by Laura Locke
“He is. Oh...” Lady Alexandra shook her head. “I should not have told you. But you see? I couldn't hide such news.”
“News? Please, Alexandra. Tell me!” I had forgotten the meal, the dinner, the company. All I cared about was the news about Francis. I looked into her eyes and it could just have been her and I.
“He is only a lieutenant because he was demoted. I heard about his conduct with a lady in society. The poor girl. Her father knew the major, though, and so he was disgraced. And a good thing, I say.”
“Oh, yes. It's right that these fellows be disgraced. Can't have that. Terrible.”
The man beside Cornelia rumbled a comment, vehement. Despite his earlier help, Cornelia wasn't sure he really even knew what they were talking about. But what she meant was clear.
She meant Francis had used a woman. Her father had found out and he had been demoted. He was disgraced.
I cannot believe it. I don't want to believe it. But it all made sense. Why else had he been a lieutenant when he could have gone further? Why else was he so affable to me, if it was not to try and ease his way back into society? And why had he disappeared so suddenly?
Cornelia felt stupid, naive and shamed. He had been fooling her all along.
I should hate him. Instead I hate only myself. I hope that, whatever happened, I will never see him again. I have no idea what I would do if I did.
Cornelia closed her eyes and felt the room sway around her.
“I think I want to lie down.” Her voice came down a long tunnel, reaching out into the empty, black space that was closing in around her. She heard, distantly, the scrape as Alexandra pushed her chair back.
“Cornelia!” Her voice sounded concerned. She must have rung the bell, for a footman appeared: Cornelia heard his footsteps and distantly heard Alexandra give an order. “Help the lady out.”
“Of course, milady.”
The man gently helped her to her feet and led her over the threshold to her bedchamber. Upstairs, he called Linton and she came to help Cornelia to bed.
In bed, Cornelia curled up tight and, too tired even to sob, fell into dreamless sleep.
Chapter 12
Cornelia woke up feeling as if a cannon had fired through her heart, leaving everything inside her shattered and broken. She looked around the faded pink and sage bedchamber, struggling at first to remember where she was.
Northend House. With the memory the sadness came afresh. Francis. He had been deceiving her. She rolled into a ball, the feeling in her heart a physical pain.
“The last thing I want to do is go downstairs for breakfast.”
Cornelia rang the bell and summoned Linton. As she had yesterday, Linton did not probe or ask questions. She just waited for Cornelia to say something.
“I'll wear the white dress today, thank you, Linton. And please bring breakfast upstairs? I feel too indisposed to go down.”
“Very good, milady.”
Linton returned ten minutes later with a tray of pastries and a pot of tea, prettily arranged. The china was Delft ware, something that struck Cornelia as odd. It was less modern than, say Sevres porcelain; an inconsistency in a fashion-conscious house. Cornelia sighed and drank her tea, dismissing her thoughts. I'm trying to distract myself from my own pain.
She bit into a pastry methodically and chewed, knowing she had to eat to stay strong, but not particularly noticing anything about it. It felt as if all her senses had withdrawn, leaving her in a gray space.
After more tea, she set the tray aside and called Linton. She dressed and let Linton arrange her hair, then headed quietly out, planning a walk.
“My lady?” the steward appeared, all helpful smiles. “The breakfast is laid out upstairs?”
“I know,” Cornelia murmured. “I wished to take a turn outside.”
“Of course.” He opened the front door for her and let her out.
The garden was cold, still, the faint chill of autumn in the air. Despite the cold, it was wonderful to be outside. Cornelia breathed out into the morning chill and crunched down the gravel path. Then she stopped.
She had hoped to sit on the bench under a rose trellis, but there was already someone there. She froze when she recognized the person: Richmond. The last person she wished to see.
She tried to back away, but it was too late – he had already seen her.
“My lady!” he said, standing. “Please. Don't go. I wanted so much to speak with you.” His handsome face was twisted into an expression of pain. He held out a hand to her mutely.
Cornelia frowned at him. Her heart drummed in her chest and every instinct told her to run. At the same time there was a desperate sadness in those eyes that appealed. She stayed where she was. “What is it, my lord?”
“Please, my lady, I have been wretched. I cannot believe I could be such a brute as I was. At the theater, the other night...” he sighed. “I was overwhelmed and I was foolish. I crave your pardon.”
Cornelia frowned. She was not sure if she trusted him, but he sounded so sincere. “If you can promise never to...touch me unwarranted...again, then I can forgive you. My lord.” She looked up at him firmly.
He smiled, the relief intense in his face. He let out a shuddering exhalation. “Whew. My lady. I am so pleased. I would do anything to show you how pleased I am.”
“Well, you can start by not being so pleased,” Cornelia said with a touch of asperity. “I'm not as terrifying as all that.”
He laughed. It lit his eyes. It's the first time I've seen him smile properly. Cornelia wondered if perhaps all these lessons on how to comport herself weren't robbing her of the frankness he needed.
“My lady, I assure you, you're not terrifying. But there is something worrying you. I can see it. Come. Sit.”
Cornelia sat next to him when he moved up, patting the bench a good distance from him. She turned to look up at him. There was a finger's breadth between their hands and he didn't try to touch her. She smiled wearily.
“I am worried,” she admitted.
“Could you unburden yourself to me? I would help if I could.”
Cornelia closed her eyes, gathering her thoughts. “Last night your sister – and yourself – mentioned a man. A lieutenant. Wescote, the name was. You said he'd done something bad. What do you know of him? What manner of man is he?”
“Ah.” Richmond moved his tongue across his teeth, thoughtfully. “You raise a delicate topic, my lady. Wescote is...not the sort of man for polite conversation. And assuredly not the sort of man with whom a lady associates safely.”
“Oh.” Cornelia felt the blow strike a heart rendered already numb. It should have hurt, but it didn't. It was just one more pain on a mass of pain so big she couldn't feel it. “So it's true.”
“I regret it, but it is.”
Cornelia sighed. “It's hardly your fault. I am just so grateful that you told me! Now I know.”
“Now you know. This knowledge causes you pain, I see. Why?”
Cornelia sighed. She couldn't very well tell him that she had been in love with Francis Wescote. Besides the fact that Francis was clearly a disreputable person, not worth knowing, Richmond loved her.
“He was...a friend. Now I know him to have deceived me. I feel stupid.”
Richmond sighed. He moved to take her hand and this time Cornelia did not resist it. She let him hold her fingers in his as he talked.
“I am sorry for your pain,” he said frankly. “But I can tell you one thing for certain. You are not a fool, my lady.” his eyes bored into hers, intense and insistent. “This man deceived you.”
“But he seemed so honest.”
“Deceivers often do. Forget him. That's my advice.”
Cornelia retorted. “That's easy to say. I cannot so easily forget him. Or what he did to me.”
Richmond sighed. “Well, mayhap I can distract you. Do you dance?”
Cornelia looked at him in astonishment. “A little. Why?”
“Well, this afternoon we are h
aving a visit from a dance-master from France. He's here to teach us the quadrille – it's so fashionable at the moment, and only the French do it properly, you know. If you like, I would like you as my dance-partner?”
“Oh.” Cornelia blinked at him in surprise. He looked eager, a hunger to please in those brown eyes that touched her heart. “Of course. Thank you, Richmond. That is kind.”
“Well, I would benefit from a beautiful dance-partner,” he said gallantly.
Cornelia felt herself flush. He could be so nice! Genial, complimentary, kind. How had she not noticed that? “Thank you, Richmond,” she said again, swallowing. “When will these lessons take place?”
“At four of the clock, just before tea. Now, if you like, I should show you the hot-house. Only a small one; nothing like the wonders of Kew.” He grinned wryly. “But still, in our humble way we're very proud of it. Come, come.”
Cornelia nodded and let him lead her round the back of the house. When they walked over the gravelly path he offered her his arm and she took it.
The hot-house was small, he was right – more like a lean-to of glass. But it housed a few exotic plant species that Cornelia was sure had cost them dearly.
“Very impressive,” she murmured.
“The world houses such interesting things,” Richmond mused. “These plants, so used to light and warmth we must needs house them in such places. Imagine where they grew...how temperate! How balmy! Wouldn't it be nice to visit such places?”
Cornelia smiled at him. She would never have guessed he had such a poetic, questing side, that he longed for adventure.“Yes,” she nodded slowly. “I suppose it would.”
“One day, dear Cornelia. One day I shall venture out to these places. And I hope you, too, will one day see them.”
Cornelia's brow rose. Did he mean to suggest they might go together? That was a surprising thought. What exactly was Richmond's intent for them?
“I hope I do,” she said neutrally.
He smiled and it felt as if they shared a secret.
“Shall we go back to the house, now?” he said. “The day is warming, but inside is still better.”
“It is,” Cornelia nodded. “Yes. Let's go in.”
Inside, Richmond was as attentive as he had been. He took her to the drawing-room and showed her the pianoforte – an old model, but good – and offered her the use of all the music books, showing her where they all were and how they were arranged.
“Please, use whatever takes your fancy. I cannot promise you total privacy – I do love the sound of a well-played pianoforte, and I may stay outside and listen.”
Cornelia blushed. “I am sorry to disappoint, my lord. But I play only a little, and rather ill.”
“Nonsense,” Richmond snorted. “All ladies have such modesty! I am sure you play remarkably well.”
Cornelia considered threatening him with a demonstration. She decided not to: a lady would probably dismiss his comment with a laugh, and besides, she wasn't sure she wanted to play for Richmond. It was an intimate exchange and not even Francis had heard her play.
Stop thinking about him. He is not the sort of man a young woman would wish to know.
Cornelia brought her thoughts back to the present. Richmond was saying something she hadn't heard properly. She glanced at his tall, lean body, bent slightly to pull a book from the shelf, and felt her breath quicken. He wasn't bad-looking, by anyone's standard. In fact, like his sister, he was magnificent.
Handsome, charming. Besotted with you. For pity's sake, Cornelia! Even you cannot be so picky as to overlook this offer.
“Sorry, Richmond?” she asked politely. “I didn't quite hear that?”
“I was just saying,” he said, carrying a book over to her, “that we even have some Chopin, if you would like. My sister has it from France.”
“Oh.” Cornelia looked at the slim, new book he held. It was a precious item, clearly. She felt her heart warm that he would offer it to her, even just for use while she visited. “Thank you, Richmond. I would be delighted to use it. Chopin is a favorite of mine.”
“Oh, undoubtedly. Mine too! And so fashionable, too.”
“Indeed,” Cornelia said. Richmond and Alexandra clearly shared the obsession with fashion.
“Well, I'll leave it here. I should head out...I've a meeting with my accounts fellow later. A minor thing,” he added with a shrug. “But still, one must attend the needs of the menial man. Is it not so?”
Cornelia raised a brow. “I suppose so.” Another thing Richmond shared with his sister, clearly, was a strict belief in class divides. Cornelia herself was less snobbish.
“Well, needs call me away, then,” he said, turning in the doorway with an elaborate bow. “I shall return for luncheon, I am almost certain. Do not forget our dancing plan.”
“Not at all,” Cornelia promised. “I look forward to it.”
He grinned and left, bowing.
When he had gone, Cornelia sat at the pianoforte, a small frown on her brow. There were so many things that were strange about this place. The mix of grandeur and neglect. The fact that most of the things were around a decade older than she would have expected. The news about Francis. The sudden change of manner of Richmond.
What is it about all these things that bothers me? Why is nothing as it seems?
Cornelia found herself feeling restless, so she stood and walked to the window. She was standing there, looking out over the distant vista of London, when she heard voices from below. She blinked and looked down.
Alexandra was in the garden – she recognized the glossy darkness of her hair. She was talking to a man in a black suit and top-hat. She recognized it as Richmond when he took off the hat. They were arguing.
Cornelia couldn't hear what they said – they were three floors down and she couldn't risk the noise of opening the window – but Alexandra gestured emphatically and Richmond was so still.
He looks absolutely furious about something. And so is she.
She strained to hear what they were saying, but the words faded as they rose. She fancied she heard the sounds “she,” and “quick.”
Who are they talking about? Probably some maid. Perhaps Alexandra wants to fire someone, and he wishes to keep them on?
The more she thought about it, the more that made sense. She watched them a while longer. She thought she heard the word, “consistent” . That more or less confirmed what she thought. One of the maids wasn't pulling her weight and they were disagreeing as to whether or not to let her off.
Whatever it is, it's none of my business. Cornelia sighed and drifted back to the pianoforte, sitting down on the elegant tapestry-covered stool behind it.
She opened the book and set it on the stand for music, leaning forward slightly to see the notes. She was resolved not to think about any of it. Thought led to Francis, which caused her pain. She was going to sit here and play the pianoforte and forget that any of it – Alexandra, Richmond, home, Francis – ever existed. I could wish the notes were not written so small.
She was halfway through the second page when someone cleared their throat at the door. She faltered and lifted her hands, looking up guiltily. “Yes?”
It was Allanson, the maid. “Milady summoned you to the boudoir, Lady Cornelia. If you could come now?”
Cornelia nodded, standing and smoothing down her skirts. “I'll come directly.”
Allanson nodded, and inclined her head as Cornelia stood, indicating she should follow her up.
Cornelia followed her up the hallway, wondering why it was she didn't quite warm to the woman. She seemed secretive, like Alexandra. There was a bond there, clearly, but it was almost as if Allanson resented being here. Strange. One more of those odd inconsistencies about the place.
She remembered the boudoir from her last visit – all lavender-purple silk and satiny walls, the dressing-table of shining, polished wood stocked with a few beautiful silver-topped bottles. Alexandra was sitting at the dressing-table, doing her toilett
e. She bit on a kerchief to seal the rouge with which she'd painted her lips, then smiled at them.
“Ah! Cornelia. There you are. Thank you, Allanson. That will be all. No...bring us some tea and something light for refreshments, please?”
“Very good, my lady.”
Cornelia looked about awkwardly, standing by the door as Allanson retreated. Alexandra smiled at her.
“Come, Cornelia. No need to stand there so shyly. Sit, do! You must do something about that awkward way you enter a room.”
No matter how much she tried to ignore it, Alexandra had a way of making Cornelia feel wretched about herself. She lowered herself into a silk-covered chair and looked across at the woman who called herself her friend.
“Allanson said you wished to speak with me?”
“Yes. I did. Come, Cornelia! No need to be so formal. Have I vexed you?” she made a face. Even though she seemed contrite, the way she said it sounded as if Cornelia was being babyish, unreasonable.
“Oh, Alexandra,” Cornelia sighed, as her poor, sore heart twitched with the extra barbs. “You know you have not. It's just...” she looked at her hands, framing her reply. Alexandra always made her feel vulnerable.
“Just what?” she asked. “Ah. The tea. Thank you, Allanson.”
“Very good, my lady.”
“Now, have some tea, do,” Alexandra continued when she had gone, pouring her a cup. “And tell me what it is that troubles you. We are friends, yes? Almost sisters. We should talk to one another about our trials.”
Cornelia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She wasn't sure how she felt about confiding in Lady Alexandra. With her watchful brown eyes and her sharp tongue, she was less like a friend and more like a waiting foe. She cupped the Delft teacup in her hand, breathed the fragrant brew and thought.
“I was thinking about Linton,” Cornelia said, deciding to explore that problem first.
“Linton? Who...your maid, yes? What on earth about?”
“I was thinking it was nice of you to have here attend me here. Especially since you seemed uncomfortable with the idea at first.”
“I, uncomfortable about it?” Alexandra gave a laugh. “Whatever gave you that impression?” Her eyes narrowed.
