Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [178]
'Well, yes,' contributed Mrs Blouse, 'since she was the Countess of Ailesbury's daughter, and John Damer had £30,000 a year and the Earl of Dorchester for a father.'
Sir Harry Englefield shook his head. 'He was a wild young buck, though. After the first few years they lived apart.'
'Like in our play!' said Mrs Blouse with a squeal of insight. 'Poor Mrs D. couldn't seem to win his love back, no matter what she did.'
'I'm not sure it was ever a question of love in the first place,' put in Dick Edgcumbe.
'Or that she tried very hard to win him back,' added Mrs Hobart with a sniff.
Eliza's cheeks were scalding. What a disaster. How had she got herself tangled up in the secrets of these people? They were a little School for Scandal of their own. What did they think of her peculiar relation to Lord Derby; did they consider her a flirt with her eye on a countess's coronet? What did they say about her as soon as she went home?
'The fact of the matter is,' Derby told Eliza grimly, 'that the fellow got into such deep debt, together with his brothers, the Damers were going to have to flee to France—but instead he shot himself in a tavern.'
'No!' Eliza looked round at the lit faces; they seemed to her like pedigree hawks. She was reminded once again of how long they'd all known each other and how little she knew them.
'It was the Bedford Arms in Covent Garden,' put in Major Arabin. 'But oh, dear, now you'll shudder whenever you have to pass it, a woman of sensibility like yourself.' He laid a sympathetic paw on her shoulder.
'People were most unkind to Mrs Damer afterwards,' murmured Mrs Hobart. 'Really, it was quite extraordinary, the things that were said!'
'No need to repeat them,' said Derby.
'I've no intention of doing so,' she snapped.
Eliza had managed to edge away from Major Arabin's hand. 'So you see, in today's rehearsal,' murmured Mrs Bruce in her ear, 'to oblige our friend to explain her feelings on the subject of a cold-hearted husband and a shamed wife ... well, you couldn't have known, of course.'
Eliza bit her lip hard.
'Don't distress yourself, my dear,' said Derby.
She stiffened at the phrase and averted her head. He knew he was never to use endearments in public.
'Might this be a suitable interval for tea?' The Duchess of Richmond stood in the door of the saloon, blithe as always.
They all shot up. Had she heard them talking about her sister? If she had you wouldn't know it. The members of the World had such self-mastery, Eliza thought. But then, so had she, once she'd got over her mortification. 'Perfectly suitable, Your Ladyship,' she carolled, leading the group to the door.
SNOW WAS beginning to fall that afternoon, as if the mildness of March had shrunk backwards into winter. The Derby coach turned on to Grosvenor Square, the largest and most impressive of the three squares in Mayfair. It was more like a parade ground than a place to live, Eliza always thought, but it was popular; she'd once heard Derby mention that more than half its residents were titled. The oval park was thick with trees; the iron railings had a fresh coat of black paint, she noticed, and the statue of George I as a Roman emperor had been regilded.
'Are you sure it's wise to follow Mrs Damer?' Mrs Farren was clutching her workbag. 'His Lordship himself said it was none of your fault, the little upset.'
'You go on home, Mother, I won't be long,' said Eliza instead of answering.
'Well. If you're sure. I suppose it gives you an excuse to pay a call and get on visiting terms,' she added, brightening.
Eliza suppressed her irritation. Everything was policy for Margaret Farren; every step was an inch further up the ladder.
As they passed the irregular roof line of the north side she rapped on the ceiling, but the driver didn't rein in till fifty yards on, where the imposing arches and half-columns of Derby House stood out from the terrace.
'It was number 8 I wanted,' she said, as he opened the door and unfurled a large canvas umbrella.
'Number 8?' He repeated it as if