by Eloisa James
“I apologize,” Otis said, looking at the chef expectantly.
“We French adore les escargots,” Monsieur Marcel told him. “I am happy to resemble my nation’s favorite food.”
Otis grinned. “I could use wax to make my hair resemble rat tails!”
“You too could be French,” Monsieur said, bellowing with laughter. “I assure you that the biggest rats in the world are to be found in my beloved Montpellier!”
This, Eugenia thought, was precisely why she insisted upon baking lessons: young English ladies and gentlemen needed to understand their households were run by real people.
“Monsieur, I wonder if I could beg you to make a variation on a cake?” she asked. “I should warn you that it exists in my imagination only.”
“Intéressant! I would welcome it, Madame Snowe,” the chef replied. “My skills are growing rusty. Monsieur Reeve eats whatever I cook and shows little interest in food.” He capped that with a roll of his eyes.
“My visit will last a fortnight,” Eugenia said, beaming as she rose from the table. “I shall rejoin you after Mr. Reeve hires kitchen staff. I would not wish to increase your work until you have adequate help.”
Monsieur bowed magnificently. “I shall count the moments, Madame Snowe.” He turned to the children. “You shall have your own cake for dessert tonight.”
“I should like to use a quince next time,” Lizzie said. “I never knew what that play meant when it calls for quinces in the pastry.”
“Hush,” Eugenia said, taking her hand. “For one thing, quinces are not in season. But more importantly, rather than requesting cakes from Romeo and Juliet, you must thank Monsieur Marcel for his kind instruction.”
“I am most grateful,” Lizzie warbled, and curtsied once more. Otis’s bow involved a waggle of the waist that made him look like a crane with a sprained ankle.
Their French notwithstanding, there was work to be done.
Back in the nursery, Ruby supervised as the children washed their hands and faces.
Then Eugenia took over. “I’m going to leave the room and enter it again. I would like you to imagine that I am the Duchess of Gilner.”
Lizzie’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t like her.”
“A lady never expresses a negative opinion of another person except in private,” Eugenia said. “Greet me as if I was your revered grandmama, come to evaluate the nursery.”
“Do you mean, as if I liked her?”
“That’s precisely what I mean.”
“You want us to lie!” Lizzie cried dramatically.
“I want you to act,” Eugenia corrected her. “At the right time, in the right way.”
Eugenia hadn’t seen Ward all day, and by evening desire glowed in her like a banked fire. The mere thought of him made her knees weak.
She chose a gown that promised more than it revealed, since the children were joining them. It was indigo blue, made of a silk so heavy that it fell like a column to the ground.
“Diamonds in your hair?” Clothilde asked. She hadn’t said a word, but Eugenia knew perfectly well that her maid knew of her affaire. Clothilde plainly approved—she was French, after all—but even after years together, they maintained a certain decorum.
“I believe I would prefer the silver net,” Eugenia said. “If you brought it, that is.”
“Certainly, madame,” Clothilde said, clearly pained by the insinuation that she would make such an error.
“With the silver heels,” Eugenia said.
“The blue slippers would be preferable,” Clothilde said. “In my opinion, silver might convey the impression that you are expensive.”
“I am expensive. I fail to see how that is relevant.”
“Gentlemen like to pretend that their wives will not be a burden on the household accounts. This gives them license to grumble, and pretend to have been deceived in years after.”
“I have no intention of marrying Mr. Reeve,” Eugenia stated. “Therefore, I shall wear the silver shoes and look as if I am expensive as the queen herself.”
“Certainly, madame,” Clothilde said.
“You needn’t wait up,” Eugenia added, taking up the silk shawl that accompanied the gown.
“I hope it is a pleasant evening, madame.” Clothilde’s French accent lent volumes to the prosaic statement.
“I have every reason to believe it will be,” Eugenia said, her smile widening as their eyes met in the mirror.
Chapter Twenty-nine
On coming down the stairs for the evening meal, Eugenia encountered Gumwater, who informed her that dinner would be served in a small chamber off the ballroom. He offered no escort, so Eugenia walked alone across the ballroom listening to the tap of her heels. The room resonated with an empty, windy sound that suggested no one had danced there since the seventeenth century.
She entered the parlor to find Ward alone, elbow on the mantelpiece, staring at the fireplace, his powerful features lit from below, as if he were a medieval warrior at a bonfire, contemplating the next morning’s battle.
It was a good thing that she hadn’t met Ward in her debut season. Andrew had been a glowing, golden boy, but Ward was all man, and not merely because he was burly in comparison to her late husband.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
He straightened. “You.”
Eugenia grinned. “Complimentary thoughts?”
He glanced at the open door. “Lascivious ones.”
They smiled at each other, like two cats sharing a stolen bowl of cream.
“I was also considering whether I would run out of French letters by the end of the fortnight,” he added, clarifying things. “May I offer you a glass of wine?”
He moved over to the decanters on the sideboard. “I’ve banished Gumwater. He’s not used to women in the house and it makes him tetchy. A glass of sherry?”
“No, thank you. A glass of red wine would be very pleasant.” Ladies were supposed to drink sherry before meals, but Eugenia liked to consider that a suggestion rather than a rule.
“Of course.”
“What will you do now that you’re no longer at the university?” she asked.
“I am adapting my paper-rolling machine to steam,” he answered, handing her a glass of ruby-colored wine.
“What increase in page production do you expect?”
He blinked, surprised.
“Isn’t that the obvious question?”
“From one entrepreneur to another, yes, it is.”
Eugenia took a sip of wine, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. “I would also be curious to know how large the steam-driven machine will be. Do the printing establishments on Fleet Street have space to accommodate a steam engine?”
Ward’s eyes lit up. “The question of the size of the engine itself is only one of the restrictions I’m wrestling with—”
But he broke off as the door opened and Ruby ushered in Lizzie and Otis.
Lizzie swept a deep curtsy. She was, Eugenia realized, wearing her veil, but it was pinned back, giving her the solemn look of a nun.
Eugenia greeted her and turned to Otis, who was wearing a leather bag over one shoulder, trimmed with black satin. He managed a reasonable bow, given that the bag was visibly squirming.
Instead of formally greeting his siblings, Ward gave Lizzie a tug on one of her curls and poked at Jarvis.
“Don’t!” Otis squealed, but there was no offense in his voice.
“Jarvis may not leave his carrier until you return to the nursery,” Ruby reminded Otis before she left.
Ward put a warm hand on Eugenia’s back. “Here is Gumwater with our meal.”
Thank goodness the meal was set at a round table, because it would have felt very odd if Ward had been at one end and Eugenia at the other. Once the butler left the room, Eugenia watched closely to ensure that Lizzie and Otis chose the right silverware.
Monsieur Marcel had clearly taken Eugenia’s presence as a challenge; Gumwater announ
ced a first course of la poularde à la Montmorencie, garnished with a ragout a l’Allemande to be followed by a second course with three entrées.
Otis appeared to have easily assimilated the lessons she gave them that afternoon. Lizzie kept forgetting and using the wrong fork, or talking with her mouth full, mostly because she was so excited to tell Ward about cake baking that she couldn’t stop talking.
“Monsieur Marcel is a miraculous marvel,” Otis said, trying out a tongue twister.
“He is,” Eugenia agreed, “but he won’t be your chef much longer, Mr. Reeve, unless you hire a cook, two kitchen maids, and a couple of scullery maids.”
Ward looked surprised. “Has he informed Gumwater if he is in need of help?”
“Mr. Gumwater won’t have women in the house,” Lizzie said, bouncing in her seat. “Ruby says that she—and Mrs. Snowe and her maid, of course—are the only women allowed to sleep under Mr. Gumwater’s roof.”
Ward raised an eyebrow. “It appears that I lost ownership of my roof.”
“In addition to the cook and kitchen maids, you might think about a housekeeper,” Eugenia said, “one who might help you furnish the house. Lizzie, you mustn’t bounce at the table.”
“I feel like it,” Lizzie said thickly.
“Please do not speak with food in your mouth,” Eugenia said patiently.
The little girl narrowed her eyes. She pulled her veil forward and draped it over her face. “You needn’t watch me.”
“A lady never wears a veil when dining in company,” Ward put in.
Lizzie pulled her veil to the side, just enough so that she could glare at her brother. “Lady Lisette did whatever she wanted to!”
“Our mother was not a lady,” Ward stated. “You are, which means you cannot bounce, chew with food in your mouth, or wear a veil while eating.”
Eugenia intervened. “I’ve been wondering what it was like to live in a theater wagon. Did you like it?”
“No,” Lizzie said, pushing her veil behind her head once again.
“It wasn’t so bad,” Otis said.
“It was rubbish,” his sister snapped. “It was small, and smelled in the rain. There wasn’t anywhere to put books or clothes. And we couldn’t go to school.”
Ward felt his gut tighten. The more he heard about his siblings’ life, the more he despised his mother. It was an uncomfortable feeling.
“What do you think that your parents enjoyed about the stage?” Eugenia asked.
“Acting,” Lizzie said. “Lady Lisette loved acting parts.”
“Mother was very good,” Otis put in, apparently undismayed by his sister’s earlier snub.
“No, she was not good,” Lizzie retorted. “She liked to do soliloquies and take up the whole stage. You’re not supposed to do that. The troupe is supposed to work together. That’s why—” She broke off and took a bite of creamed spinach.
“Was your father a good actor?” Ward asked.
“He was bollocks at it,” Otis said, with a blinding smile that Ward had seen only a few times. “That’s why he worked the curtains.”
“He also didn’t want to be recognized,” his sister said, her voice tight. “Lady Lisette would have been very angry.”
From the corner of his eye, Ward could see that Otis had illicitly taken Jarvis out of his carrier and was stroking him on his lap. He should probably say something, but he sympathized. The very mention of Lady Lisette made him want to pull Eugenia onto his lap and kiss her until he forgot about the conversation.
“Do you know what I do when I’m angry?” Eugenia asked, in something of a non sequitur.
“What?” Lizzie asked.
“I shout and scream. I try not to keep it bottled up inside.”
Ward frowned. Lizzie needed to learn how to be a lady, not how to shout. She already did that plenty, mostly aimed at her brother.
“Perhaps it is time for the ladies to retire for a cup of tea?” he asked Eugenia pointedly.
Eugenia didn’t glance at him. “It can be cathartic to scream. You allow the anger go through your voice and into the air.”
“My brother and sister have no need to learn to scream,” Ward stated.
“It’s not screaming, per se,” Eugenia said, looking at him. Her eyes were compassionate, almost as if she thought his siblings were forlorn paupers. As if they’d grown up hungry.
The thought chilled him. “Was there always enough food for you to eat?”
Otis didn’t look up, but the curve of his neck stiffened. Bloody hell.
“Until Father died,” Lizzie clarified. “Lady Lisette always said that practicalities were tiresome.”
“Hell and damnation,” Ward snarled.
“That’s a gentleman’s version of a scream, Lizzie,” Eugenia said.
“Did it send your anger into the air?” Otis asked, with the look of a child who has just learned a new phrase and is aware that he isn’t supposed to repeat it under any circumstances.
But plans to do so as soon as he’s in private.
“Never say that phrase around ladies,” Ward warned.
“You just did,” Lizzie pointed out.
“It was an aberration. I apologize to you, Lizzie, and to Mrs. Snowe.” He managed to arrange his mouth into a line with curves at the ends. A smile, of sorts.
“I like cursing better than screaming,” Lizzie said. “I know lots of words already.”
“All right,” Eugenia said, to Ward’s profound dismay. “But never, ever in public. Do you promise, Lizzie?”
“Yes!”
“I can do it in public if I want to,” Otis crowed.
“Not until you’re eighteen,” Eugenia declared, “and never in polite company. Now Lizzie—and Otis, if you’d like—I want you to think of something that made you very, very angry. Something you want to forget.”
Ward had gone rigid with annoyance. This is what came of introducing the children to a woman who wasn’t born and bred a lady. She didn’t understand that if Lizzie even whispered “damnation” in a ballroom, she’d be ruined.
“Are you ready?” Eugenia said.
“Will you do it as well?” Lizzie asked. She had a strained look around her eyes, like a horse attacked by a cloud of flies.
“I am not angry,” Eugenia said. “This is your turn.”
Lizzie closed her eyes and took a breath so deep that her narrow chest expanded visibly.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ward hissed at Eugenia.
She turned her clear eyes to him. “I will be happy to discuss it with you at a later time.”
Lizzie’s eyes popped open. “I’m ready!”
Eugenia smiled. “Go ahead, Lizzie.”
Ward groaned internally. He was new to fathering, but he was certain that encouraging a young lady to curse was not appropriate.
His little sister sat up straight, squared her shoulders, opened her mouth and let out a string of curses in a high, shrill, and very loud voice. After the first three, Ward’s ears rang. After seven or eight, Gumwater burst through the door at a breathless trot.
Eugenia leaned forward and nodded, and Lizzie stopped. The silence that followed had the crystal clear precision of early dawn.
“That hurt my ears,” Otis cried. He was huddled over, his hands protectively clasped around his pet’s head. “You hurt Jarvis, too!”
Gumwater muttered something and walked back out again.
“I feel better,” Lizzie said, looking surprised.
“I feel worse,” Ward said. “Where did you learn all that filthy language, Lizzie?”
She didn’t seem to hear him; her eyes were fixed on Eugenia. “Did I do it right?”
“Absolutely right,” Eugenia replied, rising to her feet. “I’m glad it made you feel better. Now it is time for the ladies to retire to the drawing room.”
“We needn’t honor that rule tonight,” Ward said, standing.
Lizzie danced around the table and grabbed Eugenia’s hand as if
they’d been friends for years. “I thought of something else that makes me angry.”
“We will wait for tomorrow,” Eugenia said. “You have an imaginative turn of phrase, and I believe Gumwater was shocked.”
She glanced at Ward. “As was your older brother.”
“They are mostly taken from Middleton plays,” Lizzie confided.
“Don’t gentlemen stay at the table and smoke a cheroot?” Otis asked Ward. He had dropped Jarvis back into his carrying sack.
“No,” Ward said. “You’re too young. If anyone tells you differently when you’re at Eton, ignore them.”
“Eton,” Otis breathed.
There was a stunned expression on his little brother’s face; Ward didn’t know if he was horrified or happy. Damn it, it had slipped out; he had meant to tell Otis once the boy was more settled.
There was no keeping the secret now. “I’m sending you at school in a few months, for the beginning of Michaelmas term,” Ward said. “I went to Eton and so did your father.”
“My father promised that I would go to Eton,” Otis squeaked, his voice cracking with excitement.
Thank God: happiness, not horror.
“I know a boy named Marmaduke, Lord Pibble, who will also be new to Eton,” Eugenia said. “I believe your brother can arrange to have you share a bedchamber.”
“‘Marmaduke’?” Otis wrinkled his nose.
“I would bet you a shilling that you and he will be the best of friends by the end of term.”
Ladies don’t make wagers, Ward thought. But he kept his mouth shut.
“It’s not fair that girls can’t go to Eton!” Lizzie exclaimed. She was still clutching Eugenia’s hand, Ward noticed with a mild sense of panic.
He couldn’t have his sister grow fond of his lover. It wasn’t done.
It really wasn’t done.
“Marmaduke has a pet toad named Fred who goes with him everywhere,” Eugenia was telling Otis. “I expect you can’t bring Fred and Jarvis to the classroom, but your pets could wait in your bedchamber.”
“I must teach you both how to swim,” Ward said. “There’s a river that runs by the school, and a boy drowned there during my time.”
From the corner of his eyes, he saw a shiver run through Eugenia. Damn it, he’d forgotten about her husband again.
