A Commercial Enterprise Page 7

  She smiled again, but then a thought struck her. “Oh, Mr. Jordan, I trust that my baggage has arrived. I took the liberty of sending it ahead to this address, I do hope that that was not too much of a liberty... ?” Her voice died away at the look of surprise on his face.

  “Baggage? Why no, Miss Lexham, nothing has been delivered here.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Perhaps it is still at the coach office. I will send a man there immediately. Please do not look so concerned, my dear, for I am sure that all is well.”

  But his words lacked conviction and they both knew that her baggage was gone forever. Dismayed, she allowed him to usher her to the door. Things were now even worse, for she was not only going to stay at one of London’s most exclusive hotels, she was going to do so with a wardrobe of only two dresses, the one she was wearing and the one in her little valise! Why, oh why had she been so foolish as to dispatch her other things ahead? She had only done so in order to make her determination to go all the more plain to Richard—now she was, as the saying went, hoist with her own petard!

  Chapter 8

  Caroline’s heart thumped nervously as she and Mr. Jordan entered the Oxenford a little later, having crossed London in the lawyer’s chariot. Her worst fears about the exclusive nature of the hotel were fast being realized, for even as she alighted from the chariot she had witnessed the exchanged glances of the two liveried footmen parading so importantly up and down on the pavement outside the building.

  Passing through the discreet doorway into the black-and-white-tiled hall, she was conscious of a rather intimidating hush pervading everything, as if no one dared to speak above a whisper. Little or no daylight pierced the hall, which was consequently lighted by an immense crystal chandelier suspended from the elegant domed ceiling high above.

  There were footmen everywhere, and long-aproned waiters hurrying to and from the nearby dining room, where it seemed that the guests were enjoying light luncheons. She felt very provincial indeed in her old mantle and sensible ankle boots, and she was horribly aware of her lack of a maid or lady companion; she was aware too of how glaring were the scratches on her old valise, which the porter had placed so prominently on the floor directly beneath the glowing chandelier. As the porter hurried away in search of Mr. Bassett, who was, so Mr. Jordan whispered to her, the maître d’hôtel or majordomo, she knew already that she would not enjoy staying in this place.

  Mr. Algernon Bassett proved to be a very superior being indeed. Wearing a discreet and tasteful coat of the darkest blue cloth, and pantaloons which she thought would be more suitable for evening wear, he approached the two new arrivals, his lofty glance taking barely a second to discern that the Miss Lexham who was to occupy the elegant apartment on the second floor was not at all the sort of person he had been expecting. Like Mr. Baldwin of the White Boar, he too trimmed his courtesy to suit her apparent social standing. His smile of welcome, while not exactly withering, was not warm either, and his pale blue eyes seemed to flicker coldly.

  He said very little as he snapped his fingers, calling a black boy dressed as a rajah and instructing him to conduct madam to her apartment. She felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment as the little boy picked up the valise, after first glancing around curiously for the rest of her luggage. After arranging to dine with Mr. Jordan that evening, she followed the little black boy up a very grand staircase, along a carpeted passage, and through an ornate doorway into the magnificent apartment she was to occupy for the next few days.

  Never before had she been in such elegance, indeed the rooms were almost palatial. There was a small drawing room, a bedroom with a magnificent four-poster bed, and a little dressing room. All were hung with gray brocade, all had beautiful Axminster carpets on the floor, and all overlooked Piccadilly and Green Park, and the magnificence of nearby Devonshire House. Gold-framed mirrors hung on the walls, candles were placed in girandoles on either side of the white-and-pink marble fireplaces, and the mahogany furniture had been polished until it gleamed.

  When the little boy had gone, she walked slowly around the apartment, gazing at everything, touching the lacy curtains, running her fingers over the elegant upholstery of a sofa, and testing the softness of the bed. The noise of Piccadilly was muffled and the lace curtains muted the sunlight. The atmosphere of the hotel seemed to fold inexorably over her. She felt very, very alone.

  She slept for most of the afternoon, more tired than she had realized after the long journey and the harrowing experience of her first meeting with her father’s family. Outside it was dark now and across Green Park she could see the lights of Buckingham House, while nearby Devonshire House was brilliant, every room illuminated. A maid came to draw the curtains and light the candelabra, and it was time for Caroline to dress for her first London dinner.

  With a sigh she opened her valise and took out her only other gown, the turquoise lawn. She held it up a little doubtfully, for there was no mistaking the fact that it was a morning gown, not an evening gown, but then she had packed it in the valise merely as a standby in case her gray wool became travel-stained.

  Now it was to serve for a fashionable dinner in London! Wryly she smiled a little, for there was no doubt that even had her baggage been delivered as promised, the gowns she wore for evenings in Selford would still have looked dreadfully ordinary here in the Oxenford. Still, there was no way out of her predicament and she must do the best she could with the few clothes she had—and at least she had her grandmother’s necklace, which was surely grand enough for any occasion.

  She washed in the porcelain bowl provided in the dressing room, shivering a little from the cold water, and then she lightly applied rouge to her cheeks and lips. Her hair proved a little difficult, for she so wanted to look as modish as possible, which was not easy when one was not used to such things. It was one thing to peruse past issues of fashionable publications, it was quite another to achieve an acceptable imitation of their engravings.

  At last she had finished combing and pinning and she surveyed the result in the cheval glass. She had twisted the honey-colored tresses into a creditable knot on the top of her head, and one long curl hung prettily down over her left shoulder.

  At Selford she had always called upon the capable services of her cook-housekeeper, Mrs. Thompson, who could dress her hair up with considerable skill, if not in accordance with each successive whim of fashion, and Caroline had found it unbelievably difficult to do the job herself, bending and turning to try to see in the mirror. She patted the length of matching turquoise ribbon which she had managed to twine through the knot of hair, and she was pleased with the way it fluttered a little when she moved.

  Next she stepped into the turquoise lawn, puffing out the little sleeves and arranging the soft folds to fall evenly from the high waistline. She had wondered how well her grandmother’s rubies would look with the turquoise, but she was pleased to see that they went very well indeed, for the rubies were dark and the turquoise was a muted, almost dusty shade. Picking up her plain white shawl and draping it over her bare arms, she surveyed herself in the mirror again.

  She sighed, for there was no mistaking the fact that she was provincial, a country mouse newly come to Town. Well, there was nothing for it but to brave the dining room, which would in all probability be thronged with the most fashionable, most critical of the haut monde!

  For a moment her courage almost failed her, until she told herself that Hal Seymour had complimented her upon looking good even when she had just awoken; if such a gentleman could say such a thing and mean it, then she must hold her head high and believe her appearance tonight to be adequate. As she left her apartment she wondered if Hal would be dining at the hotel tonight.

  Her shaky courage wavered anew, however, as she descended the magnificent grand staircase and a group of ladies and gentlemen in the hallway all turned as one to survey her. Her hand shook upon the gleaming rail and her cheeks became very pink as the gentlemen raised their quizzing glasses and the lad
ies whispered together behind their fans.

  To her relief, Mr. Jordan had already arrived, and he came forward immediately to greet her, bowing gallantly over her hand and saying that she looked very fetching indeed. She was very conscious of how exquisite were the gowns of the nearby ladies, so obviously the work of the finest London couturières, whereas the turquoise lawn was as obviously the handiwork of Eliza White of Selford. She was so preoccupied with this thought that she hardly heard Mr. Jordan telling her that unfortunately there was no sign at all of her missing luggage; it had indeed gone completely astray somewhere between Selford and London and had probably been stolen.

  The dining room of the Oxenford was a very severe chamber, decorated in dull colors and illuminated by so many chandeliers that the light was harsh and glaring. The lower portion of the walls was paneled in dark-gray, while the upper portion was hung with silk the color of the sea, which last seemed somehow to drain the warmth from the faces of the seated guests. The white-clothed tables were not large and were partitioned from their neighbors to give a little privacy to the small parties of diners.

  Candelabra stood upon each table and the gleaming cutlery had been set out with such precision that Caroline felt it would be a crime to actually pick up a knife and use it. Waiters hurried to and from the immense sideboards lining the far wall, their long starched aprons crackling, and the drone of polite conversation and the clatter of knives and forks filled the air.

  Caroline glanced swiftly at the other guests, but to her disappointment she saw no sign of Hal Seymour. She and Mr. Jordan descended the shallow flight of steps to the floor of the room and another of the little black boys greeted them, his splendid Indian clothes made of the very finest cloth-of-gold. He beamed at the lawyer, recognizing him immediately. “Good evening, Mr. Jordan, sir.”

  “Good evening, Hercules.”

  “Follow me, sir. Madam.” Hercules bowed very grandly and conducted them to an empty table, where he drew out Caroline’s chair for her and then presented her with the carte.

  She glanced at it in dismay, for it was entirely in French, for which language Parson Young’s careful tuition had not prepared her. She was suddenly very aware of the shortcomings of an education which the folk of Selford had regarded as unfemininely thorough but which here in London seemed very inadequate indeed.

  A little self-consciously she smiled at the lawyer. “Please order for me, sir, as I am sure your choice will be excellent.”

  He smiled. “I would be delighted, my dear.” After regarding the card for a moment, he gave instructions to Hercules, who nodded several times and then scurried away.

  The lawyer sat back, looking pleased with himself. “If I said that I had ordered mere chicken broth, then beefsteak and then apricot tart, no doubt you would be singularly unimpressed, but I promise you that those dishes, when prepared by a chef of such genius as Gaspard Duvall, are in a class of their own.”

  She smiled, but although she tried to appear at ease, it was almost impossible. Under the glare of the chandeliers she felt more conspicuous than ever and quite out of her depth. On reflection, she did not know if she was sorry or relieved that Hal Seymour was not present, for surely the shortcomings of her background and appearance would be only too evident to him in these surroundings—perhaps he would not even wish to acknowledge her.

  In spite of these private thoughts, she still found the dining room very interesting. She watched as the waiters spirited heavy silver dishes to and fro with such dexterity that she did not once see a risk of accident. She saw the superior Mr. Bassett wending his regal way between the tables, smiling sleekly at the influential guests, and qualifying his manner even with them.

  She pondered that in all probability he had a chart upon the wall of his private room: a prince of the blood would receive a deep, scraping bow and a sickly, servile smile, a duke would merit a slightly less scraping bow and an equally servile smile, and so on. Yes, the more she watched him, the more convinced she became of the existence of such a chart.

  A waiter called the majordomo to carve at a table occupied by bejeweled dowagers, and he stepped up with great verve, picking up the implements with a flourish and proceeding to give the entire room a display of swordsmanship. Caroline hid a smile, for had he challenged the motionless joint of roast beef with a dashing “On guard!” he could not more have resembled a fencing master. How different such carving was at Selford, where Richard hacked with gusto rather than grace, and where the carving knife and fork were discarded afterward with a loud clatter, not with refined daintiness.

  Mr. Jordan drew her attention away from the majordomo. “Tell me, Miss Lexham, are you comfortable in your apartment?”

  “Oh yes, indeed, the rooms are most elegant.”

  “Mr. Bassett assured me that the Earl of Lexham’s cousin would be most pleased with that particular apartment. I understand it has a fine prospect over Green Park.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “And what do you think of the Oxenford? Are you not glad now that I took rooms here for you?”

  He seemed so anxious that she should be pleased that she had not the heart to be honest and say that she found the Oxenford too intimidating and that she would much have preferred a comfortable room at a good inn. Instead she murmured complimentary things and smiled.

  He seemed satisfied with her response, for he sat back once more, glancing around and nodding. “Yes, indeed, when I think back to the days of my youth, there were no such establishments—certainly nowhere quite as eminently suitable for ladies. Now persons of great rank are content to lodge in these hotels. Why, the Prince Regent has a private suite at Mivart’s, so that he may enjoy the cooking of its French chef whenever he pleases, and the King of France recently stayed at Grillion’s on his way back to Paris to claim his throne. Jacquier, who keeps the Clarendon, was until recently chef to that same King of France, which makes one wonder if perhaps there was some disagreement, for his majesty must have declined the Clarendon in favor of Grillion’s.

  “Yes, the fashion has changed a great deal in recent years, and now one is as likely to find members of the aristocracy taking suites in hotels as purchasing town houses. The most recent development, however, is that a very important society wedding is to take place in a hotel—right here at the Oxenford in fact. I speak of the marriage of Lord Carstairs and Miss Seymour.”

  Caroline was immediately more interested. “Sir Henry’s sister?”

  “Yes. A most charming and delightful young lady. She wishes, so I understand, to set a new pace, and that is why she insists upon marrying here instead of at the Seymour country seat at Daneborough in Wiltshire, or indeed at fashionable St. George’s in Hanover Square.” He smiled. “I believe she will succeed in starting a new mode, for ladies of rank and fashion are very receptive to new ideas. Don’t you agree, Miss Lexham?”

  “I do indeed, sir.”

  At that moment a waiter brought the chicken broth the lawyer had ordered and Caroline’s attention left the interesting topic of Hal’s enterprising sister and turned instead to the matter of French cuisine. She had only taken a spoonful when she knew that this meal was an entirely new experience. The chicken broth was magical and deserved its grand title of consommé princesse; the beefsteak was called tournedos à la béarnaise and was a succulent dream; and the apricot tart was composed of exquisitely sharp fruit upon a feather-light pastry, and it fully deserved to be known by the more interesting name of tarte aux abricots.

  Mr. Jordan waited until the meal was at an end before at last inquiring what she thought. She smiled. “It seems small wonder to me, sir, that the French were defeated at Waterloo, for if their army had dined upon such wonderful delicacies, no doubt they were feeling too good to put up too much of a struggle.”

  He laughed. “So, you approve of this rage for French cooking?’’

  “I think I must, sir.”

  “Then maybe you will shortly be able to congratulate the chef in person, for I believe
he is about to appear among us.” He glanced behind her and she turned with interest. There was a slight stir among the other guests and then the incredible figure of Monsieur Gaspard Duvall descended the steps to the floor of the room.

  She looked at him in utter amazement, for he did not present at all the traditional figure of a cook: there was no white hat and no apron. He must have been about forty years old, although he moved with the sprightliness of a much younger man. He was small and dark, and with his bright brown eyes and animated expression, was very French indeed.

  His hair was beginning to go gray at the temples, and had he been of greater stature, he would have been pronounced a very handsome fellow. However, it was his choice of attire which was the most startling thing about him, for it was not at all conventional. His hat was a floppy blue beret, worn at a rakish angle over one ear, his waistcoat was a vivid peacock blue, and his trousers were as close fitting as some gentlemen wore their breeches.

  His tight-waisted, full-skirted coat was aquamarine in color, and altogether his appearance was such that he could not have passed unnoticed in a crowd. Whatever his taste in clothes, however, his smile was infectious, and it was immediately obvious to Caroline that the little Frenchman was liked as much for his good humor as for his eccentricity.

  Fascinated, she watched him progress from table to table, exchanging greetings with the gentlemen and bowing gallantly over the hands of all the ladies. At last he approached her table, and Mr. Jordan rose immediately to his feet.

  “Ah, Monsieur Jordan!” exclaimed the chef, recognizing the lawyer, “How pleasant it is to see you here once more.”

  “The frequency of my visits are proof of my delight with your brilliant cuisine, monsieur. May I present to you Miss Lexham, a lady who has tonight tasted French cooking for the first time.”