An Event at Epsom, page 9
“Aye, I dinna think we can ignore it,” Mr. Almack said, breaking an uneasy silence. “But I won’t see you ladies endangered.”
“What about Lord Palmerston’s man?” Clementina asked. “Could we not ask his help? If he was able to see that the lamps had been altered so as to become dangerous, could he not be our witness to the authorities without our being obviously involved?”
Annabel remembered Georgiana’s words on the journey down to Epsom. When in past years have we had more than one investigation happening at any time, or had them so close together as we have this year? “I agree with Clementina,” she said. “If he can attest that the lamps were altered…”
Sally hesitated. “Very well. Emily, may I ask you to pursue this matter with Palmerston?”
“With the greatest pleasure,” Emily said. She sat back in her chair, her usually cheerful countenance anything but. “I shall speak with him about it this very day.”
“Thank you. Frances, what about you? Is there anything we can do to help you? I am alarmed by the fact that you could read nothing from the lamp piece.”
Frances shook her head, her eyes swimming with tears. “I am, too, Sally. I don’t know—” She gave a loud sniff. Maria handed her a handkerchief, and she buried her face in it.
“Ah. Yes, well.” Sally shifted uncomfortably in her seat while Frances gave a few hiccupping little sobs. “I expect it’s a passing…er, difficulty. And…ah…while I think of it, did you have anything to report concerning Lord Rossing, from the business with the Potamides?”
Frances emerged from the handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes. “No—” sniff, sniff “—not really. I was able to learn that his poor wife has been ill this spring. Perhaps he merely forgot to pay them their tribute?” She regarded Sally hopefully, her eyes still swimming with tears.
“Er, perhaps.” Sally frowned slightly. “If you could make a few more inquiries, I want to know what you discover. Maria, would you care to report on the matter at Epsom? Was it successfully investigated?”
“Yes, it was, even if it wasn’t of as great importance as the gas lamps.” Maria opened her reticule and looked at Annabel and Georgiana. “You ladies will be pleased to hear that I just today received a letter from Miss Broxley—”
Annabel straightened. “Did she find her brother? Are they home?”
Maria smiled. “I shall read it aloud in a moment. But first—” She gave her report, telling the other Ladies about Maharahnee’s identity and Annabel’s patient watches and Georgiana’s swift reaction to Sir Oswald’s threats. “Lord Quinceton kindly escorted Miss Broxley to find her brother, and she and the boy are safe at home.”
“Oh!” Frances’s face brightened. “How wonderful of him!”
Annabel glanced at her and then away with a small sigh. Frances would not take her and Quin’s new closeness well; he’d been such a confirmed bachelor for so long that the poor thing had been able to nurse her romantic dreams of him for years. It was a pity Frances would be hurt, but…she almost hugged herself. The first thing she’d done on Thursday morning when she’d arrived home had been to send Quin a note asking him to call on her. Since he must be back in London by now since Miss Broxley was home, then he would undoubtedly call soon. Tomorrow? Today?
“What of this Sir Oswald?” Dorothea asked. “It is a pity that you did not kick him harder, Georgiana. The man sounds too villainous to be permitted to continue to live.”
“I did not intend to kill him—only to keep him from further imprudent actions.” Georgiana said stiffly. “It is unlikely that he will be able to perpetrate any further villainy. The surgeon expects he will likely be an invalid for the rest of his days.”
“It’s no more than he deserved,” Emily said warmly. “You did precisely the just thing.”
“With Annabel’s timely assistance,” Georgiana said. “Sir Oswald was behind me. If she had not risked discovery again to warn me that he was brandishing a pistol, matters might have ended differently.”
Annabel drew in her breath at Georgiana’s praise. But before she could speak, Georgiana went on, “Would it be too much to ask you to read Miss Broxley’s letter, Maria?”
“No, indeed.” Maria drew a pair of spectacles from her reticule and put them on. “My dear Lady Sefton—” she began.
I am taking the opportunity of the first few quiet moments I have had in some days to communicate to you, however inadequately, my boundless gratitude for the assistance rendered me by yourself, Lady Bathurst, and, so I am told, Lady Fellbridge during the recent matter at Epsom. I am, thanks to you, in good health—and so grateful that my brother Florian can as well claim to be in good frame, having suffered little during his unexpected sojourn from home.
Of my elder brother, you know better than I his condition. I understand from Jem Salter that he is not expected to fully recover his faculties, and while I cannot help feeling that he brought such a fate upon himself, I will certainly care for him as carefully as I have my dear Florian once Jem Salter brings him home. Indeed, I am considering the idea of opening Broxhurst to take in a few other blind children in a sort of school, as I have been told that Florian does wonderfully well for someone so afflicted; it will help defray our expenses (which I hope shall be much lessened now that my brother will no longer be running his racing stable) and I do enjoy taking care of young persons. Lord Quinceton has kindly promised that he will put the word out for genteel families who might be in need of such an institution for their afflicted children.
Again, I thank you and your friends for your generosity and concern for me and my family. I am looking forward to a life not including Maharahnee, but if ever any of you should require assistance, please know that you may call for it upon me—and her—at a moment’s notice.
I remain, madam, your grateful servant,
Charlotte Broxley
“Well,” Emily said after a pause. “We should not forget that. One never knows when Maharahnee might be needed if Georgiana is, ah, unavailable.”
“I don’t believe Miss Broxley has Georgiana’s ability to take whatever form she chooses,” Maria said delicately. “But we should certainly remember her offer.”
“Indeed,” Georgiana said. “It is most kind of her.”
“And Quin promised to help her.” Frances sighed happily. “He is the dearest, cleverest creature!”
Annabel glanced at Frances again. There was a small smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. Oh, Frances…
After Sally closed the meeting, Annabel sidled over to Georgiana. “I…er, hope that you…that is, you seem well,” she said awkwardly. It was not at all well-bred to say such a thing, despite the Lady Patronesses’ etiquette among their members being more like that of a family than that of mere acquaintances.
Georgiana smiled again—a true smile, not the tight-lipped semi-grimace she usually made. “I am, thank you. My extended stay in Epsom was worth the inconvenience, thanks to Jem Salter. And to you.”
Annabel blinked. “Me?”
“Indeed. It was a chance comment of yours that led me to discuss the matter with him. The matter of a human body adjusting to changing its form,” she added, no doubt in response to Annabel’s puzzlement. “He was accustomed to help Miss Broxley with certain massages and exercises and with a special liniment of his own devising. He has undertaken to teach Nettles what he knows to assist me. It has already helped me to a degree I had not thought possible. The pain is much reduced. In fact, I am leaving this morning to stay with Miss Broxley for further treatment.” She held out her hand to Annabel.
“Oh.” Was that the source of Georgiana’s difficult personality—constant pain? Annabel shook her hand warmly. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”
“I—” Georgiana took a breath. “I believe that I have not always been…pleasant to work with.” She moved her shoulders as if shrugging the memory away. “It is my hope that will change. I begin to fear that we will all of us need all our wits and abilities about us in the coming months—”
“Dearest Annabel!” Frances was suddenly there, slipping her arm around Annabel’s waist in a sisterly embrace and drawing her a little away from Georgiana. “I’ve been dying to talk to you! My goodness, what a time you had in Epsom!”
Georgiana smiled, her brows contracting so that she wore her old, slightly sour expression. “Good day, ladies.” She turned away.
“Georgiana, wait—” Annabel tried to slip out of Frances’s embrace. What had Georgiana started to say? Why would the coming months be so challenging?
“Oh, never mind her, the old sourpuss.” Frances held on, pouting. “Alec told me all about seeing you at Epsom—he was simply thrilled that you were staying at the same inn! And in the middle of everything you had to deal with that dreadful Sir Oscar!”
“Sir Oswald. And that’s why we were there, Frances.” Annabel strained to see where Georgiana had gone. Had she already descended to the ground floor?
“Oh, yes, of course.” Frances dismissed their investigation with an airy wave. “You can’t imagine how chuffed Alec was, thanks to your tip about Maharahnee. Quite a tidy sum he made! He has charged me with inviting you to dine this week—just a simple family meal. He said Epsom was too distracting, and that we deserve to have you all to ourselves for a change.”
“That… sounds lovely.” Annabel managed to steer Frances down the stairs to Almack’s entrance. There was no sign of Georgiana; she had evidently already left. Bother! She would have to call on her later—no, she was leaving for Cambridgeshire today—
“—says you simply must accompany us to Brighton in July as our guest. He’s waiting to hear from his agent about the house he intends to hire. Do say you’ll come, won’t you?” Frances clutched her arm.
Annabel forced herself to attend to her. “That is most kind of you, Frances. But until I know what my family’s plans are and when my boys will be visiting their grandparents in the country, I cannot commit to anything.” Especially not to spending a week under the same roof as Frances’s brother.
Frances’s face dimmed. “Oh. Of course. But we’d so hoped…”
Annabel patted her arm. “I’m not declining your invitation, you dear goose. But I can’t say ‘yes’ yet.” Or ever, but a suitably regretful no, thank you could wait a week. Then, because Frances looked so woebegone, she said, “Please allow me to drive you home, and we’ll have a good chat on the way. My carriage should already be here.”
“Oh, I wish I could.” Frances’s woebegone expression turned radiant. “But I already have a ride. Thank you anyway!”
They stepped out the door, held open by Mr. Willis. Annabel nodded her thanks to him then glanced out onto King Street. There was her landau, with her coachman Thomas on the box as usual. Pulled up behind it was a curricle drawn by a pair of matched bays—a curricle she knew well. And in the seat, holding the reins in one elegantly gloved hand while a street urchin stood to attention at the bays’ heads—
“Quin,” she whispered, her heart racing at the sight of him. He looked pale and a little drawn; she hoped that escorting Miss Broxley and her brother to their home had not been too onerous—
“Quin!” Frances cried happily, bouncing down the steps to the pavement. “You’re exactly in time, you clever boy!”
Quin looked up. His gaze briefly met Annabel’s…and then, to her disbelief, slid away from hers as if she were a stranger. “Frances,” he said, his voice warm—in contrast to the bleakness in his eyes. He nodded to the boy holding his horses and climbed down, offering his hand to help Frances up into the curricle.
“Till later, Annabel!” Frances trilled as Quin tenderly tucked a lap robe over her. “I should not be at all surprised if Alec were to call on you later. Quin, you bad thing.” She tapped the crown of his hat. “Didn’t you greet dear Annabel?”
Quin straightened, fixing his blank gaze somewhere about three feet to Annabel’s left. “Lady Fellbridge,” he said shortly, with barely a nod. Then he pulled himself up into the curricle, tossed a coin to the boy, and gave the bays the signal to go. The horses stepped with their usual smartness into the road; Frances gave Annabel a little wave then turned to Quin, smiling adoringly up at him.
Somehow, Annabel made her way to her own carriage and sat alone in the seat, gripping her reticule to keep her hands from shaking. The man with whom, barely a week ago, she’d shared a kiss that had upended her world had, just now, as good as cut her dead.
Worse still, he had called her Lady Fellbridge. Lady Fellbridge.
She stared after the curricle already at the corner of the street—Frances’s head was tilted in a confiding manner toward Quin’s—and tried to remember how to breathe.
I hope you enjoyed the sixth installment of The Ladies of Almack’s! There’s more—much more!—to come. Keep reading for a sample of the next story, The Missing Missives. And if you’d like to keep up with the news from King Street, sign up for my newsletter for new release announcements, extras, and more about the ladies: https://marissadoylenewsletter.link/
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Author’s Notes
Epsom, the Derby and the Oaks Stakes
One of the big events of the London social season didn’t actually take place in London at all, but twenty-ish miles south of the metropolis, in the small town of Epsom located on the rolling, grass-covered terrain of the North Downs.
Epsom was known first as a spa town—the source of the purgative Epsom Salts—beginning early in the 17th century, and the infirm (and not-so-infirm) of London and beyond tottered there throughout the next decades to drink the water from one particular spring. Horse-racing was first mentioned as taking place there early in the century—perhaps as a pastime for the healthy young members of families who accompanied older relatives visiting the spring.
During Cromwell’s time racing was forbidden but was back in force when King Charles II regained his throne; Samuel Pepys noted a visit there during which he saw Nell Gwyn, the king’s Cockney mistress, having a merry time, and the king himself often attended races. By the 1680s there was an official course clerk, and fifty years later, twice-yearly race meetings were taking place.
Then, in 1778, the Earl of Derby and a group of friends, including Sir Charles Bunbury, the playwright Richard Sheridan, and politician Charles James Fox, hatched the idea of a new race for three-year-old fillies over one and a half miles (most races at Epsom were in the two- to four-mile range), naming it The Oaks, after Lord Derby’s nearby house. In 1780 they added a second race, for both colts and fillies, over one mile (soon expanded to one and a half); Lord Derby and Sir Charles flipped a coin for the honor of naming this new race, and Derby won the toss—and so the Derby was born. Sir Charles probably wasn’t too upset—his colt Diomed became the Derby’s first winner.
The races soon became popular; several shorter races over the course of the meet made for more excitement among the viewers (and thus more bets placed!), which of course had the effect of drawing more than just the racing crowd, so that eventually a sort of country fair atmosphere took over, which in turn drew more crowds (helped by the location’s proximity to London.) A verse declaims,
On Epson Downs, when racing does begin
Large companies from every part come in.
Tag-rag and Bob-tail, Lords and Ladies meet,
And Squires without Estates, each other greet.
Bets upon bets; this man says, ‘Ten to one.’
Another pointing cries, ‘Good sir, tis done.’
Our friend Prinny, the Prince Regent, was one of those spectators; in the 1790s he built the first permanent structure at Epsom, the Prince’s Stand (a larger grandstand would finally be built in the 1830s). By the Regency, the Derby was an established “event” of the season, and an audience of thirty to forty thousand was the norm.
La Belle Assemblée
One of the premier magazines of the greater Regency era, La Belle Assemblée or, Bell’s Court and Fashionable Magazine Addressed Particularly to the Ladies was published from 1806 through 1837 (when it was absorbed into another ladies’ magazine.) Established by John Bell (1745-1831), it covered a wide range of topics and published serialized fiction and poetry; non-fiction articles on current events, history, politics, and the latest discoveries in science; book, art, music, and theater reviews; and other items of specific interest to women of the day: fashion news (and oh my goodness, some of the fashion plates are amazing), embroidery patterns, and sheet music. There was also a Births, Deaths, and Marriages column which often included amusing or sympathetic commentary; and in most issues the editor would respond to submissions sent in by readers with occasionally scathing comments; some of those public rejections are zingers!
Brighton in August
The London social season usually came to a close in July. Come August, everyone who had been feverishly attending every possible ball, rout, breakfast, opera performance, and dinner all spring now feverishly flocked out of London to their country home, to a rented house at some seaside venue, or—if they were extraordinarily fashionable, to Brighton, on England’s south coast.
Why Brighton, which until the last quarter of the 18th century had been a sleepy, declining little fishing village named Brighthelmstone? Well, because in 1783 the young Prince of Wales (eventually the Prince Regent/King George IV) went there on the advice of his doctors to indulge in some sea-bathing, thought to be a sovereign cure for everything from epilepsy to gout, and loved it—the sea, the relaxed, informal atmosphere at the theater and assembly rooms—and decided to buy himself a small farmhouse there. Brighton quickly became THE place to go in August after the end of the season because that’s where the young, fashionable prince went.
