Chapter 22 Nemesis Revealed
Helena met the blue eyes reflected in her vanity mirror and smiled serenely. It was the night of her coming-out ball and there was a very good chance it would be the fiasco of the Season.
For the moment, she was obliged to sit statue-still as her maid, Bailey, dressed her hair for the evening. It was an elaborate arrangement of intricately woven coils at the back of her head, a mass of tight ringlets over her ears and a band of fresh rosebuds and pearls over her crown, and so required the maid's full concentration. Helena took care not to distract her, and was, in any event, just as glad to be left to her own reflections.
It had been a week such as she'd never experienced in her life, a week of emotional highs and lows following precipitately one upon the other. It had begun with the shock of finding herself defamed and fallen overnight from the heights of the ton's approval to the depths of its disdain. She had known the profound embarrassment of being publicly snubbed and avoided and then, in quick order, the relief and vindication of securing Lord Hartshorne's confidence and support. For all of a day, she'd reveled in the gratifying sense of a topsy-turvy world set right and then the vicious attacks had resumed, with the target moving on from herself to her father and grandmother. The raking-up of long-dead scandals, particularly in regards to her father, was to Helena's mind so low and despicable a maneuver that, dismayed as she was to be again the object of slights and slurs, she was to an even greater degree incensed. It was borne in upon her forcefully just how shallow and fickle the society she moved in was, how swiftly and cruelly they turned on any of their members who showed the slightest vulnerability. It infuriated her that people fixed exclusively on her father's misspent youth and judged him on that basis, quite as if he'd never turned over a new leaf and lived the last twenty years in exemplary fashion. And, as for her grandmother, it was much the same. Her detractors conveniently forgot that once she'd found, in Sir Lambert, a man who truly loved and understood her, she'd settled down and been a faithful wife to her dying day. The ton, though, in its sanctimonious rush to deplore and condemn, was not interested in making allowances or in showing the least Christian charity.
If, in pillorying her father and grandmother, the object had been to make Helena blush on her family's account, it had actually produced the opposite effect. She could never feel anything but pride in her father, and that anyone should revile him or hold him in contempt proved only that their judgment was deficient and their good opinion not worth having. In disrespecting her father, the gossips and talebearers had forfeited Helena's respect, and, in consequence, their power to cow and overawe her. She saw them for the petty, vapid creatures they were, and, rather than dread their scorn, returned it in equal measure. Indeed, over the last two days, this revolution in her outlook had emboldened her to go out and about in society with her head held high. It was an entirely liberating and heady feeling.
She'd had her true friends' support, of course, and she was immensely grateful to them. Without their standing by her and discouraging, by their forbidding presence, the approach of anyone minded to insult her, she could not be certain her courage would not have wavered. Their vigilance on her behalf had been unfailing, but even so, less than well-intended individuals had slipped past them a time or two. One of these had been Mr. Ned Farnsworth, a connection by courtesy of the Harcourts whose company Helena had enjoyed at Georgie's coming-out ball and whom she'd chanced to encounter and dance with a few times in the weeks since. He was an amusing fellow with a practiced charm that bordered at times on the overly-familiar but she liked him well enough in small doses. When, at a subscription ball the previous evening, he'd approached and begged the favor of a dance, she hadn't hesitated to accept.
The dance itself had passed off very well; as a partner, Mr. Farnsworth's graceful execution of the steps left nothing to be desired. It was afterward, as they took a companionable turn about the ballroom, that matters had taken a downward turn. "I happened to call on Lord Damerel this morning," Mr. Farnsworth had volunteered in a would-be nonchalant manner.
"Did you, indeed?" Helena had replied. "I heard nothing of it."
He'd slanted her a wry smile. "No, your father wouldn't have thought it worth mentioning. My mission didn't prosper, you see."
She'd eyed him curiously. "Your mission?"
"To gain his approval of my suit. It was presumptuous on my part, I grant you, but nothing ventured, as they say. He did me the courtesy of hearing me out before refusing his permission in summary fashion and having me shown the door."
Helena had been so far from expecting any such admission, she'd found herself struck dumb. Seeing her incredulity, he'd said, "You needn't look so astonished. I'm not the only one to have sensed an opportunity. Rumor has it Lord Maxwell and others of your rejected suitors have tried again. It's what gave me the idea, in fact."
It had been close on ten days since her father had apprised her of any applications for her hand, but, as this coincided neatly with the general expectation of her imminent betrothal to Lord Hartshorne, Helena'd assumed there'd been none to report. Instead, he'd been fielding what amounted to insulting offers for her hand and sparing her that humiliating news. How many bounders had he been forced to suffer, how much galling insolence?
Mr. Farnsworth had taken advantage of her silence to continue, "I daresay your father still has hopes of Lord Hartshorne, and, really, who can blame him? That was quite the display of support his lordship put on in the park. I was there, and witnessed it myself: impressive. But, that was before, wasn't it? Before the skeletons in your family closet were dragged into the open. How do you suppose that sordid background will play with the Duchess of Litchfield? In case you aren't aware, the old beldame is a consummate snob and won't countenance allying her irreproachable family to any of less-than-sterling reputation. It's possible Lord Hartshorne might, for love of your pretty blue eyes, override his mother's opposition, but what are the chances? Particularly if this latest gossip reaches his ears."
Helena had whipped round toward him at that, a flare of apprehension no doubt plain to read on her face. "Ah," Mr. Farnsworth said, with a smug little smile, "so you haven't yet heard. No wonder, really, with those friends of yours closing ranks so tightly around you. Well, the long and the short of it is, you're being painted as a kind of siren, intentionally luring the men of York into falling hopelessly in love with you. Apparently, it's something of a game to you, the object being to gratify your vanity by turning any man you target into your willing slave. No man — or boy, for that matter — is safe from your predations. It's said a fifteen-year-old and even a clergyman number among your victims."
The provocation had been too much. Helena had burst out, "That's a lie!" with so much heat, people within earshot had turned and stared.
Mr. Farnsworth had not quite managed to suppress a satisfied smile. "It's patently absurd, of course, but when has the truth ever triumphed over a delectable lie? You've created a lot of ill will, Miss Damerel, with your extraordinary success. There are plenty of envious souls eager to believe — and circulate — any tales to your discredit. It's a sad comment on their characters, but…" He'd given a careless shrug. "What can you do? It's human nature."
They'd nearly completed their circuit of the room when Mr. Farnsworth had capped off his effrontery by assuring her he'd not given up all hope. "If Lord Hartshorne doesn't come up to scratch, you may yet be glad of my offer."
The dignified course would have been to make no reply, but, in the bitterness of the moment, Helena had been unable to restrain herself. "You seem, sir," she'd said in glacial tones, "to be laboring under the misapprehension that I'm obliged to make a match by season's end. That is not at all the case."
He'd inclined his head. "As you say, but only consider how mortifying it would be for you — the Season's acclaimed Incomparable for whom no less a personage than Her Majesty predicted a brilliant marriage — to end the Season unattached. You would have failed spectacularly, your great early promise unfulfilled. And, make no mistake, that's how you'll always be perceived going forward: as the girl who fell woefully short of expectations, an embarrassment to herself and her family. Quite the comedown from your current heights. Could your pride withstand the blow, I wonder?" He'd given her no time to respond, but had bowed himself away, that insufferable smirk still playing on his lips.
Helena had been left simmering with helpless fury, the color in her cheeks flown so high, she'd had no hope of hiding her commotion from her family. They'd gathered about her, concerned, and when she'd informed them, tersely, of Mr. Farnsworth's having offered for her, the Harcourts, in particular, had been both outraged and chagrined. "I am ever so sorry, Helena!" Louisa had said with real remorse. "Save for my introducing him, you should never have been exposed to such an insult. He has ever been bold and encroaching, but I never dreamed he'd be so mannerless as to overstep by so much!"
Hours later, tucked up in bed, Helena had still been stewing over the encounter and berating herself, especially, for having lacked the quick wit to deal Farnsworth the sharp set down he'd deserved. Eventually, though, by dint of turning his remarks over and over in her mind, she'd begun to see matters in a new light. There were positive implications to his remarks which, in the grip of strong emotion, she'd entirely failed to appreciate. Farnsworth had expressed a near certainty that, her stock having sunk to new depths, Lord Hartshorne would no longer be making her an offer. It was, indeed, this strong possibility that had emboldened him and other vultures of his ilk to make a play for her hand. From this point of view, Lord Hartshorne's withdrawing his suit would be disastrous for her; her credit would be so diminished, she'd have to abandon all hope of a prestigious match and, to save face, take as her husband a man of far more modest wealth and rank. From society's perspective, that would be a catastrophic outcome and one to be avoided at all costs, but what if it were not a prospect that Helena herself dreaded, but was, on the contrary, precisely what she wanted?
Since the day she'd come under attack, Helena had been so consumed with defending herself and standing strong against society's censure that she'd lost sight of the larger context. It had completely slipped her mind that, a mere ten days before, she'd fervently wished that fate would intervene to spare her from having to receive and reply to a proposal from Lord Hartshorne, a wish that, she realized belatedly, was on the cusp of being granted, though, as was the way with such desperate wishes, in a manner and at a cost she'd not anticipated. She didn't want to marry Lord Hartshorne; whatever small doubts she'd had on that score had been driven out by her discovery of how mean and treacherous a society she'd be part of as his wife. She did not particularly fear, either, that her refusal would cause him pain. Lord Hartshorne had given her no grounds to believe his feelings were engaged. He had, instead, the air of a man fulfilling an obligation and in as efficient and expeditious a manner as possible. Helena, as the Season's most sought-after debutante and, what was more, a girl with his sovereign's seal of approval, had been judged worthy of his notice and, upon inspection, adequate to requirements. She "would do" was the sum total of his attachment to her.
All this notwithstanding, she still recoiled from declining his offer, and, upon submitting this reluctance to closer examination, made the startling discovery that she did not feel entitled to refuse. The disparity in their ranks was such, she could not but be sensible of the honor Lord Hartshorne did her in selecting her, and to decline that honor without a compelling reason struck her on some deep level as ungrateful at best and insolent at worst. How dared she, a mere baron's daughter, turn her dainty nose up at a marquess and future duke of the realm? Was she so arrogant as to think she could do better? Was she holding out for a prince? These mortifying questions had tormented her before but, unlike on previous occasions, she suddenly grasped they were not voiced by her own troubled conscience, but in the hectoring tones of society. It was, she realized, these internalized voices condemning her choice as misguided and disgraceful that had her shrinking from telling Lord Hartshorne 'no.'
If her parents had been the sort to embrace society's values and to urge her to marry Lord Hartshorne for the position, wealth and influence such a marriage would afford, she would have trusted to their wisdom and accepted the match. Her parents, however, had raised her to value material and worldly considerations less than the blessings of having a like-minded, loving spouse, a horde of lively children, and, through conscientious and productive work, the means of providing them with a comfort home in which to grow and flourish. This, then, was what she had learned to want for herself, and what she was unlikely to find in the rigidly formal ranks of the highest society. No, a congenial soul of more modest standing and fortune would suit her very well. Someone, for example, very like Lord Percy Claiborne…
The brilliant silver lining, then, to the dark cloud of society's disfavor was, as Mr. Farnsworth had demonstrated, that she was no longer being regarded as above the touch of lesser nobles and gentlemen of merely substantial means. This sorry change in her circumstances had been sufficient to encourage Lord Maxwell to resubmit his rejected suit. Why, then, should it not prompt Lord Percy to recalibrate his worth as a suitor and apply for her hand? This was, naturally, to assume it was only his sense of not having enough to offer which had held him back to date, but she was fairly sure this was the sole impediment. He had ever been constant in his attentions, thoughtful, kind, and, particularly over these last trying days, one of her stoutest and most committed champions.
Taken all together then, her disgrace promised to be something of a blessing in disguise. If society's rebuffing her resulted in Lord Hartshorne's drawing back and in Lord Percy's stepping forward, she would consider that outcome an excellent bargain. Regarded in this light, the looming disaster of her boycotted ball was not something to be dreaded, but rather welcomed and reveled in. If Lord Hartshorne's resolve was indeed wavering, a social failure of such magnitude could not help but tip the scales conclusively against her. Yes, decidedly, the bigger the fiasco, the better for her.
The maid had just secured the last rosebud in place and was stepping back to survey her work when Penny came into the room and appeared in the mirror over Helena's shoulder. Their eyes meeting in the reflection, Penny smiled and breathed out, "Oh, Lena! How splendid you look!" To the maid she said, "You've outdone yourself, Bailey. Bravo!"
If Helena had one regret about the evening's small attendance, it was that Bailey's remarkable work would not be as widely seen and appreciated as it deserved. Later, as she stood before her cheval glass smoothing down the skirts of her ball gown, she felt the same regret in regards to her modiste. Madame Yvonne's creation, fabricated of blush-pink silk with folds of snowy lace along the drop-shoulder neckline and puff sleeve edges as well as along the flounces of its voluminous skirts, was of so flattering a design and so intricately adorned with hand-sown beads and silk flowers, it was as much a work of art as a garment and ought to have established her as an artisan of exceptional quality, but such was not to be.
A final touch, one of her grandmother Steeple's more modest diamond necklaces clasped round her neck, and Helena went down to dinner and the company of their guests.
It was a family party, and, Damerel having no close relations other than Alfred and Constance, the others seated about the table were mostly Venetia's Hendred kin. The exceptions to this were two: Aubrey Lanyon and Walter Flavell. Conway, Charlotte and Roland Lanyon had all been invited, but had declined. Charlotte had given as an excuse that, having, with Venetia's permission, extended an invitation to the ball to her sister and niece, they preferred to arrive all together so as to spare Fanny and Jane any possible awkwardness. Venetia's cousin Marianne and her husband, lately arrived from Scotland, had been glad to attend in their place and Walter had been invited to make up the numbers.
Dinner was a convivial affair, all the more so, Helena suspected, for the Lanyons' absence. The sequence of courses was received with appreciation and pleasure, compliments repeatedly sent to the chef, and her father's discrimination in selecting fine wines applauded. The principle dessert, a triple-tiered, beautifully iced Savoy cake, brought the meal to a spectacular close, and that course cleared away, the party broke up, the gentlemen left to linger over their port and cigars, the elder ladies repairing to the drawing room for tea while the younger set stole away to take their first look at the ballroom.
The first impression upon entering was of brilliant, dazzling light. The two massive chandeliers, their crystals newly cleaned and sparkling, illuminated the whole cavernous space, their light reflecting warmly off the gilt medallions in the gold-and-ivory wallpaper. On pedestals set at intervals along the room's perimeter, large sprays of mixed blooms lent explosions of color to the scene, while the sweet scent of roses mingled with the pleasant smell of beeswax to perfume the air. The long expanse of polished floor had been extensively chalked with a profusion of flower and leaf motifs deftly arranged to suggest a luxuriant wreath. Helena, taking in the transformation her mother's industry and vision had wrought felt again a stab of sadness that the beautiful setting she'd taken such great pains to create would be seen and admired by so few.
At last, the hour having arrived at which the first guests might appear, Helena stationed herself with her parents at the top of the grand staircase in preparation for receiving them. As, for the first time that evening, the three were alone together, her father took advantage to take Helena's hands in his, and, leaning toward her, to place a kiss upon her brow. Straightening, he held her gaze, his beloved dark eyes fixed on hers with tenderness. "Whatever should happen tonight, Lena — be it a crush or a failure — always keep in mind that there are no parents living today, or any who have ever lived for that matter, who are more proud of their daughter than your mother and I are of you. You have grown up to be precisely the young woman we hoped you'd become, and tonight is the night we celebrate who you are and all you have to offer to the world. It's a joyous occasion, so you're to think of nothing beyond enjoying yourself. Do you hear me?"
Sudden tears sprang to Helena's eyes, but she blinked them away and nodded. "Thank you, Papa, Mama. If I am a credit to you, it's all I've ever wanted. You are the best parents anyone could ever wish for."
The murmur of voices and then of footfalls on the stairs rose up to them from below, and, turning expectantly toward the sound, they saw a party of some six to eight individuals making their way toward the landing, George and Enid Carstairs in the lead. The couple once greeted and welcomed, Enid, her color high and her eyes bright, gestured to the older woman coming up beside her. "My lord, my lady, you will be acquainted, I think, with my mother, Duchess Claiborne."
Venetia sank into a curtsy while Damerel bowed deeply. "Duchess," he said, a note of surprise in his voice. "It's an honor to receive you."
The duchess smiled indulgently. "Come, now, Damerel! Let us not stand on ceremony. It is long ago now, to be sure, but I've not forgotten how we danced together when I was first out." To Venetia, she confided, "He was an exceptional partner, your husband. Always so light on his feet. Quite unlike my dear Claiborne. Speaking of whom, His Grace is, regrettably, laid up with gout, the poor man, and so my godson here," she indicated the tall, attractive man of middle years to her right, "has kindly agreed to escort me. Stratton is known to you, I believe, Damerel?"
Damerel inclined his head. "I have that pleasure, yes. Welcome to our home, Stratton. May I present my wife and daughter. Venetia, Helena, Viscount Emory Stratton."
These introductions effectuated, the remaining two couples came forward in their turn. The resemblance between Lady Lowell and Enid was so striking that Helena hardly needed telling that she was her friend's elder sister Elayne. As for the other gentleman, he was so much an older, heavier version of George, he could only be Harold Carstairs and his petite companion, his wife. Both ladies expressed their delight at having been invited with Gwen Carstairs also thanking the Damerels profusely for what she called their 'kindness' in including herself and her husband.
"Not at all," Damerel assured her. "We're pleased you could come."
These first guests had no sooner moved on to the ballroom than a second large group arrived, this time with the Earl and Countess of Hendon at its head. With them was Lady Hendon's step-mama, Lady Jarvis, a woman of such high reputation and standing, she needed no introduction, and her son, Lord Jarvis, who, for all he was Lady Hendon's half-brother, was more of an age with his St. Cyr niece and nephew. He'd inherited his father's strong, blunt features, but, having taken in stature more after his diminutive mother, he stood a good foot shorter than Simon and Patrick who'd come up behind him. Callie, too, was taller than her uncle, as was the last member of their party, a gentleman of rigid military bearing whom Patrick introduced as his superior officer, Captain Sir Richard Lennox.
Having been greeted and given a warm welcome, these newest arrivals proceeded into the ballroom, all, that is, except Callie, who lingered behind, and, checking to make sure no one was currently approaching, gestured urgently for Helena to step aside with her a moment. When Helena had drawn close, Callie took hold of her hands, and, regarding her excitedly, said, "I have found her out! Your nemesis!"
"My...? Oh!" Helena gasped, confusion quickly giving way to eagerness. "Have you, truly? Who is she?"
"Well, as to her identity, I don't have a name as yet, but it will be no great matter to find it out. I chanced to see her walking in the park, you see. She was some distance away, and I could not make out her face for the large brim of her bonnet, but I could see her companion quite clearly. In fact, he was the one to catch my eye. He looked familiar but I couldn't quite place him, and then suddenly I remembered: he was that beastly cousin of yours I met on Derby Day!"
"Roland?" Helena, surprised, eyed her friend somewhat doubtfully. "Are you perfectly sure?"
Callie nodded. "He made a very strong impression, and besides he was wearing that same dark, angry look. You expect him tonight, don't you? Once he arrives, I'll draw him aside and winkle the woman's name out of him, see if I don't!"
"Callie…" Helena began to protest, but Callie's attention had been caught by movement beyond Helena's shoulder, and, turning to follow her gaze, she spied a stunningly elegant matron and two identical-looking young gentlemen making their way toward her parents. Her face wreathed in smiles, Callie said, "It's my cousin Stephanie, Helena! She couldn't promise me she'd come, but she has, and her sons James and Adrian with her! Come! I'll make the introductions."
From that point on, guests arrived with enough regularity that Helena could not actively grapple with Callie's revelation, but it played nonetheless at the back of her mind, pricking her with questions. Could Roland really have been the informant, and, if so, what did his being angry at his collaborator imply? Always short of money, had he been selling his inside knowledge to the woman only for her to renege on paying what was owed? The possibility of so sordid a transaction was so thoroughly repellent, she dreaded having her suspicion confirmed, and, as time passed and the Lanyons did not appear, she found herself hoping they would not turn up at all.
Lord Percy was late in arriving, but even so Helena had not once despaired of his coming, and, true to his promise, he arrived with half a dozen people in his wake. There was both pride and affection in his voice as he presented them all: his elder brother and his wife, Lord and Lady Hazeldean; his other brother, Lord Gareth, with his wife and that lady's younger siblings, Mr. Frederick and Miss Evelyn Armstrong. "Please forgive our arriving so late," Lady Gareth apologized. "Left to himself, Percy would have been here an hour ago, but we met with unexpected delays on the road, and he was obliged to wait for us."
"You didn't have far to travel, I trust?" Venetia inquired.
"Only from Bromley," was the light reply. "A mere ten miles or so."
Damerel nodded his appreciation. "A fair journey. We're indebted to you — all of you — for making the effort to join us this evening."
This was met with polite disclaimers and protests of "our pleasure" and "delighted to come." With that, they moved off toward the ballroom, Lord Percy falling in behind, but he found himself stopped short by Damerel's hand on his arm. "Claiborne," he said, "a moment, if you please."
Lord Percy stepped back a pace and waited respectfully. With a tip of his head, the baron indicated the ballroom from which emanated the happy burble and buzz of myriad voices raised in conversation. "It has not escaped my notice that, but for your initiative, tonight's gathering would be significantly smaller and far less impressive. You've put yourself to a good deal of trouble on my family's behalf, and I want you to know I am grateful."
"Oh! Ah…" Caught off-guard by these unlooked-for thanks, Lord Percy shifted awkwardly, and, cutting a swift glance at Helena, said quickly, "It was no trouble, sir, none at all. Glad to do it. And if credit is due at all, it is as much Lady Callista's as mine!"
"You may be sure she'll have my thanks as well." Damerel turned part way to Venetia, and asked, "What say you, my dear? Shall we join our guests? The hour grows late."
Venetia cast a helpless look toward the stairs, her manner conflicted. "Perhaps we might wait a few minutes more…"
The words had hardly left her lips when, like an answer to a prayer, the faint sound of voices and the patter of footfalls reached them from below. They all stood watching expectantly, her mother, Helena noticed, scarcely daring to breathe and then letting go a happy sigh as first Aunt Charlotte and then Uncle Conway came into view. Somewhat breathless herself, Charlotte hastened forward, a look of genuine chagrin on her face. "I'm dreadfully sorry we're so late!" she apologized. "I thought for sure you'd have given us up, and I wouldn't have blamed you if you had!"
"There, now," Venetia said soothingly, taking her sister-in-law's hand and brushing a kiss on her cheek. "You're not so late as all that! We were only just now thinking of commencing the festivities. Conway, my dear! Welcome! How very dashing you look!"
Helena came in for a great deal of fuss, her aunt exclaiming, teary-eyed, over how very beautiful she looked and her uncle, too, waxing uncharacteristically complimentary on her fine appearance. She responded with due gratitude and modestly, but a trifle absently, too conscious of the women waiting to approach to concentrate. They could be none other than her aunt's sister and niece, but when at last mother and daughter stepped forward, they proved to Helena's considerable shock not to be the strangers she expected but rather Mrs. Roger and Miss Beryl Stanhope. Helena regarded them in complete bafflement. How did they come to be there? Could Lord Percy, in his zeal to rustle up guests, have issued them invitations? She shot him a wide-eyed look, and he met it with a puzzled look of his own. As if from a distance, she heard her mother say, the hint of a question in her voice, "Mrs. Stanhope, Miss Stanhope, this is an unexpected pleasure."
Charlotte's face clouded over with confusion mixed with hurt. "You said I might invite them, Venetia."
"Your sister and your niece…" There was a beat of silence, and then, on a sharp intake of breath, "Oh!"
"The omission is mine," Charlotte acknowledged. "I should not have assumed you'd know. Venetia, Helena, Damerel, I present to you my dear sister, Fanny Stanhope, and my niece, Beryl Jane."