A Lady's Choice

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Not that Pamela cared about any of that. She was only there because Grand had promised to help her learn how to attract the attention of their longtime family friend Sir Colin Varens. If only Colin wasn’t stuck on Rachel. However, Grand was convinced that his attention could be turned from Rachel to a more deserving object, namely, Pamela!

  Resigning herself to staying in, Pamela bounced over to her sister-in-law-to-be, Miss Jane Dresden, who was sighing over her trunks and valises, baggage that had been sent to London to await their arrival from her invalid mother’s home in Bath. “Do you need any help, Jane?”

  “It’s all right, Pammy,” Jane said affectionately, ruffling the younger girl’s curls. “This is all too familiar to me.” She sighed and handed her traveling pelisse to a waiting maid and stripped her gloves off. “I shall have to sort all this folderol out sooner or later, I suppose. My mother doesn’t have room in her home, now that she is married. I just didn’t think she would send it all at once.”

  Her tone was sad, and Pamela knew it was because Jane’s mother, recently married to a man Jane despised, had made it clear she did not expect to hear from her only child for some time, and didn’t intend to honor the marriage ceremony with her presence. She had all but severed the ties that bound them, now that her daughter was provided with a suitable husband-to-be.

  And as Pamela’s thoughts turned to that husband-to-be, her only brother, the viscount Lord Haven, bounded into the house from giving orders to the stable man and groom. He rubbed his hands together and, maintaining a deliberately cheery tone, said, “Isn’t this going to be wonderful, Jane?” He went to his fiancée and tenderly chucked her under the chin. “You and I can see the city at our leisure while the girls hunt for husbands.”

  Pamela looked from one to the other uneasily, noting the young woman’s stiff stance, though she was trying her best to look cheerful. This had not been Jane’s idea. She and Gerry, as Geraint Neville, Viscount Haven was called by those who loved him, were supposed to be using this time to build their tiny cottage up home, in Yorkshire—it was the wedding promise and gift he was giving to his wife-to-be—and preparing for their wedding.

  This trip to London so soon after their betrothal was all Lady Haven’s idea. She had accosted her son and upbraided him with his sad neglect of his sisters’ future. Now that he had a suitable fiancée, how could he ignore the welfare and future happiness of his beloved siblings? And the only place for ladies of their caliber to find mates was in London. During the Season. Which had just started. She would leave it up to his conscience as the head of their family and the guardian of his sisters.

  She was masterful at dispensing guilt, a talent she matched with an ability to bully people into doing what she wanted if guilt didn’t work. But with her son, guilt was so effective she seldom had to resort to other tactics. He had gone to Jane and told her his mother’s proposal. They would only have to stay in London as long as it took to see Rachel well-launched, he promised. And it was an opportunity for Jane to shop for bride clothes and any other purchases for their marriage. Though everyone in the household knew Jane’s opinion of London, the ton, and the artificial atmosphere of society in general, she had acquiesced.

  Pamela could see through Jane’s determined cheerfulness at this moment. The poor girl would rather be anywhere but here. Putting her arm through her sister-to-be’s, she whispered, “We’ll get through this and have a jolly time, you’ll see.”

  Jane gave her a quick hug and murmured, “You don’t like this any better than I do, so don’t try to cozen me, little sister.”

  Lady Haven and the dowager Lady Haven, affectionately known as Grand—it had become virtually a title over the years, for she was a very grand lady when she chose to be—bickered animatedly, Gerry tried to keep the peace, Rachel whined and Jane and Pamela just tried to get through it all. The servants, most of them hired from a distance by letter and a few of them poorly trained, milled about with little idea what each was supposed to be doing. The house itself was gloomy and damp, with few windows, cramped passages and narrow chimneys that made the fireplaces smoke relentlessly. The next few months were going to seem like forever, Pamela thought, watching her mother reduce a maidservant to tears.

  Forever.

  • • •

  It was only a week after their arrival, but the weather had dramatically improved. From as drizzly and chilly as April could sometimes be, it had turned to sunny and warm, and the trees had burgeoned, throwing off their shrouds to burst forth in tender green leaves. The tiny pocket garden in the square opposite Haven House glittered wetly with dew, tulips and daffodils poking their cheery heads through greenery to greet the morning sun.

  But Pamela’s mood, as she sat glaring out the window in her small bedroom early one morning while the household slept, had gone from hopeful to miserable after a week of poking and prodding and endless hours standing for the modiste and submitting to Monsieur Harold, the hairstylist. Her mother was never happy, especially with the dresses that Grand was demanding Pamela be provided with; not suitable for a girl in her first Season, said Lady Haven, and not for a girl in her first Season, Grand said, since it was, in truth, Pamela’s second Season.

  It did not need to be restated that her first Season had been an unmitigated disaster, with her penchant for the company of those to whom she should not even be speaking, her disastrous lack of any skill dancing, her new love of stable man’s cant, and her outrageous antics, the worst of which was dressing in breeches and sneaking into a boxing match.

  If her Aunt Viola hadn’t died just then, in late March of the previous year, sending the family into mourning and away from London, she would have been in disgrace.

  But she had been only eighteen then, and nothing had prepared her for London and the Season. Her mother’s attention had all been taken with the beauteous Rachel and her chance at a glittering match, one to make the ton take notice. Pamela had had to scramble into whatever knowledge of proper behavior she could, and clearly her training had been wanting the year before. But since then she had paid more attention to the dancing master’s stern tutelage, and had even had private etiquette lessons with Grand, who had been a most elegant London belle in her own right many, many years before. She was supposed to be mature, now, and she was trying, really she was. She did her best to be ladylike, to refrain from inappropriate language, to be demure, to eliminate the bounce from her step and the laughter from her voice.

  So why did she feel not a jot different? Colin would never see her with Rachel around anyway, so why did it even matter?

  In that dismal mood, feeling like she was going to burst if she spent another whole day inside, with chattering seamstresses, surrounded by mounds of delicate fabrics, only to be followed by an evening spent with dull, titled nincompoops at some arid ball or musicale, she knew she had to do something for herself, something to soothe the wild impulses that were becoming more difficult to ignore. If she didn’t safely vent that valve, she thought, remembering a demonstration she had seen once of a steam engine that the inventor said would blow up if not properly vented, then she would burst out in some inappropriate speech or do something outrageous in public. Her mother would be furious if that occurred.

  She bolted across the room and rummaged around in her trunk, pulling everything out and tossing it on her bed as she lifted out the secret false bottom. She stared down into the depths and sighed happily. There, at the bottom of the trunk, lay her sanity.

  Ten minutes later she crept down the dark stairs. The household slept after another boring outing the night before, a ball, scantily attended and dismal. They were late getting to London for the Season, and it made their mother frantic, trying to catch up with all the other matchmaking mamas. And so it had been one introduction after another to boring barons, vacuous viscounts and even a maudlin marquess. She had hated every moment of it, despising the men and disdaining the girls, who all looked ready to fall asleep, the appearance of elegant languor was so well incul
cated.

  Pamela would escape, at least for an hour. Maybe then she could stand the rest of the day, the intolerable morass of boredom her life had become. And so she slunk down the stairs, boots in hand, disreputable cap jammed over her riotous curls, in breeches that even the maid she and Rachel shared didn’t know she had brought to London. At the bottom of the staircase, she sat on the last step and pulled on her riding boots, then made her way down the long passage to the back of the house, down some stairs and out a service door that her sister probably didn’t even know existed in their London residence.

  The walled-in garden was damp and dank, no sun reaching it this early in the morning. But Pamela’s spirits lifted, even as she noted the dew sparkling on a straggly plum tree that was just beginning to blossom weakly in the unclean London air. She shivered, not having anything but an old short jacket of her brother’s to wear over her disreputable costume, but she trotted briskly through the gate and toward the stable, knowing Tassie, her bay mare, was waiting for her. That was the one thing she had held firm about; she was going to have her own mount in London.

  After some resistance from the stable groom, surmounted when she put on her most haughty air and told him he would be sacked if he did not obey the viscount’s favorite sister, Pamela was free, free at last. She wouldn’t think of doing this at the fashionable hour—she knew how it would ruin her family’s reputation if the daughter of the house was seen this way—but it was so very early. The park would likely have only grooms exercising their masters’ mounts and other servants cutting through on errands for their employers. Surely she would be taken for one of the grooms, with her slight, boyish frame and short-cropped hair tucked up under the cap.

  Mounted astride, using a groom’s saddle, she trotted south to Curzon Street, past costermongers and drays delivering produce and coal, and thence to the park, entering at a canter, her anxious mount seeing green space ahead. She leaned over Tassie’s shoulder and whispered, “And now, my lovely, for a good gallop!”

  It was a heavenly half hour. The landscape whipped past, and she jumped hillocks and raced over sloping green swards. It wasn’t as good as Yorkshire, but it was better than nothing at all. Her courage and confidence waxed. If she could just do this every couple of days, perhaps she could get through the awful Season and get home to Colin, to show him how changed she was, and how mature. With any luck, Rachel would be married and he would learn to forget her and come to realize his best chance at happiness lay with his old friend, Pamela.

  Then they could marry and she could move to Corleigh, his estate near Haven Court, and live in jolly happily-ever-afterdom with Colin and his delightfully eccentric sister, Andromeda. Lost in her daydream, she was completely taken by surprise by someone on a galloping mount who whizzed past her, shrieking.

  “Hey!” Pamela shouted. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to ride so close to . . .” Realizing that the rider was slipping sideways, Pamela shut her mouth and bolted after the rider, who was clearly in grave danger.

  It was neck and neck, and then she was close enough to see that the rider was a frightened girl who was clinging to the horse’s whipping mane. She had her eyes closed and her mouth open, and tears streamed down her pale face. Pamela urged Tassie closer and grasped the fluttering reins, pulling the mare to a stop slowly and calming the great heaving beast, who still shied and rolled its eyes. Her own perfectly steady mare’s demeanor finally calmed the other beast, and Pamela, out of breath, was just opening her mouth to speak to the girl, when another rider pelted over the hill just after them.

  But he was clearly not out of control. In fact, he was probably one of the best natural riders she had ever seen, Pamela thought, admiring his seat, just before the fellow reined to a halt and commenced to roar, in a stentorian tone, “Belinda Amie de Launcey, what the hell do you think you are doing, taking off like that! This was supposed to be a riding lesson, not a galloping spree!”

  The pale, quivering girl burst into great, heaving sobs, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks to her pointed chin.

  “Do not shout at her like that! She has just had a dreadful experience, and then you go and dress her down like she is an infantry soldier.” Pamela leaped down from her mount and moved around to help the girl down from her own heaving, shivering steed.

  The fellow leaped down too, and took two long strides. He grasped the sobbing girl by the shoulders and stooped, looking into her eyes. “Belinda, stop crying. You are clearly not injured.” He straightened and turned to Pamela.

  She gazed at him with frank interest. Nice-looking, though not by any means an Adonis, he was a strongly-built gentleman of medium height, with very dark brown hair and light brown eyes. He was dressed in casual riding gear and carried a crop that he was tapping against his Hessians. He looked like a country gentleman, not a London beau, and she thought him very handsome when he wasn’t yelling.

  “I took you for a stable lad,” he said, shock in his voice. “But you’re a girl.”

  “A lady,” she said, drawing herself up to her full, if negligible, height.

  “Pardon me, a lady,” he said with a rusty laugh.

  The girl’s sobs had subsided, and she gazed back and forth between her two elders.

  “I must thank you for your bravery in helping my wayward niece,” he said. He put his arm around the girl’s shoulders, but the child stayed stiff and separate from her uncle. “Belinda, introduce yourself properly and thank your rescuer.”

  Feeling awkward, Pamela said, “Oh, she doesn’t have to thank me—”

  “Yes, she does,” the man said, steel in his voice. “A little gratitude will not harm her.”

  “I am Belinda de Launcey, miss, and I thank you.” The girl gave a bob that was supposed to be a curtsey.

  The man rolled his eyes. “I am Strongwycke,” he said, stepping forward and putting out his hand. “Sorry for such an informal introduction, but it seems to suit the surroundings.”

  “Pamela Neville,” she said, taking his gloved hand in her own and shaking.

  “Miss Pamela Neville?”

  She nodded.

  “And you are in London . . .” He stopped and raised his brows.

  “Oh, uh, I am in London for the Season with my brother, Lord Haven, and his fiancée. They are here to prepare for their wedding in a few months. And my sister and mother and grandmother; we are all together.”

  “Sounds like quite the family party. May I call on you and thank you properly, Miss Neville?”

  Alarmed, Pamela shook her head. “No! I mean . . .” She paused and considered how to word the next part. She took a step back toward Tassie and twisted the reins around in her hand. “If you don’t mind, sir, I would rather this morning’s meeting remain just between us.”

  He smiled, and it turned into a grin. He looked her over, from her boots to her breeches to the dirty hat jammed on her curls. Shaking his head, he glanced down at his niece and said, “Like clings to like. It seems that you and Belinda have something in common, perhaps a liking for early morning gallops? But you, evidently, are more skilled than my troublesome niece.”

  Pamela saw the hurt in Belinda’s eyes at her uncle’s description. His opinion mattered to her, and it was painful to be described as troublesome. Pamela felt a kinship for the girl.

  “It would have been all right if the stupid horse had not shied at a groundhog.” The girl kicked at a rock. “Lucky, my own mare, would never have been so idiotic.”

  “That’s enough, Belinda!”

  He could be quite intimidating, Pamela thought, shooting the girl a sympathetic look. Tears stood in her dark eyes, and, heart hurting for her, Pamela said, “Would you like to go for a proper ride later, Belinda? One of those calm, boring ones but . . .” She glanced around in an exaggerated manner and lowered her voice. “If you can see the park sedately, you can tell where to gallop and where not to gallop next time. Familiarity is everything. I have been here already this spring and walked over the green, you see.”


  The girl’s tears dissipated. “Could we, sir?” she asked, looking up at her uncle.

  Strongwycke hesitated, but then said, “Only if I may be allowed to accompany you two ladies.” He saw the looks on both of their faces. “I am sorry my presence will be such a damper, but Belinda is my responsibility, and at least for the first time, I will accompany you. Like it or not.”

  Pamela, noting the inflexibility of his tone and admitting to herself it was not an unreasonable demand, agreed for both of them. “Later then, sir. Shall I meet you at the Curzon Street entrance at three this afternoon?”

  Agreement made, Pamela departed as the other two rode off in the opposite direction. For the first time, with acquaintance of her own, she could look forward to the afternoon without dread.

  Chapter Two

  “What do you mean you are going riding? We are promised to Lady Marrowby’s for a literary reading!” Lady Haven, arrested in mid-movement as she repositioned a vase on a table in the cramped and unpleasant drawing room, stared at her youngest child.

  Pamela glared back at her mother in dismay. How could she explain about Strongwycke without revealing her early morning gallop? And without explaining Strongwycke, how could she say how important this afternoon ride was, that it was an engagement, not just a whimsy on her own part?

  “If she wants to go riding, she should go riding.” Haven, lounging in a chair by the window, threw her a wink.

  Pamela sighed in relief. Her brother was going to come down on her side. It was hard to tell with him, sometimes, for he generally let their mother have her way in matters pertaining to what he called his sisters’ “social schedule.” He was as harried and hectored by their mother as Pamela, so he tried to avoid conflict as often as possible.