Food was laid out in the Rotunda to their left, slightly better than the usual overpriced fare of the gardens. Peter Mayhew lurked there, and his face fell when he saw that Daphne hadn’t accompanied them. “Hurst is about somewhere,” he told Galen, gesturing vaguely at the expanse of the gardens. “If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re here; I believe he intends to spend the night hunting on your behalf.”
It seemed Galen would have all the assistance he could stomach, and more. He was grateful to spot Dr. Andrews near the orchestra, the one man in London with whom he could talk something other than marriage prospects.
The stick-thin man turned when Galen called his name. “Ah, Mr. St. Clair. Here to support the good efforts of the Marine Society?”
So it was the Navy they were benefitting. “Yes, of course,” Galen said, as if he’d known. Andrews’s mouth compressed, not quite concealing amusement. To prove he wasn’t entirely ignorant of the evening’s design, Galen added, “Mr. Lowe will be singing later, I believe. Have you had the pleasure of hearing him? A fine tenor indeed.”
“A fine voice, but an inferior grasp of musical art,” Andrews said. “One would think the latter could be taught, and the former could not, but it seems beyond Mr. Lowe’s capacity. Nevertheless, a splendid singer—I do not mean to belittle him. Hanway would not engage him for this event, otherwise.”
“How go your studies?” Galen asked, and they spent an enjoyable if gruesome few minutes discussing the medical arts. This entirely inappropriate conversation, however, was interrupted by the arrival of Cynthia, with another young lady in tow. “Oh, I do apologise—Galen, I wanted to introduce you to my friend Miss Northwood.”
He bowed, sighing inwardly. From one duty to another, this one less pleasant. Northwood; that was one of the names Hurst had suggested. The one whose given name Byrd had derided.
Philadelphia certainly was a grand name for its bearer. She was excessively thin, and had the kind of plainness that showed its worst in fine dress; elegance merely heightened the lack of it in her face. Not ugly, just very unexceptional—the sort who attracted compliments for her fine straight teeth. And even those only appeared briefly, in an awkward smile.
“We’d be poor gentlemen indeed if we objected to the company of two pretty girls,” Galen said, substituting courtesy for truth. “And if you overheard our topic—I promise you, we can be more civilised. Just a few minutes ago Dr. Andrews and I were discussing the singer, Mr. Lowe. Have you heard him, Miss Northwood?”
“Once,” she said, in a soft contralto. “Not the most subtle in his interpretation of the melody—but you hardly notice that fault, past the glory of his voice.”
Which earned her Dr. Andrews’s instant approval. The two of them immediately commenced a debate over whose musical interpretation was superior to Lowe’s, while Cynthia cast Galen a look he could interpret all too easily. So this was her assistance to him: Miss Northwood as a prospective target. He had not known they were friends.
She seemed pleasant enough. And Galen had said that beauty was not his chiefest requirement. In fact—noting the colorful chiné silk of her gown, the intricate cording around its neckline—he recalled now why Hurst would have suggested her. Philadelphia Northwood’s father was one of the Directors of the Bank of England. Wealthy, and eager for his daughter to marry into a better family. In short, exactly what Galen was looking for.
He marshaled his courage and waited for an opportune moment. When it came, he said, “Miss Northwood—do you dance?”
She raised her eyebrows at him. Galen had the distinct impression this was not a question she was often asked; young men, seeing her, no doubt assumed that plainness on her part meant bruised toes on theirs, and inquired elsewhere. But the musicians were striking up a contredanse, and a platform had been built in the Grove for the purpose. She said, “I do, Mr. St. Clair—when invited.”
“Then please allow me to extend my invitation,” he said, proffering his arm to accompany the words.
Cynthia’s encouraging smile pursued them as they went to join the other dancers. This was easy enough, easier than conversation; he’d been through many hours of dancing lessons, and no doubt she had, too. He settled his hat more firmly upon his head, so the trickster wind could not snatch it away, and gave his hand to Miss Northwood, who accepted it with a curtsy.
She danced like an instruction book, every movement precisely as her own dancing master must have dictated it to her, without any particular flair or grace. But neither did she step upon his toes, and once he was certain of that safety, Galen realised he must make conversation after all. “I was not aware you were friends with my sister,” he began, seizing upon the first safe topic that came to mind.
“Cynthia and I share certain charity interests,” Miss Northwood replied, as they circled each other in an allemande. “The Society for the Improvement of Education Among the Indigent Poor.”
A perfectly respectable thing for polite young ladies to do. “And do you fill all your days with the improvement of one thing or another?” he asked, with a smile to show he meant no disdain. “Or do you spare an hour here and there for more frivolous pursuits?”
Her careful mask of pleasantry briefly deepened to something more genuine as they joined hands for a promenade. “I am no Methodist, Mr. St. Clair. If I filled every day with nothing but good works, I would soon burn my candle to a stub. The occasional frivolous diversion, I find, restores some of its lost wax—if I may be forgiven my execrable choice of metaphor, which I fear has taken a wrong turn somewhere. I should have gone with lamp oil.”
It startled a laugh out of him—a real one, not the polite chuckle every gentleman cultivated for genteel conversation. “Forgiven, Miss Northwood. What manner of diversion do you prefer?”
She hesitated for only the most fleeting of instants; had the dance oriented him away from her at that moment, he would have missed it. “I enjoy reading.”
As many plain young ladies did, their time unoccupied by the demands of flirtation and social intrigue. “Novels?”
Her answering look was sharp, before she moved to change places with the lady of the neighbouring couple. By the time they were rejoined, the careful mask was back. “Sometimes. Also history, philosophy, translations of classical works—”
Galen realised his mistake. He should have detected it sooner; Cynthia knew him, and knew where his priorities would be in courting. “I apologise, Miss Northwood. Were it not at our estate in Essex, I would show you my own library, and you would see I’m of your mind. These days, I must make do with a circulating library.” It was the only way he could get new books; his father firmly condemned the expense of purchasing them.
“Make do?” She laughed. “They are a wonderful institution, for if I purchased every book I wished to read, my father would put me on bread and water to make up the expense.”
Not just the refuge of a plain girl who could get nothing better; she had actual passion for learning. Vauxhall is a terrible place for her, Galen thought. It advertised every good quality she did not possess, while hiding those she did. She would do much better in another context.
The dance was ending, which was a good thing for them both. Their inattention had caused their steps to degenerate, his as well as hers. “Miss Northwood,” he said as he made his final bow, “have you been to see the curiosities of the British Museum?”