Chapter 20 — A Call in Berkley Square

Georgie's report on the gossip, carried to the Damerels with all due speed and with Mrs. Harcourt in support, did not land, as they both greatly feared, with the force of a bombshell.

At least, for Helena, shock was not the first reaction. The news brought her sudden clarity, making sense of certain encounters which, in the preceding days, had puzzled and perturbed her. There were the greetings she'd extended and which had been returned, in one case, not at all and in others with less-than-usual cordiality. There were the avid stares she chanced to intercept, and the voices dropping to hushed tones as she passed. Only the evening before, at the theater, Aunt Constance, as Mrs. Alfred Damerel was affectionately known in the family, had pointed out two young women in a box across from theirs who sat giggling together, their opera glasses trained on Helena. "Are you acquainted with those young persons, dear?" Constance had inquired. "I must say, I don't think much of their manners!"

The Harcourts had arrived well after social calls might be expected and had found the Damerels and their house guests gathered informally in the drawing room whiling away the hour before dinner. Louisa, loathe to broach the matter before strangers Alfred and Constance, had asked if they might have a private word, but Damerel, noting there was only family present, had encouraged her to speak freely. Georgie's account, relayed haltingly and with evident distress, provoked a range of strong emotions: gentle Constance gasped aloud in dismay, Alfred's jaw went slack with disbelief, Penny's face flushed dark with indignation while Venetia's lost all color. She shot a troubled look at her brother, and Aubrey, meeting her gaze, returned one of his own. Damerel held himself utterly still, a sign for anyone who knew him well of tightly-leashed anger.

Georgie had no sooner finished than Alfred broke out, "Why, that's perfectly outrageous! A pack of scurrilous lies!"

"Yes," Constance said, her eyes on Helena full of sympathy. "It's clearly the invention of some petty soul eaten up with envy. Sad to say, my dear, but people who have no hope of attaining your success will often try cutting you down to their level."

"With respect, Constance," Damerel said, in clipped tones, "I think in this instance we can dispense with generalities." He turned a hard gaze on his wife. "I have tolerated Conway for your sake these last twenty years, but he's gone well beyond the pale this time! He has a quarrel with us, fine, but to strike at us through our daughter…!" His voice had risen; he cut himself off, drew a breath. "It's inexcusable. I've a mind to take a whip to him."

Venetia's face was a study in anguish. "Jasper…"

"No! Enough, do you hear? Do not plead his case again!"

"Then," Aubrey put in quietly, carefully, "let me do so, Jasper. Conway has a great many faults, I admit. He is self-absorbed and indolent, shallow and often irresponsible, but, at his core, he is a decent fellow. In his careless way, he is genuinely attached to his family, by which I mean not only Charlotte and the boys, but myself, Venetia and — yes — your children. He would not wish harm on any one of us, let alone cause it himself. I have no idea who is putting this slander about, but I sincerely doubt it's Conway."

"As do I," Venetia said. "I don't expect you to share our conviction, Jasper, but at least don't rush to judgment and condemn him out of hand. Let us have some evidence first before we find him guilty."

Some of the tension left Damerel's body, but still he persisted, if more evenly, "Who else could it be but Conway?"

It was Penny who answered. "Roland."

The sharp accusation met with uneasy silence. Aubrey did not spring to his nephew's defense as he had to his brother's, and neither, after a brief hesitation, did Venetia. "He might be responsible," she allowed. "Though I hate to think it."

"For my part," Helena said, finding her voice at last, "I should like to believe it, but it's hardly likely. How is he to have managed it? He has not so much as a toehold in the ton and few acquaintances in Town, none of them, to my knowledge, even on the fringes of society. He'd have needed someone very well-connected to spread the story about, and he knows no one of consequence."

Venetia brightened visibly. "That is a very good point, my love, and a strong argument for absolving him."

Aubrey cleared his throat and offered reluctantly, "It's not impossible that Roland has some well-born friend we know nothing of. If memory serves, he used to boast he was great pals at Eton with some lord or other's son."

Venetia's brow furrowed in thought. "Now that you mention it… Yes, I do remember! He was proud as a peacock, dropping his friend's name into every conversation. You'd think it would have stuck with me, but…" She shook her head ruefully. "No, it won't come, and, in any event," she continued, on a crisper note, "it's all speculation and of no practical use. I shall simply call in Berkley Square tomorrow and have the truth direct from Conway, or, should he not be at home, from Charlotte."

"Very well," Damerel conceded. "Let us go early so as not to miss them."

Venetia settled her gaze on him, a plea for understanding in her eyes. "Conway's sure to get his back up if we approach him together. It's better, at this stage, that I go alone, or perhaps…" She turned to her brother. "Aubrey? Would you escort me? I should be glad of the company."

Aubrey looked stunned to be asked and was so long in replying, it was plain he was none too keen to involve himself. In the end, however, he could not resist Venetia's pleading look, and agreed.

It had grown late. Louisa and Georgie rose to leave, Louisa pausing on her way out to ask whether they might still expect to see Venetia and Helena later that evening at Lady Marlow's soirée.

"As to that," Venetia replied, "it must be Helena's decision." She looked an inquiry at Helena. "What do you say, love? I know you've been looking forward to the music, as have I. It's rare for Miss Poole to give a private concert, and I should be sorry to miss it, but if you feel you can't be easy, we shan't go."

There was no denying Helena had qualms; the prospect of being subjected to open stares, whispered about behind her back and perhaps even given the cut direct made her quake inwardly, but, anxious though she was, she was even more incensed at being unjustly accused, and that anger stiffened her spine. She was indeed eager to hear Miss Poole sing, but, even had the soirée held no particular appeal, she would have put in an appearance nonetheless. She had no reason to hang her head, and would not let it be said, as it doubtless would be if she stayed away, that she could not show her face for shame. "Yes, by all means," she said, "let us go as planned."

Upon arriving at Marlow House, Helena steeled herself to be received with some degree of frost, but Lady Marlow's welcome was reassuringly civil. Her eyes may have rounded ever so slightly at Helena's approach, but the reaction was so fleeting, Helena could not be certain. She and her mother were shown to the music room, which, the Marlows being passionate about music and accomplished amateurs in their own right, was unusually grand, with high, coffered ceilings, intricately-carved woodwork and hand-painted illustrations of various instruments on the walls. For this evening, the space was bathed in the warm light of four chandeliers and their mirrored reflections. A music stand and glossy grand piano stood in readiness at one end of the room with enough chairs set out down its length to accommodate some fifty persons. A printed program of the evening's selections had been placed on each seat, and, as they stepped into the room, it was one of these, energetically agitated, that caught Helena's eye.

It having been agreed between the cousins that whoever arrived first should reserve seats for the other, Helena assumed the signaler to be Georgie, but it proved instead to be Callie St. Cyr with, seated beside her, Enid Carstairs. They had taken seats in one of the as-yet sparsely occupied middle rows and, with smiles and eager gestures, beckoned the Damerels to join them. Helena, coming up to her friends, took the hand Callie extended and returned Enid's smile with real delight. "This is a lovely surprise! I thought, Callie, you were engaged elsewhere."

"And so I was. Lady Damerel, good evening! I trust you are well?" Enid and Callie resumed their seats, and, the Damerels taking theirs, Callie continued, "I'm meant to be attending a party at my step-grandmama's, but as her affairs are always a terrible crush, I doubt I'll be missed. No, I thought — and Enid agreed — we had much better come here and lend you our support."

Helena's heart sank. "You've heard the gossip?"

"Yes, and from different sources. Enid had it from… "

At her cousin's floundering, Enid supplied, "My sister, Elaine."

Callie snapped her fingers. "That's right, Elaine. And you rushed straightaway to Hendon House to tell me only to discover Emma Cowper had beat you to it. Beastly little tattle-monger! You may be sure I told her she was grossly misinformed and would be advised to hold her tongue. Not," she concluded grimly, "that she'll have paid me any heed."

"I had better luck with Elaine," Enid said. "Like us, she'll call the gossips on their lies and, before long, through all our efforts, the rumors will die away."

"In the meantime, stay close to us," Callie recommended. "No one will slight you where we might see and hear. Should anyone dare, I'll deal with them."

Louisa and Georgie arrived some few minutes later. Venetia surrendered her seat to Georgie so that the younger women might all sit together, and, with Louisa, settled in the row immediately behind. Helena found herself, thus, surrounded on three sides by firm friends and champions, and felt, thanks to their support, much of her lost confidence flood back.

Whether it was due to these reinforcements or to the rumors having not yet reached the ears of the other guests, the evening passed without a single unpleasant incident. The early part of the program featured the five Marlow children, all of whom sang or played their preferred instrument with exceptional skill, and none more so than the youngest, who, at five years of age, performed his piano solo with such technical virtuosity, the audience was left breathless with awe. After a short interval, Miss Poole and her accompanist took the stage and proved her reputation as the premier ballad singer of their day richly deserved. She sang the old, traditional songs in a voice so pure and with such feeling that Helena was transported and, at one point, so deeply moved by the pathos of a song, her eyes welled with tears. When Miss Poole made her final curtsy to thunderous applause, Helena felt as if she'd been released from a spell. She had never in her life enjoyed a concert more, and so she assured Lady Marlow as, in saying her farewell, she thanked her for her wondrous hospitality. And to think, she reflected on the carriage ride home, how near she had come, for want of a little courage, to missing out on so splendid a soirée! It did not bear thinking of.

The evening had been so lacking in the snubs, stares and cold shoulders she'd been dreading that Helena retired to bed comfortably persuaded that the gossip was not having the impact or doing as much damage as they'd initially feared. It only required the arrival of six brief notes in the next morning's post to shatter this pleasant delusion. Five of these expressed, without explanation, the senders' regrets at being unable, after all, to attend the Damerels' ball, and the sixth was a short message from Lord Hartshorne requesting that Helena drive out with him that afternoon so that they might discuss "a matter of some urgency." If, as it appeared, the rumors had spread so far and wide as to reach the marquess, they were a grave concern, indeed.

Venetia was more than ever anxious to call in Berkley Square and so, when Aubrey, all contrition, informed her he'd forgotten an appointment with a fellow scholar and would not be at liberty to accompany her until the following day, she determined to forge on alone rather than wait. Helena volunteered to go in her uncle's stead, and, that offer being gratefully accepted, mother and daughter set off together to confront their relations.

The Lanyons' rented townhouse was one of Berkley square's more modest addresses, its three stories neither so wide not so tall as its immediate neighbors. Venetia's card was taken in, and they were then admitted by Evans, a man they knew well from his long service at Undershaw and who, for the duration of the London stay, had been elevated from head footman to butler. In answer to Venetia's query, he replied that Sir Conway was from home, having left for Tattersall's some minutes before and Master Roland with him. Lady Charlotte and Master Francis were in, the mistress in the breakfast parlor, and the young gentleman still in his chamber.

"And Mrs. Scorrier?" Venetia asked.

Evans' eyes lit with a conspiratorial twinkle. "Mrs. Scorrier is not currently in residence. She is dividing her time equally between her daughters and is staying the first two weeks in Belgrave Square."

"Belgrave Square," Venetia echoed, brows arching. "Quite the exclusive neighborhood!"

"So I understand, milady. I am to say you are welcome to join the mistress in the parlor…"

Venetia, however, elected not to disturb her sister-in-law at table. Evans showed them instead into a reception room which, while small, was furnished and decorated with quiet good taste. They were not left to themselves for long and had hardly taken in the richly-carved fireplace, silk wall hangings, and scattered bronze and marble objets d'art when Charlotte hurried breathlessly into the room. "Venetia! Lena! My dears, how good of you to call! Why did you not come through to the parlor? You needn't stand on ceremony here! You are family."

Venetia went to Charlotte, and, taking her hands, pressed a kiss to her cheek. "We have already intruded enough by coming at so uncivilized an hour. We could at least let you finish your breakfast in peace."

"I was nearly done in any case," Charlotte assured her. She turned to welcome Helena, her somewhat faded blue eyes lighting with pleasure. "Lena, my love, how very lovely you look! It is plain that Town agrees with you. You are grown more stylish and elegant than ever! Come! Will you not give your old aunt a kiss?"

Helena complied very readily. She did not love Charlotte with so whole a heart as she could have wished. Her aunt was too weak-willed, too silly and simple to inspire respect, let alone admiration. She was, however, fond of her, and could not fail to appreciate her tender heart and sweet disposition. They embraced, and then, Charlotte, settling herself on the sofa, gestured Venetia into a chair and drew Helena down beside her. "I have heard such talk of you, my dear!" she said excitedly. "They call you the Season's Incomparable! And they say the Queen herself favored you with particular notice! Did she really predict you would marry a duke? I should love to hear all about it — the parties and balls, your suitors and beaux."

Helena looked to her mother for guidance and Venetia intervened with, "That would make for a most pleasant chat, but just now we've come on a most serious matter."

Charlotte's gaze flew from Venetia to Helena, her eyes suddenly wide with disquiet. "What is it? What is wrong? Has someone taken ill? One of the children?"

"No, nothing of that sort," Venetia said soothingly. "It's the… 'talk' you mentioned hearing. About Helena. You've heard her praised and complimented, but in the last few days, there's been a very worrisome turnabout. She is now being maligned and in a most vicious fashion."

Charlotte's rosebud mouth sagged open as she looked, disbelieving, from her sister-in-law to her niece. "But… I've heard not a word to Lena's discredit! What is it they are saying? If it's something truly vile, it can only be lies!"

Venetia caught Helena's eye and, in the space of a moment, there passed between them a shared conviction and relief. Venetia went on to answer more easily, "Basically, the aspersions are two: first, that Helena was previously betrothed but backed out of the commitment when her prospects improved and it was no longer to her advantage, and, second, that the money that constitutes her dowry was gained by deceitful means at the expense of the rightful heir."

Charlotte's face puckered in confusion. "But, that is all nonsense! Who is this fellow Lena's supposed to have jilted?"

"He hasn't been named."

"Not named? But, that's outrageous! How is Lena to refute the claim if she doesn't know her accuser? No," she concluded, decisively, "if he's not named, it can only be because the story has no substance. It's all a wicked invention."

Venetia made no immediate reply to this, and when she did speak again, it was to inquire carefully, "Can you really think of no one who might regard himself as Helena's betrothed? Someone whose parents might have conditioned him to believe it?"

Charlotte glanced uncertainly from Venetia to Helena, her demeanor that of a child uncomfortably aware of being tested on material she ought to know but didn't. She applied herself dutifully to the puzzle, a frown testifying to the effort, but, at length, she shook her head. "The only thing that comes to mind is that talk we had long ago — you remember, Venetia — about Roland and Lena making a match of it one day, but that was only castles in Spain."

"It was a bit more than that," Venetia observed. "As you'll recall, Conway approached Damerel about — as he put it — 'formalizing the betrothal,' quite as if we'd agreed to it long since."

"Yes, but then Damerel said no, and that was the end of it." She dismissed the matter with a shrug, but then, the import of Venetia's words suddenly dawning on her, she straightened sharply. "Wait! You cannot mean to say you believe the gossip concerns Roland, that he's the fiancé Lena's supposed to have rejected!"

Venetia spread her hands in a helpless gesture. "What else am I to think? The only person ever to petition for Helena's hand before this spring was Conway. And, if that weren't enough, there's the allegation of an heir being robbed of his rightful share. That corresponds too closely to Conway's gripe about our mother's estate to be coincidental."

"No," Charlotte said, once again decidedly. "That cannot be it. I don't deny Conway grumbles about it, but he only ever does so in private. You know that about him, Venetia. Whatever his quarrels with you, he would never be so ill-bred as to air them in public. The betrothal misunderstanding, the hard feelings about Lady Steeples' estate, these are matters kept strictly in the family. No one can have any idea of them."

Again, Venetia allowed the silence to stretch, then, pressed home, "No one outside the family."

They left Charlotte to work out the implication for herself, but as the seconds ticked past and she continued to look blank, Helena took pity on her. "Could Roland have let something slip? Not with malicious intent, of course! Just when he was…" She broke off, casting desperately about for some expression other than 'the worse for drink.' All she managed was "… not on his guard?"

Charlotte searched her niece's face, her own suddenly clouded with a terrible uncertainty. "He does speak too freely sometimes," she acknowledged. "When his feelings run high, he can forget himself and say more than he ought. It's possible he may have unburdened himself a time or two to a friend…" She trailed off, her brow knitting as a thought occurred. "But, surely, anyone he confided in would live near Undershaw, not here in London. And if that person was so uncouth as to repeat what Roland told him, why did we not learn of it in Yorkshire? The story ought to have spread there first, don't you find? And yet, I've heard no word of it before today."

Venetia allowed herself a tiny sigh. "There is much in what you say, and much we can't account for. I stand persuaded, though, of one thing: someone has knowledge of our family's intimate affairs, and that someone means Helena ill. If he — or she — did not learn the particulars from Conway or Roland, then how …?"

This question was destined never to be finished, as, at that moment, Francis made his appearance, a wan smile of greeting on his lips. Helena was concerned to note the pallor of her cousin's cheeks and the lethargy with which he moved. The muffler about his neck suggested a throat ailment, an impression borne out by the rasp in his voice when he spoke. "Aunt Venetia! Helena! Evans told me you were here. I was keeping to my bed today — another blasted cold! — but I didn't want to miss seeing you."

With Francis' coming and the attendant fuss made over him, the matter of the gossip was of necessity dropped and it was not thereafter taken up again. Once Francis was comfortably installed in a chair, his legs propped up on a stool and a rug firmly tucked about him, the conversation naturally turned to his indisposition, and, as he fondly imagined that his listeners were as keenly interested in his symptoms as he was, he expounded on them at some length. When that subject was finally exhausted, Venetia, in preparation for leaving, expressed polite regret at finding Mrs. Scorrier from home. "Evans mentioned she's staying with your sister in Belgravia. Fanny's in Town, then, for the Season?"

"Not just for the Season, no. She and Roger live here now and have done the last two years. Janey, too, of course. She hasn't married yet."

"Janey," Francis snickered. "She won't thank you for calling her that."

"She's been Janey to me too long to change now," Charlotte retorted. "Anyway, as I was saying, their new house was finished just recently. They moved in a few months back."

Venetia looked suitably impressed. "Your brother-in-law's done well for himself."

"Yes, indeed. Of course, it was the greatest stoke of luck — that fortune falling in his lap as it did — but he's increased it many times over with his clever investments in canals and railways and I don't know what all! He's very nearly as rich as Croesus."

Helena's curiosity was piqued by the passing reference to a windfall but rather than pursue it, her mother simply congratulated Charlotte on her brother-in-law's success and the family's prosperity. She deduced from this that her mother already knew the background story, and so Venetia confirmed when, on the drive home, Helena asked. "Yes, Charlotte told me at the time. As you can imagine, it was very exciting news. To be honest, though, until she brought it up, I'd forgotten all about it and pretended otherwise so as not to offend her."

"What happened, then?"

"It's quite the unusual tale. Roger's father was a vicar with a respectable living, in Kent I believe this was. There were several children in the family, I forget the number, but enough that it was difficult to provide for them all. Roger was obliged to take up a profession and determined on the law. Funds to pay for his apprenticeship were in short supply, but, fortunately, one of his father's wealthy parishioners learned of the need and generously offered to take on the expense.

"There was, naturally, gratitude on Roger's side and, on the gentleman's, an interest in his protégé's progress, and that formed the basis of their relationship. Over time, as they sought each other out and grew better acquainted, their respect and liking for each other increased and there developed between them, and also with the gentleman's wife, a deep and abiding regard. The couple had the misfortune of being childless, and Roger behaved toward them, and was treated by them in turn, very much like a son.

"It ought, perhaps, not to have come as a shock to him that, when first the wife and then the old gentleman died, he was left the entirety of the man's enormous fortune."

"He'd had no hint he was their heir?"

"None at all. By that time, he was making a comfortable living as a barrister, a position he owed almost completely to his benefactor. He expected nothing more. The bequest was not without strings, though: Roger was to drop his own family name and assume the gentleman's."

"A small enough price to pay for a fortune! What name was he obliged to take?"

Venetia gave a rueful laugh. "You would ask me that! Well, now, let me think. I should be able to dredge it up…"

But, "Don't rack your brain, Mama," Helena told her. "It's not of any moment, and goodness knows we have more important things to think of."

Chief among these for Helena was her upcoming interview with Lord Hartshorne. Had he, as she'd assumed, heard the gossip, and, if so, what had been his reaction? She did not look forward to finding out.