Court of Foxes (25 page)

‘You’ll be a deal greater than that before the end,’ said Mrs Brown complacently. But her mind was still on Ranelagh. ‘Could we not go down there, Marigold, and quiz them? Just for the fun of it: life will get ever more dull as the baby comes nearer — this may be our last chance.’

‘Go where and quiz whom? And for heaven’s sake, Mother,’ said Gilda automatically, ‘don’t call me Marigold!’

‘Why to Ranelagh, child, and quiz little Crum and the old Countess.’

‘Quiz—! Mother, you must be mad!’ But her eyes had begun to shine, she bit on her knuckle to stifle the naughty laughter. ‘If we went up to the gallery… If we wrapped ourselves in cloaks and veils…’ And she struggled to her feet. ‘Let’s do it! I’m sick of sitting twiddling my thumbs and if I get any bigger, even that will soon be denied me. Call Jake, send him for my brothers, as many as will come with us.’ And she was rushing off downstairs, big belly and all, rootling through her clothes-press for suitable apparel. By the time James and George arrived, indeed, she had reached a little more discretion and proposed instead of Ranelagh a visit to Marylebone, but her brothers refused it. ‘To Ranelagh or nowhere. The Jew’s Harp is no place for women of quality these days.’

‘Well, Vauxhall then?’

‘Vauxhall will be too chilly, especially for you in your condition. At Ranelagh they have great fires in the Rotunda, it’s as warm as summer. We’ll go there or not go at all.’

‘But if the old woman is there and Blanche and Anne—’

‘Why, that’s the very reason we go,’ protested Mrs Brown and, the coach having come to the door, they hustled her in. ‘You will promise,’ she implored them, ‘to be utterly discreet? You won’t betray me? I gave my word to David.’

‘How could they ever see us? We’ll stay up in the gallery, where such great ones as they never come; they’ll have bespoken a table down below, by the fire.’ And there would be huge crowds, promised Mrs Brown, it would be a marvel if in fact they ever glimpsed the Tregaron party, though they looked out for them. ‘You’ll never believe till you see them, Gilda, how many people! All the height of the mode in their gayest clothes, walking about laughing and chattering or sitting at the tables having supper… And the lights, a myriad lights like fireflies, even outside in the gardens — but of course that would be in the summer…’

And in fact the gardens were deserted, only a few flames flickering bravely in their glass chimneys, a few braziers glowing in the alcoves where none but those most earnestly in search of seclusion would venture. But within the huge circular hall of the Rotunda, it was indeed as George had promised ‘warm as summer’. The place was like an inverted bowl, supported by four central pillars and these enclosed a great chimney, with furnaces facing in four directions so that all areas of the hall were heated. All round the room, tucked under the balcony which encircled it, were alcoves where supper parties were already in progress; in the gallery above, more tables were laid, with waiters running urgently to and fro. They peered over the parapet. ‘You may recognise the Countess by a great head of flowers and feathers — David was telling me about it, she’s worn it a week now without disturbing it, sleeps with her neck on a block. A year out of fashion, heads are much smaller now; but her ladyship’s above la mode, of course; makes poor Anne sport one too, who’s six foot high already… And there,’ cried Gilda, excitedly pointing, ‘there they are, the supper table close by the fire! Trust her ladyship to place them where the girls’ faces will turn red as turkey-cocks from the heat! — and their feathers in danger of being set alight every time they turn their silly heads…’

They found a table with an excellent view of the party and ordered supper, Gilda throwing back her cloak but careful to keep the black veil safely about that too recognisable flame of hair. ‘It must be admitted,’ said James, ‘that she’s very lovely.’

‘Who, the Countess?’

‘Oh, yes, of course, the Countess; and the Lady Anne too. But I meant the Lady Blanche, my dear sister; who is a beauty after all and you must admit it.’

‘Of course I admit it. Why not? — as long as David thinks me prettier.’

‘And so you are prettier, a thousand times prettier.’ James put out a hand and took his sister’s chin, turning the lovely face towards him. ‘Your skin is so white and fine, it’s like the finest lawn, so that one may see the colour come and go beneath it. Hers is magnificent, but it’s like linen, a dead, matt white. And her face is almost perfect but with a cool perfection; in this little mug of yours, the feeling comes and goes, like the colour, without concealment. As for your hair…’ He pushed back the heavy veil to catch a glimpse of it for comparison. ‘She’s clever to wear no powder and it takes some courage I dare say when most of the rest of the world is like a flour-bag; but that chilly moonlight gilt is no match for our sunshine and marigolds…’

She laughed, freeing herself from his hand. ‘Thank you, brother, you wax lyrical in my defence; but meanwhile you disorder my sunshine and marigolds which are already pulled awry by this wretched shawl.’ And by the same token, she added, moving back for the waiter to place the first plates before them, what thought they of the Countess’s coiffure? ‘
There’s
powder enough to bake a cake with! A whole ostrich farm must have gone to the feathers alone. And as for poor Anne—’

‘I agree with you, one backward toss of her head and she’ll be ablaze. What a piece of nonsense to crown the poor girl with!’

‘And you were right about her face,’ said Jake. ‘Already it’s scarlet.’

‘That’s because of little Crum. Do see, Mother, how he must lean over half backwards to look up at her!’

Below them, the Tregaron party sat at a long table, her ladyship in black with a hoop far too large for the present fashion and a great deal of jet spangling. The wretched Anne sat with her back to the fire, her white silk dress and sac also not quite up to date, hoop too large and too oval, hair dressed too high; and from her height looked down upon Lord Crum who was evidently trying hard to please. Lady Anne no doubt would have a fortune and his lordship needed money; and could offer a good name and future prospects in return. Gilda saw to her great amusement that the Countess had placed these two on one side of the table, a little apart from the rest of the company; Blanche and her stout father sat with herself and two or three others, opposite. Blanche looked as James had said, very cold — cold and proud. ‘She was a deal less haughty as she hopped in her pantaloons about a muddy road in the moonlight,’ said Gilda, laughing at the memory of it. ‘And scrambled for her trinkets in the dirt — which after all Y Cadno took off her later at the drovers’ inn.’

‘Gilda, for shame! — there’s nothing to be proud of in these disgraceful adventures with that vile highwayman. You needn’t repeat them for all the world to hear.’

‘I repeat them for only my family to hear. And as for being proud of them — it was all for David.’

‘That’s an oft-heard story. For my part,’ said James, ‘I believe you enjoyed every minute of it.’

‘Some parts of it I did, at any rate,’ said Gilda, looking mockingly down upon the Lady Blanche.

‘And yet nowadays you loyally protect her.’

‘That also is for David. How could he go through this wedding, begin a new life with her, if all the world knew of his liaison with me? In a year or two, yes — a man having married a wife and established a nursery, grows tired of monogamy and takes to himself a mistress: this is common practice. But to do it while this marriage was actually going forward, would be a little too cynical and therefore we must protect him and, incidentally, her also.’ She leaned further over to watch the supper party at the fireside. ‘Lord Crum grows desperate, he is turning to the bottle to support him.’

Below them the hall was now filled to overflowing. The cold March night had driven all amusement seekers to Ranelagh, which was known to be the best heated of the pleasure gardens — and indeed at this moment a footman was making the rounds of the four furnaces, throwing more wood upon the heaped embers, built up high in the central pillar. In the alcoves beneath the balcony, all the tables were crowded; it was probably only the uninviting dignity of the Countess of Tregaron and her party that had prevented others from requesting a share of their table. As it was, the mob jostled against them, pressing them nearer the fire and Gilda’s hand gripped the edge of the balcony in a suddenly more serious anxiety, as Anne moved her head back away from Lord Crum’s increasing importunity, and her tower of feathers came within really perilous distance of the newly leaping flames. She said uneasily, ‘Someone ought to warn her. Doesn’t that silly old woman see that there’s a real danger? But no, she’s intent upon keeping Blanche and her precious father occupied, so that his lordship may press his suit.’

‘Mightn’t James or George go down?’ suggested her mother, ‘and as though in passing, casually give a word of warning. No one knows them. Or send little Jake to do it.’

‘Yes, yes, I’ll go,’ said Jake, all ready for any activity.

‘Very well then, Jakey; for certainly none of them can recognise you. Pretend to be passing by and in doing so lean forward and say only, “The lady should beware of her headdress; it’s too near the fire,” or some such words as that; and then immediately return here.’ He scuttled off gaily and they watched him worm his way through the mob and with a somewhat overdone nonchalance, approach the table. Others in the gallery had observed, from this better vantage point, the danger to the feathers and there were small gasps of thankfulness as, too indifferent to do anything about it themselves, they saw that the matter was in hand. ‘The young lady appears to be in some small peril,’ said Sam to those nearest, disclaiming acquaintance with the party, ‘and her friends too much occupied to observe it. I’ve sent the boy to warn them.’

Lord Crum had by now sidled close to Lady Anne and was trying to take her hand; she was moving away from him along the bench, her head held back as though his presence was actually physically offensive. Gilda’s fingers clutched at the wooden edge of the balcony as she bent over anxiously, watching her little brother; in a moment he might be too late. She saw him approach the Countess who was leaning forward in earnest converse with Lord Trove, and put out a timid hand to attract their attention. The old woman, afraid perhaps of being accosted by one of the vulgar mob, moved back sharply. At her movement, Anne, head still flung back away from Lord Crum’s importunings, swung sharply in her mother’s direction and Gilda leapt to her feet, leaning far out over the balcony and cried out, above the noise of the chattering throng: ‘Anne! Lady Anne! Your feathers…!’

Jake took one startled look up at his sister, a second at the Lady Anne — and leapt forward and seized the singeing feathers in his small bare hands. Throughout the crowd a sudden silence fell and they all craned to see what was happening, staring up at the balcony.

She took no notice of it. ‘Madam! Countess! Look to your daughter, quick, she’s in danger!’ The Countess turned to glance round and her brothers seized Gilda by the arms. ‘It’s over now, she’s safe; quick, come away before they recognise you!’ But the old woman had turned back and was staring up again. Behind her Lady Anne had collapsed upon the bench beneath the crumpled mass of real hair, horse hair, powder, flowers and feathers to which Jake had succeeded in reducing it. Lord Crum was staring owlishly, but the beginnings of a snigger were building up in him; Jake standing back abashed at so great a ruin for so small a cause — for there was a light smell of scorching and no more. He stammered: ‘She sent me — Gilda sent me… She thought… I thought the lady was on fire…’

‘Gilda?’ cried the Countess. ‘So that’s it! I thought I had known her!’ She stared up at the balcony, black with rage. ‘
You
sent him!’ And the boy called up anxiously, holding out his stinging hands: ‘I thought she was on fire, Gilda.’

‘So she would have been,’ said Gilda, leaning over to call down to him, lovingly. ‘You did quite right, you were very brave. One more second and she’d have been ablaze.’

‘Fiddlesticks!’ cried the old woman. ‘There was no danger, none at all.’ She carried an ebony stick, silver-handled, and now whacked it down upon the table, making the glass and china jump and ring. ‘The whole thing has been a plot, a plot to come here and insult us, to mortify me, to mortify my daughter, to mortify Lady Blanche…’ The Earl of Trove muttered at her shoulder, beseeching discretion perhaps, but she had seen the crushed headdress, the poor plain face streaked with powder and tears, the incipient grin on the face of little Cram — not only a coiffure had been lost that night — and she was beyond control. ‘Why is she here, why should she come where her very presence is an insult? — and with Lord Tregaron not here to defend us as she too well knows, strumpet as she is!’

Gilda’s white fingers gripped the wooden ledge, she freed her arms from the grip of her brothers’ hands. ‘Well for you that he’s not, Madam, to hear you speak to me so! How dare you accuse me?’ She raised her voice to shout down the old woman’s furious rumblings. ‘I came here incognito, intending no intrusion whatsoever; but for this accident, who would have known I was present? All these months have I not observed discretion? — to my own great discomfort, let me tell you. It’s you, not I who have brought your son’s name into this — both his and the lady’s.’ She folded the dark shawl about her head, and stood upright. ‘I’ll say no more. I’ll go now and let that be the end of it. I intended no harm and there need have been none.’ She turned away.

Turned away; and her cloak swung away from her body and into the petrified silence the old woman screamed, beyond all control: ‘Pregnant! Look at her! You slut, you shameless strumpet: you’re pregnant!’

‘Come away, Gilda, come away!’ urged the brothers; but once again she shook off their hands and now the blue-grey eyes were beginning to glow with that glow that Blanche had known by a midnight wayside, that Blodwen had known as she fought like a wild-cat on a muddy bank and felt across her cheek the searing edge of the Vixen’s ring. ‘Do you call me a strumpet? Don’t use that word again, Madam! I am no strumpet and I will not be called so. I make no claim to what such as you call virtue; but while I love your son and while I love him only, no one shall call me a strumpet.’ And she stood there, white as snow, crowned with flame, the black veil falling away from her head; and cried down with a voice of ice and flame also: ‘Take back the word! Take it back!’