However teazing the gentleman’s looks — however lighthearted his air — I judged him to speak in the greatest earnestness. Lady Elizabeth might consider Andrew Danforth the least eligible match in Derbyshire; but that gentleman was not about to let slip his chance at a Duke’s daughter.
“And you will have your career in Parliament to prepare for,” I observed. “There must be all the formality of the hustings, to be sure; but with His Grace’s influence, much might be done in a very little time. Of course you must go to London, Mr. Danforth! There is not a moment to be lost, if you would take your borough at the next offering!”
“Do you mean to stand, then?” Leveson-Gower’s gaze was arrested. He stared first at Andrew, and then at the silent, absorbed face of his brother, Charles, who had contributed nothing to the conversation. At the question, however, Charles Danforth stirred.
“You might better enquire, Granville, how he intends to fund his bid! My brother’s taste in horseflesh and wine — not to mention the cost of his tailor and his hounds! — runs to considerable expense. A commission in the Life Guards might better suit his style; but we may regard public office as a luxury he may ill-afford.”
The words were as biting as a schoolmaster’s to an errant headboy; and Andrew Danforth flushed. It was the first evidence of discomposure I had ever witnessed in that smooth and plausible gentleman — but an instant only was suffered to pass, before he summoned his answer.
“Were we all as close with the purse-strings as Charles, my dear Leveson-Gower, the kingdom would falter for lack of commerce! Besides — he must know quite well that sitting Members cannot be seized for debt! Who would account the cost of attaining office, when it affords such liberal terms?”
Everyone laughed at this sally; and Andrew Danforth was acquitted of folly. His brother, however, had emerged the worse from the exchange — for where Andrew retained his charm in the face of insult, Charles could appear only grasping and mean. I wondered how often the ill-disposed talents of both served the elder to disadvantage.
“You shall be following in your dear mother’s path, Lady Harriot, do you intend to take up the cause of politics,” observed Granville Leveson-Gower quietly, “for there was never a greater hostess, nor a better judge of a man’s character, than the late Duchess. Pray inform me when you set up your salon—for I shall be constantly in attendance.”
Lady Harriot smiled — she cast a wistful, searching gaze at the handsome Leveson-Gower — and so their conversation ended. I do not think they exchanged more than ten words for the remainder of that dinner; but Lady Harriot was able to lift up her eyes, and throw off her contempt for her mother’s rival, and enjoy the attentions of all at the party who wished her well. For this, if nothing else, I regarded Granville Leveson-Gower with gratitude — whatever his reprehensible attentions to another man’s wife. There is more disinterested good in the fellow than reputation would allow.
WE SURFEITED OURSELVES ON WHITE SOUP AND PLAICE, chickens and tongue, a fricasee of turnips and buttered prawns. There were forcemeat balls and macaroni, a ragout of celery with wine, dressed lamb and asparagus; sole with mushrooms. There was a gooseberry pie, and a quince preserve; a jaune mange and a marmalade of apricots; almonds and raisins and lemon ice. We drank negus and Madeira and smugglers’ claret; we sat while the covers were twice exchanged. And at last, when nearly three hours had been suffered to pass away, the ladies retired and left the men to discuss the prospects for government and Charles James Fox.
I felt myself to have grown quite flushed with food and spirits, and suspected that not even Cassandra’s grey silk might disguise the damage to my complexion. The great French windows had been thrown open to the night, affording a pleasant coolness. While Lady Swithin went cheerfully in search of her needlework, and Lady Harriot stood in closest conversation with her aunt, and Lady Elizabeth enquired fretfully of Georgiana Morpeth how her youngest child did — whether the danger of quinsy was entirely past — I wandered over to the open window, and saw that a broad stone terrace lay just beyond. It overlooked the parterres of the formal garden that flanked the eastern facade of the Great House. A wave of scent rose up from the boxhedge and flowers; I stepped out into the darkness, and breathed deep.
The moon was now fuller and stronger than it had been on the night of the maid’s death. The stars shone out, in a bewildering pattern overhead; owls called from the Spanish oaks, from the heavy coverts of trees lapping Chatsworth for mile upon mile; a deep stillness lay over the countryside, beautiful in its peace — an ageless stillness, such as must have obtained in this part of the world from time immemorial. Its illusion of measureless happiness was utterly bewitching. Great power was sunk in the stones of this house, great brilliance and talent in those who commanded its halls. I could not deny its seductive force; everything in my heart and soul longed to claim a part of this world. Lord Harold’s world.
Naked with ambition, grasping in its ruthless drive for self, and glittering in its possibilities, the chances it risked. There was great happiness — great sorrow — but always passion in such a world. Better to throw oneself on the wheel, to rise and fall with its whims, than remain forever bound to the earth—
Perhaps the Madeira and the French wine had quite gone to my head. The age of thirty was a trifle late to adopt the role of romantic heroine — to pin all of life on an excess of sensibility, and die when the object of love was denied. As I stood in the darkness above the spreading parterre, awash in that tide of scent, I acknowledged that Lord Harold alone could form my idea of happiness; and knew, with all the finality of earth thudding down upon the grave, that such happiness must be denied.
“Your ladyship has ever been the soul of forbearance.”
His voice, as though I had conjured him from the darkness, spoke softly from the shelter of the neighbouring window.
“It is just that I feel it my severe duty, Lord Harold, to be the next Duchess of Devonshire,” Lady Elizabeth replied, her voice breaking with tears. “Poor Canis is quite lost without me! But no one knows with what dread I regard the prospect! No one takes my part — no one feels the depth of my suffering, to stand in the place of she who was dearest to me in all the world!”
“I am sure we can none of us be in ignorance of what you feel, Bess,” Lord Harold equably replied. “Perhaps with time—”
“Yes,” she faltered. “Perhaps with time, I shall see better what path I must follow — which duty should be regarded as the most pressing. I do not speak of one’s duty to oneself — that cannot be held in the balance. I learned long ago to disregard self entirely.”
“You were always a creature of sacrifice,” Lord Harold murmured.
“And it is in the nature of sacrifice to be misjudged, and ill-regarded,” she returned bitterly. “I am sure I should be quite lost without such good friends as you and Lady Bessborough. The young people positively blame me for their mother’s death!”
“Surely not.”
“Lord Hartington most certainly does! As though I, who nursed Her Grace to the last — through those horrible final hours, when she neither spoke nor knew anyone, and suffered the most fearful agony — as though I could have wished Georgiana ill! I cannot tell you, Harry, how the cloud of suspicion and neglect has deepened my grief! It is a wonder I have not already found my own grave!” Lady Elizabeth blew her nose rather noisily into a handkerchief. “But for the thought of dear Canis, and his helplessness — I believe I should have been carried off!”