Part 2 - Portsmouth: April 1813 – The Arrival
Once the ship is safely docked, the Right Honorable William Herringay Cecil Cumbersome-Smythe (aka 'Herring' to his detractors), now returning from his duties in Lisbon as a civilian liaison with the Regency Council of Prince John, makes his way out to the passage door. He is a tall, lean, impeccably dressed sour face who stands for a moment surveying the crowded dock bright with mid-day sunshine, loud with bells clanging, sailors shouting, hawkers haggling, seagulls shrieking, and offensive with the odors of sea air, fish, and unwashed bodies. He grimaces.
In a moment he moves from the passage door to the clamoring deck, tutting impatiently at the short, round form following him. "Oh, do hurry, Lavinia!" he snarls, then adds "Darling," as an afterthought. He's seen the livery of the Whitehall coachman perched on his box beyond the crowd on the dock.
Lavinia Fontana Broughton Cumbersome-Smythe emerges from the passage, the feathers on her bonnet at least half as tall as she is and wobbling crazily in all directions. She flinches at the sights and sounds around her, having spent most of the voyage in her cabin buried amid her precious luggage and indulging in the ladylike art of being elegantly sea sick. "If I'd had more time to see to the trunks!" she begins in a quavering whine but immediately her broad muscular lady's maid, Marguerite, pushes up from behind and overrides her.
"I've seen to it all, mum," Marguerite blares in that voice so useful in the Channel fogs, "There the trunks go now, see?" She swings a beefy arm up to gesture at the crane-load even now emerging from the hold with the first of the traveling trunks heavy with silk, velvet and fine kid, lined with small boxes of scent and gold trinkets. Marguerite smirks triumphantly at her master who rolls his eyes in return, but does not move from the head of the gangway where the captain has joined him, as well as a small knot of officers who pause in shouting orders and wait as unobtrusively as they can.
Lavinia gives a little faltering whine and advances to the gangway, dragging Marguerite behind her for support. Neither of them looks back at the third female form coming through the passage door, who has been Marguerite's cabin mate for this voyage home.
Smaller than Marguerite, much more slender then Lavinia, robed in a dove-gray traveling frock with touches of scarlet and glints of gold to warm it, this third woman paces from the dark passageway to the deck rail, regally surveying the dockyards. Her lustrous hair is twisted artfully up to support the most pert of bonnets and, as she slips dainty gloves onto daintier hands and hoists her parasol, a glint of excitement sparks in her lovely dark eyes.
She glides between the captain and Cumbersome-Smythe to the gangway head, not without a twinkle at the goggling group of officers, each of whom is sure the look is meant for him alone. The captain doffs his bicorn at her curtsey, grins like a cat then shoots a look at the Right Honorable as if to say, You lucky, lucky dog! To which that gentleman only smirks grimly in reply. Watching this enchantress trip down the wooden walkway where his wife had squeaked and stumbled, he wishes with all his libido that this delectable sweet WAS his courtesan, in truth.
But she isn't. In fact, he has been instructed to escort her to England for the use of another. Who that 'other' might be has been the cause of his sour face over the length of the voyage. It only gets worse when he sees the Whitehall footman leap down from his perch on the coach and open the door for the woman, handing her into the plush interior as if in a daze. By the time Cumbersome-Smythe reaches the dock to join his wittering wife and her booming maid, the coach is off with a rattle and a neigh from the matched pair of bays.
And, adding insult to injury, a dainty kid glove wafts gently out the coach window in farewell.
Several days later
It is the first scandal of the Season – and what good is a London Season without a Scandal?
A government official has taken up with a common – well, not-so-common but what of that? A married man has brought a foreign incognita into The Ton and set her up in a house! With a carriage! And servants! And who can blame poor dear Lavinia for refusing to admit that her husband has taken a mistress... or... because it WAS poor dear Lavinia, even seeming to realize that he has?
The 1813 Season is in full swing at the famous Assembly Rooms of Almack's, the 'Temple of Exclusivity', where to be seen is more prestigious even than presentation at Court. With the debutants displayed discretely amongst them, the beldames of Seasons Past negotiate and gossip behind their elaborate fans, suitably situated to view and critique whoever enters the grand ballroom next. Within the crimson ropes that mark off the dance floor, this year's belle, Daphne Bridgerton, steps demurely to the allemande as decorously as any matron could wish while her proud mother, Violet, looks on.
If the assembled matrons consider Violet Bridgerton to be, shall we say, slightly eccentric in wanting her children to marry only for love, she has been upstaged most effectively, just for now. The advent of The Foreign Woman is the talk of all the female inhabitants of the hall who are not presently on the hunt for a husband.
Further down the crowds lining the ballroom, Lady Portia Featherington watches the dancing with a distinctly different (jaundiced) eye. Her elder daughters, Philipa and Prudence, have retired into her shadow, mirroring her sour expression in the belief that this conveys maidenly good breeding. Their dance cards are empty and it's obviously the fault of that simpering minx, the Bridgerton cat. It seems none of the eligible young men can think about anyone else tonight.
Their sister Penelope, meanwhile, has migrated along the perimeter to where her particular friend Eloise Bridgerton lurks and together they are having the time of their lives, alternately coveting some detail of dress and ready to scorn the glances of any prospective beaux, of which they pretend not to notice there aren't many.
In another corner, on the fringes of a huddle of gentlemen deep in discussion as to the latest great flutter, paterfamilias Featherington listens intently while appearing to be totally absorbed in his latest sample from the punch bowl. This takes a bit of work for someone who has tasted raw rum and other unaged spirits in his day. Tonight the leads are few and he is thinking to move off to greener seas when the current speaker, stung at last to his own defense by the needling of his listeners, spouts off.
"Well, I HAD to, you see," Cumbersome-Smythe rants with his now-habitual snarl, "Became quite unbearable, the little chit. A house, servants, nice little landau – and she demands a barouche! Claiming they did it this way in Lisbon and nothing in England was to compare; thinking herself hard done by while in the most exclusive society in the world! Well, I'd had enough!"
"Had you, though, Herring?" the next most objectionable Bridgerton boy smirks; Benedict, Archie guesses. "Had you got enough?" A wave of jovial laughter follows.
"That's another thing!" Cumbersome-Smythe blusters on, "SHE will let ME know when SHE is available, thank you very much! Miserable piece of baggage!" He seems especially savage about this. "I am hardly good enough for her, it seems. I practically had to force my way into her boudoir and SHE gives me this!" He flourishes the bandage on his right hand, neatly tied and pristine. "Seems she carries a knife, the damned cat!"
"Oooo!" is the unfeeling response all around and Anthony (THE most objectionable Bridgerton boy) suggests that perhaps the lady is only being honest when she asks for a man who can truly satisfy her.
"Well, YOU'RE free to give it a go, you bounder!" Cumbersome-Smythe is red-faced by now. "Only it'll mean some blood for you." He rubs the fingertips of his left hand against their thumb under the giggling Anthony's nose, "PLENTY of blood, one hopes! I've cut her loose and she is currently caged at Madame's establishment next the Club. Happy hunting, Bridgerton!" He pushes his way out of the group and gives Featherington a particularly sour look as he passes.
Featherington hands off the punch to a passing server and ambles to the nearest card room to do his nightly duty of squandering as much money as he can manage. What had that been about? Behind him, the young bucks begin to boast which of them will be the first to penetrate into the innermost lair of Madame's rooms and rescue the fair – what was the name? Cathy? Kate? – from her durance vile.
END – part 2
*ffh notes: Flutter = a sporting chance, a try at some money. Blood = Regency slang for money.*
