ridiculed the affectation previously, and that Marguerite was astonished at his sudden capacity for wine when he had always partaken of it in moderation before, claiming that it “gave him quite a head” whenever he had more than three glasses.
Andre was able to settle her bewilderment in some degree after discussing it with Finn and arriving upon a suitable rationalization. As one who had “served Sir Percy since her childhood,” she was the logical person for Marguerite to turn to with her questions. Andre had explained to Lady Blakeney that “Sir Percy could be mysteriously changeable.” She said that he had always been given to caprice and that he sometimes devised elaborate justifications for his fancies or dislikes. At one time, she said, he grew bored with eating chicken and so elected to tell everyone it gave him hives, undoubtedly because it seemed a better reason to abstain from it than a simple change of taste. The same thing with the wine, she said. Sir Percy had always been a fine judge of good wine and, as such, extremely hard to please. In order to avoid giving offense, she said, he often partook sparingly of an inferior vintage, claiming that he had no head for it as an excuse for avoiding further irritation of his educated palate. As for the eyeglass, she merely shrugged and advanced the theory that perhaps Sir Percy, anxious to make a good impression in London society, thought it made him look “a bit more baronial.”
“Sir Percy has always been most concerned about appearances,” she told Lady Blakeney. “But then, of course, you would know that very well, my lady.”
“Oh, Andre, surely when we speak in confidence like this you can call me Marguerite,” said Lady Blakeney. “After all you are the only real friend I’ve made thus far in England.”
Andre felt a twinge of conscience at her remark and hesitated briefly before continuing. “Well, Marguerite,” she said, “I do not think that there is any reason to concern yourself about Sir Percy’s sometimes unpredictable behavior. He is not ill or anything at all like that. Rather, much like his father, he likes to indulge his whims and passing fancies.”
“Ah, well,” said Marguerite, sitting on her bed and gazing down upon the floor, “I fear that I was such a passing fancy.”
“Oh, surely not,” said Andre. “Anyone can see that Sir Percy’s most devoted to you and that-”
“As you said yourself, Andre,” said Marguerite, glancing up at her and smiling a bit sadly, “Percy seems most concerned about appearances. Oh, it’s true, he was always so, a scrupulous follower of fashion, always attempting to decry affectation while he himself was so vulnerable to whatever was in style, always striving to be the bon vivant and the witty conversationalist when his attempts at repartee were so pathetic and amusing. You should have seen him at my salon in Paris with the likes of Beaumarchais and Saint-Pierre, valiantly trying to hold his own and floundering in water leagues over his head! None of my friends could understand what I saw in such a fool, but he seemed to worship me with a curious intensity of concentrated passion which went straight to my heart. He waited on me hand and foot and followed me about like an adoring puppy. But all that is over now. I suppose that I was just another of his whims, a passing fancy, a victim of his changeability. He wanted a pretty, clever wife, someone he could show off to his friends and, having attained his goal, now he has lost interest in all save those appearances of which we speak. I am like that chicken. He has grown bored of the taste and all that I can do is wait and hope that one day he will crave it once again. He seems so different now in so many little ways…” Her voice trailed off as she stared out the window at the setting sun.
“Sir Percy is a very busy man,” said Andre, feebly. “If it appears that he has little time for you these days-”
“He has no time for me these days,” said Marguerite. “You are right to defend him, Andre, it is loyal and admirable of you, but the truth is that Percy no longer loves me. How else can I explain the distance which has grown between us, a distance even greater than that which separates his bed from mine? I can think of nothing I have done to deserve such treatment except, perhaps…”
“Except?” said Andre in an attempt to prompt her, knowing that she was on the verge of bringing up St. Cyr.
Marguerite shook her head. “I’m tired, Andre, and I weary you with my self-pity. Go now and let me sleep. I must be at my best tomorrow so that I may charm the Prince of Wales and make my husband the envy of his peers for having such a wife. Be off to bed, now. It will be a busy day for all of us tomorrow.”
Andre said good night to her and left the room. She did not completely close the door, but left it open just a crack to listen for a moment. She heard what she expected, the soft sounds of Marguerite Blakeney weeping.
5
The Blakeney estate looked like a scene from an historical romance. All day, starting shortly after ten in the morning, guests had been arriving for the festivities. Most came in three main shifts. The earliest arrivals came for the shoot, attired in their finest sporting clothes and bringing with them their guns and servants, as well as a full change of clothing for the evening. Others came in time for high tea in the afternoon, following the shoot. The greatest number came for dinner, which was served promptly at seven.
The grooms were kept busy by the constant stream of coaches and carriages as the cream of London society arrived with their liveried footmen. A parade of richly enameled coaches with gilt trim and coats of arms kept the stablemaster and his charges working throughout the day to see to the comfort and feeding of the horses.
By midafternoon, the grounds of the estate were full of strolling couples, women in silk dresses and velvet robes, their hair elaborately arranged and topped with stylish hats with plumes, which they wore at rakish angles; men in suits of velvet and brocade and silk, richly embroidered and trimmed with lace and gold. Jewelry flashed in the sun, adorning throats and bosoms; in some secluded wooded spots, a few daring couples sported with no clothes at all, the women biting down on hand-kerchiefs to avoid crying out and drawing attention to their scandalous behavior. A large group stood on the upper terrace, looking down into the maze and laughing and shouting encouragement to those attempting to puzzle out the pathways through the hedges and those few who knew the secret of the urns kept it to themselves, enjoying the befuddlement of their unenlightened friends.
Lord Grenville was in attendance, as was William Pitt.
Edmund Burke was one of the late arrivals, coming in time for dinner. His rival in Parliament, Charles James Fox, followed closely on his heels. The Prince of Wales was one of the earlier arrivals and, though he shot poorly that day, he enjoyed himself immensely, taking a liking to the fashionable Sir Percy Blakeney from the start. Sheridan, the playwright and politician, arrived shortly after teatime and began to drink at once. A number of the gentlemen started to take bets to see how long he would remain standing.
The Blakeney staff left nothing to be desired as they worked tirelessly all day. The cooks outdid themselves with basted chicken, roast pheasant, steak and kidney pies, boiled vegetables, small sandwiches, scones, biscuits and plum puddings, fruits and tarts, and gallons upon gallons of wine and stout. There was an orchestra of strings to accompany the dancing after dinner and those much too full for such activity retired to the sitting rooms, where the women and the men congregated separately on either side of the ballroom in their respective parlors, the women chatting, sipping cordials, and playing card games while the men enjoyed their pipes and port.
Beneath a haze of smoke, they puffed on their long clay churchwardens and short clay pocket pipes filled with shag and Latakia. Several of the wealthier guests proudly showed off their meerschaums, which were in great demand, but could only be procured by those rich enough to hire skilled carvers to create them. Intricately carved from deposits of hydrous silicate of magnesia, a mineral substance formed by nature from the remains of prehistoric sea creatures, these exquisite pipes were treasured by their owners, who were fond of comparing their abilities to season them. Several of the gentlemen actually had their servants instructed in the proper art of smoking them, so that the pipes could be smoked constantly throughout the day until, after some two hundred bowlfuls or more, they had colored from an alabaster white to a light rosy pink, to a golden yellow and finally to a rich, dark brown. These pipes were as ostentatious as Sir Percy’s guests and they represented the wealth, stature, and fancies of the men who smoked them. Some were artfully carved into the shapes of stags being attacked by wolves, others bore the aspect of hunters and their dogs, nude women and the heads of 17th-century noblemen. Everywhere there was evidence of pampered luxury and rich indulgence and, in such surroundings, it was hard to believe that just across the Channel, there were people starving in the streets of Paris.
Marguerite Blakeney was the instant center of attention, attired elegantly, yet simply in a dress of ivory- colored silk, which set off her auburn hair and fair complexion to their best advantage. Her easy manner, her sweet,
