by Sawyer North
“The answer to that question is so expansive that I hardly know where to begin.”
“Try.”
Henry gripped his waistcoat earnestly with one hand. “Everything a lady is, you are not, neither in manner, speech, nor appearance. To aspire to become a proper lady in three months is as the sparrow aspiring to become the eagle.”
Anger burned within Lucy, partly because his words were true, but mostly because he dared utter them. She inhaled a few breaths, driving her rage down to a simmer. Then she faced the duchess calmly. “Your Grace, I will try to fulfill your request, if for no other reason than to prove Mr. Beaumont a liar. When do we begin?”
Surprise and relief washed over the woman’s face. “Let us retire from this business for today to allow emotions to abate. We will begin tomorrow at one o’clock.” She cut her eyes at Henry. “I trust that Mr. Beaumont will have discovered some measure of tact by then.”
His jaw flexed. “I will do my best, as promised.”
The duchess accepted his reply with a nod of her head. Lucy, however, harbored significant doubt over his ability to see her as anything but the ward of a thief. She should not have cared, but the thought of his disregard stung more than she wished to admit.
Chapter Eight
Lucy rose early the following morning as was her custom. She donned a new dress—that is, new to her. The duchess had given Lucy several of her dresses the night before, and they more or less fit. After admiring the elegance of the garment, she wandered toward the stairs barefoot. While descending, she spied a maid briskly dusting the entrance hall. The girl glanced up and jumped with a start.
“Lady Margaret! Oh, I did not know you would rise so early!”
She curtsied twice and hurried away. Lucy paused, taken aback by the odd encounter. First, the maid had called her Lady Margaret, a name she had become certain she would never hear again. Then, she had fled as if Lucy carried the plague, gone to nether regions of the house not frequented by the family. She finished her descent in the throes of angst.
“I see you eschew the bed as well.”
Lucy turned to find the duchess watching her. She curtsied badly. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Grandmother. Call me Grandmother.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I will.”
The duchess shook her head. “Come, dear. I always break the fast with a slice of buttered bread and a cup of strong tea. Your pleasant company would add to my enjoyment.”
Lucy swallowed unease and followed her to a cozy drawing room that effused the scent of cedar and roses.
“I like this room,” Lucy said. The duchess smiled.
“Your approval delights me. This is where I prefer to spend my time, although I am usually alone.”
“I do not mean to trespass.”
“Oh, no, you are not at all in trespass. In fact, I have long anticipated the opportunity to share this place with my granddaughter. That dream was long dead until your arrival revived it.”
Her voice trembled with those final words, but she recovered quickly to offer the faintest of smiles. Lucy returned the smile, though uncertainty threatened its form. “Of what should we speak?”
The duchess gazed into her eyes and leaned forward with palms outstretched. “We shall talk of everything. Of twenty years. Tell me of Italy. What you saw and did there. Tell me of your life in Dartmoor. Tell me what you believe and what you aspire to become. I want to know everything about you, my child.”
Struck by the urge to retreat, Lucy shifted uncomfortably. However, the warmth and desperate need exuding from the duchess compelled her to remain. “I saw Venice and swam in the canals, even though Father strictly forbade it.”
With that, she began painting an amateur portrait of her brief life, careful to avoid the incriminating events of Shooter’s Hill. The duchess asked questions and occasionally injected anecdotes from her seventy years. A servant brought food and drink from time to time, just a minor thread in the tapestry of storytelling between Lucy and her grandmother. Without notice, the day slipped away against the backdrop of hours of conversation. As such, Hawes’s announcement came as somewhat of a surprise.
“Your Grace, Mr. Beaumont has arrived.”
“Send him in.”
Lucy’s pleasant mood veered suddenly into anticipation of conflict. During her brief acquaintance with Henry, she had determined only how to argue with him. When he entered the room, her breath caught unexpectedly. He had exchanged his uniform for a fine coat and tight breeches that highlighted muscled thighs honed from riding battlefields and highways. He looked every bit the London gentleman; a man beyond her refinement and tasked with the unenviable job of reshaping her into a creature she loathed. For a moment, she yearned to have met him under different circumstances without an impassable gulf between them.
Henry glanced at Lucy and bowed. “Your Grace. Lady Margaret.”
“Please, take a seat, Mr. Beaumont.”
He sat across from them, seemingly wishing to be elsewhere. At least they held that in common. When Lucy sighed, he cocked an eyebrow.
“Are you well?”
She grinned fiercely. “Well enough to suffer your condescension. Are you now my nanny?”
“More of a wet nurse, given your utter lack of social grace.”
“And do you claim extensive experience as a wet nurse?”
His half smile grew full. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Please explain, sir.”
“It is a trifling tale.”
She laughed. “Oh, I think not. Male wet nurses are clearly rare, as I did not believe biology would allow such. Thus, please explain.”
“The claim is merely metaphorical.”
“I do love a good metaphor. You may commence explaining.”
He nodded in defeat, stood, and began pacing the floor. “You are aware of my service to the Crown in the war against Napoleon, from Nivelle to Waterloo?”
“You told me as much on the road.”
“Very well. What I did not say was that my regiment at times belonged to a combined force of British and Portuguese cavalry. One day, a finely dressed fop of a man joined the regiment and proceeded to earn everyone’s loathing, mine included.”
“Sounds awful,” she said with sarcasm. “How ever did you cope?”
“As it happened, this dandy was a member of the Portuguese royal house, a minor duke and cousin to the king. My commanders received strict orders to prevent him from dying ingloriously, out of respect for the alliance. The commandant called me to his tent and said, ‘Mr. Beaumont, you are the son of an earl and thus understand the quirks of nobility, and as you are not particularly crucial to my operation, I require you to keep the Portuguese fool from getting killed. Godspeed.’ The newcomer was indeed a fool, with no understanding of military matters and no sense whatsoever, but such was my burden.”
She nodded understanding. “I see now. You have done this before, although I would make the strenuous point that ignorance and foolishness are quite different. That said, I must ask the obvious question. Did you, in fact, succeed in preventing his inglorious demise?”
“Through no small effort, yes. I chased him across four battles, dragging him away from certain death as he wandered into enemy defenses, twice preventing the slitting of his throat by jealous husbands of local women he had bedded, and even pulling him from beneath his dying horse at Orthez because he managed to shoot his own mount in the head during a cavalry charge.”
She slapped her palms to her cheeks in mock dismay. “Oh, my! How terrifying. You seemed to have done well, though.”
He stopped pacing and pointed a finger skyward. “I did so well, in fact, that the silly man’s cousin sent me a medal and a certificate of thanks. So, you see, Lady Margaret, not only was I a wet nurse, I earned a medal for it. I doubt you will find anyone in London more qualified th
an I am to serve you in that capacity.”
Lucy nodded, hoping to hide the fact that she was impressed. He would never let her hear the end of it. “I have only one more question, then.”
“And that is?”
“Do you consider this situation better or worse than the one in France?”
He cocked his head in thought. “The French faced me merely with rifles, cannons, and sabers. In this case, I stand against the fierce judgment of the haute ton. As I know the damage my peers can inflict, I am rather more afraid of them than of French cannon fire.”
Lucy wanted to believe he was joking, but doubt plagued her. She put on a brave face instead. “I am satisfied as to your credentials, Mr. Beaumont, nanny-at-large and itinerant wet nurse. Where shall we begin?”
He resumed pacing while massaging his square chin. “Let’s see. Over the course of two weeks we might manage a minimally effective charade suitable for you to survive a dinner party without bearing the brunt of poisonous rumors.”
He pivoted to wander the other direction.
“We have no time to address complicated matters such as dancing and a list of accomplishments. We must instead focus our attention on superficial behaviors, such as hosting guests, conducting polite conversation, and maintaining suitable posture. Although I fear your table manners alone may undo the charade. You eat like a drunken sailor.”
As Lucy listened to his careful stream of logic, her newfound good grace toward him faded. “For heaven’s sake! I may not be a proper lady but neither am I a beast of the field, foraging mindlessly while wolves circle.”
He shook his head slowly. “You do not understand. It matters not what I think. Those of Society will strive to view you in the dimmest possible light. They are wolves. They will assume you are a beast of the field until you prove otherwise. Any mistake will simply serve to maintain your inequality in their eyes.”
She pouted her lower lip. “That hardly seems fair.”
The duchess placed a comforting hand on Lucy’s arm. “I know, my dear. Unfair indeed. However, he is correct. The challenge you face is no less than a single-handed cavalry charge into the gathered masses of the haute ton, and they give no quarter.”
Lucy pondered that dark fate before quickly concluding that she would flee the house before allowing such humiliation to befall her. However, for the present, she had no other option but to play along. Her eyes locked with Henry’s.
“Very well. I am yours to command. Teach me, if you can.”
A feeble smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He resumed his chair. “Right, then. Let us begin with appropriate posture. A proper lady maintains an erect carriage at all times, whether sitting or standing, as the duchess does now.”
Lucy surveyed the woman’s straight-backed posture while Henry continued.
“Slouching or leaning back in one’s chair as you do now is considered slothful and inelegant.”
With narrowed eyes, she emulated the posture of the older woman, including a stretched neck, raised chin, and hands folded neatly in her lap. She found the resulting position quite uncomfortable.
“Is this appropriate, Sir Judgment?”
“Yes, that is acceptable.”
“What if one engages in very strenuous activity of a non-slothful nature and then chooses to recline against a chair for well-earned rest?”
He shook his head. “Then one must excuse oneself to a lonely place where one might recline, lean back, slouch, or otherwise relieve oneself of the unmitigated burden of maintaining an erect posture.”
She could not fail to miss the accusation in his statement. “Very well, then. If I must slouch, I will take my leave…to spare my guests the horror.”
“That is all good, but you must continue to maintain correct form when walking as well. You must glide from place to place as if skating on ice, and not lumber like an ox.”
“I do not lumber like an ox.”
“Yes, you do, my dear,” the duchess said. “But we will devote ourselves to improving that. Meanwhile, let us speak of hosting.”
Stung, Lucy nodded silent agreement. Talk of posture was numbing her already.
“Hosting,” said Henry, “begins with greeting. You must nod politely to acknowledge equals and curtsy respectfully to superiors. As such, we must teach you how to curtsy properly.”
“I know how to curtsy. We need not waste time on such exercises.”
The duchess brought a hand to her chest. “Where did you learn to curtsy, my dear?”
“I have seen it done many times. The act is not so difficult.”
Henry frowned. “Perhaps you would grace us with a demonstration.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Just now, if you are so inclined.”
Lucy stood and dropped a curtsy. She raised her eyes to find both Henry and the duchess grimacing. The old woman forced a smile. “We shall work on that, too, my dear.”
Lucy plopped to her seat in a defeated slouch. With eyes on her, Henry straightened his back and swept his palms up his torso as a reminder. Upon resuming the awkward position dictated by appropriate posture, she frowned. “If I might ask, how will I know who is deserving of a respectful curtsy and who rates merely a polite nod of acknowledgment?”
“Ah, yes,” said Henry, “A very practical question. As you are the granddaughter of a duke, you enjoy significant rank. You must curtsy to any of the royal house and its numerous offshoots, and to highly respected members of other noble houses, perhaps even those of lower rank.”
She stared at him. “You failed to answer my question. My confusion is greater now than it was before you began explaining. You seem to possess a talent for that.”
He rubbed his forehead. The duchess again lightly touched Lucy’s arm. “Yes, dear. Rank is terribly confusing to the uninitiated. Until you learn, take your lead from me.”
“Not from Mr. Beaumont?”
The duchess winced, so Henry explained. “I am well below your rank. My lead would prove inaccurate regarding your expected greeting.”
She smiled. “Do you mean to say that you must bow to me and yet I owe you not even a polite nod of the head?”
His face colored slightly. “It would seem so.”
“How interesting.” Lucy felt suddenly more engaged in the rules of the game. “And what if I encounter a superior who is a particularly odious person. Must I still curtsy?”
The duchess nodded. “You must show respect to superiors always, even to those who are undeserving louts. Otherwise, Society will cut you.”
“And if that superior is the most scandalous of rakes who treats everyone with selfish disregard or contempt, must I still curtsy?”
“Yes,” replied Henry and the duchess in unison.
“You are telling me, then, that a superior who is an utter jackass deserves a show of respect, and to not show said jackass respect is to earn disrespect?”
“Yes. Exactly,” said Henry.
She shook her head. “’Tis a stupid rule.”
Henry and the duchess exchanged a startled glance. He cleared his throat. “Well, then. We should move on to the next lesson, which applies very uniquely to you. When in polite company, you must never show overt emotion and must refrain from sudden outbursts.”
“I do not have sudden outbursts!” she said hotly. No sooner had the statement left her lips than she realized how thoroughly she was proving his point. She dipped her chin. “As you were saying.”
“Yes, as I was saying. No emotion and absolutely no outbursts. That includes gregarious laughter.”
She cocked her head. “How shall I respond, then, if I find something particularly amusing?”
“If you must, then dip your chin, cover your mouth, and chuckle softly and briefly. You see, well-bred persons always maintain tight control of their facial features, physical bodies, and m
anner of speech when in the presence of others. To do otherwise marks you as lowborn.”
“I see. One would not wish to appear lowborn. The horror!”
He stared grimly at her. “Yes. The horror.”
“So, I may not laugh, understandably. May I at least smile?”
“Yes, of course, but not too broadly. You must take care to not show any teeth.”
“I possess exceptional teeth, though.”
“Oh, yes,” Henry replied too quickly. Then he paused. “The quality of your teeth is not the issue.”
“What is the issue, then?”
“That you must not show your teeth.”
Lucy stared at the floor and frowned. “It’s not my fault that nearly everyone but me has bad teeth.” When she looked up at Henry, he was frowning as well.
“Although I may not laugh or smile,” she said, “Apparently frowning seems acceptable. Is that so, Mr. Beaumont?”
“Only if warranted.”
Her frown deepened. “Who, then, decides when a frown is warranted?”
“Your guests, of course. You must frown only if they deem frowning an appropriate response to some topic or another.”
“Even if one of my guests is the most scandalous of rakes?”
“Yes, even then.”
“’Tis another stupid rule. Your sage advice will rescue me from dastardly acts of emotion. What next, Lord Compendium? What other horrific behaviors are unacceptable?”
Henry’s jaw flexed, and Lucy thought she saw his eyes flash with irritation.
“Oh, many, many mundane behaviors earn disrespect and disregard from the well-bred of Society.” His reply bordered on sarcasm. “Blowing one’s nose, picking one’s nails, and most definitely introducing any appendage into one’s nostrils at any time. And if you must cough, you must do so in near silence. To cough loudly marks you as…”
“Lowborn, I know. You have made that point already, Sir Redundant. But let me repeat so I may be sure of understanding. When in the company of others, I may not engage in any human bodily function or emotion, other than what might be expected of a boiled turnip.”
