He had a thick head of white hair, pale-blue eyes and a small, thin mouth.
‘Sit down, Charles,’ he said, waving an elegant hand at a vacant chair on the other side of the newspaper-strewn table. ‘Have some chocolate and tell me how you go on.’
‘Tolerably well,’ said Lord Charles. ‘How are your gambling debts?’
‘Monstrous,’ said Mr Lawrence cheerfully. ‘Alas, I shall have to return to the country and rusticate. The duns are bothering my peace of mind.’
‘I could arrange for you to stay in Town a little longer,’ said Lord Charles.
‘That would be vastly pleasant. How do you mean to do it? By paying my gambling debts?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Dear boy. I am moved.’ Mr Lawrence leaned back in his chair and surveyed his nephew with a mixture of cynicism and affection. ‘And what am I to do in return?’
Lord Charles smiled slowly. ‘Listen, Uncle dear,’ he said, ‘and I shall tell you . . .’
4
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,
For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
Lord Byron
It looked as if Harriet Brown might refuse point-blank to attend her first London ball. For it was to be a masked ball held at the Marchioness of Raby’s. The late Mr Brown had damned all forms of dressing up as licentious and sinful.
It was Yvette, the French dressmaker, who saved the situation. She arrived at Holles Street with her baby, George. Harriet thought George a very fine boy indeed. The sisters retired and left her alone with Yvette. Yvette had been instrumental in persuading the stern Miss Brown that it was not sinful to wear fashionable clothes. Perhaps she could be equally persuasive about fancy dress.
‘Your baby is a handsome, strong boy, Yvette,’ said Harriet. ‘Your husband must be very proud of him.’
‘I have no husband and never did have one,’ replied Yvette calmly, opening a book of sketches.
‘What happened?’ asked Harriet bluntly.
Yvette sighed and rested the book on her lap. ‘There was a French tutor the ladies had hired to school one of their charges. I was very much in love with him and . . . indiscreet. When he ran away and abandoned me, I tried to kill myself, but Miss Amy – ah, the so formidable Miss Amy – she would not let me. She said I must have my baby and she and Miss Effy would help to bring it up. Now, thanks to the generosity of Mr Kendall, the previous young lady’s father, I have my own business, my own salon, and a sound future for George which
I
will make for him.’
Now Harriet knew that her father would, on hearing this news, have forbidden her to have anything to do with such a woman. But Amy Tribble had acted with Christian charity. It would have been a supreme act of cruelty to turn Yvette out in the street. Harriet began to feel uneasily that the Tribbles had more genuine charity and kindness in their souls than her late father.
And the Tribbles saw nothing wrong in dressing up for a masked ball. As Miss Amy had pointed out, having fun was as much part of life as sorrow.
‘What is the name of this man who betrayed you?’ asked Harriet.
‘A Monsieur Duclos.’
‘Is he still in this country?’
‘No, miss, I believe he is in Paris working as valet to the Comte De Ville.’
‘And does he know of his son?’
‘No, Miss Brown, and you ask too many questions. Do but look at these pretty sketches and choose one.’
‘Yvette, I cannot be quite convinced that a masked ball is a respectable event, even though sanctioned by the Misses Tribble.’
‘La! The whole of the Season is a frivolous game. Why balk at one event? It will be exactly like an ordinary ball and very sedate. The Marchioness of Raby is all that is
convenable
.’
‘Are the Misses Tribble going in fancy dress?’
‘Yes. Miss Amy wanted to go as a corsair, but I told her that the gentlemen prefer ladies to be dressed as ladies and so she is going as Queen Elizabeth, and Miss Effy is going as a gypsy. I do not suggest you should go in Turkish costume.
‘Sit down, Charles,’ he said, waving an elegant hand at a vacant chair on the other side of the newspaper-strewn table. ‘Have some chocolate and tell me how you go on.’
‘Tolerably well,’ said Lord Charles. ‘How are your gambling debts?’
‘Monstrous,’ said Mr Lawrence cheerfully. ‘Alas, I shall have to return to the country and rusticate. The duns are bothering my peace of mind.’
‘I could arrange for you to stay in Town a little longer,’ said Lord Charles.
‘That would be vastly pleasant. How do you mean to do it? By paying my gambling debts?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Dear boy. I am moved.’ Mr Lawrence leaned back in his chair and surveyed his nephew with a mixture of cynicism and affection. ‘And what am I to do in return?’
Lord Charles smiled slowly. ‘Listen, Uncle dear,’ he said, ‘and I shall tell you . . .’
4
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,
For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
Lord Byron
It looked as if Harriet Brown might refuse point-blank to attend her first London ball. For it was to be a masked ball held at the Marchioness of Raby’s. The late Mr Brown had damned all forms of dressing up as licentious and sinful.
It was Yvette, the French dressmaker, who saved the situation. She arrived at Holles Street with her baby, George. Harriet thought George a very fine boy indeed. The sisters retired and left her alone with Yvette. Yvette had been instrumental in persuading the stern Miss Brown that it was not sinful to wear fashionable clothes. Perhaps she could be equally persuasive about fancy dress.
‘Your baby is a handsome, strong boy, Yvette,’ said Harriet. ‘Your husband must be very proud of him.’
‘I have no husband and never did have one,’ replied Yvette calmly, opening a book of sketches.
‘What happened?’ asked Harriet bluntly.
Yvette sighed and rested the book on her lap. ‘There was a French tutor the ladies had hired to school one of their charges. I was very much in love with him and . . . indiscreet. When he ran away and abandoned me, I tried to kill myself, but Miss Amy – ah, the so formidable Miss Amy – she would not let me. She said I must have my baby and she and Miss Effy would help to bring it up. Now, thanks to the generosity of Mr Kendall, the previous young lady’s father, I have my own business, my own salon, and a sound future for George which
I
will make for him.’
Now Harriet knew that her father would, on hearing this news, have forbidden her to have anything to do with such a woman. But Amy Tribble had acted with Christian charity. It would have been a supreme act of cruelty to turn Yvette out in the street. Harriet began to feel uneasily that the Tribbles had more genuine charity and kindness in their souls than her late father.
And the Tribbles saw nothing wrong in dressing up for a masked ball. As Miss Amy had pointed out, having fun was as much part of life as sorrow.
‘What is the name of this man who betrayed you?’ asked Harriet.
‘A Monsieur Duclos.’
‘Is he still in this country?’
‘No, miss, I believe he is in Paris working as valet to the Comte De Ville.’
‘And does he know of his son?’
‘No, Miss Brown, and you ask too many questions. Do but look at these pretty sketches and choose one.’
‘Yvette, I cannot be quite convinced that a masked ball is a respectable event, even though sanctioned by the Misses Tribble.’
‘La! The whole of the Season is a frivolous game. Why balk at one event? It will be exactly like an ordinary ball and very sedate. The Marchioness of Raby is all that is
convenable
.’
‘Are the Misses Tribble going in fancy dress?’
‘Yes. Miss Amy wanted to go as a corsair, but I told her that the gentlemen prefer ladies to be dressed as ladies and so she is going as Queen Elizabeth, and Miss Effy is going as a gypsy. I do not suggest you should go in Turkish costume.
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