The Wastrel. Margaret Moore

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      “‘Had we but world enough, and time,”’ Uncle Byron quoted absently from his place on the opposite seat, his gaze fastened on the water-stained ceiling of the cab.

      Despite his distracted manner, he was, Clara noted approvingly, dressed in very proper evening clothes, unlike Aunt Aurora. With his beatific expression and shoulder-length white hair, Uncle Byron looked kind, and even quite wise. Kind he certainly was, and wise he might have been, had his mother not made the fatal error of naming him Byron, for her son had come to believe that with such a name he must be a poet.

      Her aunt, on the other hand, wore what might have been fashionable among the artistic set fifty years ago. Her gown was a Regency style, with the waistline beneath her substantial bosom and made of several layers of flowing white muslin, which was at least inexpensive, if not flattering. The style was intended to look Grecian. Over this, she wore a flowing stole of gold-colored taffeta that matched her usual exotic headdress.

      Aunt Aurora blessedly shifted and Clara’s dress was momentarily out of danger.

      The gown had cost far more than Clara had been willing to pay. Unfortunately, her aunt had been embarrassingly insistent. After all, she had exclaimed several times, regardless of the other customers in the dressmaker’s shop, Clara should dress as befitted her station. She was a duke’s granddaughter, even if her mother had been disowned by the old reprobate, and this was to be her introduction into London society. It was only by using her knowledge of her aunt’s mental processes that Clara had managed to avoid a garish gown of bright peacock blue or deep purple and a headdress that resembled an overgrown bouquet. Clara had convinced her aunt that she should appear demure, almost nunlike, in case word of her appearance should get back to her grandfather. Let there be nothing — nothing — about Clara’s clothes or demeanor that anyone could fault. Fortunately, Aunt Aurora had agreed, so Clara had no cause to be concerned about her garments — provided they could escape being squashed.

      “Perhaps Lord Mulholland will be there, too,” Aunt Aurora said excitedly. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful—the handsomest man in England, or so they say! What a triumph it would be to do his portrait!”

      “I daresay he already has several, if he is the conceited wastrel people say he is,” Clara replied. “He’s probably a vain coxcomb without a brain inside his handsome head,” she concluded, for she had indeed heard of the wealthy nobleman whose first name, Paris, seemed to have been chosen with predestination. Paris of Troy was the legendary seducer of Helen of Sparta, an act which caused the Trojan War.

      No one possessed of such a combination of looks, wealth and title would pass unremarked in London. Unfortunately, Clara could easily imagine how such a man would respond to her aunt.

      “I am absolutely certain the cabbie has gone out of his way,” Aunt Aurora declared again, straining to see outside. “Is that not Rotten Row? We should not be in Hyde Park! I feel sure he is going to deceive us!”

      “No, Aunt,” Clara said calmly. “He is going the right route.”

      She kept a bemused smile from her face, for even if the cabbie was trying to cheat them, Aunt Aurora would never confront the man. It would be Clara’s responsibility to pay the cabbie, just as she paid all the household bills for her guardians. She had done so from the time she had come to live with them after her parents’ deaths when she was thirteen. Clara realized then that Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron had minds above the daily practicalities, or so they honestly believed.

      For her part, Clara was in no great hurry to get to the London mansion of Lord and Lady Pimblett, for the distance from their lodgings in Bloomsbury to this exclusive part of the city was much farther socially than it was geographically.

      She wasn’t even sure why or how they had been invited to this ball. She had been lingering over one of the mummies in the British Museum when she realized that her aunt had approached an extremely well-dressed, extremely poised older woman and engaged her in conversation.

      Clara had immediately suspected the worst: that her aunt was asking if the lady wished to have her portrait painted.

      No matter how many times her aunt approached complete strangers with the object of obtaining a commission, Clara never got used to it. This summer, her aunt had been worse than usual, and Clara knew it was all her fault. If she had not been over the age to be “out,” her aunt would have been much less persistent. Clara sighed as she wished that she didn’t have to grow up at all, if this...this solicitation were to be part of the price.

      After the woman had moved on, her aunt had revealed, with her usual unbridled enthusiasm, that they were invited to this ball.

      “Just think of it!” Aunt Aurora declared, returning Clara’s thoughts to the present as she clasped together her plump hands bejeweled by rings of paste stones that she thought quite lovely. “An invitation to a social evening with Lord and Lady Pimblett! What a delight! What a pleasure! I knew it was no mistake to speak with her in the museum! Dear Lady Pimblett! What a form! What a figure!”

      “What a corset,” Clara remarked with a good-natured smile. “She swooned when she tried to catch her husband up at the museum. I suppose she spends most of the day on a sofa and considers herself sickly.”

      “Clara!” Aunt Aurora admonished, tapping Clara on the arm with her fan that was decorated with a hand-painted scene of half-naked nymphs and dryads that Clara was certain was going to cause some scandalized whispers at a Mayfair mansion. “She is a woman of great position, and we are deeply honored to be invited to her home. I must ask you to remember that.”

      Clara flushed and nodded, for it was not often that kindhearted Aunt Aurora rebuked her. She would simply have to be calm and patient, and try not to let Aunt Aurora’s manner upset her, even though she knew exactly what was going to happen. Her aunt would wander about the ball asking anybody who glanced her way if they would care to have their portrait done.

      Clara wondered for what seemed the thousandth time why she had let her aunt talk her into accompanying them to this vast house surely full of dull, uninteresting people who would snub her. Or worse, look at her as if she led some kind of vaguely dishonest life not much removed from those unfortunate women in the streets.

      Aunt Aurora, however, seemed to neither fear nor notice other people’s reactions, like that of the cabbie, who had stared with his mouth open as they approached his vehicle.

      Aunt Aurora frowned. “Perhaps she needs such an undergarment. She may have a weak back, and not every woman is naturally blessed with a figure like yours, Clara.”

      “Nor has every woman such an amiable and forward-thinking aunt to ban the detestable undergarment from her home,” Clara acknowledged.

      “Hear, hear!” Uncle Byron cried, leaning forward suddenly and grasping his wife’s hand while gazing at her adoringly. “My Amazon! My warrior queen, has ever been, so far seen....” Uncle Byron’s brow wrinkled, his green eyes became serious and he began to rub his chin as his attention returned to the ceiling. “Now what?” he murmured. “Queen, been, seen, tangerine...?”

      “The muse speaks!” Aunt Aurora whispered quite unnecessarily as she put her finger on her lips, obviously unable to remain silent despite the muse’s unseen presence.

      Clara turned to look out the window and hide her smile. When the muse spoke, she had best be quiet. It was the fastest way to achieve the end to one of Uncle Byron’s poetic reveries.

      A row of particularly fine town houses alight with blazing windows came into view. СКАЧАТЬ