He nodded. ‘You were very young.’
‘Not so young that I didn’t understand why he decided in the end against marrying me.’
Will’s gaze hardened. ‘“Decided in the end”?’
Beyond Charles, only Huntercombe had any inkling of what had happened that night out at Hampstead. She had never spoken of it, not even to Uncle Theo or Aunt Grace. Certainly not to Hetty. She had persuaded herself that to do so would be a betrayal driven by spite and jealousy.
Nor had she dwelt on that evening in years, yet the fragrance of roses, hothouse lilies and candlewax came back so clearly...and the young girl in a dusky rose-pink gown floating down the stairs of Highwood House to her very first formal dinner and party... If she made Will see that girl, would he understand?
Chapter Seventeen
Highwood House—midsummer 1797
At seventeen Psyché knew herself to be safe and valued. She managed the stillroom for Aunt Grace, helped with the household accounts and oversaw the menus. She had acted as her uncle’s amanuensis and secretary for the past two years since he had left public life, and he vowed she was the best he’d ever had.
But far and away the best thing in her life, that made her heart sing for very fullness, was that she was loved. She was loved for who and what she was.
And tonight, for the very first time, she was to eat in company with guests at a formal dinner. Not even Lucius had been able to move Uncle Theo on that point. Hetty, now eighteen, had been fully out in society this past year, but Uncle Theo and Aunt Grace had dissuaded Psyché from making her come out.
‘Not everyone would accept you, child.’
Uncle Theo had never attempted to sugar-coat society’s attitude. She knew that the majority would snub her and worse should she make a formal come out. It might ruin Hetty’s chances of a respectable marriage. She could not do that to the cousin she loved like a sister.
So when there was company, more often than not, she dined on a tray in the library and joined the family and guests in the drawing room after dinner. There, she understood, people might avoid her or not, as they wished. She had no desire to foist herself upon anyone who thought her somehow less because she was Black.
She neither put herself forward nor cowered in the corner on these occasions. She handed the tea and coffee around with Hetty, spoke if she were spoken to and did a great deal of embroidery.
She hated embroidery, but did it well on principle—just to show that she could.
If Hetty were asked to sing, she accompanied her on the pianoforte, and every so often someone, usually the Marquess of Huntercombe, would ask her to play something on her own account. She had learnt to let any surprise—‘Oh! She’s actually quite talented! Who would have thought?’—roll straight off her back. She had learnt to ignore the disapproving murmurs, the discomfort crawling on her skin as she entered a room in which she was the only non-white person apart from a footman or two.
But tonight she was dressing for dinner. Granted, she was to sit between Lord Huntercombe and Mr Fox, both of whom had known her since she was a little girl and accepted her place in Uncle Theo’s family as a matter of course. Already her stomach was knotting itself into tangles.
Lucius was furious and had tried only half an hour ago to persuade Uncle Theo to change his mind. She’d heard the argument echoing from Uncle Theo’s dressing room, even if Sarah, helping her dress, had not given her a full account gleaned from Uncle Theo’s valet.
‘Stormed out, he did, so Marney said.’ Sarah twitched the overskirt into place as she wound up. ‘You’ll be careful tonight, Miss Psyché, won’t you?’
‘Of course, Sarah.’ She reached up and patted the kindly hand on her shoulder.
She was always careful. She had been determined upon that from childhood. She must be extra careful and extra good, work extra hard at her lessons to make it quite clear to anyone outside the family that she wasn’t a mistake. No one should have an excuse to call her Staverton’s Folly. She didn’t think Uncle Theo realised that she knew about that, but she was determined never to give anyone the least justification for questioning his judgement. She cultivated the quiet dignity practised by Aunt Grace—although, not her aunt’s occasional acerbic remarks. In Lady Staverton, or even Miss Hetty Winthrop, that would be accounted wit. In herself it would be unbecoming, uppish and ‘only to be expected, my dear’.
Having always to be extra was exhausting.
‘You’re sure you want to go down, miss?’ Sarah’s worried frown in the mirror touched her to the core, even as it exasperated her. ‘I’m sure his lordship would—’
‘He would. But I want to go down.’ Psyché smiled reassuringly, ignoring the icy knots in her belly. ‘Especially tonight. Hetty has been away for the whole Season. And Uncle Theo wants me there.’ Not for worlds would she disappoint him. Now that Hetty was established, surely people would not turn on her because she had a Black cousin. They would see that she was quite an ordinary young lady.
Hetty had been the toast of London this past spring and, while she had written daily, Psyché had missed her bitterly. With the Season over Hetty was back at Highwood House for this midsummer dinner, brimming over with excitement and something she refused to talk about. A secret, she insisted. And, much to Psyché’s surprise, had not divulged it. But there was another reason she wanted to go down tonight...
Psyché had her own secret. For it was not only Hetty who had returned to Highwood after a long absence... Psyché’s breath caught and her heart beat faster at the thoughts she scarcely dared permit... Last year, well, of course she had been far too young, a child at only sixteen. She saw that now. But now she was turned seventeen, perfectly marriageable, and tonight everyone would see that she was worthy; accomplished and pretty. It would be like the fairy tales Aunt Grace had read to her as a child. There was to be music, dancing and everything. Her whole life was downstairs, ready for her to arrive and get on with it.
‘Well, if you’re sure, miss.’
‘Quite sure.’ She turned and pirouetted in the mirror. ‘Thank you, Sarah. You’ve made me look so nice.’
‘Done that for yourself, Miss Psyché.’ Sarah shook her head. ‘That Mr Lucius, though. You be careful, that’s all.’
‘I will.’ Impulsively she hugged the maid. ‘You’ve always been my friend. Thank you. I’m going to see if Hetty’s ready.’
Sarah gave a snort. ‘Not likely. Still worried about her choice of gown when I passed. In case it clashed with the flowers.’
Psyché blinked. ‘She’s wearing white. How can that possibly clash with anything?’
Sarah grinned. ‘There’s a question for the ages, dearie. Off you go!’
* * *
Psyché’s feet danced in their silken slippers as she hurried along the upper corridor to the main stairs. Hetty was not quite ready. Her maid was putting the finishing touches to her golden curls. She looked, Psyché thought, like a fairy princess tonight. Her blue eyes sparkled with the secret she still wouldn’t tell.
‘You’ll know tonight, dearest, but Uncle Theo made me promise not to say anything.’
Psyché would not have pressed the point anyway. Any promise should be kept, but promises to Uncle Theo and Aunt Grace should be respected without sulking or temptation. Besides, surprises were fun and she might have one of her own.
She skipped down the first flight, her heart bubbling over, because tonight she would see Charles again.
Charles—but she must remember to call him Lord Harbury—had been her friend from the very first. He had spent part of each summer here at Highwood right through her girlhood. He’d taught her to play cricket, or at least to bowl. How else might he practise his batting? And he had once punched George Mainwaring for calling her a dirty—well, she wasn’t going to think about George this evening, let alone what he had called her.
Charles had punched him
on the nose for it and told Uncle Theo, who had ensured George was not invited again. That was three years ago when she was fourteen—still a little girl really. Charles had been eighteen, about to go up to Oxford.
She had not seen him again until last summer when she had been nearly, but not quite, grown up. Now everything was different. Charles had inherited and she was grown up. Most importantly he had reached his majority.
Last summer, on the evening before he left to visit his mama, Charles had walked with her in the gardens after dinner. He had talked a great deal about Oxford and the larks he and his friends got up to and how he’d be finished in a year, and he’d be twenty-one and could do whatever he pleased.
She’d thought that doing whatever you pleased must be rather nice. It wasn’t something that fell to the lot of young ladies...
And then he’d said, ‘I’ll be back next summer. And you’ll be here, won’t you, Psyché?’
Well, of course she’d be here. Where else would she—
And he’d kissed her.
Kissed her.
It had been the most shocking and wonderful thing imaginable—that Charles Harbury, heir to a barony, should have kissed her, Psyché Winthrop.
‘Darling Psyché.’ The muffled words had tickled against her ear. ‘You’ll wait for me. Promise you’ll wait for me.’
She would have promised him anything at that point.
‘I’ll be twenty-one by then. My own master.’
He’d kissed her again, one fumbling clumsy hand clutching at her breast... ‘Psyché, let me—’
His mouth had become hot, hungry and not very pleasant.
‘Charles!’ She had jerked free.
For a single shocked instant she’d thought he’d grab her, pull her back...
He hadn’t. ‘Psyché, little love—you know I’d never hurt you.’
‘Of course not. But we can’t...’ Her cheeks had burned. Unlike Hetty, she did know how babies came about. ‘Uncle Theo would not like it—’
He had turned away. ‘You’re right. But you’ll wait for me?’ He’d swung back and given her that dazzling smile. ‘And you’re careful with other fellows, I hope!’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You’re a good little thing.’
She’d frowned at that. She was not a ‘thing’, good or otherwise, but he’d meant it kindly.
* * *
Schooling herself to descend the last flight sedately, she relived those stolen moments, hugging them to herself. She knew from listening to Hetty and Aunt Grace that gentlemen did not kiss young ladies much less take other liberties unless they had serious intentions. So that meant...
She was practically betrothed.
Psyché reached the entrance hall as Viscount and Viscountess Lindfield were admitted. She knew they were close friends of Lucius, and dropped a polite curtsy. Lord Lindfield’s brows shot up. Lady Lindfield drew an audible breath, her mouth pinching. Then, without a single word or even a nod of acknowledgement, although Psyché had several times been in company with them after dinner, they turned away towards the drawing room.
She took a trembling breath.
You knew what it would be like. Even if Uncle Theo hadn’t warned you. You knew.
But knowing was not the same as feeling the snub, the disgust, hitting your body like a stone from a slingshot. If she turned around now, went back upstairs, no one would know...except the dining table was laid with the expectation of her presence. And the Lindfields had seen her. If she turned tail now, they had won and the story would spread in sneers and sniggers. By letter, over cups of tea, in the clubs over bottles of brandy.
Lucius would be delighted. And Uncle Theo would be a laughing stock.
She took a steadier breath. This was her home.
You can do this. Otherwise, you may as well hide in the attics for the rest of your life.
* * *
Psyché slipped into the drawing room to find Uncle Theo and Aunt Grace mingling with the company. A quick sideways glance showed her the Lindfields sequestered with Lucius.
But one person drew and held her gaze, allowing her to quell the squirming of discomfort as most of the company turned to stare at her.
Tall, his fair curls gleaming with pomade, his evening clothes immaculate and a diamond dancing in the froth of lace at his throat, Charles was a young girl’s dream come true. His hand rested lightly on Uncle Theo’s arm in a gesture of affection.
All at once he turned, smiling, and saw her and her heart jolted as his smile grew.
‘Why! ’Tis little Psyché, all grown up at last!’
He came to her, hands held out. And Psyché, her heart tripping, fluttering—doing anything but what a well-regulated young lady’s heart was supposed to do—placed her hands in his.
‘I am not quite forgotten then, little friend?’ His voice was caressing, like his thumbs on the back of her gloved hands.
‘Oh, no, Char—Lord Harbury.’
‘Well, well.’ He tucked her hand into his elbow and drew her into the company, murmuring, ‘Soon we shall see a great deal more of one another,’ and cheerfully presented her to various persons, including several who looked less than pleased about it. Inwardly she squirmed, but kept a polite smile in place and curtsied gracefully. She must show herself as worthy of him in every way.
But she saw those who removed themselves discreetly from Charles’s path, edging around behind them. Chills flickered over her skin despite the warmth of the summer evening. Couldn’t he see? Didn’t he realise that by forcing her on people he was actually making things worse? She wanted to jerk her hand from his arm and stop this foolishness, but it was impossible. To do so would draw even more unwanted attention to herself.
‘You remember my mama, dear Psyché?’
She swallowed. He had that back to front. One presented the lower ranking person to the higher. Nevertheless, she dropped a curtsy and murmured a polite greeting at the stiff nod of acknowledgment.
Psyché remembered Lady Harbury all too well. Lady Harbury, she knew, disapproved of her. Something she had not permitted to intrude on her idyllic dreams in the past year. Now, faced with a frozen block of disdain, she wondered—what would Lady Harbury say when confronted with Charles’s choice? And people like the Lindfields—what would they say?
Aunt Grace appeared at her side, a welcome diversion. ‘Dear Psyché, come and say good evening to Lord Huntercombe.’ She favoured Lady Harbury with her most charming smile. ‘You will forgive me for stealing her away. The Marquess is a great admirer of my niece’s musical talent. He is hoping she will indulge us with a little music later.’
* * *
Psyché took her place at the dinner table between Mr Fox and Lord Huntercombe and found herself seated opposite Charles, with Hetty at his side. Hetty was in high spirits, delicately flushed and laughing. On her other side, Mr Sidney appeared captivated, paying her extravagant compliments and vowing that he must die of a broken heart should she not grant him a dance later.
Was Mr Sidney Hetty’s secret? Were they about to announce a betrothal? Was that why Lucius was here, seated to the right of Aunt Grace, and why Uncle Theo had insisted on her own presence at dinner? Oh, how lovely! And if Charles were to declare himself as well, then...
‘May I prevail upon you, Miss Psyché, to play that Scarlatti sonata for me later?’
Lord Huntercombe’s quiet voice drew her out of a daydream in which Lady Harbury had been miraculously won over and she and Hetty planned a double wedding. ‘I would be honoured, my lord.’
Charles sent her a wink across the table and she felt her cheeks heat. He glanced at Huntercombe and rolled his eyes. Her lips parted a little in shock. Why—that was rude! Confused, she looked away, back to the kindly Marquess, and discussed music with him for the remainder of the course.
* * *
At the very end of the course Uncle Theo rose and tapped his wine glass. ‘Dear friends.’ There was a flurry of movement as the footmen filled up glasses. ‘I am sure many of you have guessed our happy news this evening.’ He paused to dab his handkerchief to his eyes. ‘I am touched and honoured to have you all in my home on this occasion. You know my great-niece, Miss Henrietta Winthrop—she has been raised here by Lady Staverton and myself as if she were our own daughter.’ He smiled down the table at Hetty, who was staring at her lap, cheeks ablaze. ‘But of course, she has a papa and I shall defer to him in making this happy announcement.’
He sat and Lucius rose, clearing his throat. ‘It is with great pride and pleasure that I make public the betrothal between my dearest Henrietta and Lord Harbury.’
He continued speaking, but Psyché was only vaguely aware of it as a sort of faint buzzing. From a distance she noted that one of the footmen had filled her glass with lemonade. Habit and good manners had her standing with the rest of the company for the toast:
‘Miss Winthrop and Harbury!’
Beneath the ensuing hubbub as everyone sat down, Huntercombe spoke softly. ‘Keep your chin up and smile. You don’t want anyone to know. Least of all Harbury.’
* * *
That bracing advice got her through until the ladies withdrew to the Orangery. She might then have laid claim to a headache and slipped away, but Hetty, all aglow, caught her hand.
‘Oh, Psyché! Is it not wonderful? I am to be married!’
Yes. Quite wonderful.
In the face of such joy how could she say she had a sick headache? She stiffened her spine and handed the teacups around for Aunt Grace. Hetty was far too busy fielding good wishes for her forthcoming connubial bliss to hand tea around herself.
Lady Harbury and Lady Lindfield were seated together gushing over the ‘charming couple’ and how nice it was see such an ‘eminently suitable match’.
A Marriage of Equals Page 17
