Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [27]
Mrs. Walters raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.
“I agree,” Eleanor Byam said quickly. “We cannot be indulging in great tragedy all the time. I saw Patience again last month. I still found it highly entertaining, and so many tunes stayed in my mind.” She glanced at her husband.
“Indeed,” he agreed, but he looked not at her but at Anstiss. “Did you not find the whole plot and the humor of it delicious—knowing your opinion of the aesthetic set?”
Anstiss stared somewhere over their heads, his eyes bright with inner humor, as if he took some point deeper than the mere words. “Mr. Oscar Wilde should be flattered,” he replied lightly. “His wit and his ideas have been immortalized and will be sung and whistled by half London, and done so without their knowing why.”
“Particularly the song about the silver churn,” Byam said quietly, smiling and looking at no one in particular. He hummed a few bars. “Magnetism is a most curious quality. Why do some have it, and some not?”
“Are you talking of metals or people?” Anstiss asked.
“Oh either,” Byam answered. “The mystery is equal—to me.”
“Rather an effete young man, I heard,” Mrs. Walters said with a quiver in her voice. “Do you approve of him, Lord Anstiss?”
“I admire his turn of phrase, Mrs. Walters,” Anstiss replied carefully. “I am not sure I would take it further than that.” His tone was very slightly condescending. “I was referring to his characterization in Bunthorne. Mr. Gilbert was making satire of the aesthetic movement, of which Mr. Wilde is the leading light.”
“I know that,” she said crossly, and blushed.
Anstiss flashed a look at Byam, then they both looked away again, but the understanding had been there, and in Byam’s face a spark of sympathy.
“Of course,” Anstiss said soothingly. “I said it only to explain my own feelings. I am not personally acquainted with Mr. Wilde, or with any of his admirers, for that matter. I have read a little of his poetry, that is all.”
“I prefer the classical theater.” Mrs. Walters now chose to take a completely different line. “Don’t you, Lady Byam? I saw Sir Henry Irving in Hamlet recently. That was truly inspiring.”
With a quick smile at Anstiss and a glance at Eleanor Byam, Charlotte excused herself, making a remark about her duty to other guests, and retreated, leaving the field to Mrs. Walters.
Charlotte spent the next half hour exchanging polite inconsequentialities with almost everyone she had not yet spoken with, passing by the table several times to make sure it was still in good order, watching the band to ascertain they were indeed sober, about which she had some doubts, and snatching an opportunity to report to Jack on the general success of the evening.
By midnight she was again walking with Great-Aunt Vespasia in a pleasant and companionable silence. They had reached the balcony beyond the main ballroom and came upon Lord and Lady Byam standing beneath the Chinese lanterns, the soft light casting a warmth over them and making Eleanor, with her dark hair, look faintly exotic.
Greetings were formal and very polite, then conversation passed quickly through the trivial to common interests, which of course were centered on the political scene. Not unnaturally the matter of future elections arose. Neither Jack nor Herbert Fitzherbert were mentioned, but a great deal of subtle reflections were made and more than once Charlotte caught Eleanor’s eye and they smiled at each other.
“Of course the matter is very complex,” Byam said quite seriously, but without the pomposity that Charlotte found most trying in some people who held high office. “One can seldom make a financial decision that affects only one group of people or one interest. I think some of our would-be reformers do not appreciate that. Money represents wealth, it is not wealth itself.”
“I don’t understand you,” Eleanor said with admirable candor. “I thought money was perhaps the most obvious form of wealth.”
“Money is merely paper, my dear,” Byam explained with a small smile. “Or