Everything a Lady is Not

by Sawyer North

  Lucy’s eyes lit. “Mr. Jeffers, an experienced musician and pickpocket, showed me how to play the spoons. I practiced the skill over the years and attained a certain expertise enjoyed by many visitors when the wine began to flow.”

  Charlotte cocked her head. “Spoons?”

  “Yes, spoons. Holding two or three spoons in each hand and slapping them against one’s thigh in a pleasing pattern of syncopation.”

  Henry rolled his eyes. “No spoons. What passes for favorable entertainment within army camps and dens of thieves would not be accepted by anyone above a certain station.”

  She frowned. “I suppose you must be right. Now that you mention it, I do not recall witnessing such entertainment in finer gatherings while living abroad. My apologies.”

  Charlotte tapped her chin. “Can you perhaps sing?”

  Lucy froze before slowly shaking her head. Henry, however, recalled what he had heard in the night. The sound of her quiet singing had intoxicated him, and he’d been forced to muster every ounce of his resistance to walk away. “Yes, she sings beautifully. I have heard her do so, in fact.”

  She glanced sharply at him with question. He grinned playfully. “Sound carries well in these old stone halls. Especially during the wee hours of the morning.”

  A blush crept up her cheeks, and she averted her eyes. Charlotte, however, clapped her hands. “Wonderful, Lucy! You shall sing at social gatherings. What songs do you know?”

  She shrugged. “I know the words to all three verses of ‘The Chandler’s Wife’.”

  “I have not heard that one,” said Charlotte.

  “And well you should not have,” Henry blurted, “as it is entirely inappropriate for gentle company. Do you know another?”

  “‘The Lusty Young Smith’?”

  “Definitely not. What else?”

  “‘All for Me Grog’?”

  Henry’s head fell in dismay as words failed him. Her repertoire seemed more suited for patrons of alehouses than for anyone of breeding. Charlotte interpreted his pause as acceptance.

  “Wonderful, Lucy. Let us hear… What did you call it? ‘All for Me…’”

  “Grog. And it goes like this.” She inhaled a breath and began to sing with gusto.

  “All for me grog, me jolly, jolly grog. All for me beer and tobacco. Well, I spent all me tin in a shanty drinkin’ gin…”

  “That will be quite enough,” Henry interrupted loudly. Lucy froze, her eyes wide. Charlotte stared at her in astonishment. He breathed deeply and adopted a gentler tone. “A sailor’s drinking song is entirely inappropriate for gatherings of the finer class. They wouldn’t understand.”

  As hurt encroached on Lucy’s face, Henry immediately regretted his harsh rebuke. Charlotte leaped to the rescue. “Why, Lucy! Your singing voice is quite lovely. And I did enjoy the jaunty nature of your tune.”

  Henry found that he agreed with his sister. Her singing possessed a certain husky quality that spoke of passion—a perfect extension of her personality.

  “My sister is quite correct. Your singing is more than adequate to please guests, regardless of station. However, we need to find songs suitable for sensitive and judgmental ears. Perhaps Charlotte may recommend a few.”

  Lucy’s hurt expression melted into wary consideration. She gathered herself into a defiant posture and turned to Charlotte. “If you would be so kind as to suggest additions to my low-class repertoire, I would be most grateful.”

  “Have you heard ‘And Ye Shall Walk in Silk Attire’?”

  Lucy shook her head.

  “‘A Toll for the Brave’? Or ‘The Lass of Richmond Hill’, perhaps? It is whispered that the latter was written for the Prince Regent’s secret wife, Mrs. Fitzherbert, and that the prince penned the music with his own hand.”

  Lucy shook her head again. “I am afraid I don’t know any songs suitable for public consumption, short of those for children.”

  Charlotte took Lucy’s hands in hers. “Never fear, dear. I will teach you some. What manner of song would you like to learn first?”

  Lucy shifted her eyes to Henry and their gazes locked for the space of several heartbeats. He attempted to decipher the meaning of her scrutiny while simultaneously experiencing the resurgence of longing that had plagued him of late. Then she broke the connection.

  “Charlotte, teach me a song that speaks of haunting loss. Of a barrier that prevents one from finding the heart’s desire.”

  Henry’s heart skipped. He puzzled over the deeper meaning and wondered—no—hoped she longed for him as well, despite their utter unsuitability for each other.

  “I shall teach you ‘Black-Eyed Susan’,” said Charlotte after a brief consideration. “Not only is it beloved of every class, but the song speaks of a young woman bidding farewell to her love as he goes to sea, uncertain of his return. I believe you will find it suitably…haunting.”

  Lucy dipped her head. “I am your willing pupil. Do what you can to make me presentable.”

  As Henry watched mesmerized, Charlotte played the pianoforte and taught Lucy the words and tune verse by verse. Lucy sang with a deep sorrow that constricted his chest with ache. As she mastered the final verse, tears filled the wells of her eyes. When she finished, Charlotte placed a hand to her chest.

  “Wonderful, my dear. Simply wonderful. I have no doubt your singing will greatly appeal to the fortunate young men in attendance.”

  As Lucy dipped her head in humble acknowledgment, the constriction of Henry’s chest tightened, and he knew why. His attraction to the ward of a highwayman was evidence of his tainted soul. As a result, his longing for Lucy could never be allowed to bear fruit.

  …

  Emotionally drained from her surprisingly fruitful foray into musical accomplishment, Lucy asked for a solitary walk about the manor grounds. After Charlotte ensured she was sufficiently sleeved and bonneted for the late afternoon sun, Lucy set off. Her thoughts turned immediately to the day’s events. Her carefully crafted plan of resisting every attempt at refinement had gone bizarrely wrong. However, she found solace rather than dread in the outcome. Charlotte was all that Henry had promised—gracious, enthusiastic, and kind. As for Henry? He had seemed awkwardly silent during her lesson. She feared he disapproved of her talents and hoped the long walk might dispel her anxiety.

  “What do you expect of me, Henry Beaumont?” she said aloud to none but the breeze. “I am less than you believe but more than you know. It seems unlikely you will guess me correctly.”

  “Is that so?”

  Lucy shrieked and spun to find Henry astride a black horse.

  “What are you doing?”

  His eyebrows arched. “When I saw you walking toward the adjacent estate, I assumed you were lost. I came to correct your path.”

  “My path needs no correcting,” she erupted through startled breaths. “And what disregard to ride upon a lady without prior announcement!”

  His lips grew a crooked smile. “So, you are a lady now?”

  She glared at him, torn over an appropriate response. She discarded several caustic retorts and instead forced a smile. “The duchess considers me so. However, you and I both know what I am.”

  “And what are you, Lucy Locket?” He continued to peer down at her from his mount, one hand on his muscled thigh and the other managing the animal’s reins. With the setting sun glinting behind him, for a moment he looked like a knight of old, gallant and true. She shook her head, shaking away the vision.

  “I am a pretender. I pretend to be refined. I pretend to be delicate. I pretend to be a lady, but I am none of those. The only time I do not pretend, it seems, is when we argue.”

  His smile grew wider. “Perhaps that is why we argue so often.”

  She looked away from him in an act of dismissal. “If you do not mind, I will finish my walk.”

  He dipped
his chin to her. “As you wish, my lady. I must return now to speak with Hawes before he leaves for London in the morning. As for you, do not dally. The wolves emerge at dusk.”

  With that, he wheeled the horse around and rode away. She glared at him before registering his parting words. Was it not true that wolves no longer existed in England? Uncertain, she began to retrace her path, hurrying and casting glances over her shoulder as dusk fell.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Today, Lucy, we will attempt to master a few phrases of French,” said Charlotte as they circled the small but manicured lawn, “Or rather, enough to convince a suitor of your education.”

  Lucy glanced over a shoulder at Henry as he trailed behind them. Her grin lit the afternoon. “Would that not be a lie?”

  Henry chuckled, suspecting that Lucy was preparing to fluster Charlotte.

  “Well, not exactly a lie,” Charlotte said, “but more of a harmless diversion to allow a suitor to see past mere accomplishments to your intellectual capacity.”

  “Fortunately for me, fabrication will not be necessary. I speak French tres couramment.”

  “You speak French?”

  “Oui, oui, madame. Learning it was not so difficult owing to my fluency in Italian.”

  Henry nodded, recalling her ambush of the Archambeau brothers. “We must explore another subject, then. Time is too short to waste a day.”

  “With what does Lucy struggle the most?” Charlotte asked.

  Henry and Lucy replied in unison. “Curtsies.”

  “I am told my curtsy resembles the death throes of a mortally wounded ox.”

  “Agreed,” he said.

  She shot him a hostile glance that might have melted butter. “I may say so, but you must not, Mr. Beaumont.”

  “Also agreed.”

  “Show us your curtsy, then,” said Charlotte. “I will be the judge.”

  Lucy gulped and dropped a curtsy that might have mortified the aforementioned dying ox. The blank expression on Charlotte’s face confirmed Henry’s worst fears. After a brief silence, his sister erupted into a string of advice. He stood aside, watching as Charlotte repeatedly demonstrated proper form and guided Lucy in duplicating her efforts. However, when left to her own devices, Lucy floundered. Having seen her fence, he knew the failure was not for lack of nimbleness. Suspicion that her struggles were intentional nibbled at his mind until he dismissed it. She seemed too earnest in her attempts.

  After half an hour of unsuccessful training, Lucy appeared on the verge of quitting the entire affair. Henry recognized the expression on her face, having seen it at the dinner party before she’d fled the room. Her chin drooped while she regarded the misery of the ground. His heart tumbled toward her as the need to mount a rescue built within him. The burning desire to lift her flagging spirits took him by surprise, a wildfire flaring through his soul. He tamped down the sudden longing with a deep breath and the brief clenching and unclenching of his fists.

  “Lady Margaret,” he said, “Please look at me.”

  The exhausted woman slowly raised her eyes to meet his. He maintained a gentle tone as if to prevent the startled flight of a shy woodland creature.

  “I am most puzzled. I have seen you mount a horse with no assistance and no block, a difficult undertaking for one of your slight stature. How did you manage such a maneuver?”

  She shrugged. “I placed one foot in the stirrup, bent low, and leaped.”

  “Very well, then. Now, imagine you are mounting a horse, but the stirrup reaches the ground. Slide one foot backward as if gathering to leap, descend as you would normally, but maintain your eyes to where your raised foot might otherwise be. However, rather than leaping, simply rise slowly to your former position.”

  She squinted at him with skepticism, perhaps waiting for the rest of the joke. When his expression failed to alter, she shrugged again and did as he suggested. She descended with her head bowed, watching the space before her waist, and then rose.

  “Why, Lucy,” said Charlotte, “that was nearly flawless.”

  Lucy’s doubt appeared to fade slightly, but she trained her eyes on him to await his reaction. A proud smile crawled across his face. “I believe I have witnessed the perfect curtsy.”

  …

  Later that afternoon, Lucy slipped away to the privacy of the study to practice her curtsy. Bow, descend, rise, bow, descend, rise—over and over until she lost track of time.

  “Much improved.”

  She emitted a startled cry and whirled to find Henry leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed and an I-caught-you smile curling his lips. How long had he been watching?

  “Have you no better business than to creep about spying on others?”

  “Apparently not, although I take exception to your characterization. I am not spying, and I am most certainly not creeping. You, however, appear to be hiding, which might suggest guilt or shame. Have you been misbehaving, Miss Locket?”

  “Apparently, but only in the eyes of those who make nonsensical rules.”

  He dipped his head. “I will grant you that point, but only if you agree to a proposal.”

  “My agreement depends on the nature of the proposal.”

  He leaned away from the doorframe to stand. “I suggest we take a walk to discuss status and strategy. Charlotte’s maid has agreed to chaperone.”

  Lucy clenched her fists, suddenly unnerved. Other than the brief encounter on the grounds, she had not been entirely alone with Henry since those first days on the run when only hostile words had passed between them. Since then, however, everything had changed. She did not know quite when it had happened or the extent of the change, but the difference left her hopeful, bewildered, and uneasy.

  “Very well. However, if this suggestion is a thinly veiled attempt to compromise me, I shall be forced to claw out your left eye. Griff, a street boxer from Bristol, showed me how to do it, so I do not bluff.”

  He chuckled. “Sadly, I believe you. In the interest of retaining my eyesight, I will abide by your rule.”

  When she returned to the entrance hall with him, Charlotte met her with shawl, bonnet, parasol, and motherly advice over the proper protection of one’s complexion. As Henry, the maid, and Lucy exited the house, she strongly suspected Charlotte of scheming.

  Henry chose a path that meandered toward a pair of adjacent hills dotted with stands of trees. The maid trailed at an appropriate distance—near enough to watch but not too close to overhear conversation.

  “So,” he said, “What is your assessment of our progress thus far?”

  “A complete disaster, I would say,” she replied cheerfully.

  He seemed surprised and a little wounded. “You do not find my sister helpful?”

  “Oh, but I do. I meant not to insinuate that. In fact…” She paused as emotion abruptly choked her voice. “In fact, it has been a very long time since I have enjoyed such friendship. Your sister is everything you promised and more.”

  Henry’s demeanor resumed its previous ease. “My heart leaps to hear you say so.”

  She pondered his smile when he spoke of Charlotte. “Your sister adores you. That much is clear. And you appear to return that adoration.”

  “I do. And why not? Although our family fortune did not match those of most others of our class, my sister has risen above that fact. She possesses qualities that cannot be purchased. Beauty, a good name, and grace, in that order. Beauty draws the eye, a good name draws regard, but grace draws the heart.”

  A pang struck Lucy’s chest. Hearing Henry describe his sister so warmly left her with a deep sense of inadequacy. He appeared to notice her unease and changed the subject. “If I might be so bold, may I ask if you miss your former life in Dartmoor?”

  He seemed to hold his breath waiting for a response. She eyed him as they walked. “I do.”

 
When his face clouded, she strove to explain. “Some things, anyway. I do not miss the loneliness. The lack of friends my age, the long winters of isolation, the absence of family.”

  Despite her best efforts, she failed to prevent bitterness from tainting her response.

  “I am sorry for what happened to you,” he said.

  She was grateful for his pity but did not wish any more of it. “However, I miss the silence of the place where my thoughts could roam untethered. I miss the routine of caring for the house and animals. I miss Gerta Plumlee, the kind older woman who supplied the house and cooked our meals. I even miss…”

  “You miss what?” he asked after she hesitated.

  “I even miss Steadman.”

  “The man who abducted you? You miss him?”

  She nodded. “I should hate him for what he took from me. However, he raised me as a daughter, saw to my education, and imbued me with strength. He treated me with utmost propriety, and I am quite certain he would have laid down his life to save mine. He is far more than what he seems, Mr. Beaumont, despite his apparent nature.”

  Henry chuckled again. “You appear to describe a particular person of my acquaintance.”

  She blushed and glanced away. The discomfort of the conversation drove her to shift the subject away from her past. “What of you? I have not heard you speak of your home in Northumberland. Is your brother the cause?”

  A grim expression again chased the smile from his face, returning the stony countenance to which she had grown accustomed. She feared he might not answer the question.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “James made clear his opinion that I am a lesser member of House Beaumont who should seek his future elsewhere and without assistance, financial or otherwise. This place became my home, not Northumberland. When I finished school, the cavalry seemed an acceptable alternative to begging my brother for funds.”

  “Why?”

  “Why the cavalry?”

  “No, muttonhead. Why did your brother consider you a lesser member? Did you offend him?”