Caught in Scandal's Storm

But from the start Alice had felt out of her depth. The scale of the Duplay family’s power and wealth intimidated her, reflected as it was in their grand chateaux and vast estates and the value of everything with which they surrounded themselves. The treasures that filled the Châteaux Duplay were all manifestations of the Duplays’ significance.

‘What you did,’ Roberta said, emerging from the dressing room with a plain blue day gown over her arms, ‘deciding not to marry him—knowing a scandal would ensue—was a brave thing for you to do, Alice.’ Much as she would have liked to ask how Philippe had died, not wishing to distress Alice, she refrained from doing so.

Alice was normally a mistress of restraint. She hated being the subject of gossip and speculation. Generally she kept her thoughts and opinions to herself, observing the outbursts of emotion and the careless talk of others with disdain. With Philippe, she had learned to control her feelings better than ever. In this way she kept up the appearance of being a perfect fiancée. Sometimes, however, when provoked too far, she would allow herself the luxury of a spontaneous outburst. When it came, it had the impact of a summer storm, which was the case when she told Philippe she would not be his wife.

She had not been prepared for his vicious retaliation or how she would afterwards be ostracised by society. To cover his embarrassment on being jilted, Philippe had let it be known that she had the morals of a harlot.

This piece of slander was repeated all over Paris and with much embellishment. At first Alice was hurt, then she was angry. With strength and determination, she made herself come to grips with what she had done and faced the painful knowledge that her former life was permanently over. She learned how to cry lonely, private tears for all she had lost, then put on a brave face and her brightest smile. But unable to avoid the publicity and the very unsavoury scandal, she left Paris for good.

‘I would not have been happy married to Philippe. When I thought of him I could not see him as my husband. He gave me so much grief when we were together I could not bear it. I decided to weather the scandal of walking away rather than live the rest of my life with a man for whom I felt neither love nor respect.’

Roberta looked at Alice’s still figure and sighed. ‘We have both experienced a broken engagement, Alice, so in that we are alike. I can only hope that in the future you find yourself with someone who will make you as happy as I am with Hugh.’

Alice very much doubted she ever would, and at this present time, when bitterness continued to gnaw at her heart, the very last thing she wanted was another man in her life. She supposed she would marry eventually. A good man. One who would treat her with the respect and tenderness due his wife. Please God, she thought, let such a man exist.

Roberta moved to stand behind her, her face flushed with disquiet. ‘I—I’m sorry, Alice. I hope I didn’t sound insensitive—I didn’t mean to.’

Smiling reassuringly, Alice turned and patted Roberta’s hand. ‘You were not insensitive, Roberta. I was merely thinking.’

‘But you had such a melancholy look about you,’ Roberta said plaintively.

‘These are melancholy days,’ Alice said softly. ‘Now I’d best go and see Lady Marchington before she comes looking for me. No matter how agreeable I always try to be, I will never find favour with her.’

Leaving Roberta to go to her own room to begin preparing for the evening’s festivities, Alice went in search of Lady Marchington. Her astringent tones could be heard uplifted in comment and criticism from the ballroom as the footmen and servants rushed about to do her bidding. Alice cringed as she descended the curving staircase and braced herself to receive the force of her wrath. Lady Marchington emerged from the ballroom with the unshakeable confidence and regal bearing that came from living a thoroughly privileged life. She regarded Alice with an attentive, critical expression in her eyes.

‘Ah, Alice, there you are. I was looking for you earlier. Well?’ Her voice was as cold as her face. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, perhaps you would explain yourself. Where have you been?’

‘I merely stepped outside for some air, Lady Marchington.’

‘Stepped outside? Really! How dare you disobey me? How dare you leave the house without a maid to accompany you—and in this weather?’

‘Lady Marchington—I am sorry...’

‘It is most unseemly that you should embarrass me in this way.’

‘That was not my intention. I did not mean to upset you in any way—’

‘Hold your tongue, Alice,’ the formidable lady snapped. ‘Your unacceptable behaviour is why you left Paris in disgrace. I will not have it. I am most displeased with you, most displeased. Now run along and get ready for the ball. I’m sure Roberta could do with some help. I trust you will be on your best behaviour tonight. I want you to remember that this is Roberta’s night. I want nothing to spoil it.’

She turned away to speak to Simpson, the butler, who was requiring her attention, but it was evident she continued to seethe at Alice’s disobedience. Lady Marchington had opened her house and her purse to help Roberta on the demise of her parents, Roberta’s mother being her stepsister, her father being Lady Marchington’s brother-in-law by marriage, she wanted nothing to jeopardise Roberta’s marriage to Viscount Pemberton. Just four weeks ago she had extended her hospitality to Alice Frobisher, the sister-in-law of the daughter of an old and valued friend.

Alice’s circumstances had necessitated her flight from her family in Paris. Her brother had sent her to London to join the Marriage Mart, and the man she married would become the recipient of a dowry generous enough to elevate his status considerably. Lady Marchington had agreed to take charge of her and opened her door to the girl in the hope that a suitable husband could be found.

Unfortunately the scandal of jilting her betrothed on the eve of marriage had followed Alice to London and given her a certain notoriety that was unsavoury and most unwelcome. Ever since she had made her appearance at her first society event, she had become the focus of everyone’s scrutiny, male and female. The admiring looks of eager young males followed her wherever she went, and with so many posturing about hoping to gain an introduction, she could have the pick of the bunch. But Alice seemed to have ideas of her own. She showed no interest in the rich, titled and handsome men she met—in fact, she scorned them all, much to Lady Marchington’s annoyance, for she was eager for her to make a good marriage and be off her hands.

Relieved that the moment had passed, Alice returned to her room.

As she dressed for the ball she couldn’t stop thinking about her meeting with Duncan Forbes. What did he have to tell her? If her father was still alive, then where was he? It was twenty years since he had leapt into the Thames. Why had he not contacted William? It was a mystery to be certain. She was impatient for tomorrow when she handed over the money and Duncan Forbes would reveal all.

Her nerves were strung tight and she was in no mood for socialising. She could not wait for the night to be over.

* * *

Alice was right. The weather did not deter the guests from arriving. An unending line of carriages filled the circular drive and overflowed through the double gates into the neighbouring streets, lined with big private houses. To be invited to the Countess of Marchington’s ball was an honour, a true mark of distinction.

The grooming and dressing preparations for her engagement ball took Roberta, her maid and Alice three hours. Adorned in a chiffon gown with an overskirt dusted with shimmering silver spangles, her hair brushed until it shone and arranged in soft brown curls high on her head, she resembled a fairy princess.

Alice stood back to survey their handiwork and smiled. ‘There! All done. You’re looking as radiant and as beautiful as the bride you will be in just a few weeks!’

Lady Marchington swept into the room, wearing an elegant russet-and-gold satin gown trimmed in cream lace. ‘Nearly everyone has arrived,’ she announced as Roberta’s maid finished putting the last touches to her coiffure. ‘It’s time to make your grand entrance, Roberta.’

Roberta faced her aunt obediently, but her knees were trembling. ‘I would much rather have stood in the receiving line with you, Aunt Margaret, so I could meet the guests separately. It would have been less nerve-racking.’

‘But not nearly so effective. Come along—you, too, Alice,’ she said, casting a critical eye over the young woman standing by the vanity, her shining black hair caught up at the crown in a mass of thick, glossy curls entwined with ropes of tiny pearls. Roberta was lovely, but Alice was the acknowledged beauty of the two. Tonight no one would have eyes for anyone but her.

Footmen dressed in formal, claret-velvet livery trimmed with gold braid stood to attention in the hall, which resembled a flower garden and smelled just as sweet, with tall silver stands holding urns of freshly delivered flowers and exotic pots of airy ferns. So as not to take the shine off Roberta’s entrance as she walked beside Lady Marchington, stiff with pride, Alice followed in her wake. Simpson stood at the entrance to the ballroom and announced her name in stentorian tones.

A lightning bolt of anticipation seemed to shoot through the crowd, breaking off conversations as three hundred guests turned in unison to look at the girl who, it was rumoured, had stolen the heart of Viscount Pemberton. But the majority looked beyond the pretty brown-haired girl with her shining eyes focused on the young man striding to her side, to feast their eyes on the exotic, raven-haired goddess beside her, a young woman who had fled Paris to escape a scandal of her own making according to the gossips. Alice was dressed in a shimmering gown of sapphire watered silk decorated with serpentine ruched robings on the stomacher, the sleeve ruffles in matching lace fabric. The fashionable style was elegant, the colour matching her lustrous deep-blue eyes.

Indeed tonight she was breathtakingly beautiful. The slender rope of diamonds that adorned her throat flashed with white fire as she stepped into the glittering light of the ballroom, rousing an answering flash of envy in the eyes of every woman present and of their male escorts, too. But the gentlemen’s desires were bent as much on the wearer and the perfection of her smooth features as on her diamond necklace. And yet if one troubled to look harder, they would see something at once remote and detached in the attitude of this dazzling creature, an indifference to her surroundings that was almost melancholy.

When everyone was present, Simpson stepped towards the Countess and called for attention. Conversations broke off and guests slowly turned to their hostess.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said in an unsurprisingly carrying voice, ‘I have the very great honour of announcing the betrothal tonight of my niece, Roberta Hislop, to Viscount Pemberton. I ask you to raise your glasses to the happy couple. I will ask them to do us the honour of performing their first formal duty as future husband and wife by officially opening our ball.’

Simpson signalled to the musicians in the gallery with a nod of his head to start the music. It was a happy crowd that watched the handsome Viscount Pemberton take Roberta’s hand and lead her on to the dance floor to begin the dancing. Scrupulously polished mirrors around the opulent ballroom reflected the dazzling couple as they danced before some of London’s richest and most influential people.

Alice watched them, moved by the happiness she saw shining from Roberta’s eyes as she upturned her face to that of her betrothed, which only emphasised her own miserable state. She was seized by a longing to run away. It was a primitive urge, a legacy perhaps from some long-dead ancestor. It was not cowardice—she was not afraid to face her troubles—but rather a need to hide her feelings from prying eyes and seek her own cure in silence and solitude.

* * *

The betrothal banquet was excellent. Only the very finest food was served, with many of the dishes so elaborately dressed that they were viewed and commented on before they were finally tasted. Huge ice sculptures of peacocks and swans formed centrepieces for the tables.

‘Magnificent!’ exclaimed one of the guests. ‘A spread fit for royalty.’

‘And suitable for the betrothal of the Countess of Marchington’s niece to the grand Viscount Pemberton,’ another murmured.

Above the ballroom Italian-crystal chandeliers twinkled and turned, their lights reflected in fancy glassware, ice sculptures and glittering jewellery. With extravagance the order of the night and with an army of servants dancing attendance on the guests, the hours of wining and dining succeeded in their objective of producing a truly unforgettable night.

Alice smiled and laughed, drank some wine and chatted with a group of ladies. She danced with several dashing young men who asked her and made polite conversation, sat through supper with an admirer and danced some more and listened to her partners’ words of admiration. She even managed to keep smiling when one ardent gentleman who had consumed too much wine whispered lewd suggestions in her ear.

He was not the only man present who did not look at her for her wealth, who stared with a lustfulness that sickened her to her soul. She saw with a feeling of horror men who skulked about the edges of the room, now moving in on her like rats after the only morsel of food. As a result of the damage Philippe had done to her reputation, were these the only type of men she could attract now, men who would flaunt her at their sides like a trophy for all to view and envy?

When she could stand it no longer, seeking out Lady Marchington and pleading a headache, she quietly left the ballroom and went upstairs to her room where she could close her eyes and let the darkness hide her.

She felt suddenly very tired. The nervous tension she had lived under since her meeting with Duncan Forbes had left her feeling drained, longing for nothing but the peace and sanctuary of her own room. Closing the door behind her, she crossed to one of the two French windows opening on to balconies with wrought-iron balustrades overlooking the garden. She pulled back the long curtains.

It had stopped snowing. The sky was still and bright with stars, the fountain and stone statues in the shrouded garden etched with a silvery glow. It was a night made for lovers and Alice sighed at the persistent twists of fate by which she, whom so many men desired, seemed doomed to everlasting loneliness because of her disastrous affair with Philippe, which had made her unwilling to become close to any other man.