Besides, my uncle had stood me the price of the ticket.
“Well, Jane, you are very fine,” my brother Henry said, as he surveyed my sapphire muslin. “The black gloves and shawl look very well, indeed, with that delicate colour. It quite becomes you. I am sure Lord Harold will approve.”
“You must have your portrait taken in exactly that shade, my dear — it brings out the grey of your eyes exceedingly,” Eliza observed.
“Is she to have her portrait done, then?”
“Or perhaps her eye alone. I forget which. Jane has been to consult with Cosway.”
Henry frowned. “But isn’t he rather dear?”
“Your eyes, Jane?” my uncle enquired, catching the latter part of Eliza’s meaning. “Are they troubling you again? It is the effect of too much writing in very poor light — you must have a lamp entirely to yourself, if you will persist in scribbling of an evening. I have often remarked as much to Mrs. Perrot, and she does intend to make you a present of a lamp on some occasion or other — Christmas, perhaps — but there it is. You know that her health is indifferent at present, and she cannot be running about in search of the cheapest shops.”
I was capable of only partial attendance to his words, for my thoughts would wander, and my eyes search fruitlessly for the Wilborough party. But I managed a smile, and said, “Should not we go in? There is a considerable crush, and I should not like to be left at the rear!”
My uncle was all affability; the Henry Austens permitted themselves to be wooed from the warmth of the flames; and so to the cream-coloured Tea Room ablaze with an hundred candles we proceeded, in company with most of Bath.
The musicians appeared, and sought their places before the Tea Room hearth, Rauzzini himself progressed to his position at the fore, and Mrs. Billington condescended to grace the company with her smiles and her elegant bronze satin. All discussion of such things as portraits and eyes was at an end; and I breathed a private sigh of relief. For though I may profess no very ardent love of concerts, I must declare them an admirable sedative for an agitated heart. Not even the most satiric eye should detect anything like apprehension in the countenance of Miss Austen, once beguiled by an Italian air.
• • •
“MISS AUSTEN!” LADY DESDEMONA CRIED, WHEN THE CONCERT had done, and we had fled the heat of the room for the relative comfort of the hall. Lord Harold’s niece stood before one of the marble columns that flanked the Little Octagon, like a single rose displayed to advantage, and her face was alive with pleasure. “I am happy to see you! I did not know you intended the concert. Uncle will be pleased. He is only now gone off with Easton in search of claret — although how the poor Colonel shall manage it with his wounded right arm as yet in a sling, I cannot think. But that is Easton all over — he is gallant to a fault.” She sighed; from vexation, I should judge, rather than pity.
I searched the length of the hallway’s parquet floor, intent upon Lord Harold’s silver head, but no glimpse of him did I seize. “I did not know that your uncle was fond of music, Lady Desdemona.”
“He is a proficient himself upon the pianoforte — so proficient, in fact, that I have never attempted to master the instrument, for fear of comparison with my betters. But come! I have such news!” She drew me close with a secretive air. “You will never guess whom Uncle has brought to the concert!”
“Indeed, I cannot,” I replied with false innocence.
“The redoubtable Conynghams! Uncle has certainly effected a change in their sentiment towards the Trowbridge family; though perhaps in this we should credit the tokens he wears about his person.”
“Tokens?”
Lady Desdemona smiled. “I thought Miss Conyngham should all but faint when Uncle took off his greatcoat; and indeed, she is remarkable even now for her pallor. See — they are over there, by the bust of Caesar.”
I gazed in the appointed direction and observed a creature so unlike the Medusa of memory, that I was quite struck. Miss Conyngham was arrayed tonight in virginal white, with a wreath of flowers in her dark hair. The slightest hint of grief about her eyes lent interest to a countenance already formed for beauty, and her pallor was exceptional. She stood near her brother in the closest conversation, oblivious to the crowd surging about her; and the classical effect of a velvet drapery behind — so suggestive of the dramatic muse — was unconsciously lovely.
I looked once more about the room, and found, inevitably, Lord Harold himself. He stood idly at some little remove from the crowd, two glasses of claret suspended in his hands — and he was engrossed in the study of the Conynghams. On the lapel of his coat was the golden tiger; and around his neck, the pendant bearing Maria Siddons’s eye.
You have lived long enough in the world, my dear, to know that appearances are everything.
As I watched, the Gentleman Rogue forced a passage through the crowd to the actors’ side. They accepted the claret with tolerable composure, and the slightest appearance of effort; but Hugh Conyngham’s gaze was feverishly intent, and his sister’s fingers shook. I observed her eyes to stray towards his lordship’s coat, and judged that she found Lord Harold’s society taxing, and a strain upon her nerves.
“Ah, Jane.” My uncle’s voice recalled me to my situation. “We wondered where you had got to. Would you care for an ice, or perhaps some little cakes?”
“No, Uncle, I thank you. Lady Desdemona, may I have the honour of introducing Mr. Leigh-Perrot to your acquaintance? Mr. Perrot is my uncle.”
Lady Desdemona murmured a politeness and curtseyed; but her eyes were on me, and their expression was anxious. “I fear you are unwell, Miss Austen.”
“A head-ache, nothing more. It is so excessively hot in the Rooms!” I forced myself to smile, but my eyes would return to Lord Harold. My anxiety was intense; for had he moved anywhere but in so public a throng, his life would already be at an end. It required now only the appearance of the Earl, for the mixture to prove volatile.
“Would you wish to depart, Jane?” my uncle enquired. “I will forgo the punch, and summon the chaise this instant, for we cannot have you decline the charades, on account of a head-ache!”
“You may rest easy on that score, sir. I should never disappoint you.”
“Charades?” enquired Lady Desdemona, her eyes alight with fun. “How cunning! I should dearly love to play — and Easton, I am sure, would be very droll!”
“Then you must certainly make another of the party, my lady,” my uncle said affably, “for one cannot have too many at a game of that sort, you know. We are to return to Paragon Buildings, where Mrs. Leigh-Perrot is presently entertaining friends, and I am sure she should be most happy to see you.”
I little doubted the Trowbridges’ reception; for though my aunt may be mean in her habits, and crushing to her acquaintance, she is beyond everything a most frightful snob. The capture in Paragon Buildings of the Wilborough set — however disreputable Aunt Perrot might profess to find it — would be the season’s triumph.
Lady Desdemona accepted his invitation with thanks, and then craned on tip-toe to peer amidst the crowd. “And there is Easton at last!” she exclaimed. “I thought I should die of thirst before the interval was out. And look — he has brought a waiter with claret enough for all of us! Do you take a glass, Miss Austen — for I am sure it should do your head a world of good.”
I bade the excellent Colonel hello, and made yet another introduction of my uncle — who immediately solicited the gentleman for charades, and his opinion regarding Buonaparte’s intentions towards the Channel coast.
“Uncle!” Lady Desdemona cried, with a wave of her fan. “You shall never guess what fun! We are all to play at charades this evening, in the company of Miss Austen!”