Marguerite Kaye - The Beauty Within

A distinct change came over Mr Brown as he neared Lord Henry Armstrong’s substantial town house in Cavendish Square. The sparkle left his eyes. His shoulders hunched as if he were retreating into himself. His steps slowed further. A combination of illicit thrill and intellectual stimulation had charged his blood and his brain during the meeting he had attended. Looking up at the tall, shuttered windows of the first-floor drawing room which stared blankly down at him, he felt as if those sensations were literally draining away. Though he fought it, he could not conquer the feeling, not quite of dread but of dejection, which enveloped him. He did not belong here, but there was no escaping the fact that it was his home.

Through the closed drapes of the window on the ground floor to the left-hand side of the door, light glimmered. Lord Armstrong, a distinguished senior diplomat of many years standing who had contrived to retain his post and increased his influence in the newly elected Duke of Wellington’s government, was working in his book room. Heart sinking, the young gentleman turned his key in the lock and made his way as silently as he could across the reception hall.

‘Cressida, is that you?’ the voice boomed.

The Honourable Lady Cressida Armstrong halted in her tracks, one foot on the bottom step of the staircase. She cursed in a most unladylike manner under her breath. ‘Yes, Father, it is I. Goodnight, Father,’ she called, foolishly crossing her fingers behind her back and making for the staircase, diving as fast as she could for the sanctity of her bedchamber before she was discovered.

London—March 1828

The clock in the reception hall downstairs chimed noon. Having spent much of the morning working and re-working a piece which transcribed the basics of her theory on the mathematics of beauty into a form which could be easily understood by the readers of The Kaleidoscope journal, Cressie now stared unhappily at her reflection in the tall looking-glass. Had she allowed sufficient time to summon her maid, perhaps her unruly curls would bear less resemblance to a bird’s nest, but it was too late now. The morning gown of brown-printed cotton patterned with cream and burnt-orange flashes and trimmed with navy satin ribbon was one of her favourites. The sleeves, contrary to the current fashion, were only slightly puffed, and came down almost to her knuckles, hiding her ink-stained fingers from sight. The skirts were, also contrary to fashion, not quite bell-shaped, and the hem was trimmed with only one flounce. Sombre and serious was the effect she was aiming for. Cressie pulled a face. Washed-out, plain and rather ragged around the edges was what she had achieved. ‘As usual,’ she muttered, turning away from her reflection with a shrug.

Making her way downstairs, she braced herself for the encounter ahead. Whatever the reason behind her father’s request to speak with her, she could be certain it was not going to be a pleasant experience. ‘Be a man,’ Cressie said to herself with a defiant swish of her skirts as she tapped on the door of the book room. Curtsying briefly, she took a seat in front of the imposing walnut desk. ‘Father.’

Lord Henry Armstrong, still handsome at fifty-five years of age, nodded curtly. ‘Ah, Cressida, there you are. I had a letter from your stepmother this morning. You may congratulate me. Sir Gilbert Mountjoy has confirmed that she is increasing.’

‘Again!’ Bella had already produced four boys in eight years, there was surely no need for yet more—and in any event, Cressie had supposed her father to be well past that sort of thing. She screwed up her nose. Not that she wanted to contemplate her father and Bella and that sort of thing . She caught his eye and attempted to rearrange her expression into something more congratulatory. ‘ Another half-sibling. How very—agreeable. A sister would make a most pleasant change, would it not?’

Lord Armstrong drummed his fingers on his blotter and glared at his daughter. ‘I would hope Bella would have the good sense to produce me another son. Daughters have their uses but it is sons who provide the wherewithal to secure the family’s position in society.’

He made his children sound like chess pieces in some arrogant game, Cressie thought bitterly, though she chose not to voice it. She knew her father well enough, and this was a mere preamble. If he wanted to speak to her it invariably meant he wanted her to do something for him. Daughters have their uses right enough!

‘To the matter in hand,’ Lord Armstrong said, bestowing on Cressie the sort of benevolent smile that had averted a hundred diplomatic incidents and placated a myriad of courtiers and officials across Europe. The effect on his daughter was rather the opposite. Whatever he was about to say, she would not like. ‘Your stepmother has not been in her customary rude health. The good Sir Gilbert has confined her to bed. It is most inconvenient, for with Bella indisposed, it means Cordelia’s coming-out will have to be postponed.’

Cressie’s rather stiff smile faded. ‘Oh no! Cordelia will be most upset, she has been counting the days. Cannot my Aunt Sophia take Bella’s place for the Season?’

‘Your aunt is a fine woman and has been an enormous support to me over the years, but she is not as young as she was. If only it were just a question of Cordelia. I have no doubt that your sister will go off quickly, for she’s a little beauty. I have Barchester in mind for her, you must know, he has excellent connections. However, it is not simply a question of Cordelia, is it? There is your own unmarried state to consider. I had intended that Bella would act as escort for you both this Season. You cannot prevaricate indefinitely, Cressida.’

The veteran diplomat looked meaningfully at his daughter, who wondered rebelliously if her father had any idea of what he’d be up against, trying to coerce Cordelia into wedding a man whose full, gleaming set of teeth owed their existence in his mouth to their removal from the gums of one of his tenants, if rumour was to be believed. ‘If Lord Barchester is your ambition for Cordelia,’ Cressie said, keeping her eyes fixed on her clasped hands, ‘then it is to be hoped that he is more enamoured with her than he was with myself.’

‘Hmm.’ Lord Armstrong drummed his fingers again. ‘That, Cressida, is an excellent point.’

‘It is?’ Cressie said warily. She was not used to praise of any sort from her father.

‘Indeed. You are twenty-eight now.’

‘Twenty-six, actually.’

‘No matter. The point is you have scared the devil out of every eligible man I’ve put your way, and the fact is that I intend to put some of them your sister’s way. They’ll not want you standing beside her like a spectre when I do. As I mentioned earlier, your Aunt Sophia is too advanced in years to adequately present two gals in one Season, so it seems I must choose. Cordelia will likely fly off the shelf. I think my ambitions for you will have to be temporarily put into abeyance. No, do not, I pray, feign disappointment, daughter,’ Lord Armstrong added caustically. ‘No crocodile tears, I beg you.’

Cressie’s clasped hands curled into fists. Over the years, it had become her determined policy never to let her father see how easily he could bruise her feelings. That he still managed to do so was one of the things which vexed her most. She understood him very well yet still, no matter how predictable were his barbs, they invariably hurt. She had long ceased thinking that he would ever understand her, far less value her, but somehow she felt compelled to keep trying. Why was it so difficult to fit her emotions to her understanding! She sighed. Because he was her father and she loved him, she supposed. Though she found it very hard to like him.