Love and Scandal, page 25
“I need your help, Loxy,” Collette said over tea at Philoxia’s home. They sat in the atrium, a sunny, plant-filled room with windows to the ceiling. It was like sitting in a jungle, surrounded by aspidistras, ferns, rubber plants and giant palms. A parrot squawked from somewhere above. They sat at a lovely little table clothed in a gaudy fabric printed with more jungle plants and Macaw parrots. The total effect was a cheerful jumble of color and sound and scent, a joyous assault on the senses.
“How can I help?”
“Have you seen this?” Collette tossed the latest outrageous column in the Gazette on the table.
Philoxia shuddered. “No! I have sworn to never read that again now that I know how fallacious the material is and how hurtful to those who are the subjects of its gossip. I have no excuse. With a past like mine I ought to have known how gossip hurts, but I let my basest addictions lead me.”
“Just once more, dear,” Collette said, chuckling, touched that her dilemma had so affected her friend.
Philoxia scanned the piece. “Of all the contemptible, vile pieces of trash! How can they get away with saying that?” Her lovely eyes widened, but then she leaned forward, and in a lower voice said, “Did you really kiss Jameson in public? And…and did you go with him to his cottage?”
Collette said, “Yes, I did. He… Oh, Loxy, every time I am around him I lose my good sense.” She put her bare hands to her flaming cheeks. “I start imagining things and feeling things…but that is not what we are supposed to be talking about.”
Mischievously, the other woman said, “Why not, dearest? I have been a married woman. I can certainly understand those very strange feelings you are having.”
“Loxy!” Collette picked up the paper and swatted at her friend.
She giggled, unrepentant. “Remember,” she said, her dark eyes flashing. “I was the one who experienced those things even before marriage! When I ran away from school I spent three months with Gordon before…before he left me. And then years as a married woman.” She saw the look on Collette’s face and sobered. “What can I do for you, other than tell you about sex, for perhaps that particular lecture would come too late?”
Blushing deeply and trying to keep from remembering Jameson’s skillful lovemaking, Collette ignored her friend’s question, and said, “I want you to throw a party to introduce the author of The Last Days of a Rake.”
“Really?” Philoxia said carefully. “And who would you have me invite?”
“Everyone. Everyone who is anyone. I’m tired of hiding. It is time Colin Jenkins was introduced to the world.”
Twenty-One
Randall Proctor sat and stared at the large cream-colored square of parchment. It was his name on it and it had come to him at Wilson’s Gazette. Was it some kind of joke? Was someone having him on?
But no, surely no one would take a risk like that. They must know he would be skeptical and would check it out. It would be a pointless prank, and the kind of people who could afford parchment like this did not indulge in pointless pranks.
So he must believe that he had been invited to Mrs. Philoxia Bertrand’s home on the night of September first. He read the invitation over again.
Mrs. Philoxia Bertrand would like to extend to Mr. Randall Proctor an invitation to a select evening of entertainment in honor of the first public appearance of the novelist Colin Jenkins, author of The Last Days of a Rake.
Saturday, the first of September eighteen hundred and fifty-five at seven o’clock in the evening.
What did it mean? Was this because he was the one that broke the news about Charles Jameson? Jameson was often at Mrs. Bertrand’s home—she had a reputation as the first among London literary hostesses. Was Jameson finally admitting everything?
Whatever it was, of course he had to go. He could get enough material for a feature story and bags of good dirt for the gossip column, too. Mrs. Bertrand was very well connected, and these invites had probably gone out to anyone who was anyone in London.
His first order of business must be to go see a certain gent who could pilfer him a proper suit of clothes for an evening among the high muckety-mucks. Wouldn’t do to go looking less than his best. And maybe he could “borrow” a nice stickpin for his tie, too. He grinned and rubbed his hands together. This smelled like a breakthrough to him.
Philoxia gazed uneasily at the guest list and raised an eyebrow at Collette. They stood in her bedchamber, a lovely room with gold-figured wallpaper and windows draped so heavily that even at mid-day it was dim and a lamp was lit. “Are you sure about this, dear? It seems like a recipe for disaster.”
“I am sure of nothing anymore, but that I need to do this for myself. I know you do not approve of Marian and George, but they have taught me a lot about what is important in life. I’m not going to hide behind a fictional name anymore.” She gazed in the cheval glass the maid had wheeled in from the dressing room and patted down the dress, a burgundy silk of Philoxia’s altered to fit her more slender frame. “This is a beautiful dress, and you are a dear to allow me to wear it,” Collette said. “But, oh, Loxy,” she continued mournfully. “You should have seen the lovely gowns Mrs. Parker was making for me. There was a gorgeous emerald crepe de chine, and a gold walking dress, and lovely gloves and a fan and…” She sighed deeply.
The other woman laughed, tossing the list aside and coming up behind her friend. She gazed at her face in the mirror. “If you have become addicted to such pleasures as a luxurious wardrobe you will just have to do what I did, dear, and marry a wealthy man!”
“Bosh!” Collette said, starting to take the gown off with the help of Philoxia’s dresser, a dour Scotswoman named Gladys. “I will earn it myself or go without.” Pensively she added, staring down at the figured carpet, “I will never marry. With my luck I would end up with someone like Herbert Dancey! Unless I can find a man like George Lewes…”
“That ugly fellow?” Philoxia shuddered. “How could a woman kiss him, even in the dark?”
“Loxy! How cruel of you. How can you say that?” Collette turned and frowned at her friend. “You do not know him. He is the sweetest, most honorable of gentlemen.”
“Honorable?” Philoxia bridled. She swept around her room with sharp, angry motions and then stood facing her friend again. “To seduce poor Marian Evans into deserting her place in society for him?”
She just didn’t understand, Collette thought sadly. She hadn’t at first, either, and she had to admit Philoxia’s comments about George’s looks echoed her own first thoughts. She had grown, she hoped, even in just a few days. Judgment so swift and cruel would never spill from her lips again. George Lewes’s plain looks improved with every moment spent in his company and every smile on his homely face.
Collette pulled on her plain brown traveling dress again and turned, allowing Gladys to do up the back for her. Loxy saw what everyone else saw. They saw what Marian had given up, but not what she had gained. Life was a barter. If you got what you needed and gave up what was of no use to you, then you won something precious in the exchange. What good was a stainless reputation if you had to live by everyone else’s rules, never allowed the freedom to choose your path?
Philoxia was perhaps not the best judge, having suffered so from her own bad judgment in a case that could be considered similar to Marian’s. She had cast George in the role of her own faithless lover and disliked him accordingly. But Marian Evans’s choice had been the decision of a mature mind, while Philoxia had been a rebellious sixteen-year-old when she ran away with a man she had no intention of marrying. For all of the similarities, there were very few points of connection.
George and Marian had become valuable friends, understanding Collette better, sometimes, than she did herself. Marian, though she teased Collette about her abominable taste in men, was at the core sympathetic over her disappointment in Jameson. She understood, she said, how a woman’s heart could be attracted by an unworthy object even when confronted with proof of the gentleman’s worthlessness. Her words held the echo of past pain, but Collette did not pry.
She pulled her sleeves down and straightened, glancing at herself once more in the mirror, looking at a reflection to which she was accustomed: herself in plain attire. She refused to feel sorry for herself. She had made her decision when she sent Marian to the door with the message that she had no wish to see Charles Jameson ever again, and he had never been back. He had not acted the part of a true gentleman. A real gentleman would have been more concerned for her and her reputation. And he had never tried to straighten out his misidentification as the author of Last Days.
She had recognized her fascination for him as what it was, she thought, mere physical reaction to his astounding good looks, charm and charisma. She had reevaluated her own opinions of what made a man worthy, in the last few days, and not one of those items made her final list.
Although—
She still could not think of him without a deep, mournful longing. Making love had been one sweet part of their time together, but there had been so much more. When she counted up all of his faults—and there were many—and weighed them against one thing, she still could never forget him. That one thing was, whenever she was with him, he filled her with joy. Despite all his faults, he gave her something no one else had ever done, but whether it was the undivided attention he lavished upon her or something else, she could not say. It was unfathomable, and she was no closer to understanding it than she was the first night on the train.
But she had to take her life into her own hands. And that was what she was going to do that very night. After revealing herself as the infamous author Colin Jenkins, she would retire back to Listerwood and write Susan’s story. She would explore her own soul, if need be, and maybe, if she was lucky, her good friends George and Marian would give her the criticism and evaluation she needed to become a better writer.
More than ever she was convinced there was not another man of George Lewes’s stamp in the world. What other man would put up with a scribbling wife? With Collette’s solitary rambling down country lanes, her occasional absentmindedness when she was working out a plot detail, her ink-stained hands, paper everywhere, she was not a fit wife, and yet she could not give that part of her life up for anyone.
She gazed at the prim, lonely figure in the mirror, the figure of Colin Jenkins, author. Soon to be known as Collette Jardiniere, lady novelist.
“What do you mean you have not been able to run him to ground? The fellow must live somewhere!” Jameson paced behind his desk and then mashed a cigar out in a dish, glaring at the man across the desk from him. “You said you could find anyone, anywhere!”
Dick wore a stubborn expression on his pale face. “Didn’t say as I ’adn’t found where he lives, did I? But though the man has lodgings, he spends most of his time away from home. Landlady says as long as ’e pays his shot, she don’t care. And he does. Pays his shot, that is, and on time.”
Eyeing him with disfavor, Jameson said, “You know that Colin Jenkins you tracked down in Snellcombe? He turned out to be a pastor who writes tracts! I spent two hours bored to death watching him messily consume beef and pickle, only to find out he writes claptrap the like of which you have never read.”
The young man attempted, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile. “I said he was a writer, sir. You didn’t give me the time to research further. I could o’ done that and saved you a couple o’ days to Blackpool and back.”
“That is not the point,” Jameson stormed. “The point is that was a failure, and now you cannot find one journalist in the city of London.”
“Lot o’ writing blokes in this city, sir. Like I said, I didn’t say I couldn’t track him down, just that I hadn’t yet. Is it my fault that he never goes home to sleep? I have to occasionally, you know. And there does not seem to be any dirt on him either. Not what you want, anyway.”
Jameson flung himself into a chair and listened while Dick expounded on Proctor’s background—poor—and upbringing—almost non-existent—finally winding up with the man’s current status. He was a paid journalist for Wilson’s Gazette, and rising fast through the ranks, though he was almost without formal education. He was not well-liked by his colleagues because he was not above stealing a lead or a story when it suited him, but as his whole life seemed to be dedicated to his job, he did not appear to miss his lack of social life and friends. He had no lady friend, nor had he ever abandoned a woman. He did not drink immoderately, or gamble at all, and he seemed to sleep very little.
What he did have was a formidable network of spies, including butlers, footmen, waiters, barmaids and even some impoverished upper-crust hangers-on who exchanged tidbits of gossip for drinking and gambling money. It was thought that he might have connections with the underbelly of London society, the thieves and fences, but there was no proof.
Dick finished his report and folded his hands over his jacket and stared at his employer.
Jameson was silent for a minute. Grudgingly he said, “I suppose you’ve done all you can.”
“I have.”
“We’ll let it go, then. I’ll have to find another way at Randall Proctor. I shall go to Wilson’s Gazette myself and demand his head on a platter.”
“Or you could go to Mrs. Bertrand’s literary party for Colin Jenkins,” Dick said, straightening his cuffs.
“Mrs. Bertrand’s… What are you talking about?”
Again stifling that maddening smile, Dick said, “Didn’t you get an invite, sir? I thought for sure Mrs. Bertrand would invite you. ’Specially since she has invited Proctor. Though I suppose she thought it wouldn’t be good to have the real Colin Jenkins, whoever that is, and the fake Colin Jenkins at the same party.”
The young man’s eyes snapped with curiosity, but Jameson took a mean satisfaction in not enlightening him. So, Collette was revealing herself, eh? She had decided to abandon the shadows and show the literary world who the most talked about young author for some time really was. But what did Dick mean…?
“Are you saying that they have invited that hack journalist Proctor to this party and not me?”
“I have it on good authority, sir, that one invitation was sent out to Mr. Randall Proctor of Wilson’s Gazette. And that the response was affirmative. He will be there. Tonight. At Mrs. Bertrand’s residence.”
“Then so will I,” Jameson growled.
“Philoxia, I feel sure we have made a dreadful mistake,” Collette said for the third or fourth time, as they stood in her entrance hall, awaiting the first of their guests. The gasoliers shone brightly, just as they had the first night Collette had visited with Henny, but now she was to be the literary guest of honor.
“This was your idea to begin with!”
“I know, but now I think it was a mistake.”
“That is just your nerves talking. All will be well, dearest. I did not approve of your decision at first, but if you are going to do this, be steadfast.” Philoxia, impeccably turned out in black silk, with diamonds sparkling at her throat and in her glossy hair, was a picture of regal serenity.
She would emulate her friend, Collette thought, even if her meager height, slim build and fairer coloring could not compete in elegance. She was dressed in a flattering shade of burgundy, and wore some of Philoxia’s rubies at her throat and on her ears, and her auburn hair had been dressed high by her friend’s talented dresser. At least she felt well turned out, even if her own reflection in the mirror had startled her. Standing tall so that her spine was straight and her chin up, Collette said, “You’re right. Steadfast. I must be brave.” Her shoulders sagged and she leaned against her friend for the briefest of seconds. “Oh, I so wish Marian had agreed to come!”
Philoxia, trying to hide her hurt expression, said, “I think Miss Evans did exactly the right thing. She did not want you shunned because of her, nor did she want her own notoriety to overshadow your introduction to London literary society. Her delicacy is to be commended. For once.”
“I meant that as no comment on your support, my dear,” Collette said, having caught the flash of wounded sensibility on Philoxia’s elegant features.
“I know. I wish Henny were here. She always believed in you, you know.”
Collette frowned and shook her head.
“No, truly,” Philoxia said earnestly, turning and taking Collette’s gloved hands in her own. “I know you are angry at her, but Henrietta did always feel you would become something, someone important.”
“Too bad she lets her husband dictate her tastes and her friendships,” Collette said, pulling her hands away and folding them in front of her.
Philoxia opened her mouth to speak, but Collette interrupted her. “I know, I know. I will do my best not to bear a grudge. We have done our part in writing to her, though her husband probably consigned the invitation to the flames as he lectured her about her duty to him and her babies. Despicable man!”
“I think you will have to do better if you do not intend to bear a grudge.” Philoxia was smiling, so her words did not bear a sting.
Collette smiled back and took her friend’s hand again. “You will help me. And in turn I will help you come to an understanding of the worth of Marian and George. I know you too well to think you will be prejudiced against them forever, with so little cause.”
Philoxia squeezed her friend’s hand and with a wry expression said, “I always thought you timid in expressing yourself. I think a sea change is coming over you.”
“I am being led by the strength of friends, all my friends!”
“You are finding your own strength. My dear, I hear a carriage outside!” Philoxia said, dropping Collette’s hands and straightening to her full height.
Collette felt a chill go down her back. Now was the moment to turn tail and run. She could still do it, and for a few seconds it seemed preferable to letting all of these people in on her secret identity. She almost could not bear the thought of their questioning eyes on her, all of their secret surmises, their inner questions.
