Where Love Illumines (Where There is Love Book 2) Page 15

  “Pray, my dear, go calmly. Allow me to remove my traveling clothes before I open my social calendar.” Elizabeth laughed. But a short time later a note was dispatched to Osterley Park that Mr. and Mrs. Clement Tudway, MP and Miss Mary Tudway would be honored to accept Mrs. Child’s invitation.

  “What shall I wear, Elizabeth? Will my coral silk do? I have no notion of what is worn to a grand ball in London, but the lace is all Mechlin, and the silver embroidery on the skirt will be just the thing with the silver shoe buckles Rowland gave me. Perhaps we can fashion roses from silver tissue for my hair. Oh, my hair! We must engage a London hairdresser.” Mary looked in the gilt oval mirror in her room and determined that her West Country coiffure would never do for London.

  Elizabeth laughed. “We shall see to it all. I shall instruct Knebworth to begin interviewing abigails tomorrow morning. I can see that we shall require one that can serve as dresser as well.”

  Two days later Elizabeth presented Mary with her new maid. Brickett had smooth pale hair, intelligent eyes, and a ready smile. She had lived in London for all of her thirty-five years and had served Lady Towton for twenty years before the lady’s death in childbirth. “So I believe you may rely on her advice. I questioned her carefully, and she seems to be up on all the London ways.” Spit jumped off his cushion and began sniffing at the newcomer. “Oh, and she likes dogs,” Elizabeth added.

  Not the least among the excellent Brickett’s talents was a gift for hairdressing. On the afternoon of the ball she spent three hours arranging Mary’s long brown tresses over masses of black wadding, pomading them, and then powdering the entire confection like the frosting on a cake.

  When she had successfully helped her young charge into her French silk gown over a floral petticoat Brickett stood back to survey her work, then gave a satisfied nod. “There now, miss. I’ll stake my reputation that you’ll be the belle of the ball.”

  “Thank you. You’ve done very well. And now I trust you to take good care of Spit in my absence.”

  “To be sure, miss.” Brickett dropped a curtsey.

  Hampstead Heath, which lay between London and the palatial home of Robert Child, looked drab and desolate in its winter slumber. As the carriage rolled westward across the miles, Clement entertained the ladies with information on the sights they were to see. “The place belonged to Sir Thomas Gresham in the 1500s, but the present house is modem. Sir Thomas is said to have feasted Queen Elizabeth there and to have pulled down a wall in the night which she found fault with. The next morning when she saw that it was gone, she was highly pleased with a subject so anxious to please his sovereign.”

  “Have you been here before, Clement?” Mary asked.

  “Yes, to a levée in honor of some foreign dignitary last year. I believe you were ill then, Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, and I was desolate at missing the grand sights. Osterley is all the talk of the great world.”

  “And you won’t be disappointed, my dear,” Clement assured her. “Every attempt has been made to recreate the classical age. Every decorative motif, statue, or wall painting was chosen to carry out a theme in Greek and Roman architecture or literature.”

  “But how was that achieved? Surely Mr. Child makes no pretense to classical scholarship.”

  “I believe Child’s architect Robert Adam followed Robert Wood’s Ruins of Palmyra most carefully. And he must have done well because Walpole declared the double-porticoed entrance to the house to be as noble as the entrance gateway to the Acropolis at Athens.”

  Mary found herself sitting forward in her seat, as if to speed the carriage onward to this amazing sight.

  “Osterley was conceived as a pantheon of the arts and sciences, and you will find each room decorated in praise of its own god or goddess—Bacchus for the dining room, Cupid and Venus for the state bedchamber, and so forth.”

  Mary tried to picture it all in her mind, but only achieved a muddle of images in which white marble statues and the paintings of Rubens floated amid rows of marble columns. The carriage swept through meadows hinting at their lush greenness to come, crossed a Roman bridge spanning a lake, and pulled up in front of the red brick mansion with its neoclassical temple portico. A double row of liveried footmen lined the broad entrance steps up to the portico, which was flanked by stone-carved statues of eagles with adders in their beaks—the Child family crest. They made Mary think briefly of the eagles in the countess’s chapel. Nothing else in this ostentatious setting, however, reminded her of an austere religion, but rather, as Clement foretold, of the feasts and revels of Olympus.

  They had just crossed the courtyard and were about to enter the hall when Sarah came skipping across the stone and slate floor to greet Mary. Sarah’s high, powdered hair and lightly applied face paint were done to perfection, but she wore only a dressing gown thrown on in haste over her petticoats. She rushed straight to Mary and grasped both her hands. “Forgive my dishabille—I am so pleased you could arrive early. I haven’t seen you for such ages, and I have three new London beaux. They shall all be here tonight! And Roger is arrived with his uncle and is most impatient to see you again—”

  Sarah caught her breath and interrupted her own flow of chatter to remember her duty as a hostess. “Forgive me, Mr. Tudway, Mrs. Tudway. Welcome to Osterley House. My mama directed me to bid you welcome and suggest that you might like to refresh yourselves after your journey. A light collation has been set out for early arrivals. It is such a nuisance living so great a distance that one must drive upwards of two hours from London with the whole of that horrible heath between us. But Papa will not take a house in Grosvenor Square, no matter how much I beg. Stifford,” she said to the butler standing by the door, “show Mr. and Mrs. Tudway to the eating room.” She clasped Mary’s hand anew and pulled her forward. “Come, we can have a gossip while Padlett dresses me. You have no notion how elegant my new gown is. I instructed Madame Egaltine it was to be the talk of the season.”

  “Wait!” Mary protested, breathless from just listening to her friend. “I want to look at the room.”

  “Oh, I forgot you haven’t been to Osterley before. But let’s not waste time in this tomb.” She waved her arm at the magnificent hall, its gray walls ornately stuccoed with classical medallions, with statues and urns of flowers decorating the spaces between the narrow benches lining the walls. “I don’t care a fig if it is supposed to be a Roman vestibulum like the Emperor Diocletian had in his palace—I think it’s cold and drab.”

  In spite of the fires burning in fireplaces in alcoves at both ends of the hall, Sarah was quite right—the room was cold. “Come, I’ll show you my favorite room. The bishop is staying there—he always does. Insists on a bedchamber on the ground floor so he can look out over the park, but I can show you the antechamber. We call it the tapestry room.” She turned left out of the entrance hall and led Mary across a passage, turned left again, and then stopped.

  “Ooh!” Mary gasped and stood silent for several moments. At last she ventured, “It’s the most gorgeous—most elegant, most ornamented—” Again words failed her. The glowing red and gold Gobelin tapestries covering the walls were woven with garlands and urns of flowers so rich that Mary felt she must touch them to assure herself the room was not actually wreathed with living flowers. And in the center of each tapestry were woven medallions of Boucher paintings copied from those commissioned by Madame de Pompadour depicting the loves of the gods. Not only the wall hangings, but also the overmantel, the fire screen, the carpet, and the upholstery of the gilt furniture were all woven in the same sumptuous pattern of flowers, birds, and love scenes. Mary felt she could stand there for hours, just drinking in the rich beauty.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” Sarah asked. “But come, I must dress.” She led Mary back across the entrance hall to the great staircase on the opposite side of the house. The stairs were set behind a screen of Corinthian columns with oil lanterns suspended between the tall white pillars, but Mary barely had time to glimpse them or to
take in the Grecian stucco work on the Wedgwood green walls as Sarah sped up the stairs, her gown billowing behind her.

  “Sarah, is that you, my love?” Mrs. Child called from her dressing room, as the girls reached the top of the stairs.

  “Yes, Mama.” Sarah paused in her flight to step into her mother’s chamber, Mary following close behind. While mother and daughter deliberated—should Mrs. Child wear the pearls and silk roses in her hair or the blue ribbons and feathers?—Mary surveyed the sapphire blue room with its lustring festoon window curtains and gilt wood cabinet displaying Mrs. Child’s remarkable collection of gold filigree and Chinese black lacquer chests. But the centerpiece of the room was the scrollwork chimney piece and mantel mirror, which incorporated in its graceful design a delightful crayon portrait of Sarah made about seven years before when she was ten. The little girl’s skin glowed petal-soft, and her large, brown eyes were lustrous. It was a charming picture; but more than that, Mary felt the prominence given to it in the room spoke clearly of how much the parents adored their only child.

  Sarah, with Mary in tow, hurried down the hall to her room where Padlett waited to help her into the dress that was to make history that season. The gown was of white satin, embroidered with chenille twined with gold threads in the patterns of urns. The flowers filling the urns, however, were not of mere embroidery, but actual artificial flowers fashioned of pink silk and gold tissue. The dress indeed lived up to Sarah’s report, but Mary already felt she had seen so much ornamented elegance her mind could take in no more.

  By the time Padlett declared Miss Sarah to be “quite finished,” Mary could hear the musicians tuning their instruments in the gallery which stretched across the entire west front of the house. A steady crunch of carriage wheels on the gravel drive told her the ball was about to begin.

  “Shall we go down?” Sarah pulled on long white kid gloves that covered her arms from fingertip to above the elbows and picked up her hand-painted Chinese fan. All the way back down the grand staircase, she talked of her suitors. “Lord Blandford—the son of the Duchess of Marlborough, you know—is frightfully handsome and an excellent sportsman. He’s been terribly attentive ever since we returned from Bath. The Marquess of Graham perhaps cuts a better figure—I’m sure he makes a much finer leg in the drawing room—and I do believe he means to offer for me. Of course, Westmoreland is still about. I simply can’t make up my mind which one to accept. I don’t believe Papa approves of any of them, but I can’t fathom why. They are all men of family, wealth, and position.

  “Ah, here is Roger come to claim you before the dancing has even begun.” Sarah playfully tapped Roger’s arm with her Chinese fan. “Mary, I must warn you what a naughty fellow this is. A few nights ago he came in quite bagged after an evening of good company. It was most fortunate I sent for his man before his uncle caught sight of the matter. But I dealt with him most properly—gave him a sharp rap across the knuckles and upbraided him for being a wicked fellow and a sad wretch. Did I not do right, Mary?”

  Mary smiled at Sarah and then at Roger, but she did not know what answer to give. She felt there was so much of the polite world she didn’t understand, and at times she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  Sarah rapped Roger’s knuckles again with her fan. “La, sir, and here you are to be an improper fellow again and press your advantage of prior acquaintance upon Mary. I have invited men from all of London to dance with my friend. You must not monopolize her.”

  Smiling at Sarah’s banter, Roger made a leg to the ladies, extending his right foot and bowing deeply to each one of them. “Indeed, I do claim the right of prior acquaintance. Miss Tudway, may I have the honor?” He extended his hand, and Mary took it to pass on to the door of the gallery where Stifford stood to announce each guest.

  Mary danced the first cotillion with Roger and then sat on one of the gold brocade sofas against the wall while Roger secured a glass of punch for her. Nearby Bishop Twysden was holding court with a number of dowagers.

  “But charming—charming. I protest, my dear Mary, make an old man happy and sit with me.” The bishop presented her to his company. “You must know that my nephew has eagerly awaited your arrival, Miss Tudway, as have we all. Do you find Osterley to your liking?”

  “I find it breathtaking. The entire mansion looks like—like—” She surveyed the room of gorgeously attired people whirling in the intricate pattern of the dance. “It looks like a cotillion.”

  “Ah, an apt description, my child. I take it this is your first visit?”

  “Yes, it is. Are you a frequent guest here?”

  The bishop laughed and took a sip of claret from the long-stemmed glass. “You might say frequent, although, truth to tell, I believe constant would be more accurate. I find the beauty offered here fills a deep spiritual need, and Mr. Child is a most gracious host.” He spoke of his spiritual fulfillment in deep tones of ecclesiastical unction.

  The ladies on the bishop’s left required his attention, and Mary was happy simply to sit and observe. The Bath gatherings seemed restrained in comparison to the show of fashion here. And certainly there was no mingling of the classes here as the spa had allowed. Surely, she thought, this is life at its best. How right she had been to try to persuade Rowland to quit his gloomy pursuits. If only he could be here with her, he could see for himself and understand. Not that there was any need for him to abandon his calling to the church. Certainly no member of the company seemed to be enjoying himself more than the bishop. Mary watched as he accepted another glass of claret from a passing footman and continued flirting with the lady in a daring décolletage gown.

  Mary was jolted by her own thought. Surely she had been wrong to call the bishop’s actions flirting. No, he was merely entertaining the lady in a lively manner as became those in the great world.

  Finally, a somewhat red-faced Roger appeared before her with a glass of negus. “Forgive my long absence, Miss Tudway. Rather than setting up a long banqueting table in the hall, Mrs. Child seems to have taken the eccentric notion of serving in the drawing room, the eating room, and in the breakfast room. Of course, the punch bowl was in the last room I tried.”

  Mary laughed. “Like a runner bearing a cup from Mount Olympus, you have returned victorious.”

  “Does that mean you will honor me with another dance?” Mary would have preferred to sit and observe, but it did seem that Roger had earned his dance. This was a minuet, and Mary delighted in the slow graceful steps as she moved in rhythm to the music in three-quarter time, forward balancing, bowing, and pointing her toe, which exhibited her silver shoe buckles to perfection. At the conclusion of the number, however, she firmly insisted on the impropriety of granting Roger another and asked that he take her to Elizabeth. They found her in the gold damask-draped drawing room with its gilt plasterwork sunburst ceiling copied from the Temple of the Sun in Palmyra. “Come sit by me, my love.” Elizabeth adjusted her skirt to make room for Mary on the gold brocade sofa. With one finger she traced a pattern on the marquetry table beside her. “My Lady Anstine was just explaining to me that the designs on the tables symbolize sacred and profane love.”

  Elizabeth presented Mary to her acquaintance, and the learned lady continued. “On this medallion we see Diana, the chaste huntress, who could give herself only for true love. On the other table is Venus, goddess of a more—er, voluptuous love life.” Lady Anstine continued her lecture, but a few minutes later Mary was borne away again, this time by a fluttering Sarah.

  “Mary, you must come with me. I’ve never been in such a pother. Lord Graham has offered for me—I knew he was about to, but I had no idea it would create such a stir in me.”

  “Well, what did you answer him?”

  “Why, naturally, I told him he must ask Papa. What other answer could I make? That is what has me so astir. I told him Papa might be found in his library; he doesn’t care much for balls, and he always retreats for a cigar by this time of the evening.” Sarah grasped Mary’s hand and began pul
ling her down the passage past the great staircase. “Hurry, we may be too late to hear! My fate may be already sealed, and I know nothing of it!”

  “But, Sarah, have you nothing to say to the matter? Do you love Lord Graham?”

  Sarah stopped in her rush to stare at Mary. “Love! What has that to say to it? Mama says that will come much later—if it does at all. One must look to figure and fortune for a proper mate.” The flight continued until the sight of a retreating Lord Graham leaving the library with slumped shoulders told the girls they were too late.

  Mary was relieved. She had no taste for crouching in passages, listening at keyholes. Sarah flew right on into her father’s room; but Mary, feeling an intruder on a family matter, stayed outside the door. As Sarah had left it wide open, however, there was no question of stooping to a keyhole to hear.

  “Of course, I sent him packing, Sarah. You don’t think I’d consent to your marrying a titled lord, do ye, miss?”

  “But, of course, Father. Then I should become titled too. Wouldn’t that be a fine thing? I thought you would be happy. Miss Marford’s papa won’t let her marry poor Mr. Winston, and they are quite desperately fond of one another. But Mr. Marford says that as she is not obliged to marry for money, she must marry for a title—it seems perfect sense to me.”

  “Of course, it is perfect sense for her. But think, daughter. Marford has six sons—each will marry and produce heirs to carry on the Marford name. You, my pretty, are my only chick. I will not have the name of Child die out. Do you think I’ve built this house and our family fortune and our business at the Marygold for an heir to be named Graham?”