The events and impressions of her first week in London left Miss Taverner with her brain in a whirl. On the very afternoon of the day she and Peregrine called on their guardian he not only brought Mrs. Scattergood to see her, but later sent Mr. Blackader to discuss the question of servants.
Mrs. Scattergood took Miss Taverner’s breath away. She was a very thin lady of no more than medium height, certainly on the wrong side of forty, but dressed in an amazingly youthful fashion, with her improbably chestnut-coloured hair cropped short at the back, and crimped into curls in front, and her sharp, lively countenance painted in a lavish style that quite shocked the country-bred Judith.
She was dressed in a semi-transparent gown of jaconet muslin, made up to the throat with a treble ruff of pointed lace, and fastened down the back with innumerable little buttons. Her gown ended in a broad embroidered flounce, and on her feet she had lace stockings and yellow kid Roman boots. A lavender chip hat, tied under her chin with long yellow ribands, was placed over a small white satin cap beneath, and she carried a long-handled parasol, and a silk reticule.
Her twinkling eyes absorbed Judith at a glance. She stepped back as though to see the girl in perspective, and then nodded briskly. “I am charmed! My dear Worth, I am quite charmed! You must, you shall let me have the dressing of you, child! What is your name—oh no, not that stiff Miss Taverner! Judith! Worth, what do you stay for? I am to talk of fashions, you know. You must go at once!”
Miss Taverner, who had intended politely to decline Mrs. Scattergood’s services, felt powerless. The Earl made his bow, and left them together, and Mrs. Scattergood immediately took one of Judith’s shapely hands in her own tightly-gloved ones, and said coaxingly: “You will let me come and live with you, won’t you? I am shockingly expensive, but you won’t mind that, I daresay. Oh, you are looking at my gown, and thinking what a very odd appearance I present. You see, I am not pretty, not in the least, never was, and so I have to be odd. Nothing for it! It answers delightfully. And so Worth has taken a house for you in Brook Street! Just as it should be: a charming situation! You know, I have quite made up my mind to it you are to be the rage. I think I should come to you at once. Grillon’s! Well, I suppose there is no more genteel hotel in town, but a young lady alone—oh, you have a brother, but what is the use of that? I had better have my boxes packed up immediately. How I do run on! You don’t wish me to live with you at all, I daresay. But a cousin in Kensington! You would find she would not add to your consequence, my dear. I am sure, a dowdy old lady. She would not else be living in Kensington, take my word for it.”
So Miss Taverner yielded, and that very evening her chaperon arrived at Grillon’s in a light coach weighed down by trunks and bandboxes.
Mr. Blackader, who sent in his card at about four o’clock in the afternoon, was much more easily dealt with. He was a shy young man, who looked at the heiress with undisguised admiration. He seemed to be extremely conscientious, and most anxious to oblige. He frowned over the credentials of at least a dozen servants, and fluttered over the leaves of a sheaf of papers, until Miss Taverner laughingly implored him to stop.
Mr. Blackader’s solemnity disappeared into something remarkably like a grin. “Well, do you know, ma’am, I think if you was to let me settle it all for you it would be quicker done?” he suggested apologetically.
So it was arranged. Mr. Blackader hurried away to engage a cook, and Miss Taverner walked out to take a peep at London.
She turned into Piccadilly, and knew herself to be in the heart of the fashionable quarter. There was so much to see, so much to wonder at! She had not believed so many modish people to exist, while as for the carriages, she had never seen any so elegant. The shops, the buildings were all delightful. There was the famous Hatchard’s, with its bow windows filled with all the newest publications. She could almost fancy that the gentleman coming out of the shop was the great Mr. Scott himself, or perhaps, if the author of the Lady of the Lake was in Scotland (which was sadly probable), it might be Mr. Rogers, whose Pleasures of Memory had beguiled so many leisure moments.
She went into the shop, and came out again after an enchanting half-hour spent in turning over any number of books, with a copy of Mr. Southey’s latest poem, the Curse of Kehama, under her arm.
When she returned to Grillon’s her chaperon had arrived, and was awaiting her. Miss Taverner entered in upon her in an impetuous fashion, and cried out: “Oh, ma’am, only to think of Hatchard’s at our very door! To be able to purchase any book in the world there, as I am sure one may!”
“Lord, my dear!” said Mrs. Scattergood, in some dismay. “Never say you are bookish! Poems! Oh well, there may be no harm in that, one must be able to talk of the latest poems if they happen to become the rage. Marmion! I liked that excessively, I remember, though it was too long for me to finish. They say this young man who had been doing such odd things abroad is becoming the fashion, but I don’t know. He was excessively rude to poor Lord Carlisle in that horrid poem of his. I cannot like him for it, besides that someone or other was telling me there is bad blood in all the Byrons. But, of course, if he is to be the fashion one must keep an eye on him. Let me warn you, my love, never be behind the times!”
It was the first of many pieces of worldly wisdom. Miss Taverner, led from warehouse to warehouse, from milliner to bootmaker, had others instilled into her head. She learned that no lady would be seen driving or walking down St. James’s Street; that every lady must be sure of being seen promenading in Hyde Park between the hours of five and six. She must not dare to dance the waltz until she had been approved by the Patronesses of Almack’s; she must not want to be wearing warm pelisses or shawls: the lightest of wraps must suffice her in all weathers; she need extend only the barest civility towards such an one; she must be conciliating to such another. And above all, most important, most vital, she must move heaven and earth to earn Mr. Brummell’s approval.
“If Mr. Brummell should not think you the thing you are lost!” said Mrs. Scattergood impressively. “Nothing could save you from social ruin, take my word for it. He has but to lift his eyebrow at you. and the whole world will know that he finds nothing to admire in you.”
Miss Taverner’s antagonism was instantly aroused. “I do not care that for Mr. Brummell!” she said.
Mrs. Scattergood gave a faint scream, and implored her to be careful.
Miss Taverner, however, was heartily tired of the sound of the dandy’s name. Mr. Brummell had invented the starched neckcloth; Mr. Brummell had started the fashion of white tops to riding-boots; Mr. Brummell had laid it down that no gentleman would be seen driving in a hackney carriage; Mr. Brummell had his own sedan chair, lined and cushioned with white satin; Mr. Brummell had abandoned a military career because his regiment had been ordered to Manchester; Mr. Brummell had decreed that none of the Bow-window set at White’s would acknowledge salutations from acquaintances in the street if they were seated in the club-window. And Mr. Brummell, said Mrs. Scattergood, would give her one of his stinging set-downs if she offended his notions of propriety.
“Will he?” said Miss Taverner, a martial light in her eye. “Will he indeed?”
She was annoyed to find her brother inclined to be impressed by the shadow of this uncrowned king of fashion. Peregrine went to be measured for some suits of clothes at Weston’s, escorted by Mr. Fitzjohn, and when he debated over two rolls of cloth, unable to decide between them, the tailor coughed, and said helpfully: “The Prince Regent, sir, prefers superfine, and Mr. Brummell the Bath coating, but it is immaterial which you choose: you must be right. Suppose, sir, we say the Bath coating?—I think Mr. Brummell has a trifle the preference.”
Peregrine’s days during the first week were quite as full as his sister’s. His friend, Mr. Fitzjohn, took him thoroughly in hand. When he was not being fitted for boots at Hoby’s, or hats at Lock’s, he was choosing fobs in Wells Street, or riding off to Long Acre to look at a tilbury, or knowingly inspecting carriage-horses at Tattersall’s.
The house in Brook Street, somewhat to Miss Taverner’s annoyance, proved to be admirable in every respect, the saloons handsome, and the furnishings just what she liked. She was installed there within three days of seeing Mr. Blackader, and a number of her new gowns having been delivered in neat bandboxes, her hair having been fashionably cut, and her maid taught to dress it in several approved classical styles, Mrs. Scattergood declared her to be ready to receive morning callers.
The first of these were her uncle, the Admiral, and his son, Mr. Bernard Taverner. They came at an awkward moment, Peregrine, who had spent the great part of the morning in a brocade dressing-gown, while the barber and a breeches-maker waited on him, being at the moment engaged in trying to arrange his starched neckcloth.
His sister, who had walked unceremoniously into his room to demand his escort to Colburn’s Lending Library, was an interested and rather scornful spectator. “What nonsense it is, Perry!” she exclaimed, as with an exasperated oath he threw away his fourth crushed and mangled cravat. “That is the fourth you have spoiled! If only you would have them made more narrow!”
Peregrine, his face and head quite obscured by his turned-up shirt collar, said testily: “Women never understand these things. Fitz says it must be a foot high. As for four spoiled, pooh, that’s nothing! Fitz says Brummell has sometimes ruined as many as a score. Now try it again, John! Fold my collar down first, you fool!”
Someone knocked on the door. Peregrine, with a neckcloth a foot wide round his neck, and his chin to the ceiling, shouted: “Come in!” and in doing so produced a crease in the neckcloth which he felt could hardly have been bettered by the Beau himself.
The footman entered, and announced the arrival of Admiral and Mr. Taverner. Peregrine was too much engaged in making further creases by the simple expedient of gradually lowering his jaw, to pay any heed, but Judith jumped up at once. “Oh, Perry, do make haste! It is our cousin! Beg the Admiral to wait, Perkins. We will come directly. Is Mrs Scattergood downstairs? Oh then, she will see to it all! Perry, will you never have done?”
The cravat had by this time been reduced to more normal proportions. Peregrine studied it anxiously in the mirror, tried with a cautious finger to perfect one of the creases, and announced gloomily that it would have to do. It was still too high to permit of his turning his head more than an inch or two to either side, but this he assured Judith was nothing at all out of the way.
The next business was to get him into his new coat, an elegant blue creation made of the prescribed Bath coating, with long tails, and silver buttons. It fitted him so exactly that the services of the footman had to be engaged to assist in inserting him into it. It seemed at one time as though not even the united efforts of two able-bodied men could succeed in this, but after a grim struggle it was done, and Peregrine, panting slightly from his exertions, turned to his sister and proudly asked her how he looked.
There was a laugh in her eye, but she assured him he was quite the thing. In any other man she would have ruthlessly condemned so absurdly waisted a coat, so monstrous a cravat, such skin-tight pantaloons, but Peregrine was very much her darling, and must be allowed to dress himself up in any dandified way he pleased. She did indeed suggest that his golden locks were in considerable disorder, but upon being informed that this was intentional, and had taken him half an hour to achieve, she said no more, but took his arm and went down with him to the saloon upon the first floor.
Here they found Mrs. Scattergood seated on a confidante beside a stout flushed-looking gentleman with grizzled hair, in whom Miss Taverner had no difficulty in recognizing her late father’s brother. Mr. Bernard Taverner occupied a chair opposite to them, but upon the door opening to admit his cousins, he immediately got up, and made his bow. There was a certain warmth in his smile; his look seemed to approve, even to admire. Judith could only be glad that she had chosen that morning to put on the jonquil muslin dress with the lace trimming, and the new kid shoes of celestial blue.
The Admiral had got up ponderously from the confidante, and now came forward with his hand held out and a look of decided relish upon his florid countenance. “So!” he said. “My little niece! Well, my dear! Well!”
She had a moment’s fear that he was going to kiss her, a circumstance she could not look forward to with any equanimity, since he smelled strongly of spirits. She put out her hand in a decided way, and after a moment’s hesitation he took it, and held it between both of his. “So you are poor John’s daughter!” he said with a somewhat gusty sigh. “Ah, that was a sad business! I was never more shocked in my life.”
Her brows drew together slightly; she bowed, and withdrew her hand. She could not suppose him sincere, and while determined on showing him all the observance which their relationship demanded, she could not like him. She said merely: “My brother Peregrine, sir.”
They shook hands. The Admiral clapped his nephew on the shoulder, supposed him to be come to town to cut a dash, did not blame him, but begged him to be careful of his company, else he would find himself without a feather to fly with. This was all said with a great air of joviality, while Peregrine smiled politely, and inwardly consigned his uncle to the devil.
Mr. Taverner had moved over to stand beside Judith, and now put a chair forward for her. She took it, reflecting that he did not in any way favour his father.
He drew up a back-stool, and sat down on it. “My cousin is pleased with London?” he said smilingly.
“Yes, indeed,” she responded. “Though I have seen very little yet. Only some of the shops, and the wild beasts at the Exeter Exchange, which Perry took me to yesterday.”
He laughed. “Well, that is a beginning, at any rate.” He glanced at Mrs. Scattergood, who was joining in the conversation between the Admiral and Peregrine, and lowered his voice. “You have a lady of quality to live with you, I see. That is just as it should be. I had not had the pleasure before to-day of meeting her, but she is known to me a little by repute. I believe her consequence to be very just. You are fortunate.”
“We like her extremely,” Judith replied in her calm way.
“And Peregrine, I perceive, has been busy,” he said, the smile returning to lurk in his eyes. “Will you be offended with me if I confess I looked twice before I recognized in him the young gentleman I met in Grantham?”
There was a twinkle in her own eyes. “At us both, perhaps, sir?”
“No,” he replied seriously. “I should always recognize you, cousin.” He became aware of the Admiral at his elbow wanting to claim Judith’s attention, and rose at once. “I beg pardon, sir. You were speaking?”
“Oh, you are pleased to be aground there, my boy, I don’t doubt!” said his father, poking a finger at his ribs. “I was saying, my dear, it’s a thousand pities young Perry here wasn’t put into the Navy. That’s the life for you youngsters—ay, and that goes for you too, Bernard. With this war, you know, any likely fellow may make his fortune at sea. Damme, if I was but twenty years younger there’s nothing would suit me better than to be commanding a snug little frigate to-day! But that’s how it is with the young men nowadays! All of them as shy as be-damned of venturing a mile from town!”
“Come, come, sir, that won’t do!” protested Mrs. Scattergood. “I am sure it is quite dreadful only to think of all the officers gone off to that horrid Peninsular, and here are you saying young men won’t stir out of town! I could name you a dozen charming creatures gone off to be murdered by the French. I myself have a young relative”—she nodded at Judith—“Worth’s brother, you know—Charlie Audley—the most delightful, audacious wretch—who is there now.”
“Oh, the Army! We do not count the Army, I can tell you, ma’am,” said the Admiral. “Why, what do they know of the matter, playing at war as they do? They should have been with us in the Trafalgar action! Ay, that was real fighting!”
“You are not serious, sir,” interposed his son. “They have seen some hard fighting in Spain.”
He spoke quietly, but with a decided air of reproof, fixing his expressive eyes on his father’s face. The Admiral looked a little confounded, but laughed it off. He had nothing to say against the fellows in the Army; he had no doubt they were a very good set of men; all he meant was they had better have gone to sea.
It was evident from his remarks that the Admiral had less than common sense. Miss Taverner, glancing from him to his son, detected a faint look of contempt in the latter’s face. She was sorry for it, yet could scarcely blame him. To relieve the awkwardness of the moment she turned to the Admiral, and began talking to him of the Trafalgar action.
He was pleased enough to tell it all to her, but his account, concerned as it was merely with his own doings upon that momentous day and interspersed with a great many oaths and coarse expressions, could be of little interest to her. She wanted to be hearing of Lord Nelson, who had naturally been the hero of her school-days. It was her uncle’s only merit in her eyes that he must actually have spoken with the great man, but she could not induce him to describe Nelson in any other than the meanest terms. He had not liked him, did not see that he had been so very remarkable, never could understand what the women saw in him—a wispy fellow: nothing to look at, he gave her his word.
Mr. Taverner had moved to one of the windows with Peregrine, and was engaged in talking of horse-flesh with him. A servant came in with a message for Mrs. Scattergood which took her away in a flutter of apologies and gauze draperies. The door had no sooner closed behind her than the Admiral’s conversation took an abrupt turn. Pulling his chair a little closer to Judith’s, he said in an under-voice: “I am glad she is gone. I daresay she is very well, but a poor little dab of a woman, ain’t she? You know, my dear, things are left very awkwardly. You won’t like to be in a stranger’s hands. And this fellow, Worth, to have the handling of your fortunes! I don’t like it. He’s a gamester, none too plump in the pocket, I was hearing. There’s no denying that was a corkbrained Will of your poor father’s. But I daresay he was not himself, hey?”
Mr. Taverner must have had remarkably acute hearing, for he turned his head sharply, looking very hard at his father, and before Judith was at the necessity of answering what she could only feel to be an impertinence, he had come across the room towards them, and said pleasantly: “Excuse me, sir, I think such a discussion must be painful to my cousin. Judith—I may venture?—I have been trying to engage Peregrine to give me the pleasure of his company at the play. May I hope that you and Mrs. Scattergood will also honour me? I think you have not visited the theatre yet.” He smiled down at her. “May mine be the privilege of escorting you to your first play? What shall it be? There’s Kemble and Mrs. Siddons at Covent Garden, or Bannister at Drury Lane, if your taste should be for comedy. You have only to name it.”
Her cheeks glowed with pleasure. She thanked him, and accepted, choosing, to Peregrine’s disgust, the tragedy. Her uncle was still busy congratulating his son on his good fortune in having secured such a beauty to be his guest when the door opened, and the butler announced the Earl of Worth.
Miss Taverner, taken quite by surprise, exchanged a swift glance with her brother, and began to instruct the butler to convey their excuses to his lordship. It was too late, however; the Earl must have followed the servant up the stairs, for he entered the room while the words of denial were on Judith’s lips.
He certainly heard them, but he gave no other sign of having done so than a faint curl of his lips. His coldly appraising gaze took in the company; he bowed slightly, and said in his languid voice that he was fortunate to have found his wards at home. Judith was obliged to present her uncle and cousin.
The Earl’s visit could not have been worse-timed; she cared nothing for his opinion, but to introduce the Admiral to him must still be a mortification. She fancied she could perceive a look of disdain in his face, and it was with relief that she brought her cousin to his notice. There at least she had nothing to be ashamed of.
A few civilities were exchanged, the Earl bearing his part in these with a formality that set off Mr. Taverner’s easier, more open manners to advantage. A silence, which the Earl made no effort to break, soon fell, and while Judith was trying to think of something to say, and wishing that Mrs. Scattergood would come back into the room, her cousin, with what she must feel to be instinctive good taste, reminded the Admiral that they had another engagement in the neighborhood, and should be taking their leave.
The bell was pulled, the footman came up to usher the visitors out, and in a few minutes they were gone.
The Earl, who had been calmly inspecting Judith through his eye-glass, let it fall, and said: “I see you have been taking my advice, Miss Taverner.” He glanced round the room. “Is this house to your liking? It seems to be rather above the general run of furnished houses.”
“Have you not been inside it before?” she demanded.
“Not to my knowledge,” he said, raising his brows. “Why should I?”
“I thought it was you who—” she broke off, cross with herself at having said so much.
“Oh no,” he replied. “Blackader chose it.” He turned his head to look at Peregrine, and an expression of pain crossed his features. “My good boy, are you emulating the style of Mr. Fitzjohn and his associates, or is that monstrous erection round your neck due merely to the clumsiness of your valet?”
“I was in a hurry,” said Peregrine defensively, and reddening in spite of himself.
“Then do not be in a hurry again. Cravats are not to be tied in an instant. I hear you bought Scrutton’s bay mare at Tattersall’s.”
“Yes,” said Peregrine.
“I thought you would,” murmured his lordship. Peregrine looked suspicious, but judged it wiser not to ask the meaning of this somewhat cryptic remark.
The Earl’s gaze returned to Miss Taverner. He said softly: “You should ask me to sit down, you know.”
Her lips quivered: she could not but appreciate his lordship’s methods. “Pray be seated, sir!”
“Thank you, Miss Taverner, but I do not stay. I came only to discuss your affairs with Peregrine,” said Worth with marked politeness.
It was too absurd; she had to laugh. “Very well, sir. I understand there is nothing to be done with my father’s unfortunate Will.”
“Nothing at all,” he said. “You had better accept me with a good grace. You will only be made to appear ridiculous if you don’t, you know.” Then, as she stiffened, he laughed, and putting out his hand tilted her face up with one careless finger under her chin. “Poor Beauty in distress!” he said. “But the smile was all that I hoped it might be.” He turned. “Now, Peregrine, if you please.”
They went out of the room together, nor did she again set eyes on the Earl that day. Peregrine came running up the stairs half an hour later, and finding his sister with Mrs. Scattergood, who was deep in the pages of a fashion journal, he announced impetuously that he rather thought they might do very well with Worth for their guardian.
Judith looked warningly towards Mrs. Scattergood, but Peregrine was not to be checked. He had very early in their acquaintanceship insinuated himself into that lady’s good graces, and treated her already with a marked lack of respect, and a good deal of affection. “Oh, Cousin Maria don’t give a fig for Worth!” he said airily. “But he has been talking to me, and I can tell you something, Judith, he don’t mean to keep too tight a hold on the purse-strings. I fancy we shall have no trouble with him at all. Cousin Maria, do you think Worth will trouble us?”
“No, indeed, why should he? My love, I read here that strawberries crushed on the face and left all night will clear sunburn and give a delicate complexion. I wonder whether we should try it? You know, you have just the suspicion of a freckle, Judith. You will always be going out in the sun and wind, and my dear, nothing is so destructive of female charms as contact with fresh air.”
“My dear ma’am, where will you find strawberries at this season!” said Miss Taverner, amused.
“Very true, my love; I was forgetting. Then it must be the Denmark Lotion after all. I wish you will buy some, if you mean to drive with Perry.”
Judith promised and went away to put on her hat and her gloves. When she drove out presently alone with her brother, she spoke to him seriously of their guardian. “I cannot like him, Perry. There is something in his eye, a hardness, a—mocking look—which I don’t trust. There is a lack of civility, too—oh, worse! His whole manner, his being so familiar with me—with us! It is very bad. I don’t understand him. He would have us think that he wanted to be our guardian as little as we wished to be his wards, and yet is it not odd that he should busy himself so particularly with our affairs? Even Mrs. Scattergood thinks it strange he should not be content to let the lawyers settle everything. She says she has never known him to exert himself so much as he does now.”
Thus Miss Taverner, in a mood of disquiet. The Earl, however, seemed to be in no hurry to repeat his call. They saw nothing of him for some days, though their visitors were many. Lady Sefton came with one of her daughters, and Mr. Skeffington, a very tall thin man with a painted face and a yellow waistcoat. He was lavishly scented, which set the Taverners instantly against him, and talked a great deal about the theatre. There did not seem to be an actor alive with whom he was not on terms of intimacy. They discovered later that he had written some plays himself, and even produced them. His manners were particularly gentle and pleasing, and it was not very long before the Taverners were quite won over to him. He was so kind one must forgive the paint and the scent.
Lady Sefton had to be liked also; and Mrs. Scattergood assured her charges that neither she nor her popular husband had an enemy in the world.
Lady Jersey, another of the all-powerful patronesses of Almack’s, came with Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, a lady of icy good-breeding, who said little and looked to be insufferably haughty. Lady Jersey seemed to be very good-natured in her restless way. She talked incessantly throughout her short visit, and fidgeted with anything that came in the way of her fluttering hands. Getting into her carriage again when the call was over, she said: “Well, my dear, I think—don’t you?—a charming girl? Quite beautiful! And of course the fortune! They tell me eighty thousand at the very least! We shall see all the fortune-hunters at work!” She gave her fairy-laugh. “Alvanley was telling me poor dear Wellesley Poole has left his card in Brook Street already. Well, I am sure I wish the girl a good husband. I think her quite out of the common.”
Mrs. Drummond-Burrell slightly shrugged her shoulders, “ Farouche,” she said in her cold way. “I detest provincials.”
It was unfortunate for Miss Taverner that this judgment should soon be endorsed by another. Mr. John Mills, who was called the Mosaic Dandy, went from curiosity to pay a morning call in Brook Street, and came away to spread the news through town that the new beauty might better be known as the Milkmaid. His manners had not pleased Miss Taverner. He was affected, talked with a great air of conceit, and put on so much insolent condescension that she was impelled to give him a sharp set-down.
Mrs. Scattergood admitted the provocation, but was worried over it. “I don’t like the creature—I believe no one does. Brummell hates him, I know—but there’s no denying, my love, he has a tongue, and can make mischief. I hope he may not try to rum you.”
But the nickname he had bestowed on Miss Taverner was sufficiently apt to catch the fashionable fancy. Mr. Mills declared that no gentleman of taste would admire such a blowsy prettiness. A great many people who had been doubtful whether to approve or condemn Judith (for her frank, decided manners were something quite new, only to be tolerated in persons of rank) were at once convinced that she was pert and presuming. Some snubs were dealt her, the throng of would-be admirers began to lessen, and more than one lady of fashion turned her shoulder.
The nickname came to Judith’s ears, and made her furious. That any dandy should have it in his power to sway public opinion was not to be borne. When she discovered the extent of the harm he had worked she was not dismayed or tearful, but on the contrary eager for war. She would not change her manners to suit a dandy’s taste; she would rather force Society to accept her in the teeth of them all, Brummell included.
It was in such a dangerous mood that she set out with her brother and Mrs. Scattergood to make her first appearance at Almack’s. Lady Jersey, adhering, even in the face of Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s expressed disapproval, to her original opinion, had sent the vouchers: the most important door into Society was open to Miss Taverner. It must be for her, Mrs. Scattergood said urgently, to do the rest. The door might yet close.
Privately, she thought the girl’s looks should carry the day. Judith, in a ball dress of white crepe with velvet ribbons spangled with gold, and her hair in a myriad loose curls confined by a ribbon with a bow over her left eye, was a vision to please even the most exacting critic. If only she would be a little conciliating!
The evening began badly. Mrs. Scattergood was so much taken up with her own and Judith’s toilet that she had no glance to spare for Peregrine. It was not until the carriage that bore all three of them was half-way to King Street that she suddenly discovered him to be wearing long pantaloons tightly strapped under his shoes.
She gave a muffled shriek. “Perry! Good God, was there ever anyone more provoking? Peregrine, how dared you put those things on? Oh, you must stop the carriage at once! No one— no one, do you understand?—not the Prince Regent himself! is admitted to Almack’s in pantaloons! Knee-breeches, you stupid, tiresome boy! You will ruin everything. Pull the checkstring this instant! We must set you down.”
It was vain for Peregrine to argue; he did not realize how inflexible were the rules at Almack’s; he must go home and change his dress—and even that would not do if he came to Almack’s one minute after eleven: he would be turned away.
Judith broke into laughter, but her afflicted chaperon, bundling Peregrine out into the street, assured her it was no laughing matter.
But when the two ladies at last arrived at Almack’s it did not seem to Judith that the club was worth all this to-do. There was nothing remarkable. The rooms were spacious, but not splendid; the refreshments, which consisted of tea, orgeat, and lemonade, with cakes and bread and butter, struck Miss Taverner as being on the meagre side. Dancing, and not cards, was the object of the club; no high stakes were allowed, so that the card-room contained only the dowagers, and such moderate gentlemen as were content to play whist for sixpenny points.
Lady Sefton, Princess Esterhazy, and Countess Lieven were the only patronesses present. The Austrian ambassador’s wife was a little roundabout lady of great vivacity; Countess Lieven, reputed to be the best-dressed and most knowledgeable lady in London, looked to be clever, and almost as proud as Mrs. Drummond-Burrell. Neither she nor the Princess were acquainted with Mrs. Scattergood, and beyond staring with the peculiar rudeness of the well-bred at Miss Taverner, she at least took no further interest in her. The Princess went so far as to demand of her partner, Sir Henry Mildmay, who the Golden Rod might be, and upon hearing her name, laughed, and said rather audibly: “Oh, Mr. Mills’s Milkmaid!”
It was left for Lady Sefton to come forward, which indeed she did, as soon as she perceived the new arrivals. Several persons were presented to Miss Taverner, and she presently found herself going down to dance with Lord Molyneux, her ladyship’s son.
She had not heard Princess Esterhazy’s comment, but she had caught the expressive look that went with it. There was an angry lump in her throat; her eyes were more than usually brilliant. She looked magnificent, but so stern that she put Lord Molyneux in a panic. The sight of Mr. John Mills in conversation with a lady by one of the windows did nothing to soften Miss Taverner’s mood. Lord Molyneux felt nothing but relief when the dance came to an end, and having led her to a chair against the wall escaped on the pretext of procuring a glass of lemonade for her.
It still lacked ten minutes to eleven, but although people were continuing to arrive there was no sign of Peregrine. Judith guessed him to be only too glad of an excuse not to come, for he did not care to dance, but she had never felt more lonely in her life, and hoped every moment to see him walk in.
Mrs. Scattergood, having met with several of her friends, was deep in conversation, but broke off suddenly to dart up to her charge. “Mr. Brummell!” she hissed in Judith’s ear. “Do pray, my love, hold yourself up, and if he should speak to you I implore you remember what it may mean!”
The very mention of any dandy’s name was quite enough at this moment to fan Miss Taverner’s wrath to a flame. She looked anything but conciliating, and when she turned her eyes to the door and observed the gentleman who had just entered, an expression of undisguised contempt swept her face.
A lady in a purple turban adorned with an aigrette bore down upon Mrs. Scattergood, and drew her aside with so much condescension that Judith would hardly have been surprised to learn that it was Queen Charlotte herself. She turned away to enjoy to the full her first sight of Mr. George Bryan Brummell.
She could scarcely forbear to laugh, for surely there could be no greater figure of fun. He stood poised for a moment in the doorway, a veritable puppet, tricked out in such fine clothes that he cast the two gentlemen who were entering behind him in the shade. It could not be better. From his green satin coat to his ridiculously high-heeled shoes he was just what she had expected him to be. His conceit, evidently, was unbounded. He surveyed the room through his quizzing-glass, held at least a foot away from his eye, and went mincing up to Princess Esterhazy, and made her a flourishing bow.
Judith could not take her eyes from him; he was not looking her way, so she might permit herself to smile. Indeed, the wrath had died out of her face, and given place to a twinkling merriment So this was the King of Fashion!
She was recalled to a sense of her surroundings by a quiet voice at her elbow, “I beg pardon, ma’am: I think you have dropped your fan?”
She turned with a start to find that a gentleman whom she recognized as one of the two who had entered behind the Beau was standing beside her, with her fan in his hand. She took it with a word of thanks, and one of her clear, appraising looks. She liked what she saw. The gentleman was of medium height, with light brown hair brushed A la Brutus, and a countenance which, without being precisely handsome, was generally pleasing. There was a good deal of humor about his mouth, and his eyes, which were grey and remarkably intelligent, were set under a pair of most expressive brows. He was very well-dressed, but so unobtrusively that Judith would have been hard put to it to describe what he was wearing.
He returned her look with something of drollery in his eyes. “It is Miss Taverner, is it not?” he asked.
She noticed that his voice was particularly good, and his manner quiet and unassuming. She said with decided friendliness: “Yes, I am Miss Taverner, sir. I don’t know how you should recognize me though, for I think we have not met, have we?”
“No, I have been out of town this week,” he replied. “I should have called, of course. Your guardian is a friend of mine.”
This circumstance was hardly a credential in Miss Taverner’s opinion, but she merely said: “You are very good, sir. But how came you to know me?”
“You have been described to me, Miss Taverner. I could not mistake.”
A flush stole up into her cheeks; she raised her eyes and looked very steadily at him. “By Mr. Mills, perhaps, sir?”
One of his mobile brows went up. “No, ma’am, not by Mr. Mills. May I ask—or is it an impertinence?—why you should have thought so?”
“Mr. Mills has made it his business to describe me in so many quarters that it was a natural conclusion,” said Judith bitterly.
“Indeed!” He looked down at her rather penetratingly. “I am such an inquisitive creature, Miss Taverner. I hope you mean to tell me why you are looking so very angry,” he said.
She smiled. “I should not, I know. But I must warn you, sir, it is not the fashion to be seen talking to me.”
Both brows went up at that. “On the authority of Mr. Mills?” inquired the gentleman.
“Yes, sir, as I understand. Mr. Mills has been good enough to christen me the Milkmaid, and to declare that no one of fashion could tolerate my—my person.” She tried to speak lightly, but only succeeded in letting her indignation peep through.
He drew up a chair. “Let me assure you, Miss Taverner, that there is not the least need for you to let Mr. Mill’s insolence distress you. May I sit down?”
She signified assent; she could only be glad that he should want to. He might not wear a green-spangled coat, and lead all London by the nose, but she had rather be talking to him than to any dandy. She said frankly: “I know I should not—and indeed, it doesn’t distress me. It only makes me angry. You see, we—my brother and I—have never been in London before, and we wanted very much to—to enter into Polite Circles. But it seems that Society agrees with Mr. Mills—though a great many people have been very kind, of course.”
“Do you know, Miss Taverner, you make me feel that I have been out of town longer than I realized?” said the gentleman, with one of his comical looks. “When I left London for Cheveley Mr. Mills was not leading Society, I assure you.”
“Oh,” she said, “you must not think I do not know who does that! I have had the name of Beau Brummell dinned into my ears until I am heartily sick of it! I am told that I must at all costs win his approval if I am to succeed, and I tell you frankly, sir, I have not the least notion of trying to do it!” She saw a slightly startled look in his eyes, and added defiantly: “I am sorry if he should be a friend of yours, but I have made up my mind I neither wish for his good opinion nor his acquaintance.”
“You are quite safe in saying what you think of him to me,” replied the gentleman gravely. “But what has he done to earn your contempt, ma’am?”
“Well, sir, you have only to look at him!” said Judith, allowing her eyes to travel significantly towards the gorgeous figure at the other end of the room. “A spangled coat!” she pronounced scornfully.
His gaze followed the direction of hers. “I am in agreement with you, Miss Taverner,” he said. “Though I should not myself call that thing a coat.”
“Oh, and that is not all!” she said. “I am for ever hearing of his affectations and impertinences! I am out of all patience with him.”
She had the impression that he was laughing at her, but when he spoke it was perfectly solemnly. “Ah, ma’am, but it is Mr. Brummell’s folly which is the making of him. If he did not stare duchesses out of countenance, and nod over his shoulder to princes he would be forgotten in a week. And if the world is so silly as to admire his absurdities—you and I may know better—but what does that signify?”
“Nothing, I suppose,” said Judith. “But if I cannot succeed without being obliged to court his approval I had rather fail.”
“Miss Taverner,” he replied, the smile dancing in his eyes again, “I prophesy that you will become the rage.”
She shook her head. “How can you think it, sir?”
He rose. “Why, I don’t think it, ma’am. I am sure of it. Every eye is even now upon you. You have held me in conversation for close on half an hour.” He made his bow. “I may do myself the honour of calling on you?”
“We shall be glad, sir.”
“I wonder?” he said with a quizzical look, and moved away to where Lord Alvanley was standing against the wall.
Miss Taverner became aware of Mrs. Scattergood at her elbow, in a twitter of excitement. “My love, what did he say to you? Tell me at once!”
Judith turned. “Say to me?” she repeated, bewildered. “He asked if he might call on us, and—”
“Judith! You don’t mean it? Oh, was ever anything so—Well! And you was talking for ever! Pray, what else was said?”
Judith looked at her in a good deal of surprise. “But what can it signify, ma’am?”
Mrs. Scattergood gave a suppressed shriek. “Mercy on us! You hold Mr. Brummell by your side for half an hour and then ask me what it can signify!”
Judith gave a gasp, and turned pale. “Ma’am! Oh, good God, ma’am, that surely was not Mr. Brummell?”
“Not Mr. Brummell? Of course it was! But, my dearest love, I particularly warned you! What have you been about?”
“I thought you meant that odious creature in the green coat,” said Judith numbly. “How could I imagine—” She broke off, and looked across the room at Mr. Brummell.
Their eyes met; he smiled; unmistakably he smiled.
“I declare I could positively embrace him!” said Mrs. Scattergood, avidly drinking in this exchange of glances. “You are made, my dear! What a set-down for John Mills! Brummell must have heard of what he said of you, daring to try to set people against you! Such impertinence!”
“He did,” said Miss Taverner dryly. “I told him.”