“The train is merely a scientific experiment…” Clegg had said with a huff of disgust. “Merely an iron horse which could never replace the flesh and blood animal as a means of transport. It will never be accepted in England.”
Frustrated, Grant decided to make inquiries at Whitehall. The war office might not know who now possessed a Baker, but they could tell him who’d been a sniper during the war.
* * *
At dusk, Vauxhall Gardens resembled something from the magical pages of the Arabian Nights. Thousands of colored gas lamps came alive, threaded through the sycamores and elms. Music and laughter drifted on the breeze.
Earlier, their carriage had crossed the Westminster Bridge over the River Thames and, after paying the entrance fee at the gate, Mercy walked with Arabella along the wide avenue, Lady Jane and her mother strolling behind them, deep in conversation. Mama had formed a warm friendship with Arabella’s aunt. They’d expressed a desire to view the fireworks and illuminations to celebrate the Waterloo anniversary. It was suggested that the great duke himself might attend. Lord Northcliffe, who had gone to procure a box for supper at the pavilion, had invited them tonight to accompany his sister. He was to be their only escort until Mercy’s father arrived, who had been delayed with a Parliamentary special session.
“I feel so free here,” Arabella said. “It’s not like a ball where everything you do and say is judged.”
Mercy agreed, while she eyed people from all walks of life, who milled together, ladies in scandalously low-cut gowns their faces painted, shoulder to shoulder with the well-dressedbeau monde, plus acrobats, jugglers and singers. Musicians tucked in amongst the trees, entertained them as they walked.
“Look at those two gentlemen over there,” Arabella said behind her gloved fingers. “They are talking about us.”
Mercy glanced over. The two bucks walking down the opposite side of the wide avenue grinned at her.
“The dark-haired one is very handsome.” Arabella fluttered her handkerchief and giggled. “Do you know that you can send signals to a beau with your handkerchief?”
“No.” Mercy disliked such subterfuge but couldn’t help being a little intrigued. She welcomed the distraction. The thought of spending the whole evening in Lord Northcliffe’s company was unsettling.
“If I draw my handkerchief across my lips like this…” Arabella demonstrated. “It means I desire to have their acquaintance.”
“I’ve never had cause to use it.”
The men kept step with them a few yards apart.
“And to say yes, you hold it thus,” Arabella held the scrap of linen and lace to her right cheek. “And the converse is true for the left, if it is no,” she added.
Mercy searched the shadowy walks for a sign of Northcliffe. While her friend’s voice droned on she reviewed her last conversation with Arabella’s brother. Had he really meant to be so dismissive of women? If he expressed such views again, she would not hesitate to rebuke him. In these modern times a man should be more enlightened.
Arabella drew her handkerchief across her forehead. “And this means we are watched.”
“Are many gentlemen aware of such tricks?” Mercy couldn’t imagine any of her sisters’ husbands ever employing them.
“I don’t know. Let’s put it to the test,” Arabella said. “Here comes my brother.”
Mercy’s heart began to thud as the graceful dark-haired man strolled toward them.
Northcliffe smiled. “Are you enjoying the gardens?”
“I am. But it’s very crowded,” Mercy said. “Half of London must be here to see Wellington.”
“Indeed. Luckily, I have secured a box where we can partake of an excellent supper. Are you enjoying Vauxhall, Arabella?”
Arabella held her handkerchief against her right cheek.
Northcliffe frowned. “Do you have the toothache?”
“No.” Arabella laughed. “Let’s hurry, we don’t want to miss the French juggler’s evolutions on the tightrope with fireworks exploding from his hat.”
Northcliffe turned to offer his arm to the two older ladies who walked behind them. “Lady Baxendale, Aunt Jane, may I escort you to the pavilion?”
As the small party continued along the avenue with the swell of music from the orchestra drifting on the breeze, Mercy admired the set of his shoulders and the way his dark hair curled at his nape. Such a pity he wasn’t suitable husband material, she thought with a sigh. So very handsome. But a rake who was dismissive of her work did not fit with her idea of a perfect husband with whom to share her life.
“Here we are,” Lord Northcliffe said, when they reached the Grove, a piazza with four sides enclosed by roofed colonnades supported by Roman columns. People strolled, conversed, listened to music, and partook of supper in the boxes. In the center of the large space, couples danced to the strains of music which floated out from the orchestra placed beneath a vast shell. “I’ll go and fetch a waiter.”
They settled in their box. Mama smiled. “Baxendale brought me here the year we married.” She looked around and settled her shawl over her shoulders. “But it is not quite as nice as it was.”
