Chapter 19

Interlude

“Well, how do you find it, Miss Davis? Rather exceptional performance, don’t you think?” Lord March asked amid the clatter of applauses as soon as the concert was concluded.

“Oh, yes, indeed!” she replied in a monotonous voice of one who found little relish from the treat.

The Viscount chuckled and shook his head. “No. It is my belief that you derived little diversion from it. In fact, I’d observed that you were rather abstracted for the most part of the concert,” he shrewdly remarked. It occurred to him that the absence of a significant someone might have brought this somewhat lack of interest. But this he kept to himself, and asked instead: “Perhaps there’s something that’s been bothering you?”

She looked up at him with a puzzled gaze. “Why, nothing at all!”

“Dear me! Perhaps your remarkable detachment from the whole affair should be laid at my door?” uttered Lord March in a mock dismayed tone.

At this, she giggled. “How absurd you are, my lord! Why should it be? You are very attentive to me throughout the evening, and indeed, I’m very happy to find myself in so engaging a company as yours! Did I seem to be an indifferent spectator? I guess I did, but you must know that I am not wholly fond of concerts, you know.”

“So that explains it then!” exclaimed the Viscount, looking ridiculously pleased. “But how odd for a female not to be fond of concerts! My sisters are very much fascinated by them. When we were young they used to squabble on whose turn it was to play the pianoforte, and they would all of them sing, but which seemed to me back then pretty much like caterwauling — yes, I’d been a detestable brother when I was young, you know— but then I was obliged to sit and listen to it every time, because there was no getting away from it!”

For one who’d grown up without siblings to play or learn lessons with in the schoolroom, the cosy picture the Viscount had described made Miss Davis a little wistful, but she kept her cheerful countenance, and only said: “Your sisters must be very accomplished indeed!”

Moments later Miss Winscott rejoined them once again, and lost no time to share her observations about the concert. She poured them out mostly to her cousin. “Wasn’t it delightful, my dear? I trust you enjoyed it as much as I did! If Mama were here, I daresay the soprano would have reminded her of Angelica Cataloni — you know Caro, the Italian singer whom she often talked about whenever we attended the opera? We never saw her, of course, for she left London stage several years ago; but I daresay she isn’t as beautiful as Miss Rosetti here, don’t you think?”

Miss Davis, who never even had a glimpse of this fabled soprano, readily agreed to these observations but added in a low voice: “But don’t you think that her gown is a little — revealing? I declare I am a little put off by it.”

“Well, you know these opera-singers!” came the equivocal reply of Miss Winscott. A matron nearby caught her eyes, and graciously waved at her. Good manners bade her to attend to this lady, but she couldn’t forebear to complain to her cousin’s sympathetic ear how vexing it was when one had many acquaintances to come across with before sallying forth again.

Supper was not yet announced and everyone was engaged in boisterous discourses and drinks with their acquaintances. Indeed, the evening seemed to augur well, but it was disturbed in some degree by the arrival of a small party of modish young men a little while later. Despite her chastisement for their tardiness, the Countess, always an indulgent hostess, received them impartially and shepherded them into the saloon. Such want of decorum of these gentlemen, and Lady Stokeford’s tolerance to it, did not escape the censures of a few old-fashioned dowagers and matrons present. It so far reached Miss Davis’ attentive ears that the Countess had always been liberal in her ways and hadn’t failed offend propriety any time these past eight years. It naturally appealed to the young lady’s curiosity how the Countess contrived to offend propriety, and therefore put her companion in a great deal of discomfort by impetuously asking it.

Lord March almost choked on his wine but managed to clear his throat several times before answering with marked reluctance: “Miss Davis, I’m afraid I am not entirely at liberty to disclose anything of that nature; not when the Countess happens to be my friend’s mother.”

She coloured slightly and begged pardon. “I oughtn’t ask such things after all! Indeed, it is very ill-bred of me to do so! Only that my wretched tongue gets the better of me sometimes, you see.”

“I understand. We tend to slip out occasionally,” the Viscount smiled kindly down at her. “But you must know better than to heed what others prattle about. The ton being partial to fiction than facts, some could not help but indulge a little ingenuity of the mind to please them.” He paused, observing one of the newcomers with some interest. Something about the young man in blue coat had struck a chord in his memory, and it was not long before recognition was grasped. Lord March reverted his attention to Miss Davis again and begged her to turn her sight on that particular direction. “Because if I am not mistaken, I fancy you know very well that gentleman, but whom I do not have the pleasure of being acquainted yet.”

Miss Davis gasped inaudibly as her gaze alighted on Mr Milborne’s person, and exclaimed: “Why, it is Cedric! How surprising this is! I’ve never heard of him being acquainted with the Countess.”

“Ah, yes, that fellow Mr Cedric Milborne!”

“But you said you are not yet acquainted with him,” pointed out Miss Davis in bewildered tone.

“No, indeed! However, since I’ve lent a hand to this somewhat unavailing courtship of my friend to your cousin, it could hardly be kept from me the identity of his most distinguished rival.” replied the Viscount reasonably.

“I suppose Lord Stokeford couldn’t even conceive to withheld such things from you. Well, sir, it is just as you said: an unavailing courtship! I have every belief now that they won’t make a match of it after all,” she told him with a great deal of candour.

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me in the very least,” he murmured.

Meanwhile Mr Milborne, having at this point perceived Miss Davis with no small amount of surprise, jostled his way through the crowd to reach her. That he was one of the animadverted young men who turned up extremely late for the occasion did not appear to trouble him at all, for the stern glances directed at him signified not as much as the coquette smiles of several young ladies he encountered. He acted quite naturally like the debonair, but without any affectations on his easygoing manners. His blond locks, dressed in a fashionable hairstyle, glinted under the light of chandeliers; his charming smile always ready on his lips; and nothing became him more than the blue superfine coat, silver embroidered waistcoat and black trousers he wore.

“Hallo, Caro! Didn’t know you’re here! Sophie’s with you?” said Mr Milborne pleasantly the instant he reached them.

“Yes, I think she is just nearby, talking to some friends. But Cedric, you cannot have a notion how astonished I was by seeing you here tonight! Why, you never said a word that you were coming too! And what’s more, we didn’t know you are acquainted with Lady Stokeford!”

“No; I don’t see how you should! But we’ve been acquainted for quite some time, you know. Met her at Vienna in one of my tours,” explained Mr Milborne. “What a devilish squeeze this is! Was the concert impressive? Well, it’s a pity that we came in late, and what dashed figures we made of ourselves to those starchy matrons, I cannot begin to imagine!”

“Well, I’m sure I cannot blame them, for it is not at all seemly! Oh, but let me present you to Lord March! My lord, this is our friend, Mr Cedric Milborne!” The two gentlemen shook hands, exchanged pleasantries with greatest affability for a while before Mr Milborne took Miss Davis with him to look for her cousin.

The Viscount was not on his own for long, for no sooner had the pair left than he’d clapped eyes on his approaching friend, evincing every sign of being out of humour that he couldn’t refrain from enquiring what the deuce had put him in such a pucker?

“Merely that the evening turns out to be less appealing than it was an hour ago. I see that you’ve just made your acquaintance with Mr Milborne?”

“Yes, very agreeable chap! I could almost like him, you know.”

“Oh, you could, couldn’t you? No doubt you’ll be boon companions before the night is out.” He regarded him coolly and added: “If you would care to know, your undivided attention to Miss Davis this past hour and more has been marked, Robert.”

Lord March stared back at him in disbelief not unmixed with amusement. With faint sarcasm, he said: “What, have I inadvertently impressed upon them my interest towards her? Or merely that they thought I’ve been flirting outrageously?”

“I should really hope it is the latter,” frowned the Earl.

“Yes, I am by all means agreeable to add flirting to one of my accomplishments,” declared the Viscount wryly. “But what beat’s me, Stefan, is how you could have even supposed that I cherish some intentions for Miss Davis! A pretty pickle I would likely find myself into if Laurie were to hear of it. Why, he’ll have my neck!”

Lord Stokeford relapsed into a brooding silence, but the Viscount’s penetrating gaze did not leave his stormy countenance as he pursued: “You know Stefan, this is a devilish awkward business between the two of you! We know very well why Laurie’s not coming here tonight, but what should I tell Miss Davis but the flimsiest of excuses that he doesn’t have an ear for music? It seems to me that the poor girl is a trifle cast down by his absence. Didn’t very much enjoy the concert, you know.”

“Is she?” asked the Earl bemusedly. A flash of memory of Miss Davis smiling up at him as they talked earlier that night fleeted on his mind and a vague voice in its recesses would have liked to disagree with what Robert had just told him. Unconsciously, he blurted out: “As I’ve discovered earlier, she’d been in excellent spirits upon arriving here; in fact, we talked for a moment — ” he broke off, realizing how ridiculous he’d sounded, and flushed a little because he’d almost betrayed his irrational thoughts. Seeing his friend’s odd expression, he sighed and remarked ruefully: “Never mind it. Sometimes my mind is thrown in such a muddle that I do not know what to think, or to say, for that matter.”

Whatever notions the Viscount might have extracted from these utterances he wasn’t inclined to share it to his friend, but in his grey eyes there was a trace of understanding. He replied sympathetically: “Devilish, isn’t it? No notion what to think, or to say, and the devil in it all is that you tend to do the very wrong thing! Here, shall we retire to the library and imbibed ourselves with your best wine? I find the atmosphere of this saloon has become incongruous with our troubled minds.”

* * * *

Two days later, it was with little enthusiasm that Miss Davis recounted the happenings at Lady Stokeford’s musicale to Mr Beaumont. Her colourless narration led the young man to suppose that it was a dull affair, but nonetheless trusted that she had an entertaining night of it. Indeed she had but she regretted the fact that he wasn’t there, saying in bantering tone that she was left with no other option but to resort to Lord March’s company. Mr Beaumont laughed at this and made his lady blush by declaring that Robert was a lucky dog then, and how he would’ve traded places with him for that single night. Upon reflection though, had it not been for the rift between them, which was no near to being healed, he would certainly have attended his aunt’s musicale with greatest inclination.

Miss Davis did not have an inkling about it, of course, nor did she detected the odd gravity on Mr Beaumont’s demeanour when she unwittingly brought up Lord Stokeford’s name in one of their discourses. But that afternoon, as they drove around Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of five, the traces of their falling out had come to light when they accidentally chanced upon Lord Stokeford’s own curricle, bearing Miss Carstairs on it. Inevitably the two vehicles came to a standstill; the ladies, having been introduced to each other the previous night, exchanged polite greetings, while nothing but the most perfunctory of nods had passed between the gentlemen. To those who were far more intimate with the cousins, it would come as unnatural as it was bewildering to see them according one another with such cold greetings; and even someone with an insight slightly inferior to Miss Davis’ would have supposed that something was definitely amiss.

Her suspicion was confirmed when Lord Stokeford, out of politeness, enquired Mr Beaumont’s well-being in a restrained tone, and the younger cousin in return answered him with unwonted formality: “I am very well, sir, thank you very much.” She was not unnaturally confounded by — and pardonably curious about — this strange behaviour. After the pair took their leave of them she maintained a light chatter, not betraying the least concern of what she’d just witnessed; but when her companion was far from regaining his usual humour, she decidedly abandoned all the pretense.

Laying a small, gloved hand on his arm, she said, very softly and a little apprehensively: “I do not wish to pry, but when I saw how you and Lord Stokeford talked, I — I could not help but observe that there is something — well, a slight friction between you two. Have you had fallen into some sort of disagreement?”

Mr Beaumont’s countenance was taut, but when he turned to her it became almost rueful. “I’m afraid so. But it’s of the least consequence, I assure you. Just a regular tiff between cousins, that’s all!”

He then smiled, but even that did not convince her that the quarrel was anything but petty. “Under the circumstances, I should rather think it very irregular indeed,” she quietly remarked. “It appears to me that you’ve been upset by it more than you would like me to believe. Perhaps, if you would talk about it, you might find yourself gradually unburdened, Mr Beaumont.”

“I wish I could, but I couldn’t tell you the whole, Miss Davis,” said Mr Beaumont with a resigned sigh.

She smiled at him in understanding. “Of course. If you did not find it agreeable to talk, then I won’t press you. But I sincerely hope that you will both be reconciled in no time, for there’s nothing more uncomfortable than to be on the outs with someone so close to you. I’m sure your cousin feels likewise.”

The topic was allowed to drop, but by the time she was put down in front of her aunt’s door Miss Davis felt a faint relief to see the humour creeping back in his eyes again as he took his leave of her. He’d become her constant friend and companion these past few weeks, but she’d never seen him so cheerless as he’d been earlier. Much as she wouldn’t like to interfere, she felt she couldn’t at all permit their quarrel to be long drawn out. She did not put much confidence on her tactfulness, but she would try to set things right between the Earl and Mr Beaumont, and perhaps enlist Lord March’s services on this undertaking.

She was still consumed by these thoughts when she entered the hall and absently untying the ribbon of her bonnet under her chin when Sophie, hurrying down the stairs with pounding steps, broke into her rumination. “Thank heavens you’re back! Something has happened, and Mama has been in a tumult this past half hour! Caro, we are to go to Bath tomorrow, and I’ve so little time to pack my things, because I am to go out with the Lennoxes at eight! Of course there’s Mary to do the task but I feel I cannot at all rely on her you know, since she always tends to forget some things I ought to bring, and I’ve to unpack it again and check what’s still missing. I tell you it’s vexatious! Will you please come up to my room to help us? Oh, but I daresay Mama wants to see you first!”

Caroline let her cousin drag her up to the stairs, but found these utterances a little incoherent. She said: “Yes, of course! But, Sophie, you have not yet told me what has happened! Why should we go to Bath at once?”

“Mama has received a letter from my Uncle Peter in Bath, apprising her that my grandmother has fallen very ill. You know how she dotes on her, and so the tidings had put her in high fidgets in a trice! She’s desirous of setting for Bath posthaste and thus we are in a bustle now.”

“Oh, dear! That is very serious, indeed!” exclaimed Caroline sympathetically. She entered Mrs Winscott’s room, strewn with female articles, a portmanteau and few bandboxes that suggested the imminent stay out of town would be long, and found her Aunt rigorously rummaging her closet. Mrs Winscott fished a nightcap from the closet and handed it to her maid, and eventually perceived her niece.

“There you are, my dear! Has Sophie told you already that we are setting for Bath tomorrow?” asked Mrs Winscott as she came to her. “You must think it very sudden, but you know that I cannot put myself at ease when my husband’s dear Mama has taken ill and is in a very grave condition!” she sighed, looking suddenly tired.

Caroline replied soothingly: “Of course you can’t, Aunt! The poor lady must be in need of your care, and indeed, you must go and visit her at once. Shall I come with you, too? I’m going to help Sophie to pack her things after this and since I am not engaged tonight, I can do mine later.”

“Oh, no! You shall not go with us, my dear!” declared her aunt with conviction. “I’m sure I cannot drag you away from London — and the Season in full swing, too! — when this is only your first time. Certainly not! You will make our excuses for a few upcoming engagements, of course. Very likely you’ll find the parties in Bath a pale contrast to London’s; why, you must have seen your cousin’s face the instant I’ve mentioned the place! But Sophie’s too much a good girl to make a grumble. Besides, she knows how her dear grandmama is dying to see her once again, and there will be her cousins to keep her well-entertained.”

“Yes, I think I shall find Bath a trifle dull indeed,” reflected Caroline in a moment.

“There’s no doubt in that, my dear,” assented Mrs Winscott. “We’ll be staying there for at least a sennight, and I’ve arranged for Miss Moore — your cousin’s previous governess, you know — to put up here again to be your companion while we are away. She’s a delightful creature and very apt in chaperonage without being tedious about it, so never fear!”

“Of course! I’ve heard Sophie talking about her before. I’m sure we’ll go on extremely well together!”