by M C Beaton
Flushed with success, Mrs. Waverley, a born teacher, was soon setting up her “schoolroom.” Fanny was forgotten.
Fanny had guessed that Mrs. Waverley might change her mind and so she decided to be waiting in the hall when the earl arrived. She was wearing a new dress of soft white muslin, the high-waisted wrap-over bodice forming a V-neck, edged with a frill. Over it, she wore a pelisse of pale blue silk with a shawl collar and a wrap-over front, fastening under the bust with a belt. The long tight sleeves of the pelisse had frilled cuffs to match the frilled front edges and hem. On her head she wore a small swathed hat of white muslin decorated with pale blue feathers.
The earl arrived promptly at five o’clock. “May I not make my bow to Mrs. Waverley?” he asked as Fanny all but pushed him out of the door.
“She is too busy,” said Fanny quickly and indeed the babble of female voices coming from the drawing room upstairs underlined her remark.
Fanny felt suddenly shy of the earl. He looked very grand in a dark blue coat with brass buttons and deerskin breeches stretched without a wrinkle across his thighs. He was wearing top boots, a striped waistcoat, and a cravat that was a miracle of white muslin and starch. His curly brimmed beaver was set at just the right angle on his black hair.
Outside, he helped her into a phaeton and took his seat beside her and picked up the reins. There was no groom or tiger on the backstrap. The day was fine and sunny. Fanny suddenly felt free and young and happy and decided to forget about her troubles and enjoy every minute of her drive.
But when they got to the Park, she was introduced to one person after the other until her head reeled. Speculative eyes studied her gown, hard society eyes looked from her to the earl. Fanny remembered her undistinguished background and felt like an imposter. She grew silent and withdrawn and began to wish the ordeal would come to an end.
She heaved a little sigh of relief as they moved away from the ring. But the earl drove across Hyde Park, far away from the fashionables, and then reined in his horses and turned and smiled down at her. “I am sorry about all the fuss,” he said. “You are still a celebrity.”
“Can we go home now?” asked Fanny in a small voice.
“Most certainly. But will you not tell me what is troubling you?”
“I am not used to being the focus of attention,” said Fanny in a low voice.
“No, your beauty has been kept well hidden,” he agreed. “There is something else, is there not? Trust in me, Miss Fanny. I would help you if I could.”
Fanny looked up at him nervously, but there was nothing but kindness and interest in his green eyes.
“I should not have come driving with you,” said Fanny, twisting her handkerchief in her gloved hands. “You see, it will lead to vulgar speculation. I am an orphan. I do not know who my parents were. Society will think you are setting me up as your mistress.”
“Society does not know your background unless you have told them,” he pointed out. “They believe you to be the eldest daughter of the rich Mrs. Waverley.”
“But you know that not to be the case, and yet you took me driving. Why?”
“As I said before, Miss Fanny, you are very beautiful.”
“But not marriageable.”
His voice held a mocking note of laughter as he said, “Dear me. Are you by any chance proposing to me?”
Fanny had a longing to embarrass him, to throw him, to make him feel as uncomfortable as she was feeling herself.
“Very well,” she said. “Yes. Will you marry me, my Lord Tredair?”
He looked down into her sad blue eyes, at the heaving of her delectable bosom, at the hint of long slim legs under the filmy gown. He thought of her courage in the balloon, he thought of lying on top of her in the balloon. He suddenly felt silly and light-hearted and very young.
“Why, yes, Miss Fanny, I will,” he said.
“Oh, I should have known you would mock me and laugh at me,” said Fanny bitterly. “I was only jesting.”
“Alas. I was not,” he said. “It seems like a good idea. You, me, marriage, I mean.”
“Sir, your parents, your lawyers, society would be appalled.”
“I do not rely on my parents for either money or permission. Will you marry me, Miss Fanny?”
“Why?”
“You excite me.”
“Not enough,” said Fanny, shaking her head sadly. “There must be more than that. My looks will fade and lust will die and then you will tire of me.”
“That’s a risk you and I will have to take. Have you not thought that you could just as easily tire of me? Society is full of jaded matrons. It is a wonder they do not put the Fashionable Impure out of business.”
“But I am not fickle.”
“That I have to take on trust. As my countess, you would have great freedom.”
“I had not thought of an aristocratic marriage,” said Fanny. “In truth, I have not thought much of marriage at all. But aristocratic marriages have little to do with love and affection.”
“True. But there is always the exception.”
“I would never see you except to produce children. Gentlemen spend all the time in their clubs when they are not on the hunting field.”
The earl sat in silence, turning over what she had said. He certainly had planned to marry, but he had envisaged a marriage that would not interfere with his life. He certainly did not intend to stay in London. He meant to live quietly in the country and improve his estates. Might that not be taking her from one sort of prison to another?
“I do not racket about London all the time, Miss Fanny,” he said. “I have a home in Bedfordshire called Denby Court. It is a pleasant country house with large acres. You might find me a dull stick. Have you ever lived in the country?”
Fanny shook her head.
“There are local balls and parties, but you might find it boring. Think on it. As my wife, you would have an entré to society and money of your own and freedom. You might resent having to live in the country, away from all the fun.”
“If you loved me,” said Fanny, giving her handkerchief another wrench, “it would not matter where we lived.”
He sighed. “You are very young, and I fear you have been reading too many romances. Also, is there any question of you ever loving me.”
Fanny looked at him, wide-eyed, at his strong face, at those lazy, mocking green eyes, at that strong body, and then at his clever sensual mouth. She thought there was every possibility she could not only love him, but she might be well on the way to becoming obsessed by him, and that obsession could bring nothing but pain and hurt.
She blushed and said nothing.
Her body felt awkward and heavy, and her head throbbed.
“Perhaps we are going too fast,” she heard his voice say. “Which orphanage did you attend?”
“Pevensey.”
“But that is an orphanage for young ladies. Surely someone must have paid to keep you there.”
“Mrs. Waverley said we were all charity cases, that the orphanage occasionally took a few out of the kindness of their hearts.”
“Now that I find hard to believe.”
“Oh, how I would like to go there again,” cried Fanny, “and ask them for myself.”
“Mrs. Waverley would not give her permission?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then I shall go on your behalf, Miss Fanny.”
“Thank you. But I should like to see for myself. Do you understand?”
“I understand. But how are you to go about it?”
Fanny shook her head. “I do not know.”
“Look,” he said urgently. “You escape from time to time, do you not? Through the garden of Mr. Fordyce’s house? Could you not escape tomorrow morning early? I shall be waiting for you in the square.”
“I am fearful of discovery,” said Fanny. “You see, we have been very lucky so far. The servants have not once seen us. But if we were caught, we could simply say that we felt like a walk. But to b
e seen leaving with you …!”
“I think you will find the servants have noticed your escapades. Do not look so surprised. You cannot hide anything from servants.”
“But they would tell Mrs. Waverley. If we try to leave by the front door, they bar our way.”
“Because that is what they had been told to do and would get into trouble should Mrs. Waverley find you had left by the front door. But I think they turn a blind eye to your escapes by the garden. If you do not believe me, take that dragon, Mrs. Ricketts, into your confidence. Here is a guinea. Give it to her from me and promise her more if she aids you.”
“If she tells on me, I shall be cast off.”
“I do not think so. Be cautious. Sound her out first. I shall wait for you at ten o’clock outside St. George’s Church.”
“Yes! Yes, I’ll do it,” said Fanny.
“Then stop torturing that poor handkerchief.” He took it from her and held it up. It was a wisp of cambric. There was a light breeze blowing, and the handkerchief fluttered from his fingers and sailed into a stand of trees.
“I will get it for you,” he said climbing down. He walked into the stand of trees and then called urgently. “Miss Fanny! Come here quickly.”
Fanny climbed down. The horses, startled, raised their heads and looked round and then began to crop the grass at their feet again.
Fanny went in among the trees. He was standing, looking at the ground. “What is it?” she cried, coming up to stand beside him.
He removed his hat and stood looking down at her. He held out the handkerchief. “I am going to kiss you, Miss Fanny.”
“No!” said Fanny, backing away.
He smiled at her. “It is the right of a man to try to kiss a pretty woman. Is it not the equal right of a pretty woman to want to kiss a man? Fie, for shame, Miss Fanny. You are a coward.”
“Not I,” said Fanny. “I just don’t want to kiss you.”
“Liar,” he mocked softly. “You are not dying with love, but you are curious. Come here and kiss me.”
“No.”
“A fine bluestocking you make. Must I make your mind up for you?” He suddenly pulled her close, holding her tightly against his body. She could feel the beating of his heart.
Her body was melting, boneless, liquid fire. She looked up at him in a dazed way, her eyes dark, dark blue. He gave a stifled little exclamation and bent his mouth and kissed her. It was a chaste enough kiss as firm closed masculine lips met soft closed female ones. But neither was prepared for the blinding rush of black passion which that touch of lips caused. Neither was prepared for that maelstrom of feeling where they seemed to be whirling together deeper and deeper down into undiscovered depths.
The sound of a carriage passing nearby made them break apart.
Fanny could feel swollen nipples thrusting out against the thin material of her gown and crossed her arms tightly over her breasts and shivered. “Take me home,” she pleaded.
“Certainly,” he agreed, as formally as if nothing had taken place between them. He suddenly wanted to be alone with his thoughts. That simple kiss had shaken him as no other kiss had done. He distrusted the power she had over him. He had seen poor fellows the slave to some female’s every whim and had sworn it would never happen to him. Fanny no longer seemed like a pretty and desirable girl, but a witch, an enchantress, and she spelled danger in every movement of her body. The breeze blew the fine material of her gown against her body and he looked away.
He wanted to tell her he would not see her on the morrow and then the thought of not seeing her caused him such a stab of pain that he said nothing.
He helped her down from the carriage and waited until she had disappeared inside the house before driving off.
Fanny went up to her room on shaking legs. She felt her innocence had been snatched from her in the Park. She felt she no longer owned her own soul. She kicked off her shoes and tore off her bonnet and lay face down on the bed, trying to fight the surgings and yearnings inside her body.
The door opened and Frederica and Felicity came in. Fanny sat up. “What’s the matter?” she demanded harshly.
“Nothing,” said Frederica with a shrug. “Don’t you look hot and cross! How was your drive?”
“Very interesting,” said Fanny, rallying with an effort. She told them all about the people she had met in the Park and described the clothes and carriages.
Then she said awkwardly, “I want you to help me. Lord Tredair has offered to drive me to the orphanage tomorrow morning so that I might find out more about our backgrounds.”
There was a little silence and then Frederica asked, “Why should he do that?”
“Because I told him I wanted to go,” snapped Fanny.
“We’ll cover up for you,” said Felicity slowly, “but don’t betray us, Fanny, by running off with this lord.”
“I have no intention of running off with him, but if I did, what’s it to you?”
“We are none of us marriageable,” said Frederica. “For all we now distrust Mrs. Waverley, we must always be grateful to her. I agree with her principles. If you become Tredair’s mistress, I will never see or speak to you again.”
“What if I became his wife?” demanded Fanny.
“Don’t be silly. An earl? Marry you!”
“I have no interest in any man,” sighed Fanny, sinking back against her pillows and staring at the ceiling.
“See that it stays that way,” said Frederica coldly. “We can manipulate Mrs. Waverley, now that we know how her mind works, into giving us a more pleasant and freer life. Don’t spoil it. Promise!”
“I won’t spoil anything,” sighed Fanny, feeling she was becoming a practiced liar. Had she not already promised Mrs. Waverley not to encourage the earl in any way? What on earth would Mrs. Waverley, let alone these sisters of hers, think if they knew she had asked the earl to marry her?
After they had left, Fanny wondered whether to send for Mrs. Ricketts and bribe her as the earl had suggested. But she found she had not the courage. If it did not work, then she would not be able to go to the orphanage on the morrow.
Chapter Seven
“There she goes again … and at this time of the morning!” said Mrs. Ricketts to the cook, Mrs. Smiles.
“Which one of them is it?” asked the cook.
“Just caught a glimpse out the back,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “Miss Fanny, I think.”
“Mistress would be in a right taking if she knew they were getting loose,” pointed out the cook, not for the first time. “Good thing she’s not giving lessons this morning.”
“They never stay away long,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “’T ain’t natteral, keeping ‘em in the house from morning till night. Anyway, we’re told to see none of them go out the front door, so there’s no cause to interfere. There’s one thing about this odd household that suits me—no men. No butler puffing and blowing and giving orders and not doing any work hisself. But we’re past marriage, Mrs. Smiles, so it’s comfortable for us. But young things like that should be out at parties and have plenty of beaux.” In the cases of both the housekeeper and the cook, the Mrs. was a courtesy title.
“Madam doesn’t know what you think, I hope,” said Mrs. Smiles.
“No. She doesn’t think that servants think at all. She’s really like the rest of the quality. She preaches on about equality, but that don’t apply to the servants hall. Miss Fanny’ll be back soon enough.”
“But it’s different now,” pointed out the cook, brushing flour from her nose with the back of her hand. “Mr. Fordyce is in that house next door.”
“Not yet,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “He moves in next week with a staff of servants. Reckon I’ll need to have a word with the girls then.”
Fanny flew across the square, expecting any moment to hear an angry voice calling her back. She let out a little gasp of dismay as she reached the pillared entrance of St. George’s Church, for there was no sign of the earl. The morning was chilly, and she wrapped her o
ld woollen cloak more tightly about her. She felt very conspicuous standing alone on the steps.
She heard a carriage approaching and moved behind one of the pillars. It came to a stop and she peered around.
The earl! Thank goodness.
“I thought you were not going to come,” she said breathlessly as she climbed into the open carriage beside him.
“I always keep my word, Miss Fanny,” he said. “Off we go to find your past!”
He drove along in silence. Fanny was wearing her coal scuttle bonnet and looked every inch an orphanage girl, he reflected. He broke the silence at last.
“Do not pin your hopes on this visit,” he said. “Do not cherish any dreams that your parents are noble. It will probably turn out to be as you have heard.”
“All I have heard is that I was a foundling,” said Fanny. “A foundling, and no one knows who my parents are or were. But I cannot believe it.”
“What name were you given at the orphanage?”
“Miss Bride—after the church where I was found.”
“And the two other girls?”
“Bride as well.”
“Do you mean you were all abandoned on the same church doorstep?”
“Hardly,” laughed Fanny. “We arrived at the orphanage at the same time. They said they were tired of inventing names and so they called us all the same.”
“And so the other two are foundlings as well?”
“I do not know. I seem to be the only one who was given at least one crumb of information.”
The streets and houses flew past as his horses were urged to quicken their pace. Fanny began to feel cold with worry as the orphanage approached. She wished now she had put on something grand, not her “walking” outfit that made her look like a charity girl, that made her look as if she had never left the place. She comforted herself in the earl’s title and elegance.
He drove through the curved stone arch of the courtyard and reined in his horse under the familiar brass oil lamp over the door.
