The Scandal of the Season (2 page)

The day was cold, but they were well wrapped up in fur collars and muffs and shielded from the wind by the high yew hedges that grew up around the edges of the lawns. Alexander and Teresa walked on ahead. When they had been outside for a few minutes, Alexander smiled and said, “Were I a handsome fellow, Teresa, I believe that I could do you a vast deal of good.”

Teresa laughed, and Martha knew that she was in high spirits once again.

“Were you a handsome fellow,” Teresa answered with a taunting smile, “I should devour you as I do my other admirers. You owe your preservation to that very oddity of person which you so lament. But as it is, you are safe, and I must look elsewhere for somebody to feed upon.”

Martha wondered whether Alexander meant his reply to sound as serious as it did.

“Take care, madam,” he said to Teresa. “The handsome fellow who adores you for a few months will neglect you for many years together. The fawning servant turns the haughty lord.”

Teresa was silent a moment, contemplating, Martha suspected, the pleasures of being married to a lord, be he ever so haughty. But she replied instead, “I am rather glad, Alexander, that you will have to write to us while we are in town. You do have a way of expressing yourself that can be exceedingly diverting.”

Before he replied, Alexander turned toward Martha with a wry smile of apology for the excesses of his gallantry.

“In truth, Teresa,” he said at last, “when I consider how often and openly I have declared love to you, I am a little affronted that you have not forbidden my correspondence altogether.”

Everybody smiled at this observation, reflecting that it contained a good deal of truth.

 

When they came in from the garden, they found that Sir Anthony had returned from seeing his tenants. He greeted Alexander and led him into the library, leaving the girls together for the half hour that remained before dinner.

“You were rather more severe upon Alexander than usual today, Teresa,” Martha said as soon as they were alone.

“But I am always severe upon him,” she replied. “He expects it, and would think it strange if I were otherwise.” She looked away as she said this, pretending to adjust the sleeve on her gown so that she need not meet her sister's eyes.

“I always anticipate that Alexander will be rather afraid of you—yet your severity seems to make him more fond,” Martha added.

“Most gentlemen are fond of the ladies whom they fear,” Teresa replied evasively. “It is a paradox of the sex. In rebuffing him as I do, I am preparing for the gentlemen I shall meet in London.”

Martha caught a note of uncertainty in her voice, and took her sister's hand. “Are you concerned for our arrival in the city?” she asked. “I thought that you were eager for it.”

Teresa stepped forward quickly to open the door into the drawing room, saying with a little laugh, “Well, I am eager and afraid of it at once—just as Alexander is of me.”

The sun had gone from the room now, but the candles had not yet been lighted. Outside, the grounds were already in shadow, though it was only two o'clock. They sat down on the sofa where Martha had left her sewing, and Teresa leaned across to move it. Martha used the chance to take her sister's hand again, and this time she did not pull away. Martha hoped that she might get Teresa to talk more about Alexander.

But before she could frame a question, Teresa began to speak in a low, fretful tone. “Suppose that people should think me rusticated?” she asked. “I will be going about with Arabella's friends, who might find my appearance dowdy. Here everyone thinks that I am pretty—but I should be ashamed of seeming plain in town.”

Martha looked at her sister's face, vulnerable in the melancholy half-light. So this was what preoccupied her! Not Alexander at all, but their cousin, Arabella Fermor.

“But people will find you more charming if you are natural,” Martha replied.

“Not the people of whom I am speaking,” Teresa insisted, her voice rising sharply. “When gentlemen go to town they wish to avoid nature, not to be charmed by it. Simplicity is regarded with the deepest suspicion, and sincerity with a kind of abhorrence.”

Martha laughed at this formulation. No wonder Alexander liked her sister's quick wit; it was a side of her character that Martha did not often see.

“Oh, Teresa, you will have plenty of admirers,” she replied. “Quite as many as Arabella, I am sure.” Martha was surprised by Teresa's intimation that she and Arabella had been exchanging letters. When she had seen them together in the past, affection had not figured visibly in their interactions. They had seemed rather to be locked in an unspoken contest as to which of them possessed the greater share of wit and beauty—and if Arabella was now offering to take Teresa around town, she must be very sure of a victory on both counts. But they were interrupted by a maidservant coming in to light the candles. The crackling of the fire, which had seemed so desolate a few minutes before, began to sound cheerful again.

“So Bell has been writing to you?” Martha asked when the servant was gone.

“Not lately,” Teresa replied after a short pause. “But I told her that we were coming, so I expect we shall spend a great deal of time together.” Martha was silent, knowing how much Teresa longed for a fashionable companion. It would be cruel to dampen her sister's hopes by expressing her skepticism of the friendship with Arabella.

Teresa, too, fell silent, deep in thought. When Alexander had come into her room that morning, she had felt a thrill, but she had recoiled, not wanting to show how pleased she was to see him. She wanted to think of Alexander merely as a friend from her past; to show him that things were different now. She was determined to make a splendid match in London. But how funny Alexander had seemed when they were younger! His jokes, his letters, his amusing gallantries—all so delightful to her. If only he were more successful, she reflected. He was a Catholic and a gentleman, and her grandfather, at least, believed that his talents as a poet were considerable. His suit might one day be worth a good deal. But she shrank from the thought. Such an odd man, subject to headache and ill-humor; writing his poems and talking about Virgil, with no fortune to speak of. So why did she feel such a lurch in her heart when she saw him?

 

The girls' thoughts were interrupted by being called to dinner. As soon as they were seated, Sir Anthony proposed a toast to his young guest.

“My congratulations on the printing of your verses, Alexander,” he said. “And to have been published by the great Jacob Tonson, too: the best in London.”

Alexander bowed and thanked him. “Another of my poems is to be printed very soon,” he said, “by an old schoolfriend of mine who has gone into the trade. I have called it
Essay on Criticism
.”

Sir Anthony paused, and looked at him. “Not by Tonson, then,” he said.

“The poem is somewhat out of the ordinary,” Alexander said hastily. “I feared that Tonson may not care for it.”

His host frowned. “I wonder whether you have given careful thought to pursuing poetry as a profession,” he said. “Most poets are poor, dreary fellows who hang about at the court in hope of a pension. I should not like to see you join them.”

Alexander suspected that Sir Anthony had deliberately saved his remarks until Teresa was present, and he felt a blush of self-consciousness. She looked at him with a mocking smile. With an effort, he exerted himself to sound unconcerned.

“The main trouble with poets,” he said, “is that so few of them ever write a poem worth reading. Men of perfectly sound mind in their letters, who express themselves in eloquent, red-blooded prose, become mincing fools when they turn to verse. Their poems either descant in purple epithets upon the joys of spring, or salivate over a glimpse of some lady's bosom in a tightly laced dress. Verse makes a eunuch or a whoremaster of them all.”

“Are you talking about Thomas D'Urfey's success with his poem ‘Paid for Peeping'?” Teresa asked lightly. “It was very shocking. But I haven't the slightest doubt that for all your railing against it, Alexander, your own copy is well worn along the edges.”

Alexander brightened at Teresa's teasing.

“I would as soon read that man's verses as I would write like him,” he answered. “D'Urfey's poems come out of him like a succession of noisy farts,” Alexander continued. “They are diverting, but exceedingly nasty.”

Everybody laughed at this, and Alexander looked at Teresa with a self-deprecating air, pleased with the success of his joke. With renewed confidence, he went on, “In any case, Jacob Tonson doesn't need me as a client. He has made thousands since he bought the copyright to
Paradise Lost
.”

“I'm bound to say that I've never got through that book myself,” said Sir Anthony. “I know one shouldn't admit it,” he added.

To Martha's delight, Alexander shot her a glance of companionship. They had often talked about
Paradise Lost
together—it was the poem that both of them most admired.

“I heartily assent to your estimation of Grub Street, sir,” Alexander was saying to Sir Anthony, “but Tonson and his ilk are my own best hope for making a fortune.”

“But surely you will inherit your parents' house at Binfield,” he answered.

“Yes, of course,” said Alexander quickly. His father had entailed the house on two Protestant cousins who would inherit it on Alexander's behalf. This must be what Sir Anthony was wanting to hear; he would know that he could inherit nothing directly.

At this moment Teresa stood up to leave. Martha therefore did the same, but she looked back regretfully as she quit the room; she had been a good deal interested in the men's conversation.

 

With a sigh of his own that the girls were gone, Alexander turned to Sir Anthony and said, “Your granddaughters' situations are little different from my own, after all. We are engaged in most risky speculations! The Miss Blounts wager that their beauty and good nature will find them rich husbands—and I am gambling my talents as a poet on an open market. No wonder we all long for London, where stockjobbing is the rage.”

Englefield seemed to deliberate before answering.

“I will bring you into my confidence, Alexander,” he said. “The girls will soon find themselves in an awkward position. When their brother, Michael, inherited Mapledurham last year, it was encumbered by far greater debt than we had imagined. When Michael marries, I fear that he will no longer be able to support the girls and their mother. I have not told them, of course. They must not feel that they are being sent to London to be sold off.”

At another moment Alexander might have observed that nothing would give more pleasure to the eldest Miss Blount than knowing that she was to be sold to a rich husband. But he checked himself, considering more carefully the implications of this news. Sir Anthony must know that the girls' prospects would be doomed.

“Surely Blount will not leave the girls without dowries and their mother without a proper living,” he said.

“The expense of maintaining Mapledurham is great,” Sir Anthony replied. “Mapledurham will require almost all of Michael's income.”

Alexander felt anger rising within him. “But it is never beyond a man's power to do what is right,” he insisted.

“In this case it may be,” said Sir Anthony. “A Catholic who is forced to give up his land these days is in a pretty desperate predicament. No, the estate must be held at all costs.”

“But the Miss Blounts have been brought up with expensive habits and extravagant expectations,” Alexander protested. “They were educated in Paris; they have lived in the best society. They go to London confident of their success with the first men in the country. It is not fair to allow them into the world under such a misapprehension. Every sacrifice must be made—”

“That is precisely why I am hoping that they marry soon, Alexander. It is a wretched thing to say, and there is hardly another person with whom I would share this confidence. But I pray they will become attached to persons of fortune before their full circumstances are known. I speak to you as a man of the world.”

Alexander's reply to Sir Anthony was cool. “As a man of the world, sir,” he answered, “I know that there is not a baron alive who will marry a girl without a dowry, be he more in love with her than Romeo.”

 

When Alexander bid them adieu at the end of the day, Martha turned to him with a hopeful look. “Perhaps you will come to town to see us, Alexander,” she said.

Alexander felt a wave of sympathy and affection, but he replied with an attempt at reserve, aware of Teresa's scrutiny. “I hardly think that it will be possible,” he said. “My obligations in the country—”

“What nonsense, Alexander,” Teresa cut in. “One has no obligation to the country but to quit it as quickly as possible. You have told us that your friend John Caryll is always inviting you to ride in his coach. 'Tis but thirty miles.”

Alexander wished that he was not so pleased by this careless encouragement, but he could not help himself. He bowed, hoping for more.