‘What – apart from my father’s hitherto secret wish, of course – makes this young lady above all others so outstandingly suitable?’ he said.
It was a sign of wavering resolution on his part, and trust his mother to pounce on it. He endured a lengthy encomium to Miss Nightingale’s beauty and virtue, her noble birth, the very respectable size of her portion, her mastery of every accomplishment, her prowess in the saddle, even – as a distinct afterthought – her intelligence. She sounded far too good to be true, and probably was. He knew nothing to her discredit, knew nothing about her at all save what he was being told, but her father was another matter. ‘Lord Nightingale has the reputation of being rather eccentric,’ he ventured after a while, when the flow had lessened a little. ‘Has he not lived apart from his wife for several years?’
‘What of it?’ said his parent robustly. ‘There has been no open breach, no mention of anything so shocking as divorce, not the least breath of scandal, and I am surprised, Dominic, that you should even hint at such a thing! Lady Nightingale merely prefers the countryside, and her husband Town. They are both notable scholars, you know, with a wide correspondence and a great deal to keep them busy, though I do not mean to say, of course, that Miss Nightingale herself is a bluestocking, or… or a writer, or anything of that disagreeable nature.’
He wondered why his mother should consider intellectual achievements in a woman so very undesirable, but did not feel equal to arguing the point just now. ‘Naturally not. I feel sure you would not suggest her otherwise, ma’am. She sounds a very paragon of perfection.’
‘She is! Dominic, I know you are being tiresomely satirical, as ever, but truly, it is past time that you should be thinking of marriage. The future of the family demands it, and if, as you pretend in your odiously affected way, you cannot distinguish one lovely and eligible young lady from another, the plain truth is that you may as well marry this one and be done, since it cannot possibly make the least difference to you!’
Cousin Sarah, whose unobtrusive presence it was possible to forget for long periods of time, clucked ineffectually at this stinging and most unmaternal remark, and Dominic smiled at her. ‘There is no need to distress yourself, Cousin,’ he said gently. ‘I assure you that I am not in the least offended. Perhaps my mama is right, and perhaps my father was, though alas he cannot be here to tell us why he thought so. Perhaps it is indeed time.’
It was a great concession, and Lady De Lacy was duly sensible of it. She might have preferred that her son should hasten immediately to the Nightingale mansion in Grosvenor Square, to offer for the young lady before he should have a chance to change his mind. But when Dominic insisted with great firmness that he should as a bare minimum be able to identify his prospective bride by sight before he asked for her hand, his mama conceded with surprising grace.
The Season was in full swing, and perhaps it was no surprise that an opportunity to encounter Miss Nightingale and her chaperon and aunt should have presented itself most conveniently that very evening, at Lady Sefton’s ball. Naturally, Dominic had been invited; naturally, his mother was confident that Miss Nightingale would also be there. A less cynical man might have described it as providential.
Dominic, if he attended such dull affairs at all, generally arrived shockingly late, but on this occasion he entered the glittering ballroom precisely at the time specified by Lady De Lacy. To do otherwise would be rude, he knew, and the whole situation was awkward enough without offering an egregious insult to the woman he must accustom himself – unless anything unforeseen should happen to prevent it, perhaps a meteor strike, a royal death or an invasion by the French – to think of as his prospective bride.
He bowed punctiliously over Miss Maria’s hand, and that of her duenna Mrs Greystone, a harassed-looking woman in puce satin trimmed with Mechlin lace. He didn’t care much for the puce, but he could find no fault with Miss Nightingale’s dress and demeanour. He didn’t recall ever having set eyes on her before, now that he saw her, or even having heard her name mentioned in conversation, though he was slightly acquainted with her half-brother Francis, who was a man of about his own age who he’d seen occasionally around the town, but at Cribb’s Parlour and the like, he thought, not at balls and fashionable soirées. He banished a fugitive longing for the uncomplicated, undemanding masculine comfort of Cribb’s Parlour from his mind now.
The young lady was tall and elegant in white silk. He’d have remembered her, he was almost sure, if he’d met her before. She was not willowy and fragile, but robustly built, along fashionably ample lines; she looked like the strong horsewoman his mother had claimed she was. Perhaps that much, at least, was true. And it would be perverse to deny that she was attractive. Her features were classical in their regularity, and in their marble immobility – objectively, she was beautiful, only that she lacked all animation. Her eyes were large and blue, her golden hair curlier than the current mode but arranged with propriety and taste, her smile quite mechanical. She reminded him rather of an automaton he had once seen displayed. See the simulacrum of a lady! Watch her speak, and marvel at how lifelike she is. But it was entirely wrong to blame her. He was sure he was not a whit better in her eyes. How could he be? In that sense, if in no other, they should make a fine pair, and could be set in a shop window as an advertisement.
Her voice, when they conversed, was low and pleasant. She said nothing of any note, but then nor did he. If he saw no particular sign of her much-vaunted intelligence on this occasion, he couldn’t flatter himself that he made a more creditable showing. It was a horribly awkward situation for them both, and worse for her. She must be conscious that he was here to look her over; she might as well have been a horse at Tattersalls, or some other piece of expensive bloodstock, and what could she do but endure it, no matter her private feelings? She was, he thought, close to paralysed with acute discomfort, which was understandable, and concealing it with an effort that he found admirable. A less perceptive man would surely have noticed nothing amiss. He consoled himself with the thought that a woman who had enough sensibility and good taste greatly to dislike the circumstances in which she found herself might, just might, be someone he could one day communicate with in an honest fashion.
If he couldn’t have love in marriage, or anywhere else – and, after ten years spent in the best society without a single hint of it, and without being too horribly self-pitying over the matter, it seemed he couldn’t – he could at least have honesty and mutual respect. It didn’t seem too much to ask for. If Miss Nightingale had been giggling, arch, triumphant, shooting him vulgar and flirtatious glances under her lashes, looking around to see who was watching them, the situation would have been unendurable. Be damned to his mother’s plans and even his father’s dying wishes, if she’d been that sort of creature. Perhaps he’d been hoping she would be… But she wasn’t. She was a lovely young woman who was just as trapped as he was, and for the moment that would have to be enough. If he couldn’t imagine kissing her, making love to her – and he couldn’t, any more than to one of the marble statues in his hall – he must hope that that desire would come eventually, for both of them.
Dominic asked for the honour of a waltz with her, and they danced; she was coolly graceful and correct, and once more recalled the automaton he’d seen, which had moved in a similar fashion. They exchanged a few more commonplaces – the weather, the great crowd at the ball, the sad news of the King’s continuing ill-health – and then a short while later they stepped out together a second time. On this occasion, they spoke, though he had no idea how the topic arose – perhaps she raised it – of their shared admiration for the distinguished author ofEvelina, who, he was able to tell her, had been a regular correspondent of his late father. His mother would no doubt have been on the lookout for signs of excessive erudition, but he was merely glad to have something slightly more substantial to discuss. This innocuous subject allowing them to converse with rather less awkwardness, the dance passed more swiftly.
He was aware of a little hum of interest from their fellow guests, of sharp eyes upon them, of whispers of gossip. It was quite unexceptionable, for a lady and a gentleman to be partners twice in an evening, but it wasn’t the sort of thing Beau De Lacy normally did. He wasn’t the type of man to flirt with debutantes or raise expectations he had no intention of fulfilling. And so conclusions would inevitably be drawn. Correct conclusions, as it happened.
Later, Dominic would wish he’d taken a little more time and a little more care – had asked Miss Maria to go driving in the park with him, perhaps, setting down his groom so they could converse in something like privacy. But, aware of how much she seemed to dislike the public gaze, he’d decided not to wait, not to prolong pointlessly this unpleasantness and uncertainty. Miss Nightingale clearly knew of his intentions, and he thought – entirely and disastrously wrongly, as it turned out – that she would be more comfortable when matters were decided, and public interest had peaked and inevitably waned. People, even in the haut ton, got married every day, after all. The novelty could hardly persist, and other subjects for gossip would inevitably arise.
After a little while – too soon – he’d gone to see her father, had received his gracious permission to address her, and then had formally proffered his suit to her and been accepted. The announcement had been inserted in the fashionable newspapers, and he received the congratulations of almost every one of his acquaintance; many of these people might even be sincere in their good wishes for his future happiness. It was a highly suitable match, after all, in terms of age, birth, reputation and fortune. Marriage settlements were being drawn up: generous ones, on his part, to give his future wife as much financial independence as was possible. The date was set, just a few weeks away. Why wait? Though it was no concern of his, he presumed that bride clothes were being purchased, and a wedding gown, and all manner of feminine fripperies.
Now it was the evening of their engagement party – another step in the swift, inexorable progress towards their union. And still they’d had no private conversation.
2
It would be inaccurate, for a number of reasons, to describe the evening of the engagement party in Grosvenor Square as the night everything started going wrong. It was merely the night the prospective bridegroom found out, that was all. For one thing, Dominic was very soon to discover that the wheels had come off the carriage of his betrothal long before, and he had been entirely and humiliatingly unaware of it. For another, the celebration, from his pathetically ignorant point of view, started well, though later when he reflected it upon it he was forced to admit that he’d carelessly ignored several obvious warning signs, struck as he’d been by a sudden, unexpected and most welcome sense of attraction towards his intended bride.
It wasn’t anything as grand as a ball. Lord Nightingale hadn’t held a ball, with all the trouble and expense that such an occasion entailed, to celebrate his elder daughter’s come-out, and he had no intention of holding one to mark her engagement. His Lordship had made this quite clear – that the disruption to his comfort and his studies was not to be thought of – when Dominic had called on him to ask permission to address his daughter, but since Dominic had attended more than enough balls already in his life and didn’t care if he never went to another one, least of all one held in his honour, there’d been no unseemly dispute upon the matter, or on any other.
He’d found the old gentleman to be an odd mixture of scholarly vagueness and shrewd self-absorption. He was later to hear the Baron described, by someone who might be supposed to know, as ‘the most infuriatingly selfish man who was ever born, and the most impossible to live with’. But it wasn’t really to be expected that he would show sign of such intractability in the brief, formal interview they shared.
The fourth Baron Nightingale was a curious creature indeed, almost a caricature by Gilray of a classical scholar. When Dominic paid his momentous visit, his host was wearing a dreadful frockcoat, covered in nameless stains, and a horrible old grey wig that made the fastidious Beau feel itchy, and sat surrounded, as in a nest he’d made for himself, by a great disarray of ancient books and scattered manuscript papers. His library was stuffy and faced north, away from direct sunlight, and would have benefited from an open window or two, to let in some air. It was not a room his guest would have cared to spend long in, and he couldn’t help reflecting that if it served as a reflection of its owner’s mind and temperament, as it appeared to, Miss Nightingale might well be only too happy to leave her father’s house behind her forever. He could give her a better life than this, at least.
The old fellow’s satisfaction with the entire situation had been evident. The match was clearly most agreeable to him, but Dominic felt somehow that his future father-in-law’s pleasure had little to do with Miss Maria herself, but was instead rooted, he must assume, in his own undeniable eligibility in terms of social standing and fortune. The older man didn’t know him from Adam, and couldn’t have the least idea whether or not he’d make a good husband. Since he’d never offered for anyone’s hand before, Dominic didn’t know if it might be traditional for the lady’s father to interrogate the suitor as to his character and morals. He’d almost expected such an examination, had been prepared to face it – he was no rake, far from it, and there was nothing in his past of which he need be greatly ashamed – but it did not occur, and he was a little surprised.
If the Baron felt any deep attachment to Miss Nightingale, regret at losing her companionship or concern for her felicity, he showed no sign of it. A sentimentalist, or a loving father, might have spoken of his daughter’s sterling qualities, might have said, ‘I hope, sir, that you will be good to her, and make her happy.’ But there was no sign of any such tender emotion. Perhaps the old fellow was merely reserved, Dominic thought doubtfully. But it felt like more than that. He could not help imagining a list among the piles of papers, and this one item – Arrange Maria’s Marriage – ticked off from it, allowing the Baron’s mind to move on to matters he considered more important. An interesting antiquarian discovery at Pompeii, perhaps, or a disputed line in Chapman’s Homer. He found it hard to picture this dry, old scholar having anything to say to his own late father, although Lady De Lacy claimed they had known and liked each other well enough to plan their children’s marriage. Sir Thomas had been a man of great energy and wide liberal sympathies, who had lived in the present day and concerned himself with living people, not the dusty past. But how well had he really known his father, or his father’s friends, or what they discussed together? In truth, it hardly mattered, since he was committed now, as a matter of honour, and it was too late to withdraw.
The engagement celebration was to be a rout party to signify the union of the two noble families. Lord Nightingale had waved a careless greyish hand and said that the women would take care of all the arrangements and were well aware of his wishes. From his manner, Dominic did not doubt it, and surmised that there’d be no music or dancing, very little or no food, and as little drink as the Baron could get away with. Though he was wealthy, nobody could accuse the man of being a hedonist, or addicted to luxury, or even personal comfort. His home, though it was clean and, apart from his library, tidy, had obviously last been decorated a considerable time ago, and it seemed clear that no extraordinary effort in that regard could be expected for the party. Everybody would stand about the slightly shabby rooms talking and drinking indifferent wine, would congratulate the happy couple, and then presently go away again, either to their beds – or someone’s bed, at any rate – or to some more relaxed, enjoyable event where they’d at least be fed, watered and properly entertained.
Dominic would freely have admitted that he didn’t have much – any – experience of arranging and hosting festivities of this nature. His mother, on such occasions, would complain that it was an enormous amount of work, though as far as he could see Cousin Sarah and the servants undertook most of the labour, and once the evening was over Lady De Lacy would take to her bed, claiming to be prostrate with exhaustion, for days afterwards.
With this in mind, he wasn’t particularly surprised when he arrived in Grosvenor Square escorting his parent on the night of the celebration, to see Mrs Greystone, once again in her puce gown, in a highly agitated state and apparently on the verge of tears; the strain of organising the party, not to mention all the wedding preparations, must be affecting her, he thought, and was sorry for it.
She’d seemed quite distracted enough the last time he’d seen her, a couple of days before. They had encountered each other quite by chance in the curious location, for a lady of quality, of Lombard Street, in the City; he’d been there on financial matters relating to his marriage. The old lady had started nervously at the sight of him and murmured something unnecessarily elaborate about delivering an urgent letter to the post office in order to catch the evening’s mail. This struck Dominic as an odd thing, because her brother was a peer and could surely have franked her correspondence for her and saved her the trouble, but it was most certainly none of his business. She’d then, her manner still flustered, gone on to volunteer the information that Miss Nightingale was a little indisposed at present. His natural concern at the worrying news had only appeared to cause her more distress, even though she’d assured him it was nothing at all – merely a slight summer cold, and dear Maria, the most tractable and sweet-natured of girls, didn’t want the least fuss made.
Mrs Greystone was even more troubled now, answering remarks addressed to her almost at random and occasionally wringing her hands in what appeared to be, but surely could not be, despair, then catching herself up and clutching her ebony fan so tightly that the fragile thing looked likely to break under the pressure. He was glad to see that his mother assessed the situation in one swift glance and took the lady aside, compelling her to sit upon an uncomfortable-looking green brocade sofa and take a restorative glass of wine, which did appear to do her some immediate good.
