At last Lady Letitia, Anthea, and Corinna boarded the Bishop of Fairwells’s lantern-lit pleasure barge, which was one of the largest on the lake. Beneath a delightful red-and-white-striped awning at the stern, a long, beautifully decorated dining table had been laid with silver cutlery, fine plates, and crystal glasses. Lighted candelabra and lavish epergnes of flowers and fruit provided the finishing touch to a splendid setting.
The bishop’s guests had been promised an excellent view of the fireworks display, as the boat would sail close to the pagoda bridge. There would be twenty people in all, including, of course, Lord Henley, so lively debate was not only guaranteed but had already commenced as the three ladies boarded the vessel. The other guests were chattering as well, so there was quite a lively atmosphere.
Corinna’s courage faltered on being confronted by so many strangers to whom she would soon be introduced. Seeing her sudden nervous pallor, Lady Letitia told Anthea to take her aside for a while, so Corinna was ushered to the bow, where a young lady and gentleman were in intimate conversation, their heads bowed close as they stood in the shadows. Anthea hardly noticed them as she made Corinna sit quietly on a cushioned bench.
Corinna gave her a rueful look. “I’m sorry, Anthea, but when I saw all those people ...”
“I understand, Corinna, so please don’t apologize. It is one thing to have been brought up on an aristocratic but socially isolated Irish estate, and not too bad to join one of Aunt Letty’s intimate little dinner parties, or to visit a London art gallery where one or two people are introduced. But it is something else entirely to be suddenly faced with a gaggle of people of the capital’s highest society, all of whom will scrutinize every inch of you, then discuss you afterward.”
Anthea smiled at her. “You do not need to worry, you know, for you are very lovely, you look as delightful as a fashion plate, your manners are all that anyone could wish, and you cannot help but shine.”
“You flatter me, I fear.” Corinna fidgeted with her plum shawl. “You are very kind to allow me to use your wardrobe, but I cannot wait to have my own.”
“The dressmakers of London are working as hard as they can on your behalf.”
Corinna fidgeted with the shawl again, then cast a sideways glance at the couple in the shadows. “It doesn’t help that Viscount Heversham is here with his new love.”
Startled, Anthea looked as well, and sure enough it was the viscount, who was so absorbed in his redheaded companion that he had not noticed Corinna. Or if he had, he was unconcerned.
Corinna drew a long breath. “Well, I cannot blame him, I suppose. I didn’t exactly give him cause to hope.”
“And now you wish you had?”
Corinna hesitated. “I don’t know,” she replied frankly, “but I do know that I don’t like seeing him with someone else. Maybe I am simply a dog in the manger.” She looked ashore, raking the crowds intently, almost as if expecting to see someone.
“Whom are you looking for?” Anthea asked.
“Mm? Oh, no one. At least...” Corinna’s brows drew together in puzzlement. “Well, I don’t think I’m looking for anyone in particular, yet somewhere at the back of my mind I feel I am. Oh, dear, you will think me quite mad if I continue like this. I am in such a lather of nerves right now that I hardly know what day it is.”
Anthea smiled. “It’s Lammas Day, my girl, and we are about to enjoy a sumptuous dinner and watch the most fantastic fireworks display the world has ever seen. Surely that is cause for pleasure, not apprehension!”
At that moment Lady Letitia hurried up to them. “Anthea, my dear, I fear I have unwelcome news. The bishop informs me that the only guests still to arrive are Jovian and Sir Erebus Lethe.”
“Oh.” Anthea’s heart sank, for she did not think she could endure to see Jovian in his cups again.
Corinna’s interest quickened, however, and after a barely perceptible toss of head at Viscount Heversham and his ladylove, she rose to her feet. “I am feeling much better now, Lady Letitia.”
“I’m so glad, my dear. Society can be very intimidating, I fear, but I know you will carry it off. The next time will not be so bad, and soon you will enjoy it to the full.” Lady Letitia looked at Anthea, who had not said anything since learning of Jovian’s inclusion in the party. “Are you all right, my dear?”
“Not really. I would much rather not see Jovian.”
Her aunt touched her arm. “We will stay well away from him.”
Anthea didn’t reply. Her spirits had plummeted, and she wished to go home.
Lady Letitia guessed her thoughts. “It would be unconscionably ill-mannered to depart simply because Jovian may misbehave in some way. We are obliged to wait until he does misbehave.”
But then she saw Jovian and Sir Erebus approaching the barge, pausing on the way to speak to some other gentlemen. “Well, we shall soon see what transpires, for they are here now,” she murmured, “and, oh dear, I’m afraid Jovian appears less than sober.”
Anthea gazed unhappily at the man who maintained such an unfair hold upon her heart. He was matchlessly handsome and elegant in evening clothes, yet so obviously in drink that Sir Erebus had to support his elbow to keep him from swaying. But even in this state there wasn’t a man in London who could hold a candle to the twelfth Duke of Chavanage. Deeply flawed he might be, but outwardly he would always be closer to perfection than any of his peers.
For a moment his glance met hers, and something reached out to her, as if the old Jovian were still there, hidden deep within the shell he had become. But almost immediately she again saw only the drunkard who had trampled upon her soul. She turned away, trying in vain to shut him out, but he remained in her head, a sad echo of a future that had once offered only joy.
Then she thought she heard him say her name, as if he stood at her side, yet he was still ashore and now gazing toward Westminster Abbey, which was just visible in silhouette against the dark eastern sky. His face was withdrawn, not quite to the point of lack of interest in the proceedings, but certainly as if his mind were elsewhere. Possibly he was wondering when his next drink would be forthcoming, she thought uncharitably. Oh, how angry she was with him; how bitter, disappointed, and let down. He had failed her, and she wished she could despise him as he deserved.
Suddenly she pulled her shawl around her shoulders. “I must speak to him,” she said.
“Is that wise, my dear?” Lady Letitia’s expression spoke volumes as to how unwise it was.
“I will not be long,” Anthea declared, and before anything more could be said, she hurried along the lantern-lit deck and then ashore. Within seconds she was approaching Jovian, who turned immediately, as if sensing her.
“Good evenin’, hic, Anth-thea.” His voice was muzzy, yet his gray eyes were surprisingly alert.
“Please tell me you do not mean to come on board in such an inebriated state!” she declared, emotion making her almost strident.
He glanced at Sir Erebus, who was deep in conversation with one of the other gentlemen, then said in a quiet but imperative tone. “It would be better if you stayed ashore, Anthea.” Suddenly his diction was firm and clear, without a hint of liquor.
She stared at him, as much taken aback by the improvement in his voice as by what he said, but then Sir Erebus turned. “Is anything wrong, Lady Anthea?” he inquired.
Jovian hiccupped, then laughed too loudly. “Methinks sh—hic—she’s been at th’brandy, Lethe, for I v-vow she’s asked me if—hic—she should go on the barge or not. As if I would know!” He swayed alarmingly and clutched Sir Erebus’s shoulder for support.
Anthea was stung. “Oh, there is no point in speaking to you at all, sirrah, for you are beastly drunk as usual. I pray you do not come near me again tonight.”
“I didn’ c-come near you now. You c-came to me, remember?” He raised an imaginary glass to her.
Sir Erebus disentangled himself from Jovian and came to draw her hand gently over his arm. “I’ll see that he leaves you alone, Lady Anthea. Now, please allow me to escort you,” he said kindly, and ushered her toward the boat again.
His genuine concern brought sudden tears to her eyes. She blinked them back. “Forgive me, Sir Erebus, I am afraid I still find it difficult to believe the duke is so changed.”
His fingers rested briefly over hers. “I quite understand, Lady Anthea. Believe me, he does not mean to be as he is; I fear he just cannot help himself.”
She halted. “You are his friend, Sir Erebus, do you know what happened to him? Why did he suddenly turn to drink like this?”
He exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what lies behind it, Lady Anthea. I have known him since I became his neighbor about twelve months ago, but he has not confided much that went on before our acquaintance. He may have always been a drinker, albeit secretly at first.”
“No, I’m sure not.” She would have known. Wouldn’t she?
“It is none of my business, I know, Lady Anthea, but my advice is that you forget him.”
“He is already in the past as far as I am concerned,” she fibbed, determined that the statement would very soon be true. She had to make herself accept that the Jovian Cathness she had loved had gone forever.
“There are other fish in the sea, Lady Anthea,” Sir Erebus said softly, as they reached the railed plank to the pleasure boat. The inflection in his voice could not help but command her attention, and she knew he was telling her he was one such fish. He raised her hand to his lips. “I trust we shall meet again, soon,” he murmured, smiling again.
“I trust so too, Sir Erebus,” she replied, politely but rather unwisely. She did not mean to encourage him but was swept along by the moment and grateful for being rescued from her self-inflicted confrontation with Jovian.
She went back on board and found Corinna and Lady Letitia waiting anxiously. “What was all that about?” Lady Letitia demanded crossly.
“I... I just asked Jovian not to come near us.”
“And he agreed, I trust?”
Anthea glanced ashore. “Not exactly, but Sir Erebus promised to see that he keeps away,” she murmured.
“Ah, the gallant Sir Erebus,” Lady Letitia murmured. “Such a gentleman, and no mistake.”
Corinna sighed. “And so annoyingly interested in Anthea. I wish he liked me even half as much.”
“So much for your equivocation over Viscount Heversham,” Anthea replied, with what she hoped was a light laugh. “Besides, Sir Erebus only spoke to me because I was silly enough to try reasoning with Jovian. I am quite sure that when he meets you, I will very soon be forgotten.”
Lady Letitia’s eagle eyes missed nothing of her niece’s inner distress, so she diverted Corinna’s attention by taking her to meet someone. Anthea returned to the bow, which was now completely deserted, and sat on the bench to compose herself. But her unsettled mind dredged up the past, in particular the terrible night that Jovian’s cruel tongue had finally forced her to end matters between them.
It happened at Lord and Lady Farnborough’s 1812 Christmas ball.