Could I tell you where I was taken? I could not. Lord Barbeau’s coach was grander by far than that of the Earl of Wellborne. Black with a gold crest on the door, two footmen at the back, the coachman and another footman at the front – all were turned out immaculately as were the four grey horses. If I had imagined that I would be able to sit back and enjoy the novelty of such luxury, I was much mistaken for it soon became apparent that Lord Barbeau’s carriage caused heads to turn and children to run behind it.
My knowledge of London was so limited that I could have been in a different country. We bowled along, away from the tight-packed houses to where the roads widened and eventually we came to a stop by high brick wall. The carriage door was opened, the steps pulled down, a footman helped me to alight and there stood a man who announced himself as Lord Barbeau’s butler. He bowed.
‘Madam,’ he said, ‘it is His Lordship’s wish that you wear a blindfold until we reach the garden gate.’
It seemed a strange request but then the whole thing had something of the unreal about it. I was already nervous and the blindfold did nothing to calm me.
The butler led me, giving instructions as we went.
‘Madam, if you would lift your foot…here is a step…’ and so on and so on until I felt gravel under my shoes.
At last, the blindfold was removed. The butler bowed and took up his position as a wordless statue beside a heavy, studded oak gate. The key that I held in my hand was thin and delicate and appeared incapable of opening a jewellery box, let alone such a stubbornly well-established door as this.
I turned to the butler for guidance. His face was inscrutable and, seeing that it was not in his remit to advise me, I pushed at the gate to find it well and truly locked.
‘Feathers and dust,’ I said and put the key in the lock. With a click the gate opened.
I’d had all the previous day and a sleepless night to imagine what this garden might be like. Hope told me of a duke who had shown her his magnificent grounds by way of seduction, and this I presumed would be similar. She described a formal arrangement of small box hedges planted in geometrical patterns, gravel paths ending in the necessary explosion of fountains – an illustration, if one was needed, of his grace’s power and virility.
Instead of anything so formal, I was greeted by an arbour that hid the rest of the garden from view. I walked through an archway glowing with rosehips, and beyond it were herbaceous borders filled with autumnal flowering plants whose names I knew not, whose colours had such riches in them – reds and scarlets, a tapestry of russets. The sunlight, dipped in rose gold, threw long shadows across a maze of curved and winding walkways. The garden’s very size, its intimacy, had a deeply reassuring quality, for I thought any man who could have planted such a garden must have a fine knowledge of women. A mist had begun to rise, a blush of modesty over such an immodest design. Beauty was to be found here in the dying of the year. Who would imagine that at the heart of green leaves burned such passionate reds as autumn brings, beauty defying death in all its finery.
In the middle of this voluptuous garden was an oblong clearing where trickled a little stream. Nervous as I was, I couldn’t help smiling. Overlooking all was a bower where flaming leaves were falling and inside sat Lord Barbeau. Neither his costume nor his mask had served him well at the masquerade ball. I couldn’t call him handsome, for he was more than that and not that at the same time. His eyes were grey, his mouth neither full nor thin-lipped, his features not chiselled but not undefined. He was extremely elegant, a fashionable man of the metropolis, and I didn’t for a moment imagine the ruby and diamonds in his cravat were anything other than the finest, as were those in the buckles on his red-heeled shoes. His wig was of a dark grey, well fitted, and his three-cornered hat sat beside him. Both hat and master looked as if they had been waiting some time. I curtsied.
He stood, bowed, then, taking my hand, lightly kissed the tips of my fingers.
Two footmen appeared, one carrying a tray with two gold crystal glasses. While he poured the wine, the other helped me to my seat.
‘Does my garden please you, my sprite?’ asked Lord Barbeau.
‘Very much, sir,’ I said.
I made to lift the glass to my lips and found I was trembling.
‘My dear sprite,’ he said. ‘I will not ravish you against your will.’
‘Forgive me, my lord,’ I said. ‘I didn’t expect the garden to be…like this.’
He leaned forward and looked at me with interest. ‘And what kind of garden is this, pray?’
My cheeks were on fire. Surely there could be no mistaking its design. I chose my words carefully. ‘I am told that gardens are designed to show off a gentleman’s power and that they usually end in an explosion of fountains.’
‘Yes,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘It’s rather predictable, all that rising water amid tight little beds of coiffed bushes. But I interrupt you – pray, continue. What do you think this garden says?’
‘It echoes a secret that I would think few men understand, or have any interest in showing that they understand.’
‘Go on, my sprite.’
‘I think it’s fashioned to be the inner part of the Venus mound, and we are seated at the spot of all desire.’
‘Most delicately put, my sprite, most acutely observed.’ He smiled, and leaned back. ‘I have shown my garden to but a handful of ladies. When I was younger I needed nothing to go before me. Now I am older I must rely on my garden to win you.’
‘Not at all, sir,’ I said. ‘You and the garden enhance one another. Which is more than can be said for the Scapino costume.’
Lord Barbeau burst out laughing and I too found myself in a fit of giggles.
‘I looked ridiculous, did I not? That was Kitty’s doing. If there had been a donkey costume, no doubt she would have insisted I wore it.’
It was twilight and I wondered how long we were going to sit there for soon we would not be able to see one another at all. I jumped. Suddenly the garden had become illuminated without a hand to help it.
‘Do not be alarmed,’ said Lord Barbeau.
‘How do you do that, sir?’ I asked.
He smiled. ‘You are not the only person who can do the extraordinary, my sprite. But I rely on scientific inventions, which as you see, can be just as magical.’ He paused, then said, ‘Queenie told me you have just lost a gallant.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Was he your first?’
‘Yes, sir, he was.’
‘And I surmise that you fell in love with him.’
‘How do you know?’ I asked.
‘My dear, intriguing sprite, it is written on that beautiful face of yours.’
Taking up his hat, he stood, and for a moment I thought he was about to tell me that it had been a mistake and he had changed his mind.
He gave a deep bow and said, ‘If you wish to stay, take this path. If you wish to go, the carriage awaits you. The decision is yours. But whichever path you take, the other will be closed to you for ever.’
He took my hand and once more kissed the tips of my fingers. He bowed.
‘Take your time,’ he said and turned on his red heels and was gone.
I drank my wine and for a while contemplated my future. I didn’t think I would ever love again but perhaps I could grow accustomed to Lord Barbeau. He made me laugh and he did have the most seductive garden. Weighing up my options, which were extremely few, I decided it was best to embrace what I was, a woman who enjoyed pleasure. I doubted that the passion with Lord Barbeau would be as it was with Avery. Perhaps that made the thought more bearable. Looking out at Lord Barbeau’s garden, I was reassured that he was a man who loved women. Mercy once had told me that I didn’t understand the true value of a vintage wine; she was right. It was a drink I would like to taste, and I knew then which path to take.