Page 8 of A Gentleman’s Offer

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Meg was fortunate to have maintained such a regular correspondence with Maria, even though – in an act of quite characteristic pettiness – Lord Nightingale had refused to frank his older daughter’s letters, and so the sending back and forth of missives had come at a considerable and equal cost to the two sisters. But they had both been determined to keep up their relationship despite their long, involuntary separation, and Lady Nightingale, for her part, had always encouraged them to do so. It had been an important aspect of Meg’s life for the past five years, and now she was all the gladder of it, because it had made her familiar with the minutest detail of the household in Grosvenor Square.

When it had become clear that she would have to take Maria’s place, at least temporarily, she’d had the reassurance of knowing that her sister saw little of their father from day to day. He had not even noticed Maria’s four-day absence before Meg’s own arrival, accepting without question or any show of concern Mrs Greystone’s claim that Miss Nightingale was suffering a slight indisposition (such a vague and useful phrase) and keeping to her bed.

In fact, though her heart had begun to beat uncomfortably fast at the prospect of seeing him for the first time after five years, she had barely set eyes on her parent in the days she’d been here, though she was always aware of his lurking presence in his library. She’d shared the breakfast table with him, to her concealed dismay, but, remembering with unpleasant vividness his dislike of matutinal company and how bitingly he had expressed his disinclination for being obliged to endure trivial feminine conversation at such an hour, she had merely poured him his coffee in submissive silence. Poor Meg, she’d thought – five years of this silent tyranny, five years of living as it were in a tinderbox, endeavouring to avoid provoking by some innocent remark an outbreak of extreme paternal ill temper. No wonder she’d so enjoyed her time at school. It must have been a paradise compared with this.

She detected in herself a growing tendency to open doors cautiously and make sure Lord Nightingale wasn’t passing like a disagreeable ghost through the hall or up the stairs before she ventured out; despite this, she had a strange little encounter with him the day after the engagement party, when on catching sight of her on the landing he said abruptly, as though already in mid-conversation, ‘That’s settled! Good, good! Excellent!’ He was exhibiting the closest to ordinary good humour she’d ever observed in him, and, presuming him to be referring to Maria’s marriage, she murmured some wordless form of assent that appeared to satisfy him, all the more because it relieved him of the necessity of replying. And then they parted, she shaking her head once he could no longer see her. The more she saw of him, the odder she knew him to be – but then, he had always been so.

His Lordship rarely dined with the ladies of his household, to precisely nobody’s regret, but generally ate alone in his study or with fellow scholars at his club. As Mrs Greystone was still confined to her own room by nervous prostration, Meg took her evening meal in Maria’s chamber upon a tray, with Hannah, on the evening of the Esterhazy ball. She was reassured to hear that Sir Dominic had promised to begin enquiries into the servants upon the list.

‘He seemed like a sensible man,’ Mrs Treadwell told her, ‘and asked me all manner of reasonable questions, including what he didn’t quite like to ask you, Miss Meg – whether your sister might have eloped with someone.’

‘To Gretna Green?’ responded Meg, eating her summer pudding with a thoughtful air. ‘I suppose it must naturally occur to him as a possibility. But I do think it most unlikely. Surely you’d have noticed if anything of that kind were afoot, Hannah, even assuming that she didn’t for some reason want to tell you, or me, or anyone.’

‘That’s what I said to Sir Dominic. And who would she be running away with? I asked him. Some young gentleman she’s barely acquainted with? I do doubt it.’

‘She hasn’t mentioned any man at all in her letters, apart from Sir Dominic, and him very briefly. If she’d met someone else and he’d begun wooing her, surely she’d have said something about him in her letters at first, in all innocence, before the affair took on a clandestine nature? And if she were truly in love with someone else and being forced to marry by my father, I can’t imagine any reason why she wouldn’t share it with me. She’s hardly likely to think that I – or Mama, for that matter – would take my father’s part and not support her.’

‘Sir Dominic said the same himself, and I agree. There’s something else beyond a simple love affair going on here, Miss Meg, you mark my words. I felt proper sorry for the gentleman, I have to say. He’s taking the whole thing a great deal better than you might expect. It can’t be very pleasant for him to find himself in this situation, can it?’

‘No, it can’t. And if the whole thing blows up into a frightful scandal-broth, he’ll be as deep in it as the rest of us, when as far as I can see it really isn’t his fault. You don’t think he did anything to drive Maria away, do you, Hannah? I confess I did at first, but I don’t now.’

‘Beyond asking for her hand? That I surely don’t. I liked him. He was nothing but polite and pleasant to me, asking my opinion and listening to what I had to say as though I’d been your aunt or any other lady. And there’s no denying he’s very handsome and well set up, for what that’s worth. A great catch, that’s what he is. And considering how much she dislikes living with your father, and no blame to her, your sister must have a powerful reason not to want to have him and make her escape that way.’

‘Yes,’ said Meg, pushing aside her bowl and setting down her spoon with a decisive clink. ‘Yes, she must. If we only had the least idea what it could be!’

* * *

There was an undeniable awkwardness in the evening ahead – not least in the short carriage ride from her father’s house to the ball close by. Meg was cloaked, ready and loitering about in the hallway, pretending to be absorbed in studying the large brown capriccio paintings of classical scenes that hung there, when Sir Dominic called for her. His mother remained in the waiting vehicle, but there was no time for private speech, not with the butler and the footmen standing by, able to overhear every word that passed between them. He bowed low over her gloved hand, and she took his arm and accompanied him down the steps. ‘Nothing,’ he said as they crossed the pavement, in response to a question she clearly did not need to ask. ‘One of my men has returned from the first stage on the road north with no news to report, and set off out again, and the other is still absent. They are both now attempting to make contact, in a subtle manner, with members of the households in question. At present, I have no information for you, and I assume you are in the same case. And here is my mother, waiting eagerly to see you.’

He handed her up the steps and took his place opposite her, while she made herself as comfortable as she might be at Lady De Lacy’s side and greeted her politely.

Meg was glad the journey was such a short one. There was no denying that she was of a venturesome disposition, unlike her more serious sister, and she’d already admitted to herself that in other, less anxious circumstances she might have enjoyed the imposture she’d been forced into. She led a very quiet life at home, with a restricted circle of acquaintance, and this could be a rare adventure, if she might only know that Maria was safe and well. But nobody, she thought, could really relish this aspect of it – deceiving a lady who was so nearly concerned in the matter of her sister’s engagement, and so likely to be distressed and embarrassed, not to mention angry, if any part of the truth ever came out. And at this moment it was hard to imagine how it could fail to do so, unless they found Maria very soon and discovered that, no matter the reason for her flight, she was willing now to continue with her engagement and her impending marriage. Which seemed, on the face of it, increasingly unlikely as the days passed.

Lady De Lacy was a handsome, gaunt woman in her fifties. She was tall, like her son, but darker, and her hair was a rich brown streaked with silver, abundant and beautifully arranged. She was very fashionably dressed in damson silk with a fine black lace overdress, and she took Meg’s hand now and pressed it warmly. ‘My dear Miss Nightingale,’ she said affectionately, adding further to Meg’s discomfort, ‘I am so happy you asked us to accompany you this evening. It hardly needs to be said that we were delighted to do so, were we not, Dominic?’

‘Of course we were, Mama.’ Sir Dominic’s face was in shadow, but Meg thought she could detect a mixture of rueful amusement and discomfort in his deep voice; she was, she realised, beginning to know him, and to perceive the emotions that his languid demeanour generally cloaked. He couldn’t be liking any of this any more than she was, and he’d not had quite as long to get used to the idea.

‘I’m most grateful for your kindness, ma’am, and so is my aunt. She keeps to her room, but she asked me to thank you, and to apologise for her absence. She is not strong, and the strain of organising last night’s party overset her already fragile constitution. I hope that she will be better presently, but just now she cannot think of going into society and tiring herself further.’

‘Please tell her tomorrow that I quite understand,’ Lady De Lacy replied graciously. ‘I am quite happy to chaperone you whenever you may need my aid, and I do feel deeply for your poor aunt, for there is no denying that, despite my deceptively robust appearance, my own health is not all it should be…’

Meg murmured in sympathy, and was able afterwards to sit back and make the most mechanical of responses to the older lady’s flood of words until the carriage drew up at its destination, and Sir Dominic descended with languid grace to assist the ladies in exiting the vehicle. With one on each arm, he led them up the steps and into the grand mansion, to merge into a huge crush of people.

This was, in fact, Meg’s first ever ball, though she had no intention of revealing this embarrassing fact to anyone. It was the sort of life experience a writer should have, she considered, and must be helpful to her, especially since she could expect to see little of such exalted society again. She could not help but look about her with interest, observing the lights, the flowers, and the magnificently dressed guests. She must thank heaven for Hannah, who had known exactly what she should wear: a beautiful gown of gold silk with an overdress of gauze in the exact same shade, scattered with brilliants that would catch the candlelight. At her throat she wore a simple string of pearls, which must once have belonged, she supposed, to one of the women, now deceased, for whom she and her sister were named.

Meg’s mama had disliked London society for all the years that she was obliged to be a part of it, and now that she had quit it she steadfastly proclaimed herself profoundly indifferent to such things as fashion, and the vain display of wealth and status through jewels and fine fabrics. Lady Nightingale, it need scarcely be said, held views of an advanced nature, both politically and on the position of women. She didn’t give a fig what she wore as long as she was warm and dry, and had never encouraged Meg to concern herself with the details of dress, or such trivial matters as whether one gown or another became her more. Many of Meg’s shapeless day-to-day garments had been knitted or sewn by her mother or herself, as anyone looking at them could have guessed instantly, and they were both undeniably much better writers than knitters or needlewomen. Meg had absorbed Lady Nightingale’s philosophy, naturally, and agreed with it to a large extent, but that didn’t mean, she now discovered, that she was completely indifferent to such a grand occasion, or to the notion that she was looking rather well in all her finery. To be aware of such a sensation and to find it agreeable was shallow, she knew, and all the more reprehensible because anxiety over her sister’s plight should entirely suppress such trivial feelings, but apparently it didn’t. Her emotions were in turmoil; at one moment she felt cheerful and optimistic about their chances of discovering that Maria was perfectly safe and well, and at the next she was overcome with panic and fear.

She shed her gauzy evening cloak in the chamber designated for that purpose, and set her hand rather firmly on the arm of Sir Dominic’s dark coat again, unused to being among so many people – more, she realised, than on any other occasion in her life. Lady De Lacy was still nearby, but drawing further away with each step, as she paused to greet friends and acquaintances, of which she appeared to have very many. Meg was conscious of eyes upon her, but more aware of her companion’s intent regard. ‘Do you go out into company a great deal at home – and where is home?’ he asked her now in low tones. ‘I don’t recall that you have ever said.’

She realised that he was aware of her disordered nerves, and moreover that he was questioning her to distract her from them. ‘Mama and I are fixed near Bath, in a snug village house she inherited from her parents. Luckily our home was placed in trust for her as part of her marriage settlement and falls outside my father’s control,’ she told him. ‘And no, we don’t. We go into the town sometimes for the bookshops and so on, and even the occasional concert, but we don’t mix in polite society outside our village, or attend the public assemblies, or anything of that nature. Mama does not care for such things, and I have too little experience of them yet to know whether I do or not.’

‘And so, since you have not, as we previously discussed, made your come-out in London either, am I to assume that this is your first ball?’

So much for keeping that somehow shameful fact to herself. ‘Yes,’ she admitted rather defensively.

He was smiling ruefully. ‘Forgive me, but I should then ask you – can you dance?’