Diane Gaston - Rumours in the Regency Ballroom

The room was quiet and the gentlemen present were whispering among themselves or keeping their eyes downcast. Adrian saw Tanner sitting alone at one of the tables. He crossed the room to him.

“Who the devil died?” he asked.

Tanner looked up and gave him an ironic smile. “Actually, the Queen.”

Adrian dropped into a chair. “My God. I was merely joking.”

The Queen had been ailing for some time, and news of her condition was printed often in the newspapers. She’d been convalescing at Kew Palace for some time. Even lately, she’d been reported taking the sun in the garden.

“When did you hear?” Adrian asked.

“Not more than an hour ago.” Tanner took a sip of coffee. “She died at one o’clock, it was said.”

Adrian signalled the attendant. “Tea, please.”

Tanner lifted a newspaper that had been lying on the table in front of him. “Did you see this?”

It was a copy of The New Observer .

“I read it.”

Tanner twirled his finger. “Before news of the Queen arrived, they were all speculating about who was this Lord C The New Observer writes of.”

Adrian kept his eyes steady. “The New Observer writes of a Lord C?”

Tanner tapped the paper. “It does. Lord C— , it said… Lord C—, with whom Lady W—was so recently linked.” Tanner grinned. “You don’t suppose he means Lord Cavanley, now do you?”

Adrian made himself roll his eyes. “Of course, you would think of me. Not Lord Crawford or Carlisle or Crayden.”

Tanner feigned being offended. “I would expect you would tell me before it appeared in the newspaper. I mean, we are friends and there is, of course, my recent connection to Wexin.”

This was the moment that Adrian ought to tell Tanner the whole—only he could not quite bring himself to open his mouth.

“I was about to head off to Gentleman Jack’s,” Tanner said. “Come with me.”

The moment passed. “Very well.”

A good bout of fisticuffs would not hurt.

When they were outside, Adrian asked Tanner, “I know you have been concerned about Lady Wexin. What do you think this newspaper report means?”

Tanner shook his head in dismay. “I cannot know. After our return to London, Marlena and I sent Lady Wexin a note asking if we could call upon her, but she refused.”

Adrian walked several steps in silence. Here was another moment for him to tell Tanner of his encounter with Lydia.

“How is Lady Tannerton?” he said instead. “I do hope she is well.”

Tanner smiled, but it seemed to Adrian that the smile was meant for Tanner’s wife. “She is splendid, Pom. She is splendid.” He stared off into the distance for a moment before glancing back at Adrian. “Lady Heronvale has taken her under her wing. They are making calls to other ladies today.”

“Good of Lady Heronvale.”

Tanner turned pensive. “I suppose there will be much involved with the Queen’s funeral. I wonder if Marlena will be up to all the pomp so soon.”

After what Tanner’s wife had been through already, Adrian suspected a royal funeral would seem like a simple ride through Hyde Park. “She’ll do splendidly.”

Tanner laughed. “Pom, I am so unused to this. I feel amazingly at loose ends. I have become so accustomed to being at her side.”

Adrian, at least, knew precisely how it felt to be at loose ends.

He clapped Tanner on the shoulder. “Then it is good that I am with you. Let us beat each other to a bloody pulp at Gentleman Jack’s, and we will both be certain to feel better.”

The Ceremonial for the Internment of her late Most Excellent Majesty Queen Charlotte of blessed memory, will take place in the Royal Chapel of St George at Windsor, on this day, Wednesday of the second day of December, 1818.— The New Observer , December 2, 1818

Lydia stood at her window watching the carriages roll by. It looked as if the funeral procession for the Queen had begun in Mayfair, rather than Windsor. Most of the peerage, it seemed, would be in the procession for the Queen.

She felt apart from it all, separated from the life into which she had been born. It was true that wives and daughters of peers would not be greatly in attendance at the funeral, but they would have been intimately involved in conversations about its planning and would hear every detail of the ceremonial at the end of the day. She had no one with whom to converse about it.

One fine carriage after another rumbled by, the gentlemen wearing tall black beaver hats or plumed regimentals just visible through the carriage windows.

Would Adrian be among them?

Lydia groaned. She ought not to think of him, but with her empty days it seemed he came much too often into her mind. Even when she ventured to Piccadilly Street to browse in Hatchard’s or to purchase jams at Fortnum and Mason, she found herself searching for him among the passers-by.

At least now she was able to walk to the shops unmolested. The reporters had vanished from her doorway when it became known that the ailing Queen had reached the end of her suffering. Lydia could not be glad the beloved Queen had died, but she was ecstatic that the reporters’ attention had turned towards the King, the Prince Regent and the Royal Dukes and Princesses. The newspapers were filled with every step the royals took. Speculation was rampant about the Queen’s will and the fact that she had only recently composed the document. Who would she remember in her will? And who would she leave out?

The Queen had always seemed like a formidable figure to Lydia. She had shaken in terror when she’d been presented to the Queen during the Season of her come-out. Lydia imagined all sorts of mishaps, like tripping on her skirt or losing one of the huge feathers she wore in her hair. When it had been her turn to be announced to the Queen, Lydia had been convinced she would faint, but somehow she’d made her approach and performed a graceful, if overly practised, curtsy.

The Queen had actually spoken to her. “Why, you are quite a beauty,” Her Majesty had said. “Quite a beauty.”

Lydia smiled at the memory of herself, so young and giddy and full of hope. It had been a time when she’d dreamed of love and marriage and children.

It had been a long time ago.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said aloud, curtsying again, just as she’d done that day.

Lydia had dressed in black today. She’d wear black to honour the dear Queen. She turned to leave her bedchamber and to make her way to the morning room where her breakfast would be served.

When she entered the corridor, the sweet sound of Mary humming a happy tune reached her ears. Lydia smiled.

Two weeks ago Mary had met a young man who’d put stars in her eyes and a skip in her step. Mary had seen the fellow only twice, when Lydia gave her permission to spend a little time to meet him at Gunter’s, where they shared some treat together. Those two meetings had been enough to keep the girl humming through all the other days.

“You must be thinking of your young man,” Lydia said when Mary came into view.

Mary blushed. “Oh, I suppose I should not hum on such a sad day. I do beg pardon, my lady.”

“Do not be silly, Mary,” Lydia scolded. “It is perfectly acceptable for you to be happy.”

It was more than acceptable. It was the one bright spot in Lydia’s life.

Mary beamed. “Well, I am very happy and that is the truth.”

Lydia reached out and touched the girl’s hand. “And I am happy for you.”

Lydia turned to walk down the stairs. As she descended she heard Mary’s cheerful tune again and almost felt like humming herself.

But a wave of queasiness came over her, so strong she almost missed a step. She grasped the banister to keep from falling.