Chapter 14

And so the grand scheme and contrivance of…redemption...must only be the fruits of his own disappointment, and contrivances of his to mend and patch up, as well as he could, his system.

—Jonathan Edwards, A careful and strict enquiry into the modern prevailing notions of that freedom of will (1754)

The following day found Clayton in Cursitor Street himself to relate the results of his efforts to the lawyer.

"You have made a promising start," Alan Braham declared, "in getting Stanley to reconsider. I doubt you will get the five hundred shares from him, but you might recoup a hundred."

"A hundred," repeated the young man grimly from where he sat across the desk. Throwing himself back in the chair, he contemplated the ceiling, darkened from the smoke of the oil lamps. "Leaving a shortfall of four hundred shares. Not that the earl can be counted on for even the hundred. I will have to pursue the man until he gives me the money just to be rid of me."

"Your persistence will yield another benefit or benefits, Mr. Clayton. For I daresay Stanley will begin to recommend the canal shares to his own acquaintance, simply to be rid of you. Between his persuasion and your own, you should be able to find at least another couple rich men in Mayfair. After that it may be a tedious matter of pursuing individual, smaller investments."

"Mm." With a wry grimace, John thought of Miss Ellsworth and her pin money. If fifty or a hundred such young ladies bought a share or two…

"There is, of course, another source of funds," resumed the lawyer after a minute.

Clayton raised his head, his look enquiring.

"Your own."

"Mine?"

"Well—effectively your own."

"Do you mean the ￡200 per annum Brand designated for me until the completion of the project?"

"That would not go far, to be sure," admitted Braham with a courteous cough. "No—I had something else in mind: you might marry Miss Brand sooner, rather than later. Before the ink was dry on your marriage license, her fortune of ten thousand pounds would be your fortune of ten thousand pounds, to dispose of in whatever manner you saw fit. And while I would not advise using the whole of it to purchase shares—you will need something to live on until they begin to pay out—some considerable portion of it could go toward the purpose."

Rising, Clayton began to pace the room, pausing before the window to peer into narrow Cursitor Street. He had thought of the possibility, of course. Thought of it and dismissed it. Although he had given his word to marry Priscilla, he could not bear to do so yet, when they still hardly knew each other and did not yet love, and when his mind still lingered on Miss Ellsworth. And while he knew it fruitless to think of that young lady, he was not cold-blooded enough to pretend love for Priscilla for the convenience of plundering her inheritance.

"Thank you, Braham," he said after a long pause, turning back to face him. "I will think on the matter. But while I do, I will persevere in the course of action already proposed. To which end I must leave you now." The shadow of a grin appeared on his face. "To wit, a dancing lesson. For, if I am to chase these people about, I cannot let them escape me in the ballroom."

The dusty lawyer returned his grin. "The next time you see Stanley, tell him the least he can do is procure you vouchers for Almack's."

Mr. Wilson's Academy of Dance was located in Wells Street, an easy walk for Miss Brand and Miss Croy from their home in Marlboro Street but requiring Clayton to hail a cab if he wished to be there in time.

Priscilla was in a flutter when he arrived. "Oh, John, there you are. What a dingy place this is! We hesitated to go in without you."

The academy shared a building with a drawing-master and a printer, and the plate which marked it was by no means the largest or shiniest. This dancing lesson would be a far cry from running up the stairs of Number Four, Spencer Terrace, anticipating coziness and good company, but there it was.

"You will never guess who Cissy and I received a card from," Priscilla said as they climbed the stairs.

He looked back to show his attentiveness, but when she did not go on he was obliged to prompt her. "Was it from Mrs. Dodson?"

"Yes! I was so glad of it, John. It was lovely to know she was willing to continue the acquaintance. Miss Kempshott even signed her name underneath her aunt's printed name. You may ask Cissy, but I was all a-tremble, and why do you think that was?"

They had reached the landing, where the door lay open. Mr. Wilson's school consisted of one vast and bare great room, holding only hooks along the wall on which the students hung their cloaks and coats and a spinet in the corner.

"You had better tell me everything you wish to, all at once," he answered, "because when the lesson begins you may not have another chance."

Her brow knitting at his uncourtly manner, she said with a touch of sulkiness, "I only wanted to say that I do hope it means we will see them again! I mean, Cissy and I can call and leave our own card, but that's not the same as going to a ball or something. Oh, John, how I would like to dance in London, but do you suppose we will ever do so outside this room? Will we ever be invited to a ball with lords and ladies?"

"I hope so, for your sake," he returned, lowering his voice. "But it wouldn't do to expect or become accustomed to such things. Because once I succeed in finding investors to replace Lord Stanley and work begins in earnest—"

"Yes, yes," she interrupted, surprising him with the first sign of temper she had shown. "I know. When you have your precious money, you will be too busy digging ditches to squire me about town. You need not say so again."

"Priscilla," Miss Croy remonstrated feebly.

But there was no time for more because a slender young man with rather beautiful golden locks and mournful blue eyes approached. "Are you here for the three o'clock lesson?" he asked, in a tender voice which reminded Clayton of a cooing dove. "The others are waiting." He indicated a handful of pupils ranged against the far wall, keeping each to himself, and Clayton was relieved to see they were all adults. It would have added a level of mortification to partner children.

"You are Mr. Wilson?" asked Priscilla, following him without a second look at her intended. Clayton suspected she meant him to feel snubbed.

"No, no. I am Mr. Hubert Saint-Cloud, Mr. Wilson's assistant. And you are…?"

Introductions followed. Of course Clayton had not expected to meet with any of the people whom he had encountered at Lady Aurora Robillard's rout—everyone of that class having likely begun dancing lessons once out of leading strings. No, their fellow students at Wilson's academy hailed from a stratum or two below the rout set, as many made no secret of. Perhaps Miss Ellsworth would call them "climbers" for aspiring to imitate those above them. Or were they like Clayton himself, hoping merely to comport themselves without disgrace if called to mix with the Lord Stanleys and Lady Auroras of the world? Probably a mixture of both. Before Miss Ellsworth applied the offensive word to him, Clayton would have said both she and the Tyrone Ellsworths seemed oddly indifferent to such classifications, perhaps from being what the smart London set would call "provincial," which had made her accusation sting all the more. But the memory of her barb led naturally to the sweeter memory of her apology, and he found himself seeing again, hearing again, reliving that delicious moment.

"Mr. Clayton, are you attending?" the soft-spoken dancing master broke into his thoughts. "If you could take your place…"

Rousing himself, he discovered the other pupils had formed a set, and with a muttered apology he hurried to stand across from Priscilla. Miss Croy had been paired with the insurance broker, the shipbuilder's daughter with the jeweler, and so on down the line.

Despite his quietness, Mr. Saint-Cloud ruled absolutely, with no need for an iron fist. On the contrary, his students hung on his murmured instructions, and when Saint-Cloud needed to address the accompanist the languorous lift of his gloved hand would cause her to break off at once.

The lesson could not have contrasted more sharply with the one Clayton received in Bognor, nor did he perform as well as he had for the Ellsworths, but it would suffice, and he would suffice. Another fortnight of this, thrice per week, and he could certainly lead Priscilla and Miss Croy to the floor without mishap. Moreover, this style of lesson had compensatory amusements, namely the dancing master.

Holding himself aloof and bestowing favor with the lift of an eyebrow or censure by the curl of his lip, Hubert Saint-Cloud commanded the room as if he were a king and they courtiers. When he demonstrated the figures, he would insert himself in place of one of the men and walk through the steps with the man's partner, causing noticeable flutters in the women: blushes, stumbles, titters.

At one point he said, "Miss Brand, you dance admirably. This cannot be your first lesson."

It was the only praise he had bestowed on any of them, beyond a clipped "good" when they finally managed to get through the pattern without blundering, and Priscilla was correspondingly elated. "I confess, Mr. Saint-Cloud, I have had many dancing lessons in school! But I promised John—Mr. Clayton here—that Miss Croy and I would come with him while he learned. Mr. Clayton and I are engaged to be married."

Saint-Cloud made him a half bow. "I congratulate you. With continued instruction and practice you may eventually be a credit to your bride."

"Thank you," said Clayton dryly.

Raising his gloved hands, Saint-Cloud clapped them together once, and the lesson went on.

"Oh, John!" cried Priscilla when they emerged again into Wells Street two hours later. "I cannot think when I have enjoyed anything so much! Wasn't Mr. Saint-Cloud splendid?"

"Monsieur le vicomte? He was a good teacher."

Her mouth made a little round O. "What do you mean, calling him such a thing? Did he really tell you he was a viscount?"

Clayton managed not to pull a face and courteously offered an arm to either lady. "Pardon my facetiousness. It was only a joke. I'm afraid he said nothing of the kind, though it wouldn't surprise me if there were some emigré nobleman's blood in him. He carried himself like at least a chevalier. And why shouldn't he? Within the confines of Wilson's Academy of Dance, Mr. Saint-Cloud reigns supreme. Unless the alleged ‘Mr. Wilson' appears, I suppose."

She frowned at him and gave a pettish shake of her head before leaning to consult Miss Croy. "What did you think, Cissy? Did you enjoy the lesson?"

"Very much so, my dear, though I confess I was intimidated by Mr. Saint-Cloud."

"Intimidated? Ridiculous Cissy, How could you be intimidated by such a quiet, elegant man?"

"You were not afraid of him, Priscilla, because Mr. Saint-Cloud praised your dancing. But the rest of us…"

Priscilla smiled broadly to hear again the compliment to her skills and gave a little hop and a squeeze to her intended's arm. "He did like my dancing! Oh! If only it were time already for the next lesson. But you and John did very well yourselves, Cissy," she added generously. "Mr. Saint-Cloud was not obligated to correct you as often as the others."

By this time they had paused at Oxford Street. Before Clayton could open his mouth, Priscilla anticipated him. "John, won't you accompany us back to Marlboro Street? You might have a cup of tea or even stay as late as supper. I have a new piece of music I have been practicing."

"That sounds lovely, but I beg you and Miss Croy to excuse me," he demurred. "I met with Braham earlier and would like to work on condensing the information about the project so that it might be imparted in ten minutes, five minutes, or one minute, as opportunity affords. As we go forth to meet the Lord Stanleys and Mr. Rotherwoods of the world, I must be ready. All activities bend thitherward, you know. Even these dance lessons share that sinister purpose."

"‘Sinister'? I am sure you are too hard on yourself, John," returned Priscilla, missing his joke as she usually did. "Will we not see you until the next lesson, then?"

"You make it sound as if it were next January instead of two days from now," he said, smiling more broadly to remove any sting from his words.

But the young lady could not be blamed for thinking what Clayton himself thought, after he had taken leave of them: that if he truly loved her, he would have counted each day apart as time lost, rather than gained.

Am I a fool for delaying marriage to Priscilla?he wondered, as he retraced his steps up Wells Street. If it could not be avoided, what point was there in putting it off? Braham, for one, could not understand why he did not leap at the chance to kill two birds with one stone. Why not set the date and, when the deed was done and her fortune in hand, abolish much of the project's budget deficiency?

"I can't," he muttered aloud to the passing traffic. "I cannot be so cold-blooded about it. Better to jilt her altogether than to let her money rush me into what I would otherwise defer." Though it was not true, of course—that it would be better to jilt her. Jilting Miss Brand would only plunge her in humiliation and scandal, not at all what her father Donald Brand had in mind when he exacted his promise.

But if Brand were still alive, would he still have encouraged Clayton to marry his daughter, if he knew Clayton cared for another? Much as Brand had loved his only child, Clayton did not think he flattered himself to believe Brand had also loved him. Surely the man would have seen the two were not an easy pairing; he would have seen and mistrusted Clayton's politeness and Priscilla's uneasy eagerness to please.

But Donald Brand was not alive to undo the mischief he had created. If anything at all could be done, it must be done by Clayton himself. Would such a thing be possible, however? And, if possible, would it be moral?

So deep in thought was he that he reached Fitzroy Square before he knew it and, with a shrug, he continued on to cross the New Road. For what better place to sort out his thoughts than looking out upon the slowly developing Regent's Park? All the villas originally planned by John Nash might never be built, but in the meantime the spreading development of London began to press against the parkland's borders, a crowding which would increase rapidly when the canals were complete and business and transportation throve.

A few heads turned, drawn by the upright figure of the young man, with his appealing looks and preoccupied air, but Clayton walked on, oblivious.

He had his plan for attracting new investors, and if it succeeded only in part, or if it failed altogether, he must set his mind to his wedding. I'm like a shipwreck victim, clinging to spars while I look in vain for rescue. For Donald Brand was dead and there was no way out. Only a young lady might end an engagement without unwelcome social and legal ramifications, and however uncomfortable each might find their arrangement, it was plain that Priscilla was content to make the best of it and still had hopes of true attachment growing between them. While Clayton was fairly certain she did not yet love him, no gentleman could possibly say anything to the effect of, "We had better call a spade a spade. Whatever you might come to feel for me, I begin to believe I will never love you in return, and I doubt we could make each other happy. Therefore would it not be best to give each other our freedom?"

Nor could he seek rescue at Priscilla's hands. Even if, by some miracle, she came to prefer another—

His step halted a moment. But would it be a miracle? Only see how she responded to the praise of a French dancing master! Not that destitute Hubert Saint-Cloud could be considered eligible. Given Priscilla's youth and inexperience, she might easily leap from the frying pan into the fire, and Clayton could not in good conscience allow her to marry unwisely, even if it gave him blessed liberty.

No, Saint-Cloud would never do. Only imagine what Donald Brand would have said, to see Clayton cast Priscilla and her sizeable fortune on a penniless nobody!

Reaching the first bridge overlooking the new ornamental water, he leaned against the parapet. "There is no use in mincing matters," he said under his breath, though there was no one to hear him. "You have made your bed, John Clayton, and now you must lie in it. Yes."

Still, his head dropped as if he had sustained a physical blow.

It might be true. It might be inevitable. But how it hurt! To think he must shoulder this burden as he had every other one in his life.

And what of Miss Ellsworth?

His face twisted, and he felt the sting of tears rising.

Leave her. Her reappearance in his life complicated matters, but perhaps their paths would not cross again. Perhaps. Could he go on pretending she was still miles away in Winchester, never to be seen again? Impossible. Heaven help him if she was not uppermost in his thoughts—if she hadn't been uppermost, even when he had believed her everlastingly divided from him. Her reappearance meant nothing—should mean nothing—because he was no freer to court her than he had been in Bognor.

No.

All that remained in honor would be to gather up any crumbs of her words or smiles—or dances?—which might fall to him. Crumbs? That brought a humorless smile. The metaphor was inadequate, for ordinary crumbs would be scooped up and consumed, while these would be hoarded. Treasured. His smile became genuine as he remembered her determination to help him. Whether or not she had any success, he could look forward to reports of her progress. Ah…indeed. Instead of dreading the next function to which he could inveigle an invitation, Clayton found himself impatient for it, wrong though such a feeling might be. He needed to write to the earl in any event, and the guilty desire to see her again spurred him.

Dusk was falling when he reached his plain and spare lodgings in Warren Street, already mentally composing the note he would send to Stanley.

But the earl had anticipated him.

"Mr. Clayton!" gasped his landlady Mrs. Oakes, the moment she opened the door. "There you are. I've been that anxious for your return."

"What can it be, Mrs. Oakes?" he asked, grinning at the tiny old woman who nevertheless kept a quiet, orderly, and spotless house with the help of her burly son. "Did I forget to pay my rent?"

"You may joke, sir, but while you were out, a fine black carriage came with a crest on the door, and a footman all fine, fine in livery and gold frogs leaped down to deliver this note."

She whipped it from the pocket of her apron, and one glance at the scarlet seal confirmed John's suspicions: while he had been thinking of the earl, Lord Stanley had simultaneously been thinking of him. Taking the stairs two at a time to his room, John lit a taper in the fire and jammed it in its mirrored sconce. Then he removed his gloves and worked a finger under the wax.

20 November 1814

Cavendish Square

London

My dear Clayton,

After consulting my man of business, I must regretfully confirm my inability to make the full purchase of five hundred shares which I hoped to, two years ago. In the present circumstances, as I outlined to you, it even took perseverance on my part to insist on the feasibility of the partial investment of one hundred. You may thank your persuasive powers, Mr. Clayton, that it is done. Please have Alan Braham write to Timothy Keele of Middle Temple with the terms of sale.

I wish you continued success with securing funds for the project and, to this end, will do what I can to expand your acquaintance and ensure you meet with open doors. Enclosed please find a short list of occasions where I will be present and which you may also attend under my aegis, in lieu of a specific invitation. These include, should you be interested, attendance at Almack's. I must beg your Miss Brand's pardon that Lady Stanley could not secure a Strangers Ticket for more than one guest, it being against the rules.

Yours, etc.

Stanley