Authors: Lucy Muir
“I confess I am quite fearful myself,” Elisabeth admitted as
she pulled a chair close to James’ sister. The two young women sat together and
conversed while they waited for the dancing to begin, comparing opinions of the
fashions worn by the other guests. At the same time Elisabeth was covertly
watching to see who entered, wondering if Miss Thibeau would be among the
select at the assembly rooms that night. But she did not see either Miss
Thibeau or her aunt the Comtesse de Fleurille and decided that Almack’s had one
point in its favor if it was a place where she would not see the vivacious
Frenchwoman.
Elisabeth had hoped to have Lord Sherbourne as her partner
for the first dance but one of the patronesses introduced a different gentleman
to her for the dance and Elisabeth had perforce to accept him, as she did yet
another gentleman for the second set. When that young sprig returned her to
Lady Parker after the set ended Elisabeth was unsurprised to see that the Duke
of Norland had joined their party. The Duke asked a patroness to recommend him
to her for the quadrille and kindly did the same for Miss Earlywine the
following dance.
Although both Elisabeth and Miss Earlywine were too
unaffected to notice it, many eyes were upon the two young women that evening
and many ladies of the
bon
ton,
who could see nothing remarkable about either young girl,
wondered why they merited so much attention when they had neither beauty nor
fortune. Lady Parker noticed the glances however and knew that from this night
both young women would be widely recognized wherever they went.
Lord Sherbourne, remembering he needed permission to waltz
with Miss Ashwood at Almack’s, sought one of the patronesses out to ask if he
might have the first waltz.
“Has Miss Ashwood been approved to waltz?” the patroness
inquired and then laughed at Sherbourne’s puzzled expression. “It is the custom
that those young women appearing for their first Season must be approved to
waltz before a partner can be approved for the dance,” she explained. “But
never fear, I shall grant both,” she promised, rising to accompany Sherbourne
back to Lady Parker and Elisabeth.
“Is the waltz agreeable to you, Miss Ashwood?” the patroness
asked Elisabeth. At Elisabeth’s intimation of agreement, the patroness
continued, “Then may I present Lord Sherbourne as a suitable partner?”
“I did not expect it would be so difficult to obtain your
hand for a dance,” Lord Sherbourne commented as he led Elisabeth onto the
floor. “The patronesses are doing their best to introduce you to a multitude of
eligible young gentlemen.”
“I believe that is the purpose of Almack’s,” Elisabeth
answered with a provocative glance.
Moments later the music began and Lord Sherbourne’s arms
were holding her close as they swirled about the room to the intoxicating
rhythm of the waltz. Elisabeth gave herself up to the enchantment of the music
as she dipped and swayed and swirled. She and Lord Sherbourne moved as one
person and suddenly she felt her very essence melt into his and knew by a quick
glance that the viscount felt it too. Warmth and an indistinct longing radiated
through Elisabeth’s body and she wished the rooms contained only the two of
them. She half-closed her eyes as they whirled gracefully about the floor and
wished the moment might never end. Intensely aware of Lord Sherbourne’s touch,
she dared a quick glance upward and their eyes met. Elisabeth’s breath caught
in her throat as something intangible passed between them, seeming to bind
their very souls. Unnerved by the intensity of the moment, Elisabeth once again
shuttered her gaze and she felt the viscount’s hand tighten upon hers as they
continued to whirl about the room.
After the waltz ended Elisabeth did not wish to have another
partner, feeling it would somehow tarnish the glow of her dance with
Sherbourne. She was therefore relieved when the viscount and Miss Earlywine’s
partner suggested they adjourn to the supper rooms, where they revived
themselves with tea, lemonade, rich cake and thin slices of bread and fresh
butter. Elisabeth was laughing at something droll Miss Earlywine had said when
she caught the word “Shelley” in the conversation of two dowagers sitting
nearby. Unable to resist listening, Elisabeth pretended to be occupied in
finishing her cake that she might hear the conversation better.
“Heard Mad Shelley and his wife have moved to Great Marlow.
My niece was naturally most distressed to have such people as neighbors. You
know Mrs. Shelley is
enceinte
. One wonders whether that was what caused
poor Harriet to take her own life. No one will receive them, of course.”
Elisabeth listened no more and her eyes flicked to Lady
Parker to see if she had also overheard the comments but Sherbourne’s sister
was conversing with the duke and gave no sign of having heard them. Here was
proof of what Lady Parker had told Elisabeth about the literary set not being
received by those in polite society and Elisabeth was disturbed by what she had
heard. Yet remembering the courteous but intense poet and his beautiful,
charming wife, Elisabeth could not entirely credit the gossip—and who was
Harriet? The overheard conversation stayed in her mind and much of the innocent
enjoyment she had taken in her success at Almack’s assembly rooms vanished.
The afternoon sun bisected the drawing room, throwing half into
uncompromising clarity while the other half remained soft in the shadows. The
chiaroscuro effect flattered those callers sitting in its shadows while drawing
attention of the defects of those in the harsh light and Elisabeth entertained
herself by guessing which side of the room each new caller would select.
Several callers had stopped by the house in Half Moon Street that day, the day
after their first appearance at Almack’s, and Elisabeth and Lady Parker were
almost at the point where receiving them was becoming a chore rather than a
pleasure.
“His grace the Duke of Norland,” the footman announced as
yet another caller arrived. Lady Parker revived immediately and Elisabeth also
felt her spirits rise at the entrance of the duke. He was clad in riding dress
and Elisabeth wondered fleetingly how he managed to keep his clothing in such
perfection. His linen never seemed to wilt or crease, spots of lint never
seemed to appear on his coat and breeches and never did a scuffed spot appear
on his boots.
“I come on two errands this fine morning, Lady Parker, Miss
Ashwood. First to ascertain if you and Lord Sherbourne plan to attend the
premier of
Don Giovanni
at the Haymarket this coming week and second to
see if I might persuade you to join me for a ride about the Park,” he informed
them. “I have bought a new landaulet and thought to try it.”
“I have heard that one of Mozart’s operas is at last to be
performed in London,” Lady Parker admitted, “and we are planning to attend,
although I believe I should prefer another night to that of the premier.”
“I concur that it is more pleasant when there is not such a
press of people. Shall we agree to the performance two nights after the
premier?”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lady Parker answered. “I shall so
inform my brother. As to your second errand, we shall be pleased to join you
for a ride in the park.”
“I would enjoy it another time, Your Grace, but as I am a
bit fatigued from last night’s dancing and beg you to excuse me this
afternoon.” Elisabeth spoke, surprising Lady Parker.
“Are you feeling well, Miss Ashwood?” her sponsor asked
anxiously.
“Quite well,” Elisabeth assured her friend. “I am only
fatigued. Please do not stay on my account.”
Lady Parker and the duke departed after more assurances of
Elisabeth’s health. Elisabeth watched from the window until she had seen them
drive down the street and then reclined on a sofa in the shady part of the
room. It was true she was tired after the unaccustomed social round but she had
also wished the duke and Lady Parker to have a chance to converse without her
presence since it was evident to her that it was Lady Parker’s company the duke
sought.
And she had wanted time to herself to think about Lord
Sherbourne and relive last night’s waltz in her mind. Over and over she
conjured up the sensation of melting in his arms. Surely now he must ask her to
make the betrothal official?
Then Elisabeth’s thoughts shifted to the conversation about
the Shelleys that she had overheard and she wondered again who Harriet had
been. She wished she had someone she could trust that she might ask. She could
hardly ask Lady Parker when that lady already did not approve her acquaintance
with them and she felt shy of asking Lord Sherbourne questions about something
that apparently had to do with illicit connections. Of course! She realized,
she could ask Jane! Elisabeth ran upstairs and pulled out her letter-case. A
quarter of an hour later she had finished her missive and went back down to the
drawing room to wait for Lady Parker and the duke to return. Finding that she
was now in truth quite tired, she reclined on a sofa in the shadowed side of
the room, resting her head against the round bolster at the head, and thought
about the Shelleys, Lord Sherbourne and marriage. As the thoughts chased faster
and faster around and around in her head, Elisabeth slipped into a light
slumber.
“Thank you, Your Grace, it was a most enjoyable drive.”
The voices interrupted Elisabeth’s slumbers and the thought
entered her mind that she needed to make her presence known, as the sofa was
shielded from their sight both by the shadows and by two plant-filled
jardinières.
“Lady Parker, if I may, there is something I wish to ask
you,” the duke continued before Elisabeth could rise. He spoke in a hesitant
manner, his normal assurance lacking. “In fact, I wish to ask for your hand in
marriage.”
Elisabeth, who had slowly begun to lift her head and get up,
lay back down. What should she do? She was unwittingly intruding on a most
private moment. To make her presence known would embarrass all parties but to
stay and hear more would not be well-done of her either. Finally deciding that
the latter caused only herself embarrassment and the former would cause
embarrassment to all parties, Elisabeth lay still, trying not to listen but hearing
the words nonetheless.
“Your Grace, I am truly sensible of the great honor you do
me but…but I may not accept,” Lady Parker answered the duke.
A silence descended upon the room which seemed to Elisabeth,
in her awkward position, to last forever.
“May I inquire if there is another?”
“No, Your Grace, there is not.”
“May I ask then if it is a matter of a lack of inclination?”
“No, Your Grace, it is not,” Lady Parker admitted in a quiet
voice.
“Then, Lady Parker, I shall hope you may change your mind
with time. No—say no more at this time. I will wish you a good day.”
Elisabeth heard the duke leave the room, a sigh from Lady
Parker and then softer steps leaving the room. Why had Lady Parker refused the
duke? Elisabeth wondered as she rose from the sofa and prepared to slip up to
her own bedchamber before anyone realized she had been present. It seemed such
an eligible connection in every way. Elisabeth stepped quietly to the door of
the drawing room and, seeing no one in the hall, slipped out and started ascending
the stairs just as another step sounded.
“Miss Ashwood, a moment if you please. You are just the one
I wished to see,” Lord Sherbourne said, stopping Elisabeth mid-step.
“Yes, Lord Sherbourne?” she inquired, going back down the
stairs.
“I have something I suspect will please you, Miss Ashwood,”
Lord Sherbourne said with a smile. “We have been invited to Great Marlow to see
the Shelleys on Saturday afternoon. May I assume you wish me to accept for us
both?”
“Yes, of course, Lord Sherbourne,” Elisabeth answered,
albeit without quite the enthusiasm the invitation might have given her before
the conversation she had overheard. “I shall look forward to it.” How true is
was, Elisabeth thought fleetingly, that eavesdroppers rarely heard anything
good.
Great Marlow was located only a few miles from London and
Elisabeth, Molly and Lord Sherbourne had but a short drive before reaching the
Shelleys’ new home. As the carriage rolled up to the house the front door
opened and Mary Shelley ran out to greet them
“Lord Sherbourne, Miss Ashwood. I am so delighted you have
come—come in, come see our new home. Percy and I have been having such fun
furnishing it.”
Molly disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen while
Lord Sherbourne and Elisabeth followed Mary into the parlor, where they
discovered several other guests, including Mr. Keats, Mr. and Mrs. Hunt, Mrs.
Hunt’s sister Bess, Mr. Peacock and a young woman with a very young baby whom
Elisabeth did not know but to whom no one seemed to think to introduce her.
“Come through here, you must come and see our garden. I am
so pleased to have a garden, for I love a garden of all things,” Mrs. Shelley
continued in a happy patter to her guest. “Marianne has brought two statues for
it, you must come see them.”
Lord Sherbourne and Elisabeth accompanied Mary outside, Mr.
and Mrs. Hunt and the others following behind.
“There, see! Are they not wonderful?” Mary asked, gesturing
to two statues placed in a corner of the garden. “Is not Marianne a wonderfully
talented sculptress?”
“My wife is indeed a talented sculptress,” Mr. Hunt said,
putting his arm around the waist of his plump wife.
Elisabeth, now understanding that “Marianne” was Mrs. Hunt,
could not help looking at her in surprise before her glance returned to the
graceful statues of Apollo and Venus that had pride of place in the garden.
Mrs. Hunt gave a jolly laugh. “You did not expect such a one
as I to be an artist, Miss Ashwood?” she asked. “Yes, plain, plump, simple
Marianne Hunt is also a sculptress.”
Blushing at having made her surprise so obvious, Elisabeth
admired the sculptures.
Mr. Hunt patted her arm. “Think nothing of it, Miss Ashwood.
It is not unusual for people to expect artists to look like Shelley or his
wife. But artists may have any outward appearance—we are in fact all artists or
writers here. Mostly writers—Peacock there had a success with his novel
Headlong Hall
last year and even Mary has tried her hand at a bit of
writing.
“Now,” Mr. Hunt continued, holding out a bottle, “I brought
a little libation for us to share. I know Shelley does not drink but I felt the
moment deserved a toast. Marianne, my dear, find some water for Shelley,” he
ordered as he began to fill glasses that had been placed on a bench.
After the group had toasted Mrs. Hunt’s statues and the home
at Marlow in general, the guests wandered about the garden, separating into
smaller groups. Shelley had discovered a small mud puddle created by recent
rains and persuaded Lord Sherbourne, Mr. Keats and Mr. Hunt to wager on a race
with paper boats. Mr. Peacock lowered himself into a chair to watch as he
consumed another glass of wine, Mrs. Hunt and Mary Shelley had vanished inside
with the unknown young woman and Elisabeth found herself standing alone some
distance back, watching the paper boat race.
A few minutes later, as the gentlemen experimented with new
designs for their craft, they ran low on paper and Shelley undertook to fetch
more from the house.
As Shelley walked past Elisabeth, he stopped. “Miss
Ashwood,” he said, concern evident in his blue eyes, “you do not appear to be
enjoying yourself. Come join us in the race.”
“Thank you but no,” Elisabeth replied. “I am quite content
to observe.”
Shelley glanced over at the gentlemen and saw they were
still engrossed in creating new styles of paper craft. “Come with me for a
moment,” he said, placing a hand lightly on Elisabeth’s shoulder and steering
her to a shady spot in the garden. “Clearly you are unhappy about something,”
he pressed. “Tell me what it is.”
Unsettled by his light touch on her shoulder, Elisabeth
flushed and admitted, “I feel rather out of place I suppose. I believe everyone
here has a gift but me.”
“You also have a gift,” Shelley said seriously. “One that is
quite necessary—the gift of enjoying the talents of others. We may speak of art
for art’s sake but the truth is that we all wish our art—whether statue or
poem—to be admired and enjoyed. If it were not we would lose much of our desire
to create them.”
Unexpectedly, Shelley reached up and pushed a strand of hair
that had fallen over Elisabeth’s face back behind her ear, his touch gentle.
His intense gaze met hers and for a brief moment Elisabeth almost felt that he
meant to brush a kiss over her lips.
A crunch of gravel on the walk behind them fractured the
moment.
“Miss Ashwood,” Lord Sherbourne said as he looked from one
to the other, “I was searching for you. Mrs. Shelley asked where you had gone.”
Feeling unaccountably guilty, given that she had done
nothing of which to be ashamed, Elisabeth stepped back from Shelley. “I shall
come this moment,” she said, hurrying past Lord Sherbourne.
Mary Shelley stood near the bench where Mr. Peacock sat.
Upon Elisabeth’s approach she said something to that gentleman that made him
laugh aloud and then she hastened toward Elisabeth.
“I am so sorry to have left you alone but Claire was not
feeling well and Mrs. Hunt and I put her to bed to rest. Shall we stroll about
the property?”
“I should enjoy that,” Elisabeth replied, concluding that
Claire must be the woman with the baby to whom she had not been introduced.
“I can hardly believe we have our own home again,” Mary
chattered on as they strolled over the long grass. “It is so delightful here at
Albion House. I am immeasurably grateful to Mr. Peacock for finding it for
us—he is Percy’s good friend and our neighbor over there,” she finished,
gesturing to a modest cottage not far distant.
“You are truly fortunate,” Elisabeth agreed in some envy.
The happiness and respect that so obviously existed between Mary and her poet
husband seemed to be the most a woman could ask for in the marriage state.
“Yes, I am,” Mary Shelley acknowledged. “It is not everyone
who is fortunate enough to have the love of a great genius such as my husband.
But it has not all been happiness, Miss Ashwood. Not so long ago…” Her voice
faded and then in a moment she spoke with renewed strength. “Not so long ago my
sister took her own life, Miss Ashwood, then so did Percy’s first wife. It has
been a difficult time. I am happy to see Percy happy once more.”
“I am sorry,” Elisabeth said, trying to hide her shock, for
she realized immediately that the Harriet she had overheard the dowagers
speaking about must have been Mary’s sister or Mr. Shelley’s last wife.
“It is worth the pain,” Mary Shelley confided. “Not everyone
is privileged to love and be loved as I am. Anything is worth being with Percy.
Even…” she hesitated and glanced back to where the gentlemen were still sailing
their paper boats in the puddle. “Some men love women, many women, Miss
Ashwood, just because they are women. Sometimes that is difficult but I
remember I am his wife. You must learn to accept a man’s nature for what it
is.”