Encounter with Venus

Elizabeth Mansfield

To the eyes of a miser,

a guinea is far more beautiful than the sun...

The tree, which moves some to tears of joy,

is in the eyes of others only a green thing

that stands in the way. As a man is, so he sees.

—William Blake

Prologue

Ten years earlier, when he was seventeen, George Frobisher had caught a glimpse of Miss Olivia Henshaw naked. It was a moment he never forgot.

He’d been granted leave from Cambridge to attend his sister’s wedding, which was to be held at Leyton Abbey, the groom’s country estate in Yorkshire. He did not usually enjoy attending weddings, nor did he like having to leave school so close to examination week, but Felicia, six years older than he, was his only sibling, and he was very fond of her. He therefore tried to make the best of it for her sake.

While dressing for the ceremony, he realized he was missing a stud for his shirtfront. Since the valet his host had provided for him was elderly and slow, he decided to go himself to find his father’s bedroom and borrow a stud. The Abbey was a warren of crenellated hallways and dark passages, and trying to find his way, he’d passed a slightly opened doorway. The light from the doorway spilled out into the corridor and drew his eyes. And there, right in his line of sight, was this vision of exquisite loveliness. A young woman was stepping from a shallow tub of steaming water, her body rosy from the heat, and her arms outstretched to receive a towel that an unseen maidservant was handing her. Her skin was smooth as ivory and glistened with the rivulets of water that flowed down her body. Her wet hair clung to a shapely neck. Her shoulders were gently sloped, her arms softly rounded, and the outline of her hips led down in a luscious, unbroken curve to her breathtaking thighs. Above a slim waist were two perfectly shaped breasts, made even more delicious by the single drop of water clinging to one pink nipple. She was a work of art, an Italian masterpiece, a Venus emerging from a steamy sea!

He stood there staring, mesmerized, his seventeen-year-old self shaken, entranced, overwhelmed. Only when she’d stepped out of the tub and passed from his line of sight did he recover his equilibrium.

As soon as he could move again, he ran down the hallway to his sister’s room and, ignoring her abigail’s remonstrances, burst in on her. “Felicia,” he demanded breathlessly, “who’s the person occupying the bedroom three doors down on the left?”

His sister, at this moment being helped into her underskirts, glared at him. “Really, Georgie,” she said in disgust, “why on earth must you make a to-do on the most important day of my life? Why do you want to know?”

“Never mind why,” he demanded. “Just tell me!”

Felicia shrugged in surrender. “Let me think. Third door down? That would be Livy. Olivia Henshaw. One of my very best friends. And if you won’t tell me why you want to know her name, just get out of here and let me dress.”

“Very well, I’m going,” he said, adding over his shoulder as he scooted out the door, “but be sure to make me known to her, will you?”

However, the introduction was never made. When, he returned to his room, he found the valet waiting with an urgent message from his school. His closest friend, Bernard Tretheway, had been thrown from a horse and had badly injured his back. George returned to Cambridge at once.

In the ten years since that day, he’d not seen nor heard anything of Miss Olivia Henshaw. Until today.

ONE

George would be the first to admit that a momentary glimpse of a Venus ten years earlier was not an important event in the larger scheme of things. After all, the ensuing decade had been filled with many more significant occurrences. From that very day, when he’d returned to Cambridge to find that Bernard had lost the use of his legs, the decade had been full of meaningful experiences. After graduation, George had taken a flat with Bernard in London to help him adjust to life on crutches. Then, a year later, with Bernard’s insistence that he could manage on his own, George had joined Lord Wellington as an officer in the Spanish campaign and saw firsthand the devastations of war. After Waterloo, he and Bernard had become involved in politics, actively engaging in the struggle for parliamentary reform. Then his father had died, and George had succeeded to his title: Earl of Chadleigh. There hadn’t been time to dwell on so insignificant an event as a glimpse of a naked lady.

Yet even now, at the much more mature age of twenty-seven, and even after seeing many unclad females of varying degrees of beauty, he could still close his eyes and bring to mind that momentary sight. And the memory of it could still set his blood astir. That was why he agreed to attend a house party his sister was giving at the Abbey in Yorkshire.

His sister’s party was the type of social event he usually avoided, but Felicia had traveled down to London expressly to coax him to attend. Even so, he was, at first, adamant in his refusal. He knew why she tried so hard to entice him. Not only did she need as many gentlemen as she could find to please her female guests, but she was particularly eager to marry her brother off to one of her many unwed friends, all of whom considered George Frobisher, the Earl of Chadleigh, a most desirable catch. George, however, had no intention of being caught. “When I’m ready for wedlock,” he’d told his sister more than once, “I’ll find my own bride.”

Nevertheless, over a sumptuous luncheon at Fenton’s hotel, Felicia kept insisting that he come. “I promise you, Georgie, that on this occasion you’ll have a lovely time.”

From across the table, George eyed his sister suspiciously. She was looking particularly appealing this afternoon. She’d worn a feathered bonnet with a small, round brim that accented her full cheeks and only partially hid her auburn curls, making her look—as she well knew!— much younger than her thirty-three years. Her large blue eyes were looking across at him so appealingly that he had to stiffen himself to refuse her. But he was determined to do just that. He knew he was an easygoing fellow who found it hard to refuse any request from family or friends ... in fact, he was aware that the men at his club referred to him affectionately as a soft touch. But when it came to fending off predatory females, he was determinedly firm. And predatory females would certainly be present at Felicia’s house party. “You don’t need me, Felicia,” he said as he speared a piece of pickled salmon with his fork. “You always have a crush.”

“It won’t be a crush, this time,” she promised. “There will only be ten at table. It will be such fun! I have costumes for an amusing tableau, we’re to have a tour of the old church at Rudston—it has a genuine pagan monolith on the grounds!—and my dear Leyton is planning a shooting party—”

George cut off her enthusiastic recital. “I’ve always wondered, Felicia, why you insist on calling your husband by his family name. You never call me by mine.”

“Really, Georgie, I can scarcely be expected to call my baby brother Frobisher.”

“But surely a husband is a more intimate relation than a brother.”

“It’s his given name, you see. Montague. He hates it. But don’t try to distract me, dearest. I so want you to come! It will be a wonderful weekend, really it will!”

George would not be moved. “You know how I hate to play the extra man at your dinner table,” he told her flatly. “The ladies you ask are invariably annoying.”

“That’s not true. You seem to find fault with all the women you meet. If you didn’t, you’d be wed by this time.”

“There may be some truth in that. Most of the young ladies I come across are too compliant and mawkish, too trivial-minded or too aggressively flirtatious.”

“Compliant? Trivial? Aggressively flirtatious?” Felicia studied him curiously. “What do you mean by that? Would you describe my friends that way? Too sweet or too shallow or too bold?”

“Most of them. Do you remember your birthday fete last year? One of your friends—I can’t remember her name ... the tall one with the frizzled hair that she tied up on one side of her head—”

“Do you mean Lillian Plante?”

“That’s the one. She drew me out on the terrace and actually dared me to offer for her, the silly chit.”

“It wouldn’t have hurt you to have done it,” Felicia retorted. “It’s about time you were married. But Lillian isn’t coming this time. She’s gotten herself betrothed. I’m only having Blaine Whitmore and—”

“Whitmore? Whitmore?” George tried to bring her to mind. “Is she the one with the high-pitched giggle?”

Felicia shook her head. “You haven’t yet met her, but she is, I promise you, the very loveliest creature. I’ve also asked Beatrice Rossiter and—”

“Ah, Beatrice Rossiter!
There’s
a treat,” George scoffed. “Speaking of trivial-mindedness, no sooner do you say your how-de-dos to her than she begins her aimless chattering and never stops.”

“You mustn’t mind that. She only does it to hide her shyness.”

“Indeed? Shy, is she?” He chuckled scornfully. “Shy as a rooster at dawn, I’d say. One wonders how she manages to snatch a breath.”

“You’re being unkind,” his sister accused, but without real bite. Defending Beatrice was not her objective; getting her brother to come to her party was. “But, Georgie, please, stop finding fault. Let me tell you who else will be with us. Let’s see, Lord and Lady Stoneham, and Leyton’s friends, the Thomsett brothers, Horace and Algy. And Livy, of course.”

“Livy?” he asked. “Who’s Livy.”

“Olivia Henshaw. An old friend from school. You needn’t trouble about her.”

Olivia Henshaw!
The mere sound of that almost-forgotten name brought him on instant alert, in the same way that, when he was on bivouac with the army, a cracking twig would bring him suddenly awake. He felt his whole body stiffen inside, but the only outer movement he made was the lifting of one eyebrow. “No?” he managed to ask. “Why needn’t I trouble about her?”

“She’s two years older than I—much too old for you.”

But George wasn’t really listening. He was seeing in his mind’s eye a Venus emerging from a tub. The vision was so real that his heart clenched. It occurred to him with a shock that he wanted nothing more than to attend his sister’s house party after all.

“Please, Georgie,” Felicia was pleading, but without much hope, “I’ve three unattached females and only two single men, the Thomsetts. I need you! Do be a darling and come this once!”

“Very well,” he said in what his sister thought was an abrupt and utterly surprising capitulation, “I’ll come to your blasted house party. Just this once.”

Felicia gave a little scream of delight, jumped up from her chair, ran round the table, and threw her arms about his neck. “Oh, you darling!” she cried. “I’m so glad!”

George scarcely noticed the embrace. All he could think of was that—at last!—he was going to meet his Venus face-to-face.

TWO

After leaving Felicia, George strolled along Regent Street toward Chadleigh House, swinging his walking stick jauntily—too jauntily, perhaps, for a man of his age and position. But he couldn’t help it. His blood was bubbling with a boyish sense of anticipation, an excitement he hadn’t experienced in years. How could he go home to a quiet house when he felt this inner churning? He changed his direction, deciding instead to drop in at Bernard’s rooms.