The American Adventuress by C. W. Gortner

Author:C. W. Gortner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2022-06-11T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-One

1884–1885

At over seventy years, William Gladstone was experienced in the vagaries of the political life, having had the distinction of serving as prime minister for three prior terms. Disraeli had mockingly dubbed him “God’s only mistake”—a fanged pun on his humorlessness—and in his severe black frock coat with its high collar, Gladstone might have been mistaken for a prosperous undertaker. Until he began talking. He held wide-ranging interests in myriad subjects, from recent archeological discoveries in Egypt to the challenges of Victoria’s reign.

I engaged him in conversation as the other guests mingled in our drawing room. Clad in his inimitable silk cravat and black tie, Randolph spoke with the Rothschilds and members of the Liberal Party who supported our PM, mandatory inclusions on the guest list. Like me, he refrained from looking toward the entry every time our butler announced a new arrival, but we were both on edge, fearing Their Highnesses might fail to appear.

We’d orchestrated the entire evening to cater to the prince. A menu composed of his favorite dishes and selections for my after-dinner piano recital by his preferred Prussian composers. At Randolph’s insistence, as he was advocating a bill in the House to adopt the invention, we’d replaced our gaslight with electricity—a costly endeavor with drawbacks, as the new lights tended to flicker out at a moment’s notice, obliging us to keep candles and lanterns at the ready. For tonight, I’d insisted on candlelight alone to avoid any mishap, though if the prince failed to show, electricity or not, we’d be the laughingstock of London. We’d never survive it.

“You mustn’t worry, my lady,” Gladstone said in his melodious voice, an instrument he’d honed to perfection and one I suspected Disraeli must envy. “I’m told His Highness has every intention of attending tonight. Alas, punctuality has never been his virtue.”

I waved my fan with a careless air. “Is it so obvious, my lord?”

“Not at all.” His keen eyes didn’t waver from my face, though I’d caught him at our greeting taking assessment of my person. For the evening, I’d spent an exorbitant sum at Worth’s London atelier for a gown of exquisite green watered silk, with a bodice overlaid with iridescent African beetle shells upon the fabric like chain mail. The effect was dazzling, the crystallized shells capturing the light, but it was somewhat rigid and fragile.

“As always,” Gladstone added, “you appear to be in perfect composure. But”—he lowered his voice—“I’m aware of the significant effort expended on His Highness’s behalf.”

He glanced at Randolph, who was busy charming a group of wives. “Your husband merits as much. Should he persist in his present vein, he might rise high in our ranks.”

“Might?” I echoed.

He returned his gaze to me. “He must curb his tendency toward intemperance. He can be erratic, when the mood overtakes him, as no doubt you are aware. Those rousing speeches of his in defense of Ireland, I suspect you have a hand in them.”

Unease went through me. Randolph and I had connived to keep my involvement strictly between us.

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