Talk of the Town Read Free

Devonshire’s Pierre years ago. Lord Holland most particularly liked it.”
    Later, when dessert wine was poured into her glass, Effie said, “This should be good. It’s old enough. It has sat in the cellars since the last century. Fox gave it to me for helping him win the election in ‘85, I think it was,” she added casually.
    “Fox, the great statesman?” Daphne asked, feeling that at last she was approaching the real Aunt Effie of legend.
    “To be sure, my dear. What a treasure he was! When Pitt had the parliament dissolved, you must know, we all—all the Prince of Wales’s set—got together and decided dear Charles must be our next prime minister. Prinney was a Whig then, fancy! The ladies took an active part in politics in those days. Georgiana, the Duchess of Devonshire, and I rounded up a bunch of ladies to go down into the most blackguard houses of Long Acres, begging votes and buying them with a kiss when we had to. We all wore a fox brush in our caps, and his buff-and-blue colours in a scarf, and combed his area. And when he won—what a revel! We stayed up all night partying at Devonshire House, and the next day Prinney had a do at Canton House that lasted from noon till six. I didn’t sleep for three days. That same night we went on to Mrs. Crewes for another party. I was married to Lord Standington in those days and moved in the best circles.”
    “And you actually knew the Prince of Wales personally?” Daphne enquired.
    “Knew him! My dear, he spent a week with Standington and myself at Arthur’s hunting box in Leicester, with Marie—Mrs. Fitzherbert, you know. Such a sweet thing she was, only quite stout and with rather a long nose, but very sweet. Georgiana told me such a story about Marie and the Prince. She was present at their betrothal, I suppose you would call it. The Prince was dying for Marie, and she would have nothing to do with him—he couldn’t legally marry her because of the Marriage Act, of course. Her a Papist amongst other things, and a widow! So the Prince had his quack in to leech him—he liked to look pale and romantic. There was a cup of blood drawn, and what must he do but pour it all over himself, cut a hole in his jacket, and send for Marie, pretending he’d tried to commit suicide for love of her. But she wouldn’t go to him without a lady escort, and that is how Georgiana came to be in on it. I wish she had called me. He proposed marriage, and Marie accepted—wrote to the Pope and all to see if it would do. Later they had a sort of marriage ceremony, though neither of them ever declared it publicly and later, when they made Prinney marry that horrid Caroline, he just dropped Marie. They may say what they will of a divorcee, at least I’m not a bigamist.”
    With interesting stories and characters of this sort to beguile the evening, it passed quickly. The ladies went from dining room to Blue Saloon with hardly a gap in the conversation. Tales incredible to believe were unfolded with such a wealth of detail as to name, place and circumstance that there was no disbelieving them. Then, too, despite her eventful life, Effie was not an imaginative person. She was, in fact, that sort of realist who would halt a conversation for five minutes to recall whether it was Mr. Pettigrew or his brother Robert who was second best man at a wedding, when the wedding itself was only a diversion in some other story.
    “What a memory you have, Aunt,” Daphne complimented her. “And what a lot of interesting stories.”
    “My memory begins to fail me, dear. I’m not sure yet whether it was Mr. Pettigrew or Robert— but in any case I have been reading those stories over in my memoirs these past months I have been so alone, and that’s why they are fresh in mind now."
    “Oh, you have kept a diary! What a splendid idea! I used to myself, but it seemed pointless to write each day that I had helped hem up a pair of curtains, or went for a ride in the woods, or drove to the