Sylvia Or The Moral High Ground Read online

  One of the first forays which Melissa made into Society was a drive in the Park at the fashionable hour between five and six in the afternoon. As it could still turn cold in the late afternoon at this time of year, Sylvia advised her charge to wear a warm pelisse and not to forget her gloves.

  “But which go best with my new bonnet?” Melissa asked anxiously.

  “Did not your mama purchase a pair to match it exactly?” Sylvia asked, smiling. Melissa was arrayed in a pale blue walking dress and had been buttoned into a matching pelisse, trimmed with swansdown.

  “Yes, but I have so many that I have forgotten which were to go with this bonnet and am quite at a loss to know which matches it best. Should I, do you think, attempt to match the body of the bonnet or the feathers?” The girl had cast what looked like enough gloves to furnish a shop upon the bed and was sifting through them with a worried expression.

  “I think the feathers, for the body, being so much more substantial, will be harder to match exactly.”

  The bonnet was already upon Miss Sullington’s curls and the ribbons tied beneath her chin. Sylvia, shuffling through the various kid gloves, picked up a pair of almost the exact shade as the feathers curling over the crown.

  “There! These will be perfect. You had much better not keep your mama waiting any longer for she will surely grow impatient and, in any event, I understand there is but one hour when one is expected to be driving around in the Park. It would not do to leave it so late that you are obliged to scramble out of the house.”

  “I wish you were coming with me!”

  “I own I should like to do so, but shall look forward to hearing all about it. Mind you remember the names of everyone to whom you are introduced!”

  “I shall never be able to remember any of them!”

  “Of course you will. The trick, I believe, is to assign some noticeable characteristic to each one.”

  When Melissa had gone, Sylvia went to the window and watched her charge enter the barouche a few minutes later. Lady Sullington, looking every inch an ambitious mama determined to impress in a rather too bright shade of blue, led the way with her head high. She barely glanced at the girl as she was helped up the steps by the coachman and disposed upon the squabs beside her mama. The man tucked a rug across the ladies’ knees, put up the steps and shut the door. As he mounted the box and the vehicle moved forward in a stately manner, Sylvia saw Lady Sullington turn towards her daughter and guessed that she was more likely to be issuing further instructions and prohibitions rather than commenting upon the clemency of the weather.

  Having, as she thought, an hour to please herself without being obliged to listen to endless speculation and admire dress patterns, she decided to sally forth herself. Having no idea which direction to take or any knowledge of the way the streets were laid out, she turned the same way as that in which the barouche had gone and walked briskly along the pavement. How very different London was from either Launceston or Lincoln – the largest towns of which she had any experience. The pavements were wide and crowded with people walking this way and that, some alone but most deep in animated conversation with a companion. Carts, carriages and curricles, as well as lone horsemen, clattered along the road.

  She walked briskly in the hope that this would give the impression of a person with some purpose in mind. She did not wish to provoke speculation as to what a single woman, unfashionably dressed, might be doing wandering along the pavement at five in the afternoon.

  It was not long before she came to a row of shops; in spite of her denial of interest in such things, she slowed her pace and peered into their windows. There were several different sorts of shop although none appeared to sell comestibles and she concluded that such things were probably to be found in a different part of town. Many displayed clothing: some for men, more for ladies. There were hat shops, shoe shops and jewellers: these last engaged her particular attention for, not possessing a single jewel apart from the pearl necklace, she was yet subject to the same fascination for shiny ornaments as any other female. She found she could not take her eyes from the glittering array of necklaces and rings, combs and hatpins. How gorgeous they were!

  “Are you dreaming of a diamond necklace?” a voice behind her asked.

  She started guiltily: a parson’s daughter brought up in a Spartan manner in the country and inhabiting the moral high ground, should not, in her opinion, be drooling over a dazzling parure displayed on a black velvet cushion.

  “Well, yes, I own I was; but dreaming, most definitely. I shall never own such a thing, but is it not wonderful?”

  “It certainly is,” agreed the gentleman who had accosted her. “You will observe how carefully it has been placed in the window so that it catches the sun.”

  “Yes, it is quite dreadfully tempting. Do you suppose someone sits just inside the door with a heavy stick in case anyone should try to break the glass and make off with it?”

  He laughed. “A pistol, I should think. Do you know, I wish I could buy it for you? I believe it would give you so much pleasure and I should bask in the rays of your delight. But, although I have, it is true, come into a fortune recently, I am not sure that I could afford it.”

  “I could not possibly accept it in any event.”

  “You mean because we are not acquainted? But that, it seems to me, would make it a particularly altruistic gift and one that you could accept with no qualms.”

  “I could do no such thing,” she countered, laughing. Tearing her eyes from the wondrous objects in the window, she turned to confront her interlocutor.

  He was a man in his late thirties, she guessed, tall and rather saturnine in appearance apart from a pair of amused grey eyes. He bowed and held out his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Albert Marklye – Lord Marklye in case you are wondering how to address me. I inherited the title, together with a sadly run-down estate, from a profligate uncle a few years ago. Is this too much information to give a casual acquaintance struck up on the street?” he asked, seeing her quizzical look.

  “Not at all; it is very interesting.”

  “Is it? I cannot conceive how it can be, but bear with me: I am coming to the point quite soon: cursing my misfortune to have inherited such a burdensome and expensive estate, along with positive armies of creditors who would not leave me alone, I wondered what I could have done to find myself at such a point. However – now we come to what I have been leading up to all this time: a few months ago another relative died and left me what amounted to a nabob’s fortune. That is why I am tempted to buy that glittering ornament for a perfect stranger: she, my benefactress, was unknown to me until she died and, so grateful am I for her thoughtfulness and generosity, that I find myself wishing to share my happiness with someone who deserves it. Most people don’t, you know.”

  “I should think not; most people, I imagine, would prefer to keep their fortunes to spend on themselves.”

  “Well, yes, I am certain they do, but you misunderstand. I did not mean that most people do not want to share their fortunes but that those with whom they do share them rarely deserve them. I am as sure as I can be that you do.”

  “I am equally certain that you cannot possibly know to what depths of evil I am capable of sinking.”

  “We all can sink if we think the price is right. Of course, we are usually mistaken and, like Faust, must live with the consequences. I do not know whether my uncle regretted his youthful acquaintance with evil which, in the end, led him inexorably into further iniquitous behaviour. It is so hard, is it not, when once has embarked upon what seems at first like the primrose path, to divert to the rockier, duller route? He died, painfully, of myriad diseases consequent upon his conduct. You are beginning to look anxious lest I launch upon a description of them – I promise I will not; I have no doubt that I have already said too much and you are thinking that I must be deranged; I apologise, Miss ..?”

  “Holmdale.” She held out her hand and went on, amused, “I find myself w
ondering if you are a figment of my imagination.”

  “No, I am a real man – and I am not generally accounted a lunatic although I should not be surprised if you are beginning to wonder where my keeper is. I hope I have not distressed you; I am not commonly so blunt and I promise you that I do not make a habit of accosting strange ladies on the street. May I escort you somewhere?”

  He crooked his arm and she found herself tucking her hand into it. “Do you know what the time is, my lord?”

  He took out a watch and held it for her to see the face. “It is nearly six.”

  “Then I must go home at once. It is not far and there is no need for you to come with me.”

  “No need, but I should like to unless you do not wish me to know where you live.”

  “I do not mind in the least, but I am afraid that my employer might not be overjoyed to see me arriving at the door in your company.”

  He laughed. “Would she – I presume she is a female? – be annoyed to find you on the arm of a gentleman? What is your employment, Miss Holmdale?”

  “I am persuaded you can guess, my lord.”

  He put his head on one side and looked her up and down, taking in not only her face (not in the first flush of youth) and her clothes (deeply unfashionable and dull) but, in particular, her hat.

  “You cannot be a maid – even a lady’s maid – for your manner of speaking is not so artificially elevated. I suppose you to be either a companion to an old lady, which might have allowed you to retain your lively mind and sense of humour, or a governess. Your hat proclaims you a governess.”

  “You are quite right and I own myself delighted to present such a correct picture. You know, it is very odd being a governess for most people hold a great many preconceptions of what such a person should be like. It has been a recurring anxiety that one day everyone will find out that I am only pretending. And then what shall I do?”

  “I suspect,” he said, not answering her question, “that you have found it hard to accept your position and still hope that it will miraculously disappear and you will be unmasked as the princess – like Cinderella. Must you be home by six? Could you not stay out until midnight?”

  “I don’t think so. I am in a strange position for my charge is grown up, and I should by rights have been dismissed, but she has prevailed upon her mama to bring me to London so that she may confide in me and – Heaven help me – ask my advice.”

  “No doubt she has conceived a fondness for you. Will you accompany her to any evening parties, do you think?”

  “I cannot believe that likely. All my advice will have to be given ‘sight unseen’ about the various gentlemen in whom she may be interested. I expect it will be like having a book read aloud to me.”

  They had by this time arrived within sight of Grosvenor Square. Sylvia held out her hand again and said, “Thank you for accompanying me. I have enjoyed talking with you but believe I should go on by myself now; otherwise, I am afraid that I may find myself in trouble for taking up with a stranger the first time I put my nose outside the door.”

  “Is it your first time in London?”

  “Yes. I never had a come-out, you know.”

  “Is that why you are a governess?”

  “I suppose so. My papa is a parson and I have several brothers and sisters. We are not well provided for in a worldly sense, although we were all well educated. I think that makes me quite a good governess, you know.”

  “I daresay it does. What is the name of your employer?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “So that I can send you an invitation to a musical evening I am thinking of arranging. I plan to invite people interested in music rather than members of the ton, although some of my acquaintance fall into both categories. Should I, do you think, pretend that you are a niece or some such to explain our connexion?”

  “I am not sure that I should be able to hold my own, so to speak, amongst a set of persons ‘interested in music’. Will they be performers or composers or simply people of high intellectual capacity?”

  “If you cannot hold your own, Miss Holmdale, I shall think you a poor governess. Do not your duties oblige you to teach your charge how to sing and play the pianoforte?”

  “I own I did when she was small but latterly she has been instructed by proper music teachers. My talents are not considered sufficient.”

  “Is she a talented musician?”

  “No, not particularly; although she has a sweet voice and can play competently, she is not the sort of player who can wring tears from the listener. On the other hand, neither does her performance cause one to wince.”

  He smiled. “I think you will fit perfectly into the select group of music lovers I shall assemble. I am so glad I met you and trust that I shall be able to engineer another meeting before too long. Pray reassure me that you would not be averse to that.”

  “Not at all. I should enjoy it.”

  “Good. You have not told me your employer’s name.”

  “Sullington.”

  It was well after six by the time Sylvia ran up the steps of the Sullington residence. She went straight upstairs to find her charge pacing up and down impatiently.

  “Where have you been?” Melissa cried as soon as Sylvia entered the room.

  “I went for a walk; I am sorry I was not here when you got back.”

  “Did you get lost? Oh, poor Miss Holmdale! You should have taken a maid with you.”

  Sylvia laughed. “It would be a fine thing if a governess could not go for a walk without a maid in attendance.” As she spoke, she reflected that a maid’s presence would have prevented the delightful hour or so that she had spent in the company of the decidedly unusual Lord Marklye.

  “Well, next time you go for a walk I shall come with you.”

  “Thank you, but I daresay you will be busy. How was your drive? Did you meet many fashionable people?”

  “Oh yes! We met two of the lady patronesses of Almack’s, which pleased Mama tremendously. They both promised to send vouchers. And we saw a great many gentlemen, who raised their hats and bowed. Lady Jersey – one of the patronesses – introduced us to one or two. She talked incessantly but was very kind and friendly.”

  “Do you remember any of the gentlemen’s names?”

  “Oh yes: there was the Duke of Rother: he is very handsome but quite old; there was Lord Furzeby, who is even older and less handsome but, I think, more friendly; and Mr Harbury.”

  Sylvia, seeing the conscious look which accompanied this last name, said, “You have not commented upon either Mr Harbury’s appearance or his age.”

  “Have I not? He is quite young and … well, perhaps not precisely handsome, at least not in the style of the Duke, but most agreeable.”

  “Indeed? And have you any idea how your mama viewed these three gentlemen?”

  “Well, the first to present himself was the Duke and Mama was so very taken with him that I believe she hardly noticed the other two. At least, she blushed, positively blushed, when the Duke bowed to her and after that, had eyes for no one else. They arrived together, after all.”

  “I see. Did Lady Jersey have anything to say about the relative merits of the gentlemen?”

  Melissa laughed. “Oh no, she was far too busy commenting on other ladies’ hats. She admired mine. Was that not condescending of her?”

  “It may have been perfectly genuine. It is a charming hat and greatly becomes you.”

  Chapter 4

  Cassie had not expected the Duke to accompany her to the concert because, although he did not precisely hide her from the public eye, neither was he in the habit of parading her before members of the ton, particularly at the start of the Season, when he might be expected to dance attendance on the new crop of débutantes and would be reluctant to give their mamas – or any other matrons likely to be judgmental on the matter of mistresses – fuel for gossip.

  The start of the Season was always an anxious time for Cassie because she knew
that her lover must marry eventually and, although he was barely past thirty and had plenty of time to choose a bride, she was afraid that one day he would fall in love again. Every year this seemed more likely and she knew that, when he did, he would send her to the country or at any rate bid her good-bye. Of course, if he should marry for purely practical reasons, she was hopeful that he would not send her away; plenty of married men, particularly ones as well breeched as the Duke, kept mistresses. There would no doubt be a diminution in his attention, at least at first, but he would come back to her, she was certain, for she knew that, although he was not by any means in love with her, he was attached to her. But, if he should fall in love, why then she was certain that whatever she had to offer would no longer be required; whatever of affection he held for her would be trounced by genuine love. And so she feared the start of the Season even more than she feared the appearance of wrinkles or signs of slackening skin.

  She invited a female friend to accompany her to the concert. This person, Mrs Prudence Farley, was the widow of a man who had made a mint of money on what, twenty years previously, had become known as the Stock Exchange. The source of Mr Farley’s money, before he became a stock dealer and acquired thereby a measure of respectability, was unknown and, certainly by Mrs Farley, unquestioned. Not herself having a history which would have borne close examination, she saw no reason to quiz her husband on his. She had not been particularly young when she had caught his eye and was, in truth, remarkably glad that she had been in the right place at the right time when he was looking for a lively woman to share his life. She had, as well as her less respectable but more lucrative occupation, been a singer in the chorus at the Theatre Royal. He had taken a fancy to her in her slave girl’s costume during a performance of The Italian Girl in Algiers and had waited for her outside the stage door.