Thus Miss Taverner, in a mood of disquiet. The Earl, however, seemed to be in no hurry to repeat his call. They saw nothing of him for some days, though their visitors were many. Lady Sefton came with one of her daughters, and Mr. Skeffington, a very tall thin man with a painted face and a yellow waistcoat. He was lavishly scented, which set the Taverners instantly against him, and talked a great deal about the theatre. There did not seem to be an actor alive with whom he was not on terms of intimacy. They discovered later that he had written some plays himself, and even produced them. His manners were particularly gentle and pleasing, and it was not very long before the Taverners were quite won over to him. He was so kind one must forgive the paint and the scent.
Lady Sefton had to be liked also; and Mrs. Scattergood assured her charges that neither she nor her popular husband had an enemy in the world.
Lady Jersey, another of the all-powerful patronesses of Almack’s, came with Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, a lady of icy good-breeding, who said little and looked to be insufferably haughty. Lady Jersey seemed to be very good-natured in her restless way. She talked incessantly throughout her short visit, and fidgeted with anything that came in the way of her fluttering hands. Getting into her carriage again when the call was over, she said: “Well, my dear, I think—don’t you?—a charming girl? Quite beautiful! And of course the fortune! They tell me eighty thousand at the very least! We shall see all the fortune-hunters at work!” She gave her fairy-laugh. “Alvanley was telling me poor dear Wellesley Poole has left his card in Brook Street already. Well, I am sure I wish the girl a good husband. I think her quite out of the common.”
Mrs. Drummond-Burrell slightly shrugged her shoulders, “Farouche,” she said in her cold way. “I detest provincials.”
It was unfortunate for Miss Taverner that this judgment should soon be endorsed by another. Mr. John Mills, who was called the Mosaic Dandy, went from curiosity to pay a morning call in Brook Street, and came away to spread the news through town that the new beauty might better be known as the Milkmaid. His manners had not pleased Miss Taverner. He was affected, talked with a great air of conceit, and put on so much insolent condescension that she was impelled to give him a sharp set-down.
Mrs. Scattergood admitted the provocation, but was worried over it. “I don’t like the creature—I believe no one does. Brummell hates him, I know—but there’s no denying, my love, he has a tongue, and can make mischief. I hope he may not try to rum you.”
But the nickname he had bestowed on Miss Taverner was sufficiently apt to catch the fashionable fancy. Mr. Mills declared that no gentleman of taste would admire such a blowsy prettiness. A great many people who had been doubtful whether to approve or condemn Judith (for her frank, decided manners were something quite new, only to be tolerated in persons of rank) were at once convinced that she was pert and presuming. Some snubs were dealt her, the throng of would-be admirers began to lessen, and more than one lady of fashion turned her shoulder.
The nickname came to Judith’s ears, and made her furious. That any dandy should have it in his power to sway public opinion was not to be borne. When she discovered the extent of the harm he had worked she was not dismayed or tearful, but on the contrary eager for war. She would not change her manners to suit a dandy’s taste; she would rather force Society to accept her in the teeth of them all, Brummell included.
It was in such a dangerous mood that she set out with her brother and Mrs. Scattergood to make her first appearance at Almack’s. Lady Jersey, adhering, even in the face of Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s expressed disapproval, to her original opinion, had sent the vouchers: the most important door into Society was open to Miss Taverner. It must be for her, Mrs. Scattergood said urgently, to do the rest. The door might yet close.
Privately, she thought the girl’s looks should carry the day. Judith, in a ball dress of white crepe with velvet ribbons spangled with gold, and her hair in a myriad loose curls confined by a ribbon with a bow over her left eye, was a vision to please even the most exacting critic. If only she would be a little conciliating!
The evening began badly. Mrs. Scattergood was so much taken up with her own and Judith’s toilet that she had no glance to spare for Peregrine. It was not until the carriage that bore all three of them was half-way to King Street that she suddenly discovered him to be wearing long pantaloons tightly strapped under his shoes.
She gave a muffled shriek. “Perry! Good God, was there ever anyone more provoking? Peregrine, how dared you put those things on? Oh, you must stop the carriage at once! No one—no one, do you understand?—not the Prince Regent himself! is admitted to Almack’s in pantaloons! Knee-breeches, you stupid, tiresome boy! You will ruin everything. Pull the checkstring this instant! We must set you down.”
It was vain for Peregrine to argue; he did not realize how inflexible were the rules at Almack’s; he must go home and change his dress—and even that would not do if he came to Almack’s one minute after eleven: he would be turned away.
Judith broke into laughter, but her afflicted chaperon, bundling Peregrine out into the street, assured her it was no laughing matter.
But when the two ladies at last arrived at Almack’s it did not seem to Judith that the club was worth all this to-do. There was nothing remarkable. The rooms were spacious, but not splendid; the refreshments, which consisted of tea, orgeat, and lemonade, with cakes and bread and butter, struck Miss Taverner as being on the meagre side. Dancing, and not cards, was the object of the club; no high stakes were allowed, so that the card-room contained only the dowagers, and such moderate gentlemen as were content to play whist for sixpenny points.
Lady Sefton, Princess Esterhazy, and Countess Lieven were the only patronesses present. The Austrian ambassador’s wife was a little roundabout lady of great vivacity; Countess Lieven, reputed to be the best-dressed and most knowledgeable lady in London, looked to be clever, and almost as proud as Mrs. Drummond-Burrell. Neither she nor the Princess were acquainted with Mrs. Scattergood, and beyond staring with the peculiar rudeness of the well-bred at Miss Taverner, she at least took no further interest in her. The Princess went so far as to demand of her partner, Sir Henry Mildmay, who the Golden Rod might be, and upon hearing her name, laughed, and said rather audibly: “Oh, Mr. Mills’s Milkmaid!”
It was left for Lady Sefton to come forward, which indeed she did, as soon as she perceived the new arrivals. Several persons were presented to Miss Taverner, and she presently found herself going down to dance with Lord Molyneux, her ladyship’s son.
She had not heard Princess Esterhazy’s comment, but she had caught the expressive look that went with it. There was an angry lump in her throat; her eyes were more than usually brilliant. She looked magnificent, but so stern that she put Lord Molyneux in a panic. The sight of Mr. John Mills in conversation with a lady by one of the windows did nothing to soften Miss Taverner’s mood. Lord Molyneux felt nothing but relief when the dance came to an end, and having led her to a chair against the wall escaped on the pretext of procuring a glass of lemonade for her.
It still lacked ten minutes to eleven, but although people were continuing to arrive there was no sign of Peregrine. Judith guessed him to be only too glad of an excuse not to come, for he did not care to dance, but she had never felt more lonely in her life, and hoped every moment to see him walk in.