FORTUNE’S MISTRESS
Mary Chase Comstock
Chapter One
Sir Frederick Stratford reclined lazily on a settee before a window which opened onto a small decorative garden. The bright morning sunlight framed his head, making it difficult for Marianne to judge his expression. She could guess, however. She had sometimes reflected, when she gave him any thought at all, that Stratford seemed to have made the cultivation of ironic weariness his life’s study. When he smiled, however (and this was a rare occurrence), he reminded her of a cat toying with a mouse in its claws.
No, she did not like Sir Frederick. His unblinking stare made her apprehensive in a way she did not wish to examine; she rarely denied him her presence when he happened to call, however. Who, after all, was she, to deny her presence to anyone?
“And so, my dear Marianne,” he drawled, “you must tell me. Dare I cherish a hope that our young friend, Cheswick, has at last grown tired of your charms?”
With an effort, Marianne fought back a disagreeable shudder at the insinuation his words conveyed. Instead, she smiled sweetly. “Why ever do you ask, Sir Frederick? Do I look hagged this morning?”
She knew quite well she did not—although she had every reason to do so on this lovely late spring morning. She had dressed herself with her habitual care in a rose-colored gown. Her sable hair was elegantly coiled, and accented by a spray of new roses. Her studied demeanor, she knew, projected a calm equal to that of the fine weather of June.
“Of course not, my dear. You know it as well as I, and I wish you will not play such games with me. You look as you have looked these past five years: like a pale pearlescent seashell, I have often thought.” He took a pinch of snuff, applied it, and sneezed delicately into his handkerchief. “No,” he went on, “we both know I ask merely out of self-interest. If you were, for the nonce, without a sponsor, it would be a sorry thing indeed were I to let pass such an opportune moment simply by virtue of your stoicism. Tell me, do you never weep or rail when your gentlemen leave you?”
“Weep?” she returned with a laugh of dismay. “What a notion! Why should I weep?”
“Come, now,” he chided, looking at her narrowly through his eyepiece. “Have you not loved any of them then? Not even a little?”
She covered the silent moment which ensued by taking the last sip from her teacup and returning it calmly to its saucer. Why, after all, should she divulge her secrets to anyone? She had found to her sorrow that there was nothing to gain by sharing confidences.
She looked up at him. “More tea. Sir Frederick?”
He shook his head impatiently. “Do not avoid my question.”
She poured for herself, then shrugged as she settled back into her chair. “If I do so, it is because your question has not a good answer.”
“Not a witty answer, you mean.” He leaned forward. Now she could see the gleam in his otherwise lazy, downturned eyes. “And that is why I suspect that you suspect Cheswick will soon bid his fond adieux. I have observed you are far too careful of your beauty to allow the shadow of misfortune to dull it. But the razor of your repartee?” He shook his head. “That is an altogether different question, my dear.”
“You are boring this morning, Sir Frederick,” she told him plainly. “It is not to be wondered at if I cannot summon a spark of conversation, when there is none to which I can respond.”
“Little witch!” he laughed. “So you still have some barbs to cast my way!”
“Of course,” she replied pleasantly. “I saved them especially for you. You know quite well I cannot bear to see you disappointed.”
“Aha!” he said, leaning more closely toward her. “Dare I hope you might harbor some small tenderness for me, if for no one else?”
She took a sip of tea before replying. “No, you dare not. I merely mean that when all does not go exactly as you please, your lugubrious expression quite sets my teeth on edge.”
He stood slowly and moved beside her chair, placing his hands on her shoulders. The gesture was unsettling, and with an effort, she fought back the thin shiver it sent up her spine.
“Come now. Would it be so very bad, my dear?” he murmured, tracing the line of her neck with a fingertip. “We have known each other this age— we are, both of us, cold realists. I should think we would rub on quite comfortably together.”
She gave a short laugh, pulling away from his touch. “I shudder to think what your notion of comfortable must be, Sir Frederick.” She rose and walked to the window, then turned to face him. “It is no secret you have not two guineas to rub together.”
His eyes narrowed for a second at this affront, before he went on smoothly, “How unkind you are, Marianne—for all it is one of your most charming traits—but I must tell you, I have done exceedingly well at the tables these last weeks.”
She cocked her head and studied him for a moment. “Ah, I begin to see. I collect you are now in possession of four guineas?”
“I have considerably more than that at my disposal!” he said, his tone growing sharp. “Believe me, I could take care of your needs well enough.”
“For the present, that may be so,” she allowed, “but for how much longer? Remember, my dear Sir Frederick, you cannot pawn me as if I were a family heirloom.”
“What a blatant little materialist you are!” he snapped, coloring. He turned and paced impatiently for a moment. “Must you always weigh a man’s purse as if it were his very soul?”
Marianne took pains to school her expression. Sir Frederick was never one to honey his observations with euphemisms. It would never do to show him just how much, how deeply his words cut.
“How unfortunate that I must do so.” She gestured at the stylishly appointed salon. “Let us be plain. We speak, after all, of my livelihood. How can you expect anything else?”
“It is your extraordinarily sweet face that accounts for my folly,” he said, perusing her thoughtfully for a moment. Then he made her a stiff bow. “I sometimes forget that the shriveled heart of a shopkeeper lies behind its lovely facade.”
As he picked up his walking stick and gloves, he added softly, “Do not forget, however, that you have made yourself merchandise—and that I should like very much to see that silky hair uncoiled about your shoulders. Trust me, my dear. I shall some day. I need merely to find your price. Good day, Marianne.”
* * * *
Later, as she supervised the packing of her trunks in her chamber, Marianne stopped for a moment and petulantly considered her reflection in the mirror. Her face was a pale oval, framed by her glossy dark hair. Her eyes, a clear hyacinth, were fringed with dark luxuriant lashes. Her figure was still lithe. But Sir Frederick was right. Her exterior bore no clue to what she had become on the inside. The heart of a shopkeeper, he had said.
What other choice did he think she had? she wondered angrily. What choice, for that matter, did any woman have? It was no secret that the hallowed halls of Almack’s were as much a marketplace for human flesh and fortune as any Haymarket street corner. But for the heart of a shopkeeper, that might have been her fate as well. Had she not schemed and calculated, had she not accepted carte blanche from protectors, she might very well have been forced to the streets.
Without the heart of a shopkeeper, her choices would have been nonexistent. They were few enough as it was. One foolish moment had banished the meager freedoms allowed a woman.
The image of the season on which she had embarked all those years ago rose up before her, and Marianne experienced a sharp familiar pang. The veiled pandering, the false fronts of the ton. Her younger self decked out in costumes of virginal white, her mind full of romantic notions. What foolishness it had all been! She quickly banished that picture to the recesses of
her heart, pulling a veil over the scene with a practiced hand.
Stratford was quite correct in his assessment that she was now without a sponsor, but he was several weeks behind in this realization. Monte Cheswick had made his departure some time ago, in the face of his engagement to a young lady whose parents were as high sticklers as they were wealthy. They would not countenance, he had told Marianne, his association with her, and had insisted it be broken off before the papers were drawn up.
“I do not at all like to leave you, Marianne, for you must know I have grown quite fond of you. What’s more, the notion of being leg-shackled to Miss Carruthers has put me out worse than the toothache! A tedious companion she’ll be, I can tell you—though her father is rich as a pudding—and monstrous plate-faced into the bargain. There is nothing I can do, however. My parents would have it so. They are altogether Old Testament, you know, and we younger sons must ever be sacrificed to family consequence.
“This,” he went on gruffly, handing her a velvet box, “is purchased with the last of my own blunt.”
She opened it slowly and held back a gasp. A great many diamonds set in gold sparkled back at her. “Are you certain? It is not,” she asked in some alarm, “a family piece?”
“No,” he admitted, “though I should not grudge it you. I particularly wanted you to have something to remember me by.”
Ironic, she had thought, that he should have chosen those particular words. Soon enough, she would have a memento of him, an all too tangible one.
When he had left a short time later, bidding her good fortune, she had stood a while, letting the diamonds of the choker sift through her fingers like crystalline drops of water. It would cost her to part with them. Jeweled tributes she had received from other gentlemen had rarely been in such good taste, but for all his youth, Cheswick had a better understanding of her and her sensibilities than any of his predecessors.
She did not for a moment contemplate keeping the necklace, however. Considering her present situation, it would be the height of foolishness. She could not, now, allow herself to be self-indulgent. Besides, she had told herself, there would never again be the least occasion for wearing such a piece. For the foreseeable future, she must deck herself in black sarsenet; her only adornment must be a simple onyx mourning brooch. Therein rested hope.
Perhaps it was bred of stubbornness, but through the years, Marianne had never allowed herself to forsake the belief that some day, somehow, the path to a brighter future must open before her. She would not permit the despair she sometimes felt to overtake her, for in that avenue, she knew, lay madness.
At first, when she was younger, she had thought that love might still find a way. She dreamed that some good man, for she knew they existed, would overlook her past and take her away from all her folly had ordained.
As the years passed, however, she realized that if she were to be rescued, it must be through her own ingenuity. She had begun saving for the future, therefore, ignoring the wounds to her pride as she accepted more and more gifts from those whose patronage she endured. She had sold jewelry, gifts, economized her housekeeping, until she had at last accumulated a considerable amount. Until the realization that she was with child, she had planned to merely retire altogether from the life she knew. But now she had reason beyond her own salvation to do so, a joyous reason which must quickly be addressed.
“There’s a gentleman to see you downstairs in the bookroom, ma’am.”
Brought back to the present, Marianne glanced at the card the maidservant handed her. “Tell Mr. Needham I shall be down in a moment.”
There was no need to tidy her hair, but she patted it, nonetheless, out of habit. She did not wish to present herself to the caller too quickly, or appear too eager. No, she must let him wait at least ten minutes. Perhaps more. She lingered some time, therefore, instructing the servants as to which items she wished to bring with her to the countryside. Later, she would assemble and pack a mourning wardrobe on her own. Her staff knew quite well what she was, but she did not wish them to know her plans any more than was necessary, nor to raise questions she would not like to answer.
She made her tardy appearance some twenty minutes after Mr. Needham arrived. As she quietly entered the bookroom, she caught him examining the potter’s mark on a Chinese vase, his bent figure resembling a scrawled question mark. He set the vase down quickly at her greeting, and turned his posture to a slightly deeper bow.
“Good morning, Miss Gardiner.” A smile eased slowly across his face as if he were unaccustomed to such an undertaking. “I trust I have not waited upon you too early.”
“Indeed not,” she told him as she seated herself at the desk. “I believe I requested you call as soon as you had arrived at a figure.”
His smile vanished more quickly than it had appeared, and he immediately assumed a more businesslike demeanor. “The diamonds are quite fine,” he told her. “Quite the best specimens you have offered.”
She knew this very well, and acknowledged his appraisal with a questioning lift of her eyebrows.
“I can make you a price of £500 now,” he told her, “but there are several regular buyers whom I expect to see this month. If one of them were to make an offer, I might be able to do even better.”
She nodded, calculating silently how much longer she dared stay in London. Sir Frederick’s call this morning had unnerved her. It was well, she reflected, that all was in readiness for her departure. She might even depart next week, if she so chose. The sooner she left, the better.
Last week she had finalized the purchase a small house in Cornwall, not far from Land’s End. She knew little of the district other than its remoteness and a few childhood tales of hauntings and enchantments, but the notion of leaving the city at last for a place known as the end of the earth appealed to her overwhelmingly.
Still, the difference a hundred or more pounds might make was not insignificant. Behind the desk, she placed a tentative hand above her gradually increasing womb. Before long, she would be unable to hide her condition, and she wanted no suspicion of the reason for her quitting London to be bandied about.
“I believe I will accept the figure you suggest,” she said quietly.
Mr. Needham nodded without further comment and pulled a bank draft from his satchel. He signed it over to her with a flourish.
“As always, it is a pleasure to do business with you, Miss Gardiner. You are quite a ... practical woman.”
He departed soon after, leaving Marianne to ponder the draft he had left on the table. The £500 would cushion the next several years considerably. She was certain she could engage a nurse for her child now, and tutors or a governess when the time came. Whatever the cost to her pride during such calls as had just passed, the welfare of her child, the opportunity to leave her sordid past behind and assume a new life, must be ensured.
Now that her business with Needham had been concluded, there was little to keep her in town. Everything was in readiness, her carefully drawn plans realized. She was taking little with her besides clothing, books, and a few keepsakes. In spite of the fine spring weather, she felt she could not endure London another day.
And there was but one more appointment to keep, one farewell which must be made.
Chapter Two
A scarce hour later, Marianne sat on a bench beneath a grove of trees in Hyde Park, waiting. It was quiet, not yet the fashionable hour for driving out, so she was quite safe from the sharp glances of curious eyes. Still, she had maintained an exceedingly private life, and it always made her nervous to expose herself thus. In spite of the passage of time, she knew quite well her name was still noised about. The mere mention of the name Marianne Gardiner was used as an admonition to heedless young ladies, whose high-spirited behavior had alerted their watchful mamas to the disaster to which their hoydenish tendencies might lead. Her name was synonymous with the spectre of a disgraceful future.
A slight breeze prompted a shiver in spite of the clear spring sunlight
, and Marianne wished she had worn a spencer instead of a shawl. Poets might celebrate the beauties of early June, but she was certain they must have found their inspiration while well wrapped against the changeable weather.
As was her custom at these meetings, she had changed from her rose morning gown to an unremarkable walking dress of a dullish hue. It was best for all concerned that none should have cause to note her presence.
At precisely three o’clock, a familiar carriage slowed along the drive and a lady, followed by her maid, alit. Marianne watched as the driver was told to return in an hour’s time. Just as she did each month, the maid crossed the green to another bench where she sat and took out some needlework. The lady made her way to Marianne’s side and, without ceremony, held out her hands to her.
“You are quite lovely this afternoon, Olivia,” Marianne said as she kissed the other’s cheek. Her remark was not a mere pleasantry. Olivia shared Marianne’s flawless complexion and, though her hair was a rich chestnut, her eyes flashed the same startling hyacinth blue. Ironically, fortune had allowed her elder sister to retain the lightness of expression so often reserved only for happy childhood years, and she was, indeed, beautiful.
Marianne patted the seat beside her. “Are Mama and Papa well?” she asked with forced brightness.
Olivia sighed as she seated herself, “They are, of course, but are most careful not to admit it. Mama spends most of the day lamenting her treacherous nerves, while Papa makes a lively discussion of his gout, but you needn’t unsettle yourself. I suspect these are merely symptoms of boredom and self-absorption.”
Marianne nodded. ‘Twas ever thus with them. She harbored no affection for her parents, but she knew her sister did so out of an unquestioning sense of duty. As Olivia prattled on about their various complaints and eccentricities, Marianne swallowed back the bleak emotions which swirled at the thought of her father and mother. Olivia’s complacency was understandable. Owing to the fact that she was enjoying an extended wedding trip at the time of Marianne’s entry into society, Olivia had never known the whole of her parents’ response to the scandal—the beatings, the recriminations they had rained down upon Marianne when they had learned of her folly.
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