Sedition (26 page)

Mrs. Drigg did not want to be thought unfashionable. “I expect it’s because her father’s ill,” she said, in a bid to regain ground. “Drigg told me this morning that Sawneyford hasn’t set foot in the City for over a week.”

“Oh?” said Mrs. Frogmorton, startled. “I hope it isn’t serious with Sawneyford?” The awful possibility of having to offer Alathea a home under the Frogmorton roof if she was left an orphan and didn’t marry made her grip her knees together.

“I did make inquiries as soon as Drigg had gone,” said Mrs. Drigg, her pleasure at being the imparter of news mixed with disappointment that she was going to learn nothing further from Mrs. Frogmorton. “According to the servants, the doctor’s been at least four times, only he’s saying nothing, not even for half a crown.”

Mrs. Frogmorton became agitated. “What can it be? Could it be catching?”

“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Drigg said quickly. An agitated Mrs. Frogmorton was as disconcerting a sight as a dependably solid edifice displaying suddenly tremulous foundations. “If it was catching, wouldn’t Alathea have been sent away?”

“You never know with Sawneyford,” said Mrs. Frogmorton, half rising. “He’s a queer fish, and—”

“But he’s fond of his daughter,” Mrs. Drigg reassured. “He wouldn’t wish her ill.”

“I suppose not.” Mrs. Frogmorton subsided. Her motherly instincts surfaced. “I wonder whether he’s got somebody to help with her concert dress? But I wish we knew what was wrong.”

“I’ll send Sam again this afternoon,” said Mrs. Drigg. “He’s a great one for prying. Now, we were going to decide about flowers, and we’ve never discovered if the Allemondes will allow our guests to use their water closets. I can’t see any reason why not, can you, Elizabeth?”

*   *   *

A
T
M
ANCHESTER
Square, Harriet was sitting in the footman’s chair, huddled in a cloak and gazing through the window into the communal garden. Severely hampered by fat winter outer garments, children were attempting to play hoop. Harriet fought an urge to join them. She could, she thought. After all, there must be some advantages to being still a child, by which she meant still untouched. Though she had swung her earrings every day at Monsieur, he kept his hands firmly on his lap and Harriet was faced with having to force his hands, a concept she found insulting. Nevertheless, it must be done and, she had already decided, it must be done today. She would not return to her bedroom in the same state as she left it.

She swung her legs. Why didn’t he want her? Marianne said she was learning new techniques from him almost every day and even facing the wall had become quite enjoyable. Yet she, Harriet, was far prettier than Marianne. She decided that despite her best efforts she was being too coy. Monsieur must think she was still concerned about Georgiana’s feelings. She would have to be less coy. She tweaked her cloak. Underneath, she wore the loose pink tea gown she had debuted at Marianne’s the previous Sunday, only today, after the dressing maid had gone, she had removed the gown’s underpinnings. Between dress and specially scented skin remained only a gossamer shift, pale stockings, and a pair of silk slippers with bows. She shivered. The fire was some distance away. Her feet were cold. She pulled them under her and admired her ankles. From upstairs she could hear the same phrase being played again and again, left hand only, right hand only, hands together. Marianne might be good at the fizziness. She was no good at the pianoforte.

A noise in the street. Mr. Thomas Buller emerged from next door, evidently waiting for his horse to be brought around. On impulse, Harriet jumped up. She had been waiting for an opportunity to see Thomas. How infuriating that she was not more suitably dressed. Could she really go out in these shoes? She knocked on the window. Mr. Thomas Buller, fresh-faced, round-faced, red-faced, of little brain and endless good humor, gave a faux salute and grinned cheerfully. Not being the son of a peer, he had not been asked to the concert. Not yet, Harriet thought.

Harriet and Thomas were not well acquainted and Harriet suspected that the Buller parents had aspirations for their son beyond marrying a Frogmorton. It was true, however, that Thomas liked her—at least he always seemed pleased to see her—and she calculated that he would be more than obliging if she could persuade him that the feeling was mutual. Commendably self-deprecatory, she did not think her charms her best weapon: she thought her best weapon would be surprise. The Bullers, like the rest of Manchester Square, must know that the Frogmortons had a title in mind for Harriet, so Thomas must believe that Harriet was not for him. Now might be a good moment to shock him into imagining how nice it would be if she was. She knocked on the window, then smiled and waved.

Thomas waved back without embarrassment. Harriet was right: since he thought she was not for him, he was perfectly at ease. Even if he had to speak to her, he thought with relief, it mattered little that he was neither interesting nor clever. Harriet was destined for another.

Harriet pulled her cloak about her and opened the door. The shoes would have to be sacrificed. She went into the street, her warm breath wafts of steam. At once, Thomas was full of concern. “You’ll get cold, Miss Frogmorton,” he exclaimed, “and your feet’ll get all wet in those slippers.” Exuding heat, he bundled his own cloak over hers. He’s like a large dog, Harriet thought. Once they were married, she would pet him and stroke him and give him plenty of treats. She looked forward to it.

“I’ve something for you, Mr. Buller.”

“Thomas, please.”

“Thomas.” She twinkled at him. “I’ve something for you, Thomas. I’m inviting you to a concert. It’s on Saturday next in the evening, at the Duke of Allemonde’s saloon in Pall Mall.”

Thomas fidgeted with his gloves. “I think he’s an earl,” he said.

“Earl, duke, what does it matter? I want you to come to the concert.”

“That’s very kind of you, Miss Frogmorton,” Thomas said, “but I’ve heard it’s only for those with titles.”

“Ah,” she said, twinkling more, “you’ve heard that.”

He blushed. “Everybody’s heard. Well, obviously not everybody. I mean, snake charmers in India won’t have heard.”

Harriet laughed kindly. “You mean everybody who matters has heard.”

“Yes, that’s exactly it. Everybody who matters.”

“Your father could buy a title, you know,” said Harriet, hoping her nose was not turning red. It really was cold.

“Even if he did, Miss Frogmorton—”

“Harriet, please.”

He flushed beetroot. “Even if he did—Harriet … I’m not … well, you know, I’m not … I’m never going to be—”

“Never going to be the type of person my parents want at the concert?”

“Yes. I do like the way you say exactly what I mean.” His flush deepened until Harriet wondered how much deeper it could go.

His horse arrived, a pleasant creature, large, solid, and dependable, much like its owner. Harriet formed an enchanting
O
with her lips and blew on its muzzle. It blew back in friendly fashion and lipped a stray oat from a whisker. “But Tom—can I call you Tom?”

He swallowed. “Please do. It’s what my friends call me.”

“Well, Tom, it’s me who has to play at the concert”—she turned from his horse to himself—“just as it’s me who’ll have to get married after it.” Would that be direct enough?

It wasn’t. Thomas kept fiddling with his gloves. “Yes, indeed. But you want what your parents want.”

Harriet gave a feathery sigh. “Do I, Tom? Do I?” She looked him straight in the eye.

A slow computation. “You mean you don’t want what your parents want?” Harriet didn’t blink. “You mean,” Thomas said, his Adam’s apple shooting first up, then down into his stock.

There, Harriet thought. Now he’s getting it. The horse stamped a back foot. Harriet blew on its muzzle again. “Come to the concert, Tom,” she said. “That’s what I want. Will you promise?”

He looked stunned. “Really?” he said.

“Promise?” Harriet prompted. “Please promise.” She twinkled. She purred. She folded herself more neatly into his cloak. “I want to see a friendly face—somebody who might care for—well, you know—more than my father’s stock of gold in the bank.”

“Only a fool wouldn’t care for more than that,” Thomas said.

Harriet touched his arm. “Promise to come?”

He stood to attention, puce face, ramrod back. “I promise.”

“Excellent,” said Harriet. Her task accomplished, she began to take off the cloak. “That’s all arranged. Now you’d better get on before— What’s the horse’s name?”

“Gallant.”

She smiled. “Gallant. Like you, Tom. Better mount up before Gallant turns into an icicle, or I do. Have a pleasant ride.” She returned his cloak and skipped back through her own front door.

Thomas Buller remained transfixed. Had the groom not broken the spell with “Ready, sir?” he might have spent the rest of his life gazing at the place where Harriet had stood. As it was, the groom nudged him and the horse nudged him too. He put on his cloak, found his stirrup, mounted, and, with a loud “I will have a pleasant ride, Miss Frogmorton, I certainly will,” headed out into Oxford Street.

Harriet tossed off her shoes—yes, ruined, she thought—and looked out the window. For all that his heavy cloak accentuated his roundness and dogginess, Thomas looked quite fine on a horse, properly martial, even, with his spurs shining. Harriet was glad. It was good to marry somebody who looked nice. More important, though, was her certainty that with Thomas she would have a life of her own choosing, and once they got over their annoyance, her parents would be content. After all, her parents were happy together. Why shouldn’t she and Thomas be equally happy? It was only after Gallant clattered off that Harriet realized she was herself being looked at—more than looked at. Harriet was being inspected.

Annie was well wrapped against the weather, her whole face, except for her eyes, covered. She had come through the square on her way to buy iron wire for strings. Manchester Square was not a direct route and she did not want to be here. She came because she had seen Alathea only rarely since the day after Alathea had told her what she had done to her father, and she missed her. Annie knew she was not being deliberately ignored. She knew that time must be spent at Manchester Square or at Stratton Street practicing with the girls if the concert was to go as she and Alathea had planned. Nevertheless, on the rare occasions Alathea was with Annie, she now spoke of the girls, imitated the girls, was always so full of the girls that Annie could not help wanting to see the girls in the flesh. Alathea told Annie she despised them, and Annie did believe her, certainly from her descriptions of the Drigg sisters. She was not so sure about Harriet and Georgiana. Alathea had some regard for their dedication. She had even commended their playing. This last had shaken Annie. It was why she needed to see the girls. It was why she was here.

At first, to Harriet, Annie was a black distortion through the glass. Then, when Annie was clearly a person, a female person at that, and not simply looking at the window but studying it, Harriet wondered what business a woman could possibly have at Manchester Square. Perhaps, under the veil, she was one of those old crones who pestered for money. Yet she seemed disinclined to ring the bell. Harriet called for the footman. “There’s someone hovering at the railings, Spencer. See what she wants.”

Spencer went outside and addressed Annie without deference. He saw from her cloak that she was not a lady. “Madam?”

Annie backed away.

“Wait.” Harriet was hopping in her stockinged feet on the cold doorstep. “Who are you looking for?” she called.

Annie focused on Harriet’s pretty cheeks, her pretty hair, her perfect mouth. Alathea had never described these. On impulse Annie said, “I’ve come from Mr. Cantabile’s.”

“Mr. Who?”

Annie raised her voice. “Cantabile.”

“Who’s he?”

“The pianoforte maker. He sent me to ask if you’re happy with your instrument and the teacher he sent with it.”

“Happy?” echoed Harriet, puzzled. “Yes, of course we’re happy with the pianoforte and with Monsieur Belladroit. If we weren’t, we’d have complained long ago.” It seemed to Annie that Harriet’s lips involuntarily twitched into a small kiss.

Annie moved forward. She couldn’t look away from that mouth. How slim it was! How elegant! How could Alathea resist it? Here in Manchester Square, with Harriet alive in front of her, Annie felt as though a cataract had been removed. In the space of a second, the past months took on a different aspect and all Alathea’s talk of America struck a false note. Until she saw the reality of Harriet, Annie had accepted without question that Alathea’s lessons, the lessons that were going to show the girls as tainted goods, were being learned by the girls only through music. But of course Alathea had never said so explicitly. She never said, in words, that music was her only connection with Harriet or the others, and knowing what she did of Alathea’s appetites, knowing what she did of Alathea’s impulses, Annie realized that she had been too trusting. Alathea could have been doing anything these long afternoons when Annie was at Tyburn with her sick mother and surly father. After all, Alathea never suggested that Annie join her to help with the practice. Why not? If she chose, Alathea could make the girls see beyond Annie’s ruined face. It must be that she did not want to do so. Annie thought of that shard of glass. Once Alathea no longer wanted her father, look what she had done to him. Once she no longer wanted Annie, what might she do to her?

Harriet was still on the doorstep. “Would you like to come and inspect it?” She peered at Annie, who, almost unknowingly, had moved closer. The veil disconcerted. Harriet wanted to see beneath it. She lifted her arm as though to touch it. It was purely in Annie’s imagination that Alathea’s musk scent cut up her nose as the glass shard really had cut into Sawneyford. Harriet smelled of the dried rose petals the maids scattered on her sheets every night. Yet to Annie’s heightened sensibilities, the scent turned animal and conjured up images of Harriet and Alathea sitting together, playing together, the pale and the dark perfectly contrasted and lit up for the world to admire. She could feel Alathea’s hands on the warm porcelain of Harriet’s flesh. And those lips. Those lips. Harriet touched the veil and Annie whizzed around and fled, slipping in the frost, sliding into children, baby carriages, dogs, and all the domestic paraphernalia of Manchester Square families, seeing nothing except that her own lips, those very things about which poets wrote and lovers dreamed, were absurd and always would be. Alathea could kiss them and set each nerve athrob, but they were still absurd. Alathea knew that. Monsieur, though he spoke kindly to Annie and admired her playing, knew that. Her mother knew that. Her father was the only person brave enough to tell Annie the truth, that Annie was a joke, somebody to be toyed with or played with, but not somebody to flee with to America. There would be no new life. Annie had been dreaming, just as, before Alathea, she used to dream about Monsieur and the concert she would give. She rushed into Oxford Street and back to Tyburn. When she arrived, fumbling for her key and crashing through the door, her father could have destroyed her completely with a word. Luckily, he was out.