Everything a Lady is Not

by Sawyer North

  “May I speak to your granddaughter?”

  Without hesitation, the duchess motioned to Hawes. He disappeared from the doorway with complete comprehension of the unspoken request. A few minutes later, Lucy tentatively entered the room. Henry took pleasure in the fact that she wore the yellow dress he had purchased for her and noted how well she wore it. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion upon spying him.

  “Mr. Beaumont,” she said heavily. “Have you returned to heap additional ridicule upon me? My lack of decorum certainly proved correct your opinion of my flaws and failings.”

  Henry stood and bowed. The suspicion on her face gave way to uncertainty when he smiled kindly. “No. I have not returned to disparage you in any manner. In fact, I have come to offer apology.”

  “Apology? For…for what?” Hope suffused her abrupt and stumbling reply.

  “For not believing in you sufficiently. Your grandmother asked for my best, but I failed to comply. I allowed pessimism to distract me from the effort. In doing so, I failed you. For that, I am deeply sorry.”

  The confusion on her face grew. “Why would you apologize? My performance that evening was nothing short of a disaster in every possible manner.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, in some ways. I cannot deny that. However…” When he paused, she leaned slightly toward him, seemingly desperate for any ray of hope. “In the face of overwhelming opposition bent on your public destruction, you held your ground admirably and fought bravely. I have rarely seen such backbone, even on the battlefield. In short, I underestimated you, to my everlasting shame. An apology to you is the least of my obligations. However, I wish to do more.”

  She stared at him with eyes wide, disbelief competing with gratitude for control of her lively features. “What, then, are you suggesting?”

  Henry hesitated. The door to freedom from the entire affair was only twenty steps away. He simply needed to silence his voice and run. But he failed miserably. Again. The siren’s call beckoned and he responded instinctually, the innate criminal that he was.

  “I wish to continue my assignment of preparing you for an appropriate suitor so you might find a place in this odd Society of ours. But only if you allow it and the duchess agrees.”

  Lucy’s grimness faded. She glanced at her grandmother and ducked her eyes before reengaging his. “Why? And with so little time remaining? What can you possibly hope to attain?”

  “As we are both aficionados of Robinson Crusoe, let me explain in those terms. The man never gave up, no matter the odds against him. I will not give up on you, Friday.”

  She returned his smile, a gesture for which Henry had yearned. “As you might recall, I am Crusoe and you are Friday.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember now. Then do you accept my offer?”

  She glanced again at the duchess, who nodded. Then she engaged him once more. “I agree, though I fail to see how we will succeed in this.”

  “I worry as well,” said the duchess. “I fear Lady Isabella’s subterfuge will shatter even our best intentions.”

  “Then what can we do?” said Henry.

  The duchess crossed her arms and tapped a foot three times before determination lit her features. “We must remove Lucy from the prying eyes of London Society. To someplace safe where she might continue her education without fear of interference from those who seek her failure.”

  A smile crawled across Henry’s face. “I know just the place. A place where we might find the help of a professional.”

  “Professional?” Lucy blurted. “Why would we require the aid of a harlot?”

  He let loose a loud, unrestrained laugh, something that had not happened in a very long time. “No, no. Not a harlot. Quite the contrary. I speak of a lady who has mastered the intricacies of High Society and who will educate you with kindness, enthusiasm, and loyalty to your success.”

  Lucy and the duchess exchanged a puzzled glance.

  “And where,” the duchess asked, “would you find such a woman?”

  “Leave that to me, Your Grace.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lucy gazed through the coach window as the landscape of Oxfordshire tumbled past. Crowning trees gave way to windswept fields of grain, which yielded to further sweeps of trees. The rural stillness of the place reminded her of Dartmoor’s isolation and helped quell rising anxiety. Hawes snored loudly across from her, much to the bemusement of Henry at his side.

  “He emits quite a nasal ruckus for such a taciturn man,” Henry said, his first words in five miles. “One might suspect he swallowed a fox.”

  Lucy turned from the window to observe her failed mentor. She marveled yet again at the change in his demeanor. As the coach traveled west, his somber nature slowly melted like the steady drip of an icicle in sunlight. The change suited him well, freeing his handsome face from a persistent stony expression. His ice-blue eyes framed by auburn hair drew her attention from the way his shoulders strained his jacket. And why was she so abruptly consumed with the width of his shoulders?

  “A fox, you say? One might claim the same of you these past hours. Your conversation has become a veritable fountain of frivolity.”

  His lips drew comically downward. “Do you prefer that I speak only to chastise or correct you?”

  “Perhaps. Otherwise, I may fail to recognize you, and wonder what has become of the Henry Beaumont who thinks me suitable only as a farmer’s wife.”

  He shook his head. “You will not forgive me that, it seems.”

  “Never. Unless you earn again my good graces.”

  “Earn again? When was I ever in your good graces?”

  “Excellent point. You have offended me from the instance of our first meeting. For my part, I have returned the favor freely and often.”

  He shrugged and peered out the window, inhaling the air. “My second home is near. I can smell it on the breeze.”

  “I smell what the cattle and sheep have deposited on the turf, and not much else. How did Charlotte manage to settle here?”

  “When a man of title asks for your hand, you go where he goes. And when your brother banishes the youngest, you take him in.”

  She smiled faintly. “It suits you, I think. You possess a knack for finding yourself ankle deep in manure and quite without a shovel.”

  “And I would require a very large shovel to extract you from the muck of your previous existence. However, you may prefer the muck.”

  She glanced away to avoid smiling further. Instead, she adopted Isabella’s haughty nasal projection. “I will not sit idly by while one of such low birth demonstrates disrespect for my rank. You must abase yourself before me now or I shall report you to the local magistrate.”

  Henry dipped his head. “When first we met, you smelled of horse dung and wood smoke. I will forgive your malodorous past if you forgive my low birth.”

  “Because I am nothing if not magnanimous, I forgive you. You are welcome, sir.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness. Now, cease babbling so I may enjoy the remainder of the journey in peace.”

  “I will, but I must offer one more opinion,” she said wistfully.

  “Yes?”

  “I do like this place.”

  He smirked. “I wonder why, oh, wild woman of Dartmoor.”

  “Did you not claim you wished quiet, Robin Redbreast?”

  “Yes, I did. And for what it is worth, I like this place, too.”

  Lucy peered at him until he maintained eye contact. “Mr. Beaumont?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why did your brother banish you?”

  Henry’s humor evaporated in the space of a breath. He appeared to find sudden distraction in the landscape beyond the window. So abrupt was his shift of mood that Lucy was certain he would never speak. However, he heaved a sigh that seemed to deflate his angular frame. He cut grim eyes at her. “I suppose y
ou deserve to know the truth.”

  She became afraid to breathe for fear he would change his mind. “Only if you wish to confide.”

  He nodded twice with a pause in between. “I am the product of evil seed and destined to fall. James reminded me of that fact every day of my childhood and removed me the instant he could.”

  His quiet admission took her aback. “Evil?”

  He appeared to force a smile. “Not to worry. Charlotte did what she could with me. Any hope I have is because of her, and now because of…”

  When his voice trailed away, she crept into the silence. “I don’t think anyone is destined to fall.”

  “Pardon me if I don’t share your optimism.”

  His lack of details ignited within her a stream of morbid curiosity, but he seemed finished with the conversation. She turned again to the window, only to spy an auspicious manor coming into view.

  “There she lies,” Henry said. A flicker of light had returned to his eyes. “Ardmoore Manor.”

  Lucy recognized it from her visit a decade earlier. The carriage pulled onto the circular drive and stopped before the great house. A host of people fanned away from the door, driving her immediately into anxiety. Henry elbowed Hawes awake and opened the coach door without waiting for the footman. After stepping down, he extended a hand to her. She eyed the waiting crowd with reluctance. He leaned near.

  “Come, Lucy. You are safe here in every way. Charlotte knows everything of your upbringing. We will protect you.”

  She tentatively extended her hand, and he guided her down to the gravel drive. No sooner had she come to rest than a smiling woman approached. She wore a fine ivory dress that accentuated a lovely figure. Her hair and eyes matched those of Henry. Lucy immediately recognized her.

  “Lady Sinclair?”

  The woman’s smile broadened. “Lady Margaret. May I begin by noting how kindly maturity has treated you? I barely recognize the beauty you have become.” She shot Henry a hot glare. “Brother. Your description of Lady Margaret did her an injustice. She is very pleasing to the eye. Why did you fail to mention that tidbit, I wonder? I rather expected a she-wolf from your telling.”

  Henry stretched his neck with apparent discomfort, still seemingly morose from his admission. “Lady Margaret, may I introduce my sister, Lady Sinclair.” He motioned to Lucy. “Lady Margaret Huntington, granddaughter of the Duchess of Ramsbury.”

  Lucy curtsied before Charlotte caught her arm.

  “No, my lady. You curtsy not to me, but I to you.” She dropped a graceful curtsy as if performing a well-practiced dance. “And you simply must use my Christian name.”

  Lucy restrained a smile, already remembering how sweetly Charlotte had treated her on the previous visit. “Then you must call me Lucy, and never ‘my lady’. I am further from such a title than you can possibly imagine.”

  Henry’s grin finally returned. “I can imagine.”

  She refrained from jabbing him with an elbow, not wishing to disappoint his sister or spoil the reemergence of his humor. Charlotte descended on Lucy and began pulling her toward the house while gushing enthusiastically over her dress, beauty, and graceful stride. She suspected Charlotte was telling pleasant lies for her benefit but found the sense of regard both overwhelming and wonderful. As they crossed the threshold of the manor, Lucy took in the familiar décor, a pleasing combination of finery and rustic antiquity. They moved toward the parlor with Henry a seeming afterthought.

  “Do not worry, Lucy,” said Charlotte. “My husband is sitting in Parliament, my sons are away at school, and I have nothing but time on my hands. Henry and I will prepare you in no time in terms of manner, presentation, and accomplishment.”

  Lucy nodded with gratitude and occupied the chair offered by Charlotte. Henry sat away from the intimate conversation at the edge of Lucy’s vision.

  “Thank you,” Lucy said. “However, I fear we have no time for accomplishments.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Oh, no. We must include such training. The acquiring of accomplishments helps form a lady.”

  Her brow furrowed with skepticism. “I apologize for harboring doubts, but what purpose do many accomplishments serve if they are only a façade?”

  “Accomplishments put on display highly prized character traits, such as diligence and emotional control, while drawing the eye to the lady’s fashion and form as she entertains.”

  Lucy narrowed her eyes. “How interesting. But I puzzle still. Demonstrating for whom? Putting on display for whom? Drawing the eye of whom?”

  Charlotte cocked an eyebrow. “For anyone of the male persuasion whose admiration you wish to capture, dear.”

  “I see, then. An accomplishment is a clever device for capturing a husband.”

  She distinctly heard Henry stifle a chuckle. Force of will restrained her from glaring at him.

  “No, no,” said Charlotte. “Accomplishments are a reflection of the female persona.”

  “Used for the purpose of capturing a husband,” Lucy said.

  “No. Accomplishments reveal the glory that is a woman.”

  “For the purpose of capturing a husband.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Accomplishments allow a woman to demonstrate her potential to Society…”

  “For the purpose of capturing a husband.”

  Henry swallowed a snicker, disguising it as a clearing of his throat. Charlotte cut indignant eyes at her younger brother.

  “Henry Winston Beaumont. Have you something to say?”

  “Nothing at all, dear sister. Dust from the road, you know.”

  Charlotte returned her attention to Lucy. Then she rolled her eyes and sighed. “You are correct. Accomplishments are designed to catch a husband, only to lie fallow once the vows have been exchanged. But you must never admit this in public or risk earning the disdain of your female peers.”

  Henry cleared his throat again, but this time for a purpose. He stood as the women looked to him. “My dear Charlotte, your enthusiasm for her education is just as I had hoped and promised. However, as you might imagine, we are both weary from the journey. If you are so inclined, perhaps we might take some refreshment now and commence the training tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. Tomorrow then.”

  Grateful both for Charlotte’s kind interest and Henry’s merciful intervention, Lucy stood from her chair. “Tomorrow then, and God help us all.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sleep eluded Henry that night. After an eternity of tossing and turning in bed, he rose to wander the halls of the south wing and soon found his feet pointed toward the library. Even after remaining mostly absent from Ardmoore for several years, the way remained familiar despite the feeble light of a small candle. Once inside the library, he located the wall panel that doubled as a door to his secret room. He tapped it open and ducked much lower than he had as a child to enter.

  The candlelight pushed shadows into the corners of the small dank space. His old books lined the floorboard on three sides of the little bench. The memory of his first meeting with Lucy came to him in a flash of vivid recollection. He recalled her straightforward confidence and ease as she’d made introduction and then proceeded to nuzzle her way into his isolation. Little had he known then how that assurance would mature, creating a remarkable woman who broke the mold of fettered society and compelled his fascination. A wan smile stole to his lips.

  “You turned out magnificently, Crusoe.”

  He ducked from the room and closed the panel. Rather than returning to his chambers, he padded down the west hallway counting doors. He stopped before the fourth door behind which Lucy slept, not sure why he had come. As he turned to leave, his ears pricked at the soft sound emanating from the room. Despite a warning from his better judgment, he placed an ear against the door. He listened intently.

  Singing.

 
A sad melody with inaudible words filtered through the heavy oak. The beauty of her voice called to him like a siren’s song to an unsuspecting sailor. He considered entering her chamber to offer comfort for the doubts that plagued her. To hold her close. To perhaps gently taste her lips as a show of solidarity. A stab of indiscretion pricked his gut, though, and he backed away. Still, he found comfort in her presence despite how it corrupted his chances for salvation. Though he regretted his partial confession to Lucy earlier, speaking it aloud had given him some welcome relief from the burden of his dire destiny. After a brief pause, he returned through the house to his chambers. Sleep captured him moments after his head hit the pillow.

  …

  Early the next afternoon, Henry met Lucy and his enthusiastic sister in the conservatory. The stone walls wore an array of tapestries that served to mute the sound of a tiny collection of instruments consisting solely of a harp and pianoforte. He faced Lucy, hoping she would cooperate.

  “Which shall it be, my lady? Harp or pianoforte.”

  She giggled. “You called me ‘my lady.’ That amuses me.”

  “Harp,” he breathed, “or pianoforte.”

  Her eyes rolled upward as she pondered. Charlotte waited with happy anticipation.

  “Certainly not the harp,” she replied finally. “The dulcet tones of that instrument exercise a certain deleterious effect on my waking state.”

  Henry blinked. “Deleterious effect? By that you mean…”

  “The harp puts me to sleep. I should think it bad form to slip into slumber while playing for potential victims of marital acquisition. Do you agree?”

  While he stared at her with befuddlement, Charlotte intervened. “That is perfectly well, Lucy. The pianoforte it is, then.”

  Lucy shook her head. “The pianoforte is not viable, either, I am afraid. It is far too complicated for proficiency within the short time afforded us. I refuse to make a larger fool of myself by stumbling over a set of keys.”

  Charlotte’s expression turned to worry. “What musical accomplishment should you offer, then?”