CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lady Jersey’s Opinion
“Lady Jersey is very active in making proselytes for the Queen, but very cautious herself.”
Quennell, Peter, ed., The Private Letters of Princess Lieven
Not only was the Right Honorable Sarah Villiers, Countess of Jersey, the wife of the Fifth Earl of Jersey—which would have been enough for most women—but she was also the undisputed leader of the board of patronesses for Almack’s ballroom. Almack’s Wednesday night balls were the heart and soul of the ton’s marriage mart, and no one was admitted to the festivities without Lady Jersey’s acquiescence. Her slightest disapproval could, and did, crush the hopes of the noble houses for generations.
Because of this, Lady Jersey was regularly named as the most powerful and influential hostess in London society. Her arrival at Rosalind’s door would be even more widely reported and speculated about than Rosalind’s arrival at Mrs. Fitzherbert’s.
The sensation of seasickness Rosalind had felt earlier threatened to return. She suppressed it ruthlessly and rose to greet her guest.
“Good morning, Lady Jersey. I am so glad you have decided to call.”
“Decided!” cried Lady Jersey. “What choice did I have!”
Without waiting for an invitation, Lady Jersey plumped herself down in the chair farthest from the fire. For Lady Jersey, strict personal decorum was something to be expected in others. When it came to her own behavior, her standards were noticeably more lax.
“Now, no more delays.” She pointed an imperious finger directly at Rosalind. “Explain yourself, Miss Thorne!”
“I would be glad to,” Rosalind said placidly. Lady Jersey abominated displays of emotion, in others. “If you could please let me know which point you wish me to clarify?”
Lady Jersey had already sprung out of her chair and begun to pace. “Which point!” she cried. “Miss Thorne, are you joking? Joking! When the fate of our queen, our queen—who ought to be respected as the very soul of the kingdom!—hangs in the balance, and you, Miss Thorne! You! Are seen entering the house of that woman!”
“I do apologize for any distress you have been caused, Lady Jersey.” It did not matter that she had done nothing. Once Lady Jersey perceived an injury, it would be impossible to change the subject until an apology had been delivered.
Rosalind sat down in her own chair, hoping her gesture would encourage Lady Jersey to sit back down, as well. Lady Jersey, however, did not seem to notice she’d moved.
“I have trusted you, Miss Thorne! I have defended you. Others challenged your want of taste and ton. They have even suggested you were descending to gross commerce.” She sneered the words. “That you were deliberately turning the most delicate matters of friendship and private understanding into a profession. But I, I”—she laid her hand over her heart—“said that Miss Thorne maintains an impeccable judgment, taste, and discretion.”
“I have always been grateful for your support,” murmured Rosalind.
“So, what on earth could you have to do with that woman?”
Rosalind did not answer. The parlor door had opened again, and Mortimer entered. The footman’s coat was crumpled, and he had the beginnings of a truly impressive black eye. This in no way affected his dignity as he carried in the coffee tray, which contained not only more warm rolls but also ginger biscuits and an apple tart.
“Thank you, Mortimer,” said Rosalind. “I will call if anything further is required.”
Mortimer bowed and departed. Rosalind hoped that Mrs. Singh would provide a poultice for his eye. It looked truly painful.
“May I pour you some coffee, Lady Jersey?” Lady Jersey had never lost the habit of taking coffee first thing in the morning, even though tea had long been the more fashionable beverage. “And won’t you try a slice of this tart? It is a new recipe, and I would be grateful for your opinion.”
The deflection worked. Lady Jersey could never resist being asked to pronounce judgment on any matter. She left off her exclamations, took the plate and the coffee cup that Rosalind passed her, and returned to her chair. She sipped, and she nibbled, her face sour with concentration. This gave Rosalind a few crucial moments to breathe and steady her nerves as she fixed her own coffee.
“Quite acceptable,” Lady Jersey mumbled. “A bit energetically spiced perhaps, but quite acceptable.” Indeed, she’d left behind nothing but crumbs.
“That was my opinion,” Rosalind told her. It wasn’t. She loved Mrs. Singh’s flavorful reinterpretations of the otherwise unvaried English cuisine. Rosalind permitted herself a decorous swallow of coffee before she set the cup down. “Now, if I may, ma’am, I do understand your concern regarding the report in the paper. I read it myself this morning, and I was quite distressed.”
“Well, I am relieved to hear that. I must say, Miss Thorne, I would be most disappointed if you became one of those publicity-seeking sorts of women.”
Rosalind bit the tip of her tongue. “Certainly not,” she murmured. “I do admit that I received a letter from Mrs. Fitzherbert last night requesting a consultation on a matter of personal business. Given her delicate position in society, I did not feel I could refuse her. I deeply regret that I was not more careful. I should have realized that her house would be watched for any unusual activity.”
“Which I could have informed you of, had you seen fit to take me into your confidence.” Lady Jersey sniffed.
So. That was it. Lady Jersey was offended not by Rosalind’s actions but by the fact that she’d had to learn about them from the papers. Her conversation with Alice from last night flickered through Rosalind’s mind.
“Lady Jersey is not my patroness,” she’d told Alice. Lady Jersey, it seemed, did not agree.
“I had intended to call this morning,” said Rosalind, which was not a complete untruth. “But the possibility that I might be followed by those persons”—she nodded significantly toward the window—“made me hesitate. The last thing I wished was to bring such unpleasantness to your door.”
“Hmmph.” But Rosalind could tell Lady Jersey was mollified. “Well, what is done cannot be undone. The important thing—no, the vital thing!—now is to prevent the king from being able to wriggle out from under the facts of his relationship with Mrs. Fitzherbert. I am the last, Miss Thorne—the very last—to wish that the personal be made public for anyone, let alone for the king! But he has brought this on himself!” She sighed at the deep tragedy of such misjudgment in one so highly born. “Now, what is it Mrs. Fitzherbert wanted of you?”
This was as gross a breach of etiquette as Rosalind had ever been a party to. Rosalind felt herself immediately grimly offended. How could anyone, even Lady Jersey, think that they simply had to ask and she would break a confidence?
Fortunately, she was saved from having to make any immediate reply by Mortimer entering with the salver in hand. On it lay not one, but two calling cards. Rosalind excused herself to Lady Jersey and took them. Lady Anne Hamilton, read the first. The second was for Lord Hamilton.
Rosalind’s brows wanted to arch. Her mouth tried to frown. She did not allow either gesture.
“Please make my apologies, Mortimer,” she said. “But I am not at home at present.”
Mortimer bowed and retreated. Rosalind set the cards face down on the table at her elbow, pretending to ignore the way Lady Jersey craned her neck trying to read them.
“I do apologize for the interruption, ma’am,” Rosalind said. “As to the other matter, of course I wish to help you, and Her Majesty, however I can. But as of yet, I have learned nothing beyond speculation and innuendo. It would go entirely against my conscience to say anything until I was in firm possession of the facts. I do not wish to cause alarm over what might turn out to be a trivial matter, especially—as you rightly point out—during such a time.”
Condescension filled Lady Jersey’s smile. “I have always admired your delicacy of feeling, Miss Thorne. But surely you understand that because the times are what they are, we must look to considerations beyond our personal inclinations.” She leaned forward. “It is as women we must support the queen, Miss Thorne. If her rights are taken from her—if her husband can set her aside without proof—what is to become of the rest of us?”
It was not an idle question. English law declared that marriage made two persons into one. It did so by erasing the independent identity of the woman. The legal terms told it all. An unmarried woman was feme sole—woman alone. A married woman, however, was feme covert. Woman hidden. The only separate right that law and custom recognized as remaining to her was the right to her husband’s material support.
If it was declared that the hidden woman had been unfaithful, that last right vanished.
Women at all levels of society were frightened and outraged by the possibility of the king’s divorce. If the king could discard his queen based on the mere accusation of infidelity, what chance did the rest of England’s wives have?
Lady Jersey, it seemed, shared their fears. Rosalind was not surprised. Despite having been declared the arbiter of all that was correct in society, Lady Jersey was known to have carried on several affairs. And then there was her mother-in-law, Frances Villiers, the previous Lady Jersey. That lady had been one of George IV’s many mistresses when he was still Prince of Wales.
The door opened again. Again, it was Mortimer, with the salver and three more cards. Rosalind took them up and laid them on the table without looking at them. “I am not at home to anyone, Mortimer,” she said.
The footman was still looking at the cards where they lay, unread. Curiosity dug hard at Rosalind’s ribs, but she did not relent. Mortimer bowed and retreated.
“Miss Thorne.” Lady Jersey’s tone changed, becoming confidential. “I ask you to understand me. I do not criticize His Majesty—of course I do not! But he is not able to see that this attempt to divorce the queen injures not only his reputation but also that of the Crown. Why, it threatens the very kingdom! But he is, in the end, simply a man, is he not?” Her smile turned knowing. “And men are so easily misled by their . . . weaknesses. I tell you in confidence, he has never recovered from the loss of his beloved daughter and her son. This has affected his judgment. It is our duty as his subjects to stand by him, and as Englishwomen to prevent him from injuring himself—just as we would protect our own husbands or brothers. Why, there are already rumors that he is thinking of returning to Mrs. Fitzherbert!”
Rosalind kept her expression mild, but only with difficulty. She needed to end this conversation and to remind Lady Jersey she was not entirely without resources of her own.
“Lady Jersey, I just realized, I forgot to inquire how your mother-in-law does.”
Lady Jersey’s mother-in-law, the dowager countess Frances Villiers, had had a singularly successful career as the king’s mistress. When the then Prince George was forced to marry, it was rumored that Frances Villiers had personally selected Princess Caroline of Brunswick for his bride. It was further said that she had done so on the grounds that the princess would never become her rival for the prince’s affections.
It was further rumored that part of the reason Sarah Villiers had begun the highly exclusive Almack’s assemblies was to get out from under the long shadow cast by her mother-in-law’s outrageous behavior.
Rosalind’s question had the desired effect. Lady Jersey’s mouth clamped shut. She drew herself up. “My mother-in-law is enjoying excellent health, thank you. She has taken a little cottage in the country for the summer.”
“Really?” Rosalind raised her brows the barest fraction of an inch. “I was under the impression she preferred Brighton.”
Lady Jersey sniffed. “Brighton is far too crowded for her taste.”
“I have heard many people find it so,” said Rosalind sympathetically. “Indeed, Mrs. Fitzherbert remarked on it the other day.”
Rosalind sipped her coffee and watched Lady Jersey from under lowered lashes. The bolt had hit home. Lady Jersey was powerful, but she was not invulnerable. If gossip about the king and his relationships was to be brought up during the trial, the machinations of the previous Lady Jersey could easily be included. If that happened, the current Lady Jersey—despite all her efforts and influence—might find herself swept up in the tide.
“I am glad to hear that the dowager Lady Jersey has chosen a quiet retreat,” said Rosalind conversationally. “No doubt her new home is too far from London for any persons”—again, she delicately nodded toward the window—“to pay unsolicited calls upon her.”
The look of horror in the current Lady Jersey’s eyes was real. “Surely they would not dare!”
Rosalind sighed. “Unfortunately, we’ve already had a taste of what the newspapermen would dare just this morning. Whatever can convince the reading public to choose their paper over some other is seen as fair game. Nothing is beyond the bounds of propriety.”
“You cannot have heard—”
“Oh, no!” said Rosalind quickly. “I have not heard anything about any newspaper seeking out the dowager countess. However, with such a scrape and scramble to fill the pages, I should not be surprised if the thought occurred to some ambitious person. If you wished for me to make some inquiries among my acquaintance, to see if there are any plans afoot—”
Rosalind met Lady Jersey’s calculating gaze with calm sincerity.
I am still useful, she said silently toward the other woman. I still help to look after your interests.
And I still keep your secrets.
“That, Miss Thorne, would be very helpful indeed,” said Lady Jersey.
“The atmosphere around us is so charged, and temperaments have grown so warm . . . it is important for us to protect each other, do you not agree?” said Rosalind. “We will all be looking to our hostesses to lead us through these troubles with calm and decorum.”
“Your understanding does you credit, Miss Thorne.” Lady Jersey’s tone was warm and slightly relieved.
“You may be sure I will do whatever I can,” Rosalind went on. “And if I hear anything that has bearing on our conversation, I will let you know just as soon as I am able.”
She had never in her life spoken a more carefully worded promise, or one that skirted so close to the edge of compromise.
“That is all I ask, Miss Thorne,” said Lady Jersey regally. “Now, I simply must fly!” She got to her feet. “The queen has said she requires my attendance. I must change, and of course, the lady patronesses must all be marshaled to show their support, although I must say some among us are making some very ill-considered remarks on the subject. Dorothea Lieven will not be persuaded. Stubborn creature. It may be that she has come to regard herself too highly. Indeed, it may be that she is no longer quite suited for the board.” Lady Jersey’s voice curdled with disdain.
Rosalind rose and rang the bell, pretending she had not heard this last remark.
Claire, the parlormaid, arrived with Lady Jersey’s shawl and bonnet. Still talking, Lady Jersey allowed herself to be helped into both. Rosalind made appropriate—and entirely meaningless—exclamations at the correct moments. At last, Lady Jersey left, and Rosalind was able to return to her seat. She picked up her cooling cup of coffee and gulped its contents in an entirely undignified fashion.
She was just setting the cup down when Mortimer returned, with the salver in his hand.
“I am still not at home, Mortimer,” she said. Any conversation with Lady Jersey left Rosalind a little worse for wear. This one had left her positively exhausted. She needed to collect herself, and then there were the cards that had already been left. Letters of regret and invitation to call again must be dispatched at once.
“Yes, miss,” he said, but he hesitated. “I’m afraid there’s rather a considerable line in front of the house.”
There would be. Rosalind felt the beginnings of a headache clench behind her eyes. She was known to have called on Mrs. Fitzherbert, and now Lady Jersey had called on her, and she had done so in her own carriage, with its crest plainly visible for all to see, including any errant newspaper—
Rosalind froze. The newspapermen. All those writers sent back to their editors with hands and notebooks empty. All their angry editors scheming how to fill their pages and . . .
Alice.