Devonshire?”
Lord Harold dropped his gaze to the pair of gloves he clutched tightly in his hands; and it was then that I troubled myself to notice that he was arrayed entirely in black. It had often been a habit of his—a kind of elegance of attire—but on the present occasion was accompanied by a total lack of adornment. He was plunged into the deepest mourning. Was this, then, the source of his trouble?
The passing of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, so recently as March, had been the sensation of the Season. Not only was she the most powerful hostess of the great Whig families, a lady who had presided over a veritable court to rival King George’s, but she had been the most fashionable figure of the past age, almost a queen in her own right. It was Georgiana and her circle at Devonshire House that Richard Brinsley Sheridan burlesqued in
A School for Scandal
, and it was Georgiana, not Queen Charlotte, whom the public followed inblind adoration. Her blond curls, her sweetness of temper, and her youth—she was a Duchess at seventeen—had recommended her to the multitude; and no gown was adopted, no style or habit worn, that Georgiana did not set. More than this, however, had been her ambition. Her intellect ranged beyond the frivolities of Fashion. Some two decades ago, in the Westminster election of 1784, she had discarded the reserve so usually associated with great ladies of her station and fortune, and had condescended to campaign on behalf of the Whigs’ political light, the Genius of the Rabble, the Monster of Richmond, Charles James Fox. It had been rumoured in broadsheets that the two were lovers; Her Grace had been everywhere reviled, for buying votes on the hustings in return for kisses; but Fox prevailed in his parliamentary contest, and went on to sustain a brilliant career. With the death of the Tory leader, William Pitt, this past January, Fox at last bid fair to win the post of Prime Minister for which he had apprenticed all his life—and he owed his ascendancy in no small part to the Duchess of Devonshire.
When a liver ailment at last would claim her, huge crowds stood vigil with flaming torches before the gates of Devonshire House in London. The Prince of Wales paid a death-bed call. And the newspapers squandered oceans of ink for ensuing weeks, in eulogizing her fame.
I had known, of course, of Georgiana’s death—much as I had known of Marie Antoinette’s, and with as little personal sensibility. Although my brother Henry and his little wife, Eliza, the Comtesse de Feuillide, may have attended her routs at Devonshire House, the Austens were not in general a Whiggish family. My mother regarded the great ducal families, and their determination to control their King, as a select form of heathenry—one that possessed more wealth and influence than any heathen ought. Georgiana was as remote from my world as might be the moon.
But she had not been remote from Lord Harold’s. He was, after all, the son of a duke.
“You were intimately acquainted, sir?”
“From our infancy,” he replied. “I am Devonshire’s junior, of course—he is eight years older than his late wife—but with Georgiana I was always of an age.”
“My deepest sympathy, my lord.”
He shrugged slightly, as though from embarrassment at his own emotion. “The best-natured and best-bred woman in England is gone, Jane. There is nothing more to be said.”
“Hear, hear,” murmured Sir James. I glanced at him, and found an unwonted gravity in his looks. It was to be expected, I suppose, that a baronet and a native of the country would be acquainted with the Cavendish family—he must often have been invited to dine at Chatsworth when the Duke was in residence.
“Do you make a long stay in the neighbourhood?” I enquired.
Lord Harold seemed to rouse himself from a brown study. “Unhappily, not so long as I could wish. Parliament is at present recessed, but when it sits again we shall have much to do, if Fox is to
Lord Harold dropped his gaze to the pair of gloves he clutched tightly in his hands; and it was then that I troubled myself to notice that he was arrayed entirely in black. It had often been a habit of his—a kind of elegance of attire—but on the present occasion was accompanied by a total lack of adornment. He was plunged into the deepest mourning. Was this, then, the source of his trouble?
The passing of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, so recently as March, had been the sensation of the Season. Not only was she the most powerful hostess of the great Whig families, a lady who had presided over a veritable court to rival King George’s, but she had been the most fashionable figure of the past age, almost a queen in her own right. It was Georgiana and her circle at Devonshire House that Richard Brinsley Sheridan burlesqued in
A School for Scandal
, and it was Georgiana, not Queen Charlotte, whom the public followed inblind adoration. Her blond curls, her sweetness of temper, and her youth—she was a Duchess at seventeen—had recommended her to the multitude; and no gown was adopted, no style or habit worn, that Georgiana did not set. More than this, however, had been her ambition. Her intellect ranged beyond the frivolities of Fashion. Some two decades ago, in the Westminster election of 1784, she had discarded the reserve so usually associated with great ladies of her station and fortune, and had condescended to campaign on behalf of the Whigs’ political light, the Genius of the Rabble, the Monster of Richmond, Charles James Fox. It had been rumoured in broadsheets that the two were lovers; Her Grace had been everywhere reviled, for buying votes on the hustings in return for kisses; but Fox prevailed in his parliamentary contest, and went on to sustain a brilliant career. With the death of the Tory leader, William Pitt, this past January, Fox at last bid fair to win the post of Prime Minister for which he had apprenticed all his life—and he owed his ascendancy in no small part to the Duchess of Devonshire.
When a liver ailment at last would claim her, huge crowds stood vigil with flaming torches before the gates of Devonshire House in London. The Prince of Wales paid a death-bed call. And the newspapers squandered oceans of ink for ensuing weeks, in eulogizing her fame.
I had known, of course, of Georgiana’s death—much as I had known of Marie Antoinette’s, and with as little personal sensibility. Although my brother Henry and his little wife, Eliza, the Comtesse de Feuillide, may have attended her routs at Devonshire House, the Austens were not in general a Whiggish family. My mother regarded the great ducal families, and their determination to control their King, as a select form of heathenry—one that possessed more wealth and influence than any heathen ought. Georgiana was as remote from my world as might be the moon.
But she had not been remote from Lord Harold’s. He was, after all, the son of a duke.
“You were intimately acquainted, sir?”
“From our infancy,” he replied. “I am Devonshire’s junior, of course—he is eight years older than his late wife—but with Georgiana I was always of an age.”
“My deepest sympathy, my lord.”
He shrugged slightly, as though from embarrassment at his own emotion. “The best-natured and best-bred woman in England is gone, Jane. There is nothing more to be said.”
“Hear, hear,” murmured Sir James. I glanced at him, and found an unwonted gravity in his looks. It was to be expected, I suppose, that a baronet and a native of the country would be acquainted with the Cavendish family—he must often have been invited to dine at Chatsworth when the Duke was in residence.
“Do you make a long stay in the neighbourhood?” I enquired.
Lord Harold seemed to rouse himself from a brown study. “Unhappily, not so long as I could wish. Parliament is at present recessed, but when it sits again we shall have much to do, if Fox is to
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