The Lorimer Line (16 page)

Georgiana outshone them all, and Margaret could tell that her parents had planned it and were proud of it. It was as though John Junius, for the first time in his daughter's memory, was making a deliberate public exhibition of his fortune. Never before had he behaved in such an ostentatious manner. On any other occasion Margaret might have paused to puzzle over something so uncharacteristic, but tonight she could think of little except David.

There was to be a late supper at the ball, so that the dinner could have been a simple one, but she noticed that the meal was unusually extravagant too. The first course was a clear turtle soup which she knew must have cost a guinea a quart. A dish of salmon was followed by an
entrée
of sweetbreads. Lamb had been chosen for the
relevé;
and then came
rôtis
of duckling and guinea fowl. Two savoury
entremets
followed, and three sweets. But the high point of the meal was undoubtedly reached when eight beautifully arranged dishes of fruit were carried in, for William had provided from a ship lately home from the West Indies, specimens of pineapple and papaya, melon and banana –so exotic that many of the guests had never tasted them before.

It was at the end of the meal that Margaret's great moment came. Her father arose to announce the engagement and propose a toast to the young couple. The secret had been well kept and Margaret could guess that her father's friends were startled. Back in their own homes
they would no doubt speculate about the unknown young man, and perhaps express unkind surpise. But for the moment their host's own firm expression of pleasure was enough, at the end of such a good meal, to bring warmth to their congratulations. David, slim and handsome, was so very much the best-looking man there that Margaret could feel nothing but pride.

Since most of the guests were of the same age as their host and hostess, they were in no great hurry to move on to the ball. To be seen there at some point was all they wanted: they did not expect actually to dance. But for once John Junius seemed sensitive to the brightness of his daughter's eyes. This was to be Margaret's evening, and if she wished to dance, then dance she should. He cracked his fingers to hurry the servants, to such good effect that the Lorimer party arrived at the Assembly Rooms before the first quadrille was called.

They waited impatiently for the entrance of the Prince of Wales, who came at that moment, preceded by a fanfare of trumpets. He walked with dignity down a corridor formed by the other guests, an avenue of swaying ostrich plumes and dipping diamonds as the ladies in the front rank tried while curtseying both to drop their eyes demurely and to peep as the Prince passed them. He was reputed to be handsome, but Margaret found him already too stout for her taste. Her hand tightened on David's arm as they straightened themselves and watched as the mayoress, flushed with anxiety, allowed the city's royal guest to lead her on to the floor for the opening of the ball.

Margaret too found the excitement of the occasion almost too great to bear, but for a different reason. The ballroom, with its red velvet curtains and gilt pillars and chairs, was familiar to her, but never before had the air been so heavily scented with flowers. Never before, when the dancers had taken their places, had the bandsmen in their red jackets played with such sparkle and dash. It was not this,
however, which made her heart beat faster, but the ecstasy caused by the touch of her fiancé.

David danced extremely well. Now that she was openly acknowledged as his future wife, Margaret felt bold enough to express a teasing surpise.

‘A month ago I would have disgraced you,' he confessed as they resumed their seats in one of the alcoves. ‘But I chanced to encounter Miss Reni one day. Although her talent is for the piano, it occurred to me that she might be equally proficient in teaching the dance, or might at least recommend someone else who would do so.'

‘And she taught you herself?'

‘With great speed,' said David. ‘It's not for me to claim that she was successful.'

‘I thought that Luisa must have left Bristol, since I have heard nothing from her,' Margaret said. ‘Where is she living now?'

David hesitated. For a second the jealousy which Margaret had first felt when she saw him with Luisa returned, but she quickly realized that the address was the cause of his embarrassment. It was a house in The Gazebo. Although situated in a good part of the city - in fact, not too far from Brinsley House itself - this was a terrace which suffered from the same reputation as the street from which she had once seen Walter Crankshaw emerge. As David mentioned the name, she could see that he was wondering whether she would guess its significance.

‘With a baby to care for, I suppose it is necessary for her to have a protector,' she said. It was not a sentiment which her mother would have approved, and Margaret herself could not help being a little shocked, but she did her best to keep the doubt from her voice.

David seemed relieved at the quickness of her understanding that Luisa must have become a kept woman.

‘I hope I don't need to assure you that the protector is not myself,' he said, smiling. ‘And now, may I be allowed
to fill in my share of your programme? My lack of time for practice means that I have not yet mastered the Highland Reel. I must leave that to one of your other admirers.'

‘On the contrary, you must sit it out with me, or I shall be jealous to think of you sitting out with someone else.'

They laughed together as he wrote his name in her programme. Then they looked up in surprise. John Junius Lorimer and his wife were making what could only be called a progress down one side of the assembly hall.

‘I have rarely seen my father so expansive in public,' Margaret said. ‘As a rule he has little use for social occasions. And to tell you the truth, since you are to be a member of the family, he has little use for my mother's company. Or perhaps it is she who shuns him. Certainly they are not often seen together.'

‘It would be wrong of me to criticize my employer and future father-in-law,' said David. ‘But my impression is that he keeps company not so much with Mrs Lorimer as with her jewels. They are certainly most striking. They must be one of the most precious heirlooms of your family.'

‘You are mistaken,' she told him. ‘They are new. A gift for tonight. I suppose every family heirloom must make a first appearance, though.'

‘New?' queried David.

Margaret wondered why he seemed so thoughtful.

‘My mother often complains that she is given few opportunities to show herself in public as a rich man's wife. Is it so strange that my father should yield at last?'

‘Your father is not a man who yields in anything,' said David, ‘except for some reason of his own.' The thought seemed to disturb him. ‘I suspect that he has some reason for his indulgence.'

‘At least it appears to be achieving its effect,' Margaret pointed out. The Prince had begun to move informally amongst the guests, stopping from time to time so that the mayor might present those citizens most worthy of notice.
John Junius and Georgiana Lorimer were at this moment receiving such a mark of favour.

‘I must take an early opportunity to ask Mrs Lorimer to dance,' said David when the Prince moved on. ‘And I see your brother is coming over to you.'

Margaret watched him approach her parents. It was proper that Georgiana, still flushed with her moment of social triumph, should give him the dance; but unexpected that she should actually take the floor with him, especially as the next number was to be a Galop. William, who had joined Margaret, noted the fact with disapproval.

‘Mama exerts herself too much tonight,' he said. ‘Already after dinner I thought her colour was high.'

‘With excitement rather than effort, surely,' suggested Margaret. She saw David bow as the vigorous dance ended, leaving Georgiana fanning herself in a manner which bore out her son's opinion, and then retiring to the coolness of the terrace. When she turned back, William had disappeared as though to avoid David.

‘The next dance is a valse,' David reminded her. ‘I can allow no one other than myself to take advantage of its intimacies.'

‘I hope I have not found myself an overbearing husband,' Margaret laughed as she took his arm again.

‘By no means. The situation will simply be that my judgement will always be better than yours, and your own good sense will compel you to agree with me. That is the basis for a happy marriage.'

His teasing increased her fondness. She looked at him lovingly as they took the floor. The bay rum which had smoothed down his hair at dinner no longer held his dark curls in check and his brown eyes were at once merry and loving. Margaret blessed her good fortune. Never had she seen a man she liked better. That he should admire her too was a miracle she could hardly believe.

‘I think I shall never be as happy in my whole life again
as I am at this moment,' she said softly as they began to dance and she felt David's arm tighten round her waist.

‘I believe a time will come when we shall both be even happier,' he said. ‘But I grant that this is enough for the present.'

Putting Luisa's lessons to good use, he swept her round the floor. Margaret was conscious of her father's eyes following her. She knew his opinion of the dance - he was old-fashioned enough still to regard it as immoral - but she could distinguish no sign of disapproval in his expression. It was as though he were determined to present himself to the world tonight as a contented as well as a generous man. This was without doubt the most perfect evening of her life.

But she had been right, all the same, when she recognized that such happiness could not last.

On the morning after a ball, jewels are locked away in the strong rooms of banks, dresses are returned to their closets, and ladies in middle life whose unaccustomed exercise has extended throughout the night take to their beds, giving orders that they should not be disturbed. All this is taken for granted; but it served on this occasion to disguise an unexpected and alarming consequence of the ball.

William's anxiety on his mother's behalf proved to have been well-founded. It was impossible to know whether what happened was the result of Georgiana cooling herself too abruptly on the terrace after the exertion of dancing, or whether the dangerous moment had come earlier in the evening, when she left the boudoir to whose warmth she was accustomed, wearing a dress very much lower in cut than usual. Whatever the cause, the effect was that within
twenty-four hours of the ball she was complaining of a chill.

Later on, every member of the family was to feel guilty that Georgiana's first murmurs of complaint were not taken seriously. She had spent too many years suffering from illnesses which seemed to have no name for anyone to realize at once that this situation was different. She kept to her room - but that was her custom. She took to her bed -but it was assumed at first that this was no more than a reaction against the activity of the previous weeks, with their preparations for the dinner and ball.

William had of course returned to his own home with Sophie. Ralph had thrown himself into a frenzy of prayer and study ever since the day of Claudine's departure for France. John Junius was more than usually absorbed in the affairs of the bank, and spent his evenings in the tower room frowning over pages of figures. Margaret, in the days immediately following the ball, took it for granted that she should be the one to receive the courtesy calls of their dinner guests. There were calls of congratulation on her engagement too; and calls of her own to be made in return. Each time she went to her mother's door Marie-Claire greeted her with the news that Madame was resting, but there seemed no cause for alarm and she was too occupied with her own affairs to be worried. By ill fortune it happened that Dr Scott was spending a month in the country with his sister, and did not make his regular weekly call. Georgiana could, of course, have sent for his locum, but the selfish petulance with which she usually kept Dr Scott running to her call had been replaced by lethargy.

For all these reasons several days passed before Margaret, carrying in a silver bowl filled with roses from the garden, was horrified to see her mother, pale and lank-haired, fighting for breath as she lay propped up in bed by half a dozen pillows. A brief touch of hands was enough to tell Margaret, who had seen too many women lying ill in
damp basements, that the condition was dangerous. Wasting no time in bedside talk, she beckoned the maid to follow her out of the room. Once the door was closed, she intended to express her anger that Marie-Claire had allowed her mistress's condition to deteriorate in such a way, but for once the Frenchwoman was frightened rather than assertive.

‘There has been no fever until today,' she said. ‘This morning for the first time Madame would not allow me to do her hair. She said she was too tired. I did not like to leave her, but I have rung for a footman to call a doctor.'

Nathaniel arrived at that moment to prove the truth of what she said, and Margaret sent him off at once to fetch the nearest doctor.

It was Dr Scott's locum who came. After a long examination he applied a blister over the right lung. He sent for blankets and coals to sweat out the fever and prescribed doses of antimony mixed with syrup of poppies, promising to send round some laudanum so that his patient might have a restful night. Margaret watched with a feeling of helplessness, and was disturbed by the sickness which the antimony caused. As soon as her father returned that evening, Dr Scott was summoned from the country for a visit which for once was not a waste of his time. He did not actually criticize his own replacement, but withdrew the antimony and administered instead a medicine containing ammonia and ipecacuanha. A mustard poultice was placed over Georgiana's other lung: her weakness increased.

The days passed with no improvement in her condition. It seemed impossible that a woman who was only in middle life, with all the medical care that money could buy, should succumb to an illness which had so slight a cause and which seemed to develop so slowly. And yet, as days and weeks went by, Margaret noticed Dr Scott's face becoming more and more grim. He spoke to John Junius of a crisis, a low point to which his patient must now descend before
any recovery could be hoped for. Margaret sat by the bedside every day and much of every night, but no miracle visited Brinsley House. Little by little the painful gasping of breath first quickened and then quietened. Before September ended, Georgiana Lorimer was dead.