The Earl bowed with frigid care and turned for the box’s door.

“Whatever they may say of Richard Portal,” Lady Desdemona threw at his retreating back, “he at least attempted to play the gentleman — in which guise you appear, my lord, as the merest caricature!”

13 December 1804, cont.

“OH, GRANDMAMMA — HOW DISTINCTLY ODIOUS SWITHIN is!” sighed Lady Desdemona despairingly, when the Earl had left us. “That a man may seem the very soul of elegance — possessed of understanding, education, and knowledge of the world — and yet be so utterly abominable.!”

“He is a hateful fellow, indeed,” the Dowager replied with a soothing pat. “He would have us all fear and love him to distraction, for which no one can forgive him.”

“Perhaps,” I said thoughtfully, “if he expected that adoration a little less—”

“I am sure I can have given him no expectation of the kind,” Lady Desdemona said stiffly. “I made every effort to assure him of my indifference.”

“And so appeared as spiteful as a cat,” the Dowager observed. “Your comment about his rogues’ gallery was far too broad, my sweet. I can detect no other ladies in the Swithin box than his sisters, Louisa and Augusta. You are far too attentive to the company he keeps. I might recommend, pauvre Mona, that the best way to turn a man enrage, as I suspect you mean to do, is to ignore him completely.”

“That should not be difficult,” her granddaughter retorted.

“Ah, Wren,” said the Dowager, “there you are at last.”

Miss Wren was revealed as drooping in the doorway, Her Grace’s wrap in her arms; and so the interesting discourse on Desdemona’s heart was allowed to fall away.

The young lady herself sank into her seat, lost in contemplation of the deserted stage; I guessed her thoughts to be wandering along the paths laid out by her helpful grandmamma. But at last, with a look for me, she attempted to elevate her spirits.

“You must be thinking me a terrible shrew, Miss Austen! I behaved just now with the height of incivility. I find that I cannot see Swithin without I abuse him hatefully.”

“I cannot think that Lord Swithin comported himself any more admirably; and he must be held to a higher standard. He is, after all, some ten years your senior — and yet you seem to have reduced him to the querulousness of a schoolboy!”

“I dread meeting him,” Lady Desdemona confessed. “It is excessively awkward to be thrown in the way of a man one has refused! It was to avoid scenes of that kind that I quitted London. And now — Swithin is come to Bath! What can he mean by it?”

“Perhaps he hopes to persuade you of the brilliance of his suit,” I suggested gently.

“Then I shall have to use every means within my power to convince him of my indifference!”

“By encouraging the attentions of other gentlemen, for example?”

She started up hotly, as though to protest, and then subsided in her chair. “I had entertained the notion,” she murmured.

“And chose Richard Portal as your primary object?”

“Mr. Portal does seem to have thoroughly enraged Swithin, does he not? It is too delicious! For the abominable Earl to accuse me of inciting scandal — and with such a man!”

Any answer I might have given was forestalled by Lord Harold’s return to the box, and the sounding of the bell that signalled the recommencement of the play.

WHEN THE CURTAIN HAD AT LENGTH RUNG DOWN ON Lovers’ Vows, and risen again for the gratification of the players’ vanity, and was at last required to close forever the scene of that forsaken German village — the Dowager Duchess thrust herself to her feet with some difficulty, and the assistance of her ebony cane. “Wren!” she cried. “Make haste! Make haste! To the wings, I beg you, with our felicitations for Miss Conyngham! Lord Harold and I shall follow.”

I linked arms with Lady Desdemona, and we proceeded in company towards the stairs.

What a soaring infinity may be hidden by a proscenium curtain! What shifting worlds, in sliding panels of scenery — what hustle and bustle of figures to-ing and fro-ing about the business of the play — and what odours of beeswax, powder, paint, and scent! I stood upon the threshold of the stage’s wings, and felt myself at the border of another world. The most democratic of worlds, too — for any may rise to greatness in treading the humble boards. There is a nobility bestowed by art that mere birth can never imitate, as Mrs. Siddons and her brother have shown. Would Maria Conyngham achieve a similar elevation one day, and be celebrated in word and deed? Or would she end a discarded drab — full of blasted hopes, and riven dreams, and the oblivion drunk from a cup of gin?

“Your Grace,” called a voice from the obscurity of a screen.

Our party turned, and discovered the figure of Hugh Conyngham, arrayed still in his paint and court dress, a formidable Frederick. A slim, lithe figure, with a cap of dark curls arrayed in the fashionable Brutus; a sulky line to his mouth; restless blue eyes the colour of the sea. He bowed stiffly, but offered no other word.[50]

“Our deepest felicitations, Mr. Conyngham,” the Dowager cried, with all the energy of an enthusiast. “It was nobly played, sir — you do our Kotzebue great credit, I am sure.”

“And Mr. Portal as well, I hope,” the actor returned. His eyes were fixed upon Lord Harold; but he seemed disinclined to an introduction. It was as though, I thought, the actor wished to be anywhere but in the presence of the Wilborough clan.

“I am Lord Harold Trowbridge, Mr. Conyngham,” the Gentleman Rogue offered smoothly. “I must join my congratulations with my mother’s. For a company so thoroughly bowed in mourning, you comported yourselves with the utmost distinction. I was particularly struck by Miss Conyngham’s performance. She was as unmarked by grief as the Comic Muse.”

“Then I may thank the excellence of my art, my lord.” Maria Conyngham abandoned a small knot of fellow players at the nether end of the stage, and drew close to her brother. Her colour was high and her countenance stormy. “I should think you guilty of the grossest presumption, sir, had I not already learned to expect it of the Trowbridge family. For any of you to show your faces here must excite comment — and we have drawn the public eye far too much already!”

“Maria—”

She stayed Hugh Conyngham’s words with a look. “My brother is too noble to reproach you, my lord. But I cannot claim so admirable a restraint. Your family has reduced us to our present misery — has nearly accomplished our ruin — and yet you would burden us with your attentions! This is hardly kind, sir; and it cannot be met with civility. I would beg you to quit the theatre as soon as may be. Any notice from the murderers of Richard Portal must be an insult to his memory.”

Her brown eyes blazed with indignation, and perhaps a film of tears; but the wonderful carriage of her head — courageous, unbowed, determined — must quell the most impertinent.

Lord Harold parted his lips as if to speak, a curious expression on his countenance — but at that moment, Maria Conyngham started forward, the Trowbridges forgotten.

“My lord!” she cried, and dropped an elegant curtsey. “You honour us, indeed.”

The Earl of Swithin brushed past our party, his eyes fixed on the actress, a bouquet of hot-house flowers in his arms. “My dear Miss Conyngham,” he said with a smile, “I cannot remember when I have been made so thoroughly happy by any theatrical performance. Your servant, ma’am.”

And while the Dowager Duchess looked on, aghast at the myriad discourtesies visited this evening upon the house of Wilborough, her favourite ingénue received the blossoms with a cry of pleasure, and the most ardent look. Mr. Conyngham, however, was less happy in the Earl’s attentions; for he paled, stepped back a pace, and swallowed convulsively.