have some hope of helping her to a respectable match.”
“Yes. Um, you saw Sir Frederick and Lady Partington-Gore forever in town this Season; why were you thinking of Bluff Y— Mamma! No!” she gasped. “Not the Dashing Major?”
“That is a very silly soubriquet,” replied Lady Lavinia calmly. “Major Phelps-Patterson is an entirely eligible parti.”
“So he will be there, this summer,” said Gwendolyn limply.
“Most certainly. He has sold out, you know. The old aunt died—was it last summer? Well, no matter. So he has decided to settle on the property. Pamela is very pleased; it is little more than an hour’s journey from Bluff Yewby.”
“Mamma, there was a frightful rumour that he has an—an unofficial family in Brussels!” she gasped.
Lady Lavinia did not so much as blink. “Wholly malicious. There was a woman, in Ostend; I do not deny it. Years older than Roddy Patterson—Phelps-Patterson, I suppose one should say, since he has officially added the aunt’s name. The children were reliably said not to be his. And in any case she died quite some years back. So I will thank you to scotch the rumour, should it be repeated in your hearing. He is the youngest of Pamela P.-G.’s brothers, you know: he would be quite suitable for Katie. He is certainly quite as good-looking as Arthur Jerningham. Well, we shall see what we shall see.” She rose. “I shall leave you to your packing, my dear.” Calmly she saluted her daughter’s cheek. Calmly she allowed Gwennie to peck her own large, slab-like one. Calmly she sailed out.
Gwendolyn fell back onto the sofa, and groaned deeply. Mamma with the bit between her teeth was unstoppable! Whether Katie truly wanted the Commander or no, there was absolutely no doubt that she was fated to be flung at his head, this summer! And as for the Dashing Major— Oh, help!
The Honourable Eudora Bon-Dutton, doubtless favoured with an invitation to the wedding of the year on account of her relationship to the Duke of Chelford, had duly favoured her old friend with a succinct and pithy description of the out-of-joint Society noses in the wake of the P.W.’s triumph. Mary Mortimer gave her an anxious look but did not like to ask if Lady Harold B.-D. had said that Eudora would be a much more suitable match for Viscount Stamforth than the half-Portuguese lady, for it was quite sure that she had. And very little doubt that she had also said that it was all Eudora’s fault that he hadn’t offered for her instead.
Poor Eudora! She was not happy; but what could anyone do to help a person who was as prickly as a hedgehog and had, with the looks of a Classical Diana, all the warmth of manner of a marble statue of the same? Added to which, she was by far too intelligent for her own good. That was, if it was intelligent to discourage several perfectly eligible, pleasant gentlemen on the score of their having not two penn’orth of brain to rub together! Brains were not all that counted in a man—but then, thought the kind-hearted Mrs Mortimer sadly, poor Eudora had not yet learned that. Kenneth claimed she was old-cattish, but it was not so at all! Underneath she had a—a very passionate nature!
Oh, dear, now she was telling her what cakes the two naval friends, Captain Quarmby-Vine and Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham, had made of themselves over the woman! What made it worse was that Charles Q.-V. was Eudora’s brother-in-law’s brother and she was positive that Lady Harold had always wanted Eudora to—
“Er, well, of course Charles Q.-V. is a pleasant man, but he was never bright, Eudora,” she offered on a lame note.
Eudora eyed her mockingly. “True.”
“But Commander Sir Arthur Jerningham is both intelligent and attractive!” she said strongly.
“Not intelligent enough to perceive that the P.W.’s mind can run rings around his. –Oh, yes: she has more than just looks and a nabob’s fortune from a former husband; forget whether the first or the second.”—Mary swallowed.—“I’ll grant you, however, that Arthur Jerningham’s even prettier than he was in our débutante days.” Mary just looked dubious, so she reminded her impatiently: “If you can cast your mind back that far, he spent that Christmas we were all at Sommerton Grange making sheep’s eyes at that frightful mop-haired little creature who married that fool Paul Hardcastle!”
“Lady Hardcastle. Betty Q.-V. that was. She was very pretty,” said Mary weakly.
“Quite. The P.W. looks just like her. His tastes haven’t changed. I am not his type and he, need I say it, is not mine. No more than Stamforth is. Certainly he is as unlike Arthur Jerningham as could possibly be imagined: definitely one of the ugliest men in London. And extremely intelligent. But somehow,” said Eudora drily: “I cannot persuade myself that I feel the slightest tendre towards him, either.”
Mrs Mortimer did not imagine for a moment that Eudora had wanted Viscount Stamforth—not that that would have weighed with Lady Harold—but nevertheless the tone of her friend’s voice had been distinctly bitter. So she quickly changed the subject, saying with a bright smile that she did not manage to delude herself Eudora wouldn’t immediately spot was somewhat forced: “Only guess, dearest! We had a letter from Teddy but the other day!”
Eudora eyed her drily, not voicing the thought that she had not heretofore believed that Mary’s brother Teddy could write more than his name. He was currently inflicting himself on the unfortunate Lord and Lady Keywes at the Embassy in Rome. Not as an official aide-de-camp, no: the family would have purchased him a commission but Teddy Fortescue wasn’t energetic enough to wish to be a soldier—no, some sort of assistant secretary. Had he perhaps written to say he hated it and wished to come home? She did not voice this thought, either, merely murmured a polite enquiry after his health, thus enabling Mary to give her a full report.
—Fullish. She had come to a dead stop, a dismayed look on her amiable pink-cheeked face. Eudora swallowed a sigh.
“Mary, my dear, if Teddy’s letter be full of some nonsense about our highly undesirable connections, do pray let me assure you that imprimis, nothing poor Cousin Jeremy Andrews’s ghastly widow or any of her frightful offspring did would surprise me, and secundus, Mamma has already had a very full report of the thing. The Italian Ambassador’s lady,” she added on a very dry note indeed, “was only too glad to be able to apprise her of the true facts of the case.”
Oh, dear! Just at the instant, though of course it was not generally true, dear Kenneth’s “old-cattish” remark did seem to—well, not to be entirely inapposite!
“I—I dare say there is nothing in it, Eudora,” she faltered.
Eudora’s faultless eyebrows rose slightly. “It is kind in you to say so, my dear. Let us just hope to God that the thing is a nine days’ wonder and it’s the last we hear of the frightful girl.”
This pious hope, alas, was not to be fulfilled, and indeed, at the very moment of its utterance, Raffaella, Contessa dalla Rovere, née Andrews, was well on her way towards England, her Bon-Dutton cousins, and what Eudora was now assuring Mary Mortimer would be a peaceful summer to which she was very much looking forward, at Sommerton Grange in Derbyshire with her sister Lilian. –Mendaciously, alas: they were both aware that though Eudora was fond of Lilian Quarmby-Vine, she rapidly became bored in her company, and that Peter Q.-V. did not care for her. Considered her old-cattish—quite.
Next chapter:
https://raffaella-aregencynovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/introducing-contessa-dalla-rovere.html