Flirtation & Folly Page 4

  The interior was similarly slovenly but of fair wealth. China vases half-filled with silk flowers, snuff-boxes crafted in tortoiseshell or porcelain, and other gifts from grateful patients lay scattered throughout the rooms. Leather-bound books rose in structurally unsound stacks, leaning on each other and poking out sharp corners at passers-by. Marianne even spotted a few used teacups teetering on tripod tables where previous guests had forgotten them. There was so much to see that Marianne barely managed to rein in her curiosity enough to properly meet her aunt and uncle.

  Matilda Adams had always fancied herself sickly, so it was little surprise to anyone that she married her ever-attendant physician, Frank Cartwright, when they were both young and foolishly sentimental over the candles beside her sickbed.

  Marianne did find herself surprised by her uncle Cartwright, however. Despite being well over forty, he had the boyish spirits of a child on holiday and an irrepressible good cheer. He ministered to his invalid wife, made the rounds of patients all over London (albeit mostly in the better parts), and entertained regularly, all with an ease that made life’s perplexities mere fables to him. His blond hair was thinning too much to appear boyish, but his wide smile greeted Marianne as if she were a fellow playmate. Marianne liked him immediately.

  “We are so pleased to meet you, Marianne. Pray, come have a look at your aunt. She is holding court in the corner, as usual.” He led Marianne into a room relatively clear of clutter, their progress only hindered by a few card tables, easily outmanoeuvred.

  Matilda Cartwright lay half-reclining on a chaise-longue. A gown of sprigged muslin wrapped her slender form and a pretty pearl-studded bandeau provided the same service for her dark curls. Her skin was the whitest Marianne had ever seen without being obviously powdered.

  “My dear niece,” Aunt Cartwright said, lifting one of her snowy arms in a gesture of welcome. Her tone was a little theatrical, but Marianne loved it. She felt as though she had walked into a novel. She dipped a curtsey, but Aunt Cartwright insisted on taking her hand and settling her on an ottoman beside the chaise-longue. “No ceremony, my dear, no ceremony. We are all at ease here. It is good for the digestion.” She appealed to her husband. “It is good for the digestion, is it not, my love?”

  “Quite right, my love. You always know best.” With a quick bow, he moved on to greet other guests while Marianne and her aunt chatted.

  “I am so glad we have a chance to talk before dinner,” Aunt Cartwright said. Her friendliness made Marianne’s heart warm and expand, but her growing fondness stalled when her aunt asked, “Now, which one are you?”

  “I am Marianne, Aunt Cartwright.”

  “That’s right. I thought I heard Belinda, but then it was Marianne. My sister has lovely children, all of them.” She patted Marianne’s hand, which she still held in a companionable manner. “I have not met any of them but you, of course.”

  “Of course,” Marianne said faintly. “It is a long distance to travel, I suppose.”

  “Oh, travel is quite beyond me. I do not even dine out. But your mother writes letters, sometimes, so I know you are all as you should be. I have often wished that one of you would come to visit, but that always remained to Harriet to achieve. My health does not permit many visitors.” Aunt Cartwright’s eyes glistened. “I am sure we will be great friends, Marianne.”

  The warm feeling was coming back now, albeit more slowly. “I hope so, Aunt.” Glancing around the room, Marianne spied a traveling medicine chest settled on a table at her aunt’s elbow. Its side drawers were laid open, displaying a variety of dried herbs, and little bottles of varying colours and sizes filled the main compartment. “Is this my uncle’s chest?”

  “Oh, no, my dear. He is a great physician and seldom deals in bottles and creams. This is my chest.” Aunt Cartwright’s chin lifted with pride. “I have no small skill in medicinal matters.”

  “You can make your own draughts?”

  “Indeed I can, and much better than you will find at an apothecary’s, excepting Mr Glass, of course. He is a great apothecary. He understands a delicate constitution like mine.” Here her aunt’s bearing changed. As languid and mildly dramatic as she had been before, it was almost startling to see her sit up straight and speak with brusque confidence. Marianne could see Aunt Harriet’s nature rise up in her sister, as if possessed by a ghost. “I hope you understand your constitution. It is the duty of every lady to obtain a thorough knowledge of her constitution.”

  “I rather thought that was the province of the physician.”

  “Nonsense! How can a physician properly advise a lady who knows nothing of herself? She must instruct him on her peculiarities before he can give suitable advice. After many years, I have as thorough a knowledge of my own constitution as any lady ever had, I daresay. And with the assistance of my husband and Mr Glass, I have designed new draughts, potions, creams, poultices—why, everything medicinal you can imagine. It is only sensible for a lady of my medical understanding to apply my knowledge.”

  Her pale, pointed chin came down, and the ghost of Aunt Harriet slipped away, leaving the languid Aunt Cartwright to recline back onto her pillows. “Not that I advise every lady to design medicines. That takes particular skill. And I have the benefit of your uncle’s consultation to design draughts. I would not advise a lady with an ordinary husband to attempt it.”

  “It does sound difficult.”

  “It is, indeed. Mr Glass is your uncle’s apothecary, and he has been invaluable in his assistance. He finds me exactly what I need, and helps me to create new combinations. You will meet him tonight.”

  Marianne tried not to look surprised. “You invited an apothecary to dinner?”

  “Mr Glass is no ordinary apothecary. He is quite a genius. And he has become like a son to Mr Cartwright and me. Like a son.” Her aunt beckoned her into place in the procession for dinner, and they all filed into the brightly lit dining room two by two.

  In all her daydreams, Marianne had envisioned herself seated next to Captain Pulteney at dinner and dazzling him with her wit. It was jarring to find herself seated between Mr Glass and the vicar, with Captain Pulteney seated far down the length of the table. Marianne could only watch him laughing, serving the ladies nearby, and making gallant conversation with his neighbour, Aunt Harriet. Aunt Harriet’s usually firm countenance was light and smiling at the captain’s wit. Marianne felt the complete lack of wit very much where she sat.

  When Mrs Cartwright had claimed the apothecary as nearly a son to her and her husband, Marianne had imagined a young man, but Mr Glass was Uncle Cartwright’s age. He did not resemble a man of glass at all, unless the glass was a cloudy, dark bottle smeared with something greasy. He was short, with heavy eyebrows, a leathern face, and hair matted with something slick and strong-smelling. He spoke little, but what he did say was scrupulously polite, as if constantly aware that dining with those above one’s station was a privilege not usually enjoyed by an apothecary. He made himself as unobjectionable to the Cartwrights’ guests as possible by making himself as little noticed as possible.

  Mr Anscombe, the vicar, preoccupied Marianne’s attention whenever she could tear herself away from gazing at the captain down the table. He remembered seeing Marianne with her aunt at the service on Sunday and seemed pleased to find her his neighbour at dinner. After helping Marianne to boiled chicken, he asked, “Have you seen the sights of London yet, Miss Mowbrey?”

  “A few. We have not had time for much, but my aunt did take me to see the Tower.”

  “I suppose you must have thought a great deal about my sermon while viewing it,” Mr Anscombe said. “The role of proper governance is so difficult to draw out, is it not? I am sure the experience must have highlighted particular points in my message.”

  “I am afraid I did not think of the sermon while I was there,” Marianne said.

  “Not think of it! What a loss, Miss Mowbrey. To stand in the symbol of earthly power in England, and to feel no questioning as to its
relationship with the Cause of all power, the orderer of the heavens. If possible, I would deliver that sermon within St James itself, so that all might be impressed with the significance of that eternal relationship. It is profound. It demands attention. I am sure you must have thought of what I said, at least glancingly.” The vicar looked up from cutting the slab of tongue on his plate to seek Marianne’s gaze.

  “I was rather overexcited by the Tower,” she said.

  “But that is precisely it! If you had thought of it, you would have been calm. You would have felt reassurance of the pre-eminence of God, even in the midst of worldly power. You would have experienced a proper thankfulness for those human beings who regulate our conduct, but also a solid surety in the Maker who regulates all…”

  Mr Anscombe continued at length, and Marianne struggled to focus on his words rather than Captain Pulteney’s laugh carrying over the clink of silver on gleaming china plates. By the end of the meal, her shoulders slumped with the weariness of maintaining what she hoped were correct table manners and paying proper attention to the vicar’s remarks. When Aunt Cartwright rose, signifying that the ladies were to leave the table, Marianne hauled herself to her feet with less grace than she would have hoped for.

  The ladies retired to the card room. Since Aunt Harriet seated herself next to her sister and engaged her in conversation, Marianne turned her efforts to the other ladies. She had met them briefly before dinner, but now she was prepared to beguile them properly. Her hands smoothed the sunny yellow silk of her new gown. It was an unusually bright colour for a young lady to wear, so Marianne was sure it would help her stand out. At her direction, the rows of lace over the bodice were set at an angle, again to achieve notice. The dressmaker had thrown doubtful looks at Aunt Harriet when she received Marianne’s instructions, but Marianne was sure that if she carried her taste boldly into society, everyone would eventually fall in with it. That was what the fascinating, confident ladies in French novels did. They did not follow fashion—they created it.

  Marianne had to admit that that confidence was a little wanting as she moved to sit down next to the two Miss Stokeses. Miss Augusta Stokes, the elder, was a young brunette with a plumpness that was pleasing in youth but prophesied a heavy solidity in middle years. For now, however, her youthful figure reminded Marianne of a full-blown rose, lush and eye-catching. Miss Stokes moved with slow, genteel elegance. Her conversation and smile were polite, but her eyes were watchful and wary, her sharp, pointed chin reminding Marianne of a thorn.

  Miss Emily Stokes, her younger sister, was the tight bud to her sister’s open rose. She was taller than her sister by several inches, but her body was taut, as if brimming with reined-in energy. Her undeviating, correct posture added to the effect. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a bun that looked both smart and simple, and although the gems in her ears were modest, they matched the green of her eyes exactly. The features of her face were symmetrical and individually attractive, but seemed arranged too compactly for perfect beauty, like a doll’s face that had been painted too small for the toy’s head. Miss Emily spoke more quickly than her sister and often dotted her conversation with sharp sallies that contrasted with the careful courtesy of Miss Stokes.

  “You must not have been shopping yet, Miss Mowbrey,” Miss Emily said. “What a delight you will find Bond Street! And Berkeley Square as well. You must join us sometime. Mama takes us to all the best shops.”

  Marianne wondered that Miss Emily could not tell her dress was new. The bright yellow seemed obviously fresh to her, not faded as her dull country clothes had been. “I have been to Bond Street with my aunt.” There was no need to specify; Aunt Cartwright seldom went anywhere.

  The two sisters exchanged unreadable looks. “I wonder that you did not purchase anything from Madame Renault, then,” Miss Emily said, her tiny doll face pursing its lips as if she were trying to hide a smile. “Mama says she is the best dressmaker in town. At least, this year she is very much in fashion.”

  Marianne smiled. “But I did! This very dress was made by her—”

  Miss Emily leaned in. “Why, what a scandal! To be sure, you must have a stern word with her. She cannot pass off ill-made gowns on you just because you are from the country. Even a country lady would know that the lace is ill-placed, and the cut of the sleeves is quite old-fashioned.” Miss Emily patted Marianne’s hand, but her gaze went to Augusta with another mysterious look. “What I cannot understand is how she managed to use such fabric. Did you not bring your own silk for her to use? Perhaps she swapped it with that yellow silk, to get rid of it.”

  An uncomfortable tightness began to throb in Marianne’s throat. “I…do not think that is what happened.” She could not bring herself to say she had chosen the design. The slight squeal of the tea cart announced its entrance into the room, and Marianne remembered she was in the midst of society, perhaps soon to be observed by Captain Pulteney. She rallied. What do they know? Of course there will be close-minded people who do not see the elegance of new fashion at first. They wait until people of better taste admire it, and then they flock to imitate.

  Mr Glass passed by, the first of the gentlemen to join the ladies. As he took a station by the window, Miss Stokes frowned with more venom than Marianne would have expected from her languid personality. If a full-blown rose could be angry, Augusta Stokes was angry now. “I am sure you will agree, Miss Mowbrey, it is simply unconscionable to invite an apothecary to a dinner with genteel company! Mrs Cartwright does not know what she puts her guests through. I have not spoken three words to him in all my life, I assure you, but sometimes I am hard-pressed to keep him at a distance.”

  “He seems distant enough now.” Indeed, Mr Glass looked fully wrapped up in himself as he stared out at the dark London street. His stiff back put up a wall between himself and the ladies behind him. He seemed neither to expect nor to desire conversation.

  “Perhaps at the moment, but he is a pushing man,” Miss Emily said. “Imagine accepting such an invitation! Augusta is right; he does not know his place. I wonder at your aunt, inviting him again and again. She says he is like a son.” She huffed a laugh to show what she thought of that.

  Marianne desired to defend Aunt Cartwright and Mr Glass, but she found it hard to speak up. The two sisters seemed so sure of themselves. At length, Miss Stokes settled her plump, beringed hands peaceably on her lap, although her watchful eyes continued to make a smooth survey of the room. Miss Emily began a line of chatter about a concert she had been to. Marianne tried to make her questions polite and interesting, lamenting that she could not seem to make any of them witty. Already she felt herself fading before the two self-possessed sisters. Perhaps they did not mind her inferiority, however, because Miss Emily soon made a firm pledge to shop with her in Bond Street before the end of the next week.

  “We visit so many places,” she said carelessly, “I cannot be more specific as to which day. Our time is quite taken up. But Mama will be happy to take us in her carriage.” Her eyes narrowed, and her smile drew her mouth long and almost straight, more like a scimitar than a sunny half-circle. “I will help you take Madame Renault to task for that gown.”

  “I beg you would not trouble yourself for my gown,” Marianne said, agitation making her voice tremble. “But I should be happy to shop with you and Miss Stokes.” To avoid further discussion of her yellow gown, Marianne rose and said she would get a cup of tea.

  As she passed the window, Mr Glass called out in a low voice, “Miss Mowbrey, look here!”

  He was no longer stiff-backed and silent. He was leaning in to the window, beckoning Marianne, and his excitement felt barely constrained, like a bird dog who has spotted a fat pheasant in the grass. Marianne joined him.

  “It is snowing,” he said, gesturing at the flakes as if presenting them to her. It did not seem like a novel announcement. It had often snowed this January.

  Marianne obligingly peered out the window, but the bright lights behind her made the outside wo
rld one black, solid mystery. “I cannot make anything out.”

  “Choose one of the lampposts and watch it carefully.” He pointed to one and Marianne obeyed, but not without a glance at the Miss Stokeses on the sofa. Please do not let them turn around. So far they seemed oblivious of Mr Glass and Marianne, but it might be feigned.

  “Yes…I think I see.” Marianne forced a smile at Mr Glass. It was clear he had had a great deal of practice staring out this particular window. She pitied him, but she also feared Miss Emily’s tongue. “I must get a cup of tea, Mr Glass,” she said, unable to think of any better excuse. His demeanour stiffened before he almost immediately bowed, then withdrew again to the window and his solitary watch.

  Marianne felt ashamed but relieved as she crossed the room. Aunt Cartwright presented her with a cup of strong black tea just as the gentlemen joined them. Sir William looked as if he hoped for a tête-à-tête with Marianne, but to Marianne’s delight, Captain Pulteney sought her out and whisked her off into a corner.

  “How did you like your dinner, Miss Mowbrey?” His genial face beamed with humour under fair hair loosely curled and tousled. He was in uniform this evening, and the bright red and gold suited him. He turned his body to her in a conspiratorial fashion, and lowered his voice. “I daresay you did not like being seated next to an apothecary.”

  “Mr Glass was very pleasant at dinner.”

  “He was very pleasant because he was very silent. I should imagine you had all the talking to yourself.”

  “I am afraid I did not speak to Mr Glass much at all.”

  “I forgot the vicar was on your other side. No doubt he had all the talking.” Captain Pulteney’s voice changed to something more gallant. “You see, I have put all my surveillance skills to work, Miss Mowbrey, in order to see where the most precious lady civilian was situated. I was quite prepared for your defence at any moment.”