She dressed with especial care for the soiree that night. She had an impression to make. She would wear her best clothes and jewellery like the armour that it was, and she would ride into battle with all the confidence of Boudicca herself.
Fifteen
The gathering of intellectuals, writers, poets, artists and philosophers was one of dozens that took place around London all the time. Everyone liked to think that they were a rising star in their chosen field, and so the room was filled with lights, wine and a general air of self-importance. Adelia and Charlotte had ridden together in a carriage, and both had chosen to adopt an air of stony silence. It was probably for the best. Adelia had no intention of starting an argument before they arrived at the soiree, because undoubtedly Charlotte would produce another attack of the vapours which would necessitate turning the coach around and immediately returning home. Adelia would give her daughter absolutely no excuse to wriggle out of things this evening.
The soiree was held at the grand house of a couple called Bolton. He was the untitled youngest son of an old family and she was the daughter of a wealthy European Count, and both were gracious and enthusiastic hosts who greeted them warmly and led them inside. They were offered “the run of the house, the complete run!” and plied with champagne before being left alone so the hosts could greet the next guests.
But they were not alone for long. Lady Purfleet descended upon them. She greeted them with her typical quiet warmth. She kissed Charlotte on the cheeks in a familiar way and pressed Adelia’s hand lightly before leading them both across the grand room set out with little knots of chairs and couches. She was almost acting as if she were the hostess, not Mrs Bolton.
“Mama has never been to a gathering like this before, you know,” Charlotte said to Lady Purfleet. Lady Purfleet smiled.
“I am sure that when she was a young woman, as you are now, she too experienced her fair share of parties. This one has some regrettable guests ... in spite of my advice to the dear Mrs Bolton ... Oh – do excuse me – I believe Oliver Townsend is to recite his poetry in a short while. He’s rather ... pastoral, but it can’t be helped.”
Adelia was rather surprised at Lady Purfleet’s speech. That was the longest she’d ever spoken to Adelia in one go, and she had revealed far more than she usually did. Adelia wondered about the “regrettable guests” and realised that something had rattled Lady Purfleet. Mrs Bolton had not heeded her advice, for a start.
Adelia looked around for those regrettable invitations and the moment her attention had left Charlotte, her daughter seized her chance to disappear, heading briskly across to a small group of people who welcomed her with cheers and expansive gestures as if they were already drunk. Adelia was left rather rudely alone and she was annoyed all over again.
Then her gaze alighted on someone else who was likewise alone. She realised that it was none other than Octavia Dymchurch. As they had briefly met at a previous engagement, they had already been introduced. She had liked her although she recalled that Theodore’s impression had been slightly more negative – but then at that time Mrs Dymchurch had seemed to be pressing herself upon Digby Nettles. And anyway, didn’t Charlotte declare Octavia to be her friend? Adelia wondered how deep that “friendship” was. In London, one could be bosom companions in the morning and utterly cut off by supper.
Regardless of her daughter’s friendship or not, Adelia decided that this was a perfect opportunity to speak to Mrs Dymchurch.
She was pleased when Mrs Dymchurch smiled broadly in greeting. “Lady Calaway! How wonderful to see you here. Of course – your background is in the art world, is it not? So this must be like returning to your roots.”
“Thirty years have passed since I have been involved in this sort of thing. Times have changed.”
“Have they really, though? It is something that is said, of course. Yet it seems to me that with every advancing year, a new set of people come up announcing that the old world is dead and the new one is here. They overthrow all the usual morals and ideas yet the replacements are exactly the same as what was overthrown before them. There are no new ways of living. We are trapped in an endless cycle of pointless rebellion that brings us back to our starting point, that is all.”
“I am inclined to agree with you,” said Adelia. Mrs Dymchurch was maybe a decade or so younger than she was but clearly didn’t share Digby Nettles’ revolutionary views. “I would like to offer my condolences, if you don’t mind me abruptly changing the subject. I believe that you and Mr Nettles were acquainted.”
“Ah – yes, we were. My husband once purchased a painting from him.”
“Indeed? Was it a particular classic?”
“Oh – no, nothing that stood out. I cannot even remember the name of the artist. There were cows on it.”
“Cows?”
“Or some kind of livestock. They were awfully rectangular. I don’t rightly recall.”
So the painting was no longer displayed in her house, Adelia thought. Perhaps it brought back painful memories of her husband.
A hush fell through the room as a tall, fleshy young man stood on a low box and flourished a sheaf of papers. “That’s Townsend!” Mrs Dymchurch whispered to Adelia. “Bother. I should have had more to drink before he started. Oh well.”
It quickly became apparent that Oliver Townsend was not a poet with the potential to set the world alight with a well-chosen word or insightful observation. While Adelia stood still, politely listening, Octavia Dymchurch slid away towards a collection of chairs and took a seat.
The versifying dragged on. Adelia finished her glass. A discreet manservant had refilled it for her before she even noticed he was
