Amanda Scott (10 page)

“He was foolish,” Maggie agreed with a sigh, “but we will not talk politics when we have far more interesting topics to discuss.” Raising her voice slightly, she said, “Charles, lad, do not keep such a distance, but come and join us. I trust that you want to meet all the eligible young women in London, just as your sister will want to meet all the eligible young men.”

Chuff had turned when she called his name, but at these words he looked nonplussed, and Pinkie was certain that her own face must reflect his discomfiture. He did not have time to reply, however, for a footman stepped out then to announce that Lady Rothwell’s other guests were beginning to arrive.

They went back into the house, and before the company sat down at a long table in the elegant dining room, Pinkie had met Colonel John Campbell and his wife, and decided the world had not lied about the latter’s beauty. She also met Sir Horace Walpole, a slender, pale-complexioned gentleman with twinkling, intelligent eyes, who wore his brown hair unpowdered, combed straight back, and tied in a queue. She did not know if that fashion was à la mode for gentlemen, but the others all wore powdered tie wigs, so she thought it was not. Nonetheless, she saw that Duncan and Chuff both regarded Sir Horace with envious expressions, and thought they would at least attempt to adopt his style, fashionable or not.

There were a number of other guests, including several younger ladies and gentlemen—clearly invited to meet Pinkie and Chuff—including Lady Ophelia Balterley, a stout, outspoken woman with an elaborately coifed wig and a gown boasting panniers so wide that she had to take care passing through the doorways.

Lady Ophelia took a dim view of the married state and did not hesitate to say so, salting her opinions with amusing references from books that most ladies never read. Since Sir Horace was also an accomplished conversationalist—not to mention the recently admitted author of a hugely popular “Gothick” novel called
The Castle of Otranto
—Pinkie found the dinner highly entertaining.

Mary had warned her—and Lady Agnes, too—that some London hostesses desired any conversation at their dinner tables to take place only between persons sitting next to each other. It quickly became clear, however, that Maggie Rothwell was not one of those hostesses. Conversation from the outset was general and lively.

The subject of the new assembly rooms raised its head while the servants were presenting the second course, when the beautiful Elizabeth Campbell asked Maggie if she intended to purchase a subscription to the first series of balls.

“The cost is but ten guineas,” she said in her soft, lilting Irish voice, “for which we will enjoy a ball and supper once a week till the end of the Season.”

“Aye, I had thought of going,” Maggie said, “but I was not certain if…” She paused tactfully, glancing at Mary and Pinkie, who sat opposite each other halfway along the table.

Sir Horace, next to Mary, was not so tactful. “The distribution of tickets,” he said in a deceptively gentle voice to no one in particular, “lies in the hands of a committee of lady-patronesses, whose power is utterly absolute, so you may imagine how carefully they choose their company. The men’s tickets, however,” he added with a chuckle, “are not transferable. If the ladies do not like us, they have no opportunity of changing us, but must see the same persons forever.”

“You are too harsh, Sir Horace,” Elizabeth said, smiling. “I can easily obtain tickets for you, Maggie, and for your delightful guests as well, if they like. The first ball is set for the fifteenth of June, the day after the queen’s drawing room.”

Maggie exchanged a look with Mary, then said, “We shall be happy to purchase tickets, Elizabeth. Mr. Almack’s rooms do seem to be growing popular.”

To Mary, Sir Horace said, “The rooms opened near the end of February, you know, Lady Balcardane—three of them, and very magnificent now, but the place was nearly empty that night. Half the town had fallen ill with colds, and many were afraid to go, as the house was scarcely built yet. Almack advertised that he had built it with hot bricks and boiling water. Just think how odd if that notice, instead of terrifying everybody, had drawn them all thither.”

“It sounds quite horrid,” Lady Agnes said with a shiver.

“Indeed, ma’am,” Sir Horace agreed. “They tell me the ceilings were dripping with wet, but the Duke of Cumberland was there. There is a vast flight of steps, and I’m told he was forced to rest two or three times. Only think how silly he would have felt had he died of a chill and, when St. Peter asked him what he’d died of, had to reply, ‘Why, I caught my death on a damp staircase at a new clubroom.’”

Everyone at the table laughed, and thus encouraged, Sir Horace went on, “Without meaning offense to anyone present, no one expected a lowborn Scot whose previous enterprises, profitable though they were, did
not
impress the fair sex, to succeed in impressing them with these new rooms of his.”

Lady Ophelia said, “I believe I enjoy dancing as much as anyone, but I fear that many persons view these new assembly rooms as no more than a marriage market—a place to show off their young women in hopes of marrying them to the highest bidder—and I cannot approve of that. Much as our men would like us to believe otherwise, the married state does not benefit a woman but enslaves her. For a woman to be entirely dependent upon a man is quite unnatural.”

“Most women do have minds of their own, do they not?” Maggie said with a smile before deftly turning the subject to Mr. David Garrick’s recent performance as Hamlet at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane.

Pinkie, although fascinated by Lady Ophelia and interested to hear anything else she might say, was nonetheless grateful for the change of subject. She knew that one reason Mary and Duncan had brought her to London was to introduce her to eligible gentlemen in the fond hope that she might find one suitable to marry. However, it was daunting to know that each man—and doubtless his family, as well—would want to judge whether she was worthy of him.

Gazing across the table, she wondered if the lovely Elizabeth Campbell would so quickly have offered them tickets to the new rooms had she known of Daft Geordie and Red Mag. Recalling that Lady Agnes had said Elizabeth’s mother was just someone’s housekeeper, she decided that perhaps her own antecedents would not matter as much as Chuff had feared they would. In any event, she was as certain as she could be that she would not find any man in London to suit her. As for Chuff, although he was two years her senior, he was still too young to think of marriage.

Michael had been in London less than an hour before he was ready to return to the Highlands, or to throttle his sister. Not only had their journey been a trial—with five adults crowded into his aunt’s coach—but the house in George Street, Westminster, was not what Bridget had expected a London house to be. In fairness, it was not what Lady Marsali had expected either. Her hitherto high opinion of her cousin, Mrs. Thatcher, had altered considerably upon their arrival.

They had made good time, reaching London the afternoon of the last day of April. When at last their coach drew up before the house, both ladies, and their maids, leaned forward to peer curiously at it through the coach window.

Bridget said with a frown, “It is quite narrow, is it not?”

“Aye, it is,” Lady Marsali agreed, “but surely it goes farther front to back than it does side to side.”

“Goodness me, I should hope it does,” Bridget exclaimed.

Michael, realizing at once that no manservant was going to emerge from the house, opened the coach door and kicked down the step. Getting out, he looked up and down the quiet street. The houses on both sides looked alike. Built of brown brick with simple stone bands and cornices, and wrought-iron railings to separate their belowground areaways from the raised flagway, their only individual traits were their entrances and their widths. The one before which their coach had stopped was tall—five stories—but only three bays wide, boasting one narrow window on each side of a simple entry, and three windows each on the upper floors.

When his man jumped down from the seat next to the coachman, Michael said, “See if anyone is at home, Chalmers. I’ll assist the women.”

“Michael, this is horrid,” Bridget said from the coach as he helped Lady Marsali to the flagway. “This cannot be the fashionable part of town.”

“I must say,” Lady Marsali said with a sigh, “it is not what I expected, either, but I am sure it will look much better inside. All of these houses along here appear to be much of a muchness, after all.”

“But not of a fashionable muchness, ma’am,” Bridget said bitterly, following her from the coach.

A maid in a simple blue dress, white apron, and mobcap opened the door of the house at last and bobbed a curtsy when Chalmers revealed his master’s identity.

“Come straightaway in, m’lord,” the maid said. “Me mistress be expecting you, and I am to take you right up to her.”

The entry hall did nothing to raise Bridget’s spirits. It was small, drab, and carpetless; and the stairs at the back left side of it were plain dark wood and rather too narrow for modern hoops. A single closed door on the right apparently led to a room of one sort or other, and another door at the back next to the stairs suggested that another room might lie behind it. The hall contained only a single side table next to the door on the right, beneath a plain wood-framed looking glass.

“This way,” the maid said politely, leading them up the stairs, her shoes thumping on the wooden steps.

“Just one moment,” Michael said. “What about our people and the coach?”

The maid said in surprise, “They won’t drive away, will they, sir?”

“Nay, of course they will not, but neither do they know where to put up the coach and horses, or whereabouts to settle themselves.”

“Well, after I’ve taken you to mistress, I’ll send the kitchen boy to lead your coachman round to the coach house, won’t I? I’ll also show your servants where to put your things, and where they are to sleep. How many have you got, then, sir?”

“Three, plus the coachman,” Michael said.

Bridget said in astonishment, “You won’t expect
our
people to carry up all our things, I hope. Nan and Aunt Marsali’s Louise are not at all accustomed to such tasks. Surely you must have menservants to carry in the luggage, at least.”

“We keep but the one kitchen boy,” the maid said. “This is not a household of men, miss. As to your coachman, my lord, he must sleep in the coach house.”

“I am
Lady
Bridget,” Bridget said haughtily.

Bobbing another hasty curtsy, the maid said equably, “Yes, m’lady. I won’t be forgettin’ again. Now, come along, do.” With that, she spun around on the ball of one foot and clattered up the stairs, leaving them to follow her as they would.

Before doing so, Michael looked at Chalmers, who said, “Aye, then, I’ll see tae the luggage and tae the beasts, m’lord. Rankin will help,” he added, referring to Lady Marsali’s coachman.

Michael nodded, then followed the others.

The stairway made a right-angle turn before reaching the next floor, where the landing faced an open doorway with another to the right. The maid stood in the latter doorway, clearly waiting till all three of her charges had assembled.

As she stepped aside, she said over her shoulder to someone in the room beyond, “Here they be now, ma’am.”

Michael gestured for Lady Marsali to go in first. He and Bridget followed.

The room filled the entire width of the house and overlooked George Street. Blue curtains hung at the three windows, and a blue, yellow, and pink floral carpet covered the floor. A fireplace with a plain white marble mantel and a brick hearth filled the end wall to the left as they entered, and a shallow alcove to the left of it held shelves full of books and knickknacks. Other furnishings included side chairs, a game table, a spinet, and side tables bearing clusters of memorabilia. Their hostess, a thin little silver-haired woman in a dark green wool afternoon gown, sat on the edge of a claw-footed blue sofa against the wall to their right as they entered.

“Do come in and sit down, my dears,” she said without rising. “Sal shall bring you tea if you like.”

“Bella, this is my niece, Bridget,” Lady Marsali said, “and this, of course, is Kintyre. My dears, this is my cousin Arabella Thatcher.”

“How handsome he is,” Mrs. Thatcher said, more as if Lady Marsali had shown her a picture of Michael instead of the real thing. “He will set all the ladies in a twitter. But sit down, all of you, do. You are making me giddy. I have been so impatient for your arrival that I have quite worn myself out.”

Bridget glanced at Michael.

He saw none of his amusement in her expression, however. She looked irritated, and he knew that she resented Mrs. Thatcher’s having singled him out for comment without mentioning her. Accustomed as she was to being the focal point of any group she graced with her presence, his sister had taken offense.

Lady Marsali, oblivious of Bridget’s sentiments, instantly drew one of the chairs near the sofa, sat down, and said in a tone of deep relief, “I cannot tell you, Bella, what a comfort it is to sit down on something that does not rock and jostle one’s bones to bits.”

“Indeed, this is a pleasant room,” Mrs. Thatcher said complacently. “Sal will bring our tea shortly, I daresay. Perhaps you could stir up that fire some, Kintyre.”

“Do you have no other servants, ma’am?” Bridget asked. “His lordship ought not to be doing such menial tasks.”

Michael, dealing with the fire, concealed a wry smile. These past few years at Mingary he had dealt with far more menial tasks than fire-stirring, but if Bridget wanted to play the grand Scottish lady, he would not put a spoke in her wheel.

Mrs. Thatcher said, “I live quite alone, my dear. Why should I pay a houseful of servants to do nothing much at all?”

“Not a houseful, perhaps, but surely a manservant or two would lend you more consequence, ma’am.”

Mrs. Thatcher laughed. “I do not require more consequence, and I can assure you that in a house the size of this one, menservants would bring me more scandal than distinction. Where on earth would I put them? There are but four small bedchambers in the attic, and but two rooms each on the other floors.”