A Gift for a Princess
London, December, 1818
“I need to read that book. The Princess of Something,” Lavinia said. “The one Mr. Wynford was talking about last night.”
Susanna looked up from the tablecloth she was patching. “The Princesse de Clèves by Madame de La Fayette? I thought you had read it.”
Actually she thought no such thing. When Mr. Wynford pronounced the book the greatest novel in the French language, Lavinia had enthusiastically agreed, but Susanna could tell her cousin was lying. Susanna didn’t hold it against her, or not much. She herself had once been young, single and anxious to impress a gentleman.
Lavinia Harden was no longer a girl. At twenty-eight she was only a year Susanna’s junior. But she had been single since Mr. Harden’s accident involving a ceiling fresco and a wobbly ladder. She’d decided that Mr. Simon Wynford, rich, tall, and thirty-five, would make an ideal replacement for the up-and-coming, and now sadly departed, artist.
If Lavinia had exercised her wiles on anyone else, Susanna would have wished her well. Instead Susanna Burley, Lavinia’s paid companion, was jealous. Mr Wynford had never given the shabby poor relation a second glance, but how she wished he would.
And she had read The Princesse de Clèves and found Mr. Wynford’s interpretation of the book masterly. She found everything about Mr. Wynford masterly.
“You’ll go and find me a copy of this book, won’t you?”
“Now? Today?” Susanna glanced out of the window where rain looked on the brink of turning to snow.
“He’s coming to dinner tomorrow. I must have time to finish it. Please, dear cousin. I’ll even send you to Hatchard’s in the carriage.”
“Thank you,” Susanna said dryly.
“It’s no trouble. I have some errands I’d like the coachman to perform in the vicinity. He can drop you at the book shop, and if they don’t have it you can walk to the Strand and take a hackney home. Think how convenient that will be!”
Cousin Lavinia had a talent for getting her own way, while giving the impression she was doing someone else an enormous favor. Susanna kept her mouth shut and, as was her daily habit, counted the ways she should be grateful. Lavinia had given her a home when Susanna was left an impoverished widow. She paid her a salary. And she wasn’t cruel, merely selfish.
Once Lavinia remarried, Susanna would be on her own again and she was, on the whole, glad of that fact. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than living in the same house as Mr. Wynford. Unless she were married to him herself, of course.
That wasn’t going to happen. If he thought of her at all, it was as Lavinia Harden’s dull companion.
♦♦♦♦♦
Hatchard’s didn’t have the book, neither did a smaller establishment in the Haymarket. Susanna aimed her umbrella into the wind and forged on. But before heading downhill to the Strand, she recalled a bookseller in St. Martin’s Lane which was closer. Five minutes later she escaped the sleet and shook the water from her pelisse onto the bare wooden floor of J.C. Merton, Purveyor of Fine and Rare Books.
A young woman, dressed in black with a linen cap, came forward to greet her.
“I’m looking for La Princesse de Clèves, preferably in an English translation,” Susanna said.
“I may have a copy. I did once, but my husband might have sold it.”
“Could we ask him?”
“I’m sorry, madam, but he died earlier this year.”
Condolences were interrupted by footsteps from the back of the shop and a large male figure hove into view.
“Mrs. Burley! What a pleasant surprise to see you here.” Mr. Wynford spoke as though he meant it. Always affable, he had beautiful manners.
Susanna, as had become her embarrassing habit since she’d realized she had a hopeless tendre for the gentleman, blushed. She opened her mouth and nothing came out. She managed a quick untidy curtsey.
“Why are you looking for the Princess?” he asked. “Couldn’t you borrow Mrs. Harden’s copy?”
Much as she would have liked to reveal the truth of the matter, Susanna went along with his assumption. Indeed, given the pathetic state of inarticulacy to which Mr. Wynford reduced her, there wasn’t much alternative. “Er. Your remarks about the book…” The words emerged from a half-strangled throat. “Very interesting. Cousin Lavinia couldn’t find it.”
He glanced out at the weather, then back at her as though she were mad, which she was. Also the color of a tomato and incapable of constructing a sensible sentence. “I hope Mrs. Merton will be able to accommodate you.”
“I’ll look,” said the shopkeeper, and left Susanna alone with him.
“This seems like a nice shop.” She had recovered her voice, if not her wits.
“Mrs. Merton has some unusual books. I’ve just found a volume which will assist me in my studies of sumptuary laws.”
“Oh?” Susanna asked.
His face lit up. “It’s a new interest of mine. I stumbled on it by mistake while I was reading ancient laws. The Locrian Code from Greece forbids a woman to walk abroad accompanied by more than one maidservant, unless she is drunk. How could I resist a line of inquiry that uncovers that kind of information?”
“The woman or the maid?” Susanna asked. “Which is drunk?” Stupid question, she thought.
“Excellent question, Mrs. Burley. I’ll look into the matter and let you know.” And he smiled at her.
When she first met Simon Wynford, Susanna had decided he wasn’t a handsome man, though his features were pleasant and regular, his attire and grooming neat and gentlemanlike. His hair was brown, his eyes an ordinary blue, his jaw was square and his nose a little large for his face. In only two ways did he stand out. By any standards he was a large man, over six feet with a barrel of a chest. And he had the most delightful smile. He had gifted her with the full force of it one day and in her heart it was suddenly July instead of December.
Since then, his slightest attention made her dizzy. Not only did she adore the man, she also found him desperately attractive. To put it bluntly, she wanted to go to bed with him.
“Tell me more,” she said, as she had so often before when they found themselves in the same part of the room at one of Lavinia’s soirees. Lavinia fancied herself as the hostess of an intellectual salon, and it was part of Susanna’s job to make sure that none of her cousin’s guests felt neglected.
Simon Wynford started talking about how certain styles of dress, materials and colors were forbidden to some classes in parts of Europe. Absorbed by the subject matter, she managed to get her lust under control, recover a measure of equanimity, and make the occasional apposite comment. Caught up in his topic, he forgot his company, else he would surely not have spoken to her of the forms of dress required for courtesans.
“In some places it started as a full costume and was reduced over time to trimmings. For example, in Marseilles prostitutes had to wear bands of yellow and blue cloth attached to the sleeve or hem. I happened to notice you had those colored ribbons on a gown you wore last week.”
“Well thank you. I’m flattered to know my choice of mode has such a distinguished antecedent.”
“Oh Lord! I do beg your pardon,” he said. “I intended no insult.”
“And none taken. The pursuit of scholarship trumps all petty notions of propriety.”
“My feelings exactly,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I always had the impression, Mrs. Burley, that you are a woman of unusual sense.”
It was a shame he didn’t see her as a woman of unusual allure. No one save the late Lieutenant Burley ever had. She wasn’t ugly but ordinary, her reddish-tinged hair, flat features and too-wide mouth no competition for her cousin’s raven-haired beau
ty. Susanna had seen Mr. Wynford stare at Lavinia. She felt thoroughly depressed.
He paid for his purchase. “I shall see you tomorrow at Mrs. Harden’s, Mrs. Burley.”
“I believe not, Mr. Wynford. I am spending the day with a childhood friend who is visiting town.” She was both glad and sorry she’d miss the chance to see him again so soon.
“I don’t have the book, I am afraid,” the shopkeeper, Mrs. Merton said, as the door closed behind him and the now swirling snow.
Then it opened again and Mr. Wynford’s rugged features reappeared. “Is Mrs. Harden’s carriage collecting you? I’d take you myself, but I’m on foot and have an engagement nearby.”
“Thank you. I shall go by hackney.”
“I’ll procure you one.” And before she could argue he’d left again.
While she waited with Mrs. Merton, Susanna raised a question that intrigued her.
“How did you come to be a bookseller?” she asked. “As a woman without means I am always looking for a respectable way to make a living.”
“I opened the shop with my husband. Are you also a widow?”
“My husband was an infantry officer. He died two years ago as a result of wounds suffered at Waterloo. I live with my cousin as companion.” She glanced at shelves packed with fascinating old volumes. “Your occupation seems more satisfying.”
“I have never wanted to do anything else,” Mrs. Merton replied. “Books have always been my passion. I wish,” she continued with a sigh, “that I could say I was making a good living. But since my husband’s death business has been slow. I find that men rarely accept that a woman can equal them in knowledge.”
“It probably doesn’t help that you are young and beautiful,” Susanna said. Mrs. Merton was little more than a year or two into her twenties and exceptionally pretty. “With my looks I might have more luck being taken seriously.”
“Judging by the attention Mr. Wynford paid you, I wouldn’t underestimate your powers of attraction.”
Susanna’s heart thudded with pleasure, but only for a second or two. “You are quite wrong. He regards me as a woman of unusual sense. Besides, he’s very likely about to marry my cousin.”
♦♦♦♦♦
Lavinia was displeased when Susanna came straight home from St. Martin’s Lane, empty-handed. “Mr. Wynford gave the address to the driver,” Susanna explained innocently. “I couldn’t very well explain the urgency of my mission to him. He thought me quite mad to be out in such weather anyway.
Her employer eyed her with a suspicious frown, then let the matter drop. She had a new scheme to hatch.
“I’ll give Wynford something else to talk about,” she said. “Since you will be out with your friends, he may take advantage of finding me alone.”
“I thought the Taverners were invited too.”
“I shall put them off. Mr. Wynford and I will dine tête-à-tête.” She smiled angelically. “When you return you will be able to wish me happy.”
♦♦♦♦♦
Simon wasn’t entirely sure why he sent his excuses. He’d met William Harden’s widow when he came to buy one of the late artist’s paintings. He’d been quite taken with the beautiful Lavinia, even to the point of considering marriage. Of good enough birth to satisfy his own relations, she was accustomed to artistic and intellectual circles, which suited his scholarly pursuits. He didn’t want a wife who’d expect him to accompany her to ton events. It was time he settled down, and she was certainly attractive enough for him to think about forsaking all others.
But as weeks passed he liked her less rather than more. Without putting his finger on why, he detected a certain insincerity in her manner. And he didn’t like her behavior toward her cousin and companion. In Simon’s opinion, how someone treated her dependents said a great deal about character.
Poor Mrs. Burley! She’d been an agreeable conversationalist when he first started calling at Portland Place. He’d enjoyed her informed responses, dry wit, and a quirky way of looking at things. Which woman is drunk? The mistress or the maid? He chuckled when he thought of it. But lately, though he made a point of seeking her out at Mrs. Harden’s “at home” evenings, she hardly said a word to him. He strongly suspected Lavinia had warned her off. He couldn’t abide jealous women.
Whatever the truth of the matter, it was time to withdraw. Lavinia had assured him this evening’s dinner was informal, so he felt only a twinge of guilt about claiming a slight indisposition.
And since he didn’t seem likely to enter the state of matrimony anytime soon, he took himself off to the King’s Theatre. A masquerade ball was just the place to find himself entertainment and relief of a less permanent nature.
Revelers filled the Round Room, most of them drunk and few of them respectable, or not on this occasion anyway. The approach of Christmas perhaps added a level of festive hilarity and enhanced the atmosphere of sexual adventure that pervaded such events. Simon thrust aside some stray reflections on winter solstice customs in different cultures, and concentrated on scouting a likely partner for a celebration of his own.
♦♦♦♦♦
Susanna found the masquerade fascinating. She’d never seen the demi-monde in action at close quarters and decided it was a great deal more fun than her corner of the polite world.
Since she was too old and too plain to contemplate a change in career to that of courtesan, she checked that her mask was securely fastened. It wouldn’t do for anyone to recognize her in this company. Lavinia might pretend to be careless of conventions -- and she’d give her right arm to attract Lord Byron to her drawing room – but Susanna doubted she’d tolerate scandalous behavior in the companion paid to lend her countenance.
Her old school friend Sally, always up for a lark, had convinced her indulgent husband to buy them all tickets for the masquerade. Sally and her husband were dancing, leaving Susanna with Sally’s brother. Tom did his best not to look disgusted with the arrangement while his eyes strayed to the abundance of willing feminine flesh cavorting around them.
“Would you like to dance again?” he asked, with all the enthusiasm of a man who’d known one at the age of twelve.
“No thanks, Tom. I’m overheated. Why don’t you go and find yourself a partner?”
“I can’t leave you alone.”
“Don’t worry. No one’s going to make an improper advance at me. And if they do I have a hat pin. Sally will be back soon. I’ll wait here.”
“You always were a prince of a girl,” he said, and took off in pursuit of a nymph with dashingly exposed ankles.
Wonderful. A prince of a girl. For once it would be nice to be a princess. She watched a gentleman in a highwayman costume flirt with a Greek goddess whose toe nails were painted gold. For a few minutes Susanna wished with all her heart that she were that goddess. She imagined Mr. Wynford dressed as a gentleman of the road.
“All alone, my beauty?”
One look at the man who addressed her explained why he wasted his time with her. Everything about him, from protruding eyes and crooked yellow teeth to the outrageous codpiece that adorned his Elizabethan costume, told Susanna that this was not a man who enjoyed much success with women.
“I’m waiting for my escort,” she said repressively. “He’s a pugilist by trade.”
“That’s what they all tell me.”
Apparently her excuse wasn’t an original one. “Perhaps they are all speaking the truth. There are a number of very powerful looking gentlemen here.”
“Thank you, my dear,” said the dolt, “I’ll take that as a compliment, and an invitation.”
Before she perceived his intention, he pushed her against the wall, pinioned her wrists and kissed her. Mr. Codpiece might not have the build of a boxer, but he turned out to be stronger than he looked. She tried desperately to keep her lips closed against the damp invasion while struggling to free her hands. The hatpin, alas, remained in her reticule.
Suddenly she was free.
“I’m sorry.
No harm intended,” her late attacker sputtered, so far as he was able when dangling by the collar in the grasp of a large unmasked man wearing ordinary evening dress. One whose physique wouldn’t disgrace either a pugilist or a highwayman, although he happened to be a mere gentleman scholar.
Susanna pinched herself. Yes, she was awake, and her dreams had come true. She’d been rescued by Mr. Wynford.
♦♦♦♦♦
Simon had been watching the lady in the blue domino and half mask for some time. Something about her appealed to him. Her age, for a start. He had no taste for very young women, preferring a measure of maturity and experience. She looked sensible and agreeable, not prone to histrionics. And though he thought she might not be pretty, she had a full sensual mouth that promised all sorts of pleasure. The only thing he wasn’t sure of was her virtue, or rather lack thereof. She didn’t carry herself like a professional lady of the night. She might be a bored wife looking for diversion, or, slightly better, a widow. He hoped she was a courtesan. An affair with a respectable woman would be a new departure for him and might lead to complications.
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