Page 49 of My Own True Duchess
So Mr. Compton’s not excessive wagering was a problem after all. Theo sipped her drink, though she would have preferred some of Bea’s cordial. Mrs. Compton did not know the whole of Archie’s disgrace. God willing, she never would.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“So that you will know you aren’t alone, Mrs. Haviland. Perhaps so that I know the same thing. Intemperance, infidelity, wagering… I could forgive him all of it, but then I see my girls. One ruined, the other desperate… They did not ask to have a bumbler for a papa. The worst part is, I love him. I love that he tries to do better. I love that he’s never blamed me. I love so much about him, but he’s wrong about you, probably worried that you’ll spill some secret of his. After Mr. Haviland’s death, Mortimer avoided The Coventry Club for an entire year.”
Theo hated the very name. “There are too many clubs just like it, unfortunately. I do thank you for calling on me. Nobody else has.”
They shared a silence, one that spoke of loneliness, self-doubt, and weariness.
“When I get Dora Louise situated, I’m going to Italy,” Mrs. Compton said, peering into her half-empty glass. “I haven’t told anybody that—not even Lady Hopewell—but Italy is much more affordable and very beautiful.”
She had a grandchild in Italy, and with Mrs. Compton out of the country, her family could stop propping up an intemperate wastrel.
“Mr. Compton could end up in debtors’ prison.” Theo well knew how that prospect could haunt a wife.
“My brothers say the sponging houses have given many a man reason to stop squandering his coin and his life on drink.”
“The people who say that have never been in the sponging houses, nor been addicted to drink. Have you anybody in mind for Dora Louise?”
By halting degrees, over another serving of wine, Mrs. Compton shared her hopes for Dora Louise and agreed when Theo suggested Lord Lipscomb should not be encouraged to stand up with the girl. Mrs. Compton passed along the name of a modiste in Bloomsbury whose prices were reasonable and who wasn’t above adding some embroidery or a new underskirt to last year’s creations.
The visit became almost pleasant and exceeded its polite allotment of minutes considerably. Theo saw her guest to the door, glad that Seraphina hadn’t intruded.
“If you love Mr. Compton, you might suggest he accompany you to Italy.”
“I have hinted,” Mrs. Compton said, undoing the bow that secured her parasol. “I fear he loves his wagering and drink more than I love him. My brothers say I must put the choice to Mortimer, for surely he’ll not disgrace his wife and daughters by drinking himself into penury.”
Viscount Penweather had insisted on the same righteous reasoning, and Theo hoped Archie was haunting his lordship’s nightmares.
“When the time comes, you’ll know better how to proceed. Come back whenever you please, and I’ll serve you a decent cup of tea.”
“Tea grows tiresome,” Mrs. Compton said. “Gunpowder is all Lady Hopewell serves.” Resentment lurked at the edge of her smile, but so did a touch of self-deprecating humor.
On impulse, Theo hugged her guest, a firm embrace. Mrs. Compton looked slightly dazed by that presumption, but she didn’t pull away. Theo felt as if she were hugging her former self, a woman doing the best she could with an impossible situation.
A woman whose husband had left the seeds of scandal scattered in his wake, seeds that still might germinate into ruin.
* * *
Jonathan enjoyed music. He did not enjoy musicales. Part of the problem was the quality of entertainment on offer. Young people with no other talent to their name save marriageability were put on display early in the evening, warbling through a repertoire that was meant for trained voices.
His usual strategy was to appear in time for the second half of the evening, but tonight he was prompt. Theo would be among the guests, and for her, he would endure Caro Mio Ben until his ears fell off.
“Are you avoiding me?” a soft female voice asked.
The first thought to spring to Jonathan’s mind was, Damnation, followed by: The only force of nature more determined than a debutante pursuing a tiara was a long-lost half-sister pursuing her brother.
“Lady Della.” Jonathan bowed over her hand as any gentleman ought to. He did not know Della Haddonfield well, but he knew she was intent on forming some sort of association with him.
“Answer the question. Are you avoiding me?” She smiled, though her eyes promised unending retribution if he answered honestly.
“Shall we peruse the buffet? I’ve yet to partake.” He’d also yet to see Theo, who should have given up her buffet-prowling ways.
Della tucked her hand around Jonathan’s arm lightly, as if contact with her might spook him into a dead gallop. Moira occasionally took his arm. The Duchess of Quimbey could hang on to a man more firmly than a barnacle affixed itself to a seagoing frigate.
With Lady Della, this common courtesy made him uneasy. “How have you been keeping?” he asked, because small talk was safe.
“Miserably. I have a brother who refuses to call on me, won’t acknowledge me in public, and can’t give me a reason why. You socialize with my siblings, but you won’t socialize with me. ”
