The Defiant Lady Pencavel

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “We’ll have to make sure the gel never gets a passport,” Aunt Hedra said with a slap of her fan. “I don’t understand why she is so against accepting her lot in life as a female.”

  “My husband, the duke, insists that Bath is full of such uncultivated women, and he’s forbidden me from joining him there because of it; bad influences and all that entails,” the duchess prattled on in her safe ignorance as the coach stopped.

  “I’m certain your venerable spouse keeps busy reading religious tracts,” Aunt Hedra replied with an arched mouse skin-covered eyebrow. If she hadn’t shaved off her own, as was the past fashion, she wouldn’t need these bizarre replacements.

  The driver jumped from the box, let down the step, and Aunt Hedra alighted.

  “Isn’t your niece betrothed to that dashing rascal, Lord Lambrick?” the duchess asked as she squeezed her voluminous skirts from the coach with the driver’s assistance; her outmoded panniers rattled like the chains she’d rebuked. “Though she did seem interested in that young man I introduced her to at Almack’s.”

  “I doubt that lamentable boy will hold my niece’s attentions for half a second.” Aunt Hedra motioned to the driver, who now assisted Melwyn down from her mount in the middle of her struggles to dismount by herself. “She requires a decidedly stronger hand.”

  “I require no hand but my own,” Melwyn intoned. “Weren’t the Old Tyburn Gallows near here?” She brushed down the skirt of her lavender habit. “There must be many frightening ghouls lurking about, unfairly hanged over the centuries, anxious for revenge.”

  The duchess gasped and held a handkerchief to her nose as if the stinking corpses might rise from the earth at that instant. “Upon my word. Young ladies certainly have changed since I was at finishing school. I would have had no knowledge of hangings.” She pulled a small, silver vinaigrette box from her sleeve and opened the hinged lid. “I need my smelling salts.”

  Aunt Hedra dragged Melwyn close, painfully close. “You are incorrigible, my dear. Definitely inherited from your regrettable mother’s side of the family. Now, here is my friend, Mr. Fernworthy, the scientist.”

  A rotund man stood there, his belly protruding from under a tight waistcoat that strained at its buttons. His nankeen breeches seemed to barely contain his wide thighs. He pinched his pince-nez over a bulbous nose. “My dear Hedra, always so good to see you. Terrible thing about Penpol; liked the man, I truly did. But ashes to ashes and dust to dust, as is written.” He greeted and bowed to the duchess in turn.

  “That was five years ago I lost dear Penpol, Fernworthy. Do keep up.” Aunt Hedra sighed, her roughed lips in a twist. “Anyway, I asked you here to speak with my niece and show her the folly of her ways. She wants to go to digs.”

  At that moment, a tall man in a black cape ascended the block of stone, designating a speech was about to begin.

  “Excavations, to be correct, Auntie. I wish to be part of unearthing ancient treasures, and lost cities, Mr. Fernworthy.” Melwyn scrutinized the man on the block, at first thinking it was Lord Lambrick playing a trick on her. Her heart twinged. But, alas, he wasn’t handsome at all, and distinctly drunk, judging by the way he weaved.

  “Eh, are you speaking of archeological excavations?” Fernworthy leered at her. “But you’re a woman, in case you haven’t noticed. No women are allowed there. Bad form to even think of it.”

  “Thank goodness.” The duchess clasped her chest. “Grave digging is reprehensible, and filthy. Once someone’s in the ground, they need to stay there.”

  “Bodies are needed for medical science!” the drunk on the block announced in a slurred voice. “Even if it is against the law.”

  “Would any women be allowed to even witness an excavation?” Aunt Hedra persisted, then whispered to her male friend, “Make it sound as odious as possible.”

  “Well, I am a botanist not an archeologist, but I can say, without any qualm, that no woman would be allowed anywhere near such a...odious undertaking. Too dusty, and dangerous. And I hear the ones in Pompeii have lewd graffiti on the walls.” Fernworthy eyed Melwyn as if she sprouted two noses. “Be a good girl and go home, marry and have a dozen children.”

  “Botany? An overrated gardener? Many women have excelled in that vocation, sir. Such as the Countess of Strathmore.” Melwyn smiled, while inside she cringed. She walked away from the supercilious gnome. “And women are multi-talented. I’ve read that in America, the natives strap their babies to their backs, and continue to weave baskets, create beaded necklaces, work in the fields, and skin buffalo.”

  “All womanly tasks, so your example falls flat.” Fernworthy snorted, then confided to Hedra, “No one will marry her, unless they’d first cut out her argumentative tongue. They never should have taught women to read, therefore to think, and dare to speak on subjects they know nothing about, very bad form. The Royal Society, founded in the previous century, is full of philosophers who promote knowledge, but not for addle-brained females.”

  “I take exception to that, Mr. Fernworthy. Why keep women ignorant, so men may dominate us? It shores up your own insecurities and proves your lack of enlightened moral fiber.” Melwyn glared at the pompous botanist. “I shall send you a copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman: with Strictures on Political and Moral Subjects.”

  “And she’s witty, lovely to look at, and luscious to kiss, I’ll be bound,” the drunk crooned as he swayed.

  Melwyn eyed the soused speaker in annoyance. “Stay out of this, sir! You are clearly foundering in your cups.”

  The stranger jumped from the block, snatched Melwyn around the waist, and ran to a waiting horse hidden behind a tree. He hoisted her up, climbed on behind her, discarded his ugly mask, and rode off, holding her tightly.

  “That inebriated fellow just tore off his own face!” The duchess swooned and Fernworthy caught her, but they rolled to the ground like two water-filled sheep’s bladders.

  “Very curious, indeed.” Aunt Hedra raised her quizzing glass and glared at the departing stallion. “That man looks peculiarly familiar.”

  Melwyn struggled for breath, in much too much shock to think rationally as she wriggled to be free of muscular arms.

  Chapter Seven

  She felt so soft and warm against him, though she squiggled so much Griffin could barely concentrate on the galloping stallion between his thighs.

  “Hold still, you hellion! I don’t wish to harm you.” He grimaced. “But if you keep struggling, I may have to.”

  “Unhand me, sir. What in darnation do you think you’re doing?” Miss Pencavel pinched at his fingers through his suede leather gloves. “I am completely flummoxed, and much put out, and these coincidences are becoming pathetic.”

  Griffin slowed his horse on the other side of the huge expanse of Hyde Park, near the brick edifice of Kensington Palace, a renovated Jacobean mansion now used by lesser royalty. “I’m kidnapping you, you little idiot.”

  “But why? Why do you follow me like a hound dog chasing a bitch in heat? And I’m certainly not in heat.” Her narrow shoulders struck back at him in her tailored riding habit jacket.

  “Such foul words, my lady.” He reined in the beast. The horse snorted and slapped his tail. Why was he following her, instead of on his way home to Merther Manor? He had no explanation for his actions, except she had bewitched him. He couldn’t possibly care about this bratty baggage. “No prospective groom would be enchanted.”

  “You do want to marry me, don’t you?” She said it as an accusation. “But I still don’t want to marry anyone, least of all a rapacious ruffian such as you.”

  “So you keep telling me. I don’t relish a wildcat in my bed either.” He tamped down the stirrings inside him at her wriggling in his lap. He’d never minded a lusty bedmate, but this young lady was treacherous. “But I think you’ll be safer back home in Cornwall. Promise me you’ll return to your father as soon as possible.”

  “I will return when I’m ready and not bef
ore.” She jerked at his fingers again. “You have no authority over me, and never will.”

  “If you’d let me finish.” The scent of her hair intoxicated him, much more than any brandy. He resisted dipping his nose into her silken locks. “Return home, and we’ll discuss this very inconvenient betrothal, with your father present.”

  “You must assure me that you will refuse me in writing, to soothe my father’s sensibilities.” Her words sounded hopeful—and he was strangely disappointed. “I can keep my dowry and sail to Italy the day I turn one and twenty.”

  The idea of her in Italy, with all those swarthy Italian Lotharios galled him. “Whether you retain your dowry is up to your father. In Italy you will fall in with shady types and certainly be taken advantage of. You’ll be used, abused, and left with nothing, ending up in rags and begging in the streets of Naples.” The idea of anyone else kissing her pouty lips infuriated him. “What do you know of archeology? Aren’t you some rich girl playing at being a great explorer?”

  “I am quite serious about this endeavor. I’ve even bought chipping hammers.” She turned about as best she could to glare into his face. “I’ve studied in depth the work of Johann Joachim Winckelmann. He was the founder of scientific archaeology. He first applied empirical categories of style on a systematic basis to the classical history of art and architecture.” She tossed her fair head. “If I were a man you would encourage me in my dreams not discourage me.”

  “You are a literate creature, and I admit I’m slightly impressed. Nevertheless, I’m only concerned for you.” He couldn’t stop himself from touching her bottom lip, though should have removed his glove first. “And if you were a man I wouldn’t want to do this.” He framed her face and kissed her, hard, until she gasped for breath and mewled into his mouth. His yearning rose to fever-pitch.

  She finally jerked her lips from his. “You overstep yourself, sir. And my neck is twisted in this position. Undoubtedly, you are a perfidious scalawag for ‘kidnapping’ me for no apparent reason, except you must be mad.”

  “Mad, perhaps; a scalawag, I’ve been accused of such before.” He chuckled, but wished he could go on kissing her, and much more. He resisted running his fingers through her honey-blonde hair, the sun glinting off the strands. By God, he was besotted, and barmy, and regretted it. He must ride swiftly to Merther Cove to receive his smuggled goods, and let the wind whip this sorceress from his brain. He wanted to shout that he’d release her, to cleanse her from his blood, but refused to give her that satisfaction. He needed time to think. To rally his forces, to keep the upper hand, to stop ranting these trite platitudes to himself.

  He gripped her around the waist and lowered her to the ground, reluctant to let her go. “Return home to Cornwall. I will meet you at Langoron House in a fortnight. If you aren’t there, I warn you, the betrothal will stand.” He kicked the horse’s flanks and rode off, past the palace, the palace gardens, through the cool scent of woodland, and away from her enraged blue eyes, like pools of frozen ponds.

  ****

  On Great Russell Street in London’s Bloomsbury district, Melwyn climbed the several steps of the British Museum, housed in the slowly deteriorating Montague House. She admired the grand seventeenth-century mansion’s façade of seventeen bays, with a slightly projecting three bay centre and three bay ends. The two-storied building had a prominent mansard roof with a dome over the centre.

  “I dearly hope that impetuous lout of a viscount has returned to Cornwall, which I refuse to do yet, on principle.” Lambrick’s threat to her only served to stiffen her resolve to ignore him...for a time. His last kiss had curled her toes, and confused her mightily. “He can’t possibly force me to marry him.”

  Aunt Hedra followed, adjusting her bonnet—a white and purple striped sarcenet hat, with an embroidered purple border. The item, trimmed round the crown with a rose-colored gauze handkerchief, clung to the top of her hair like a misplaced scarf. “You must stop this stubborn insistence on enriching your mind. Someday you will wish to marry, and you don’t want to appear smarter than your husband. Men don’t appreciate that. And wasn’t Lord Lambrick quite the bon vivant, snatching you in the park?”

  “He’s an unabashed roué, who keeps taunting me over this betrothal. And I believe you’ve misinterpreted the meaning of bon vivant, Auntie.” Melwyn stared around at shadows as she primped at her demi-gipsy hat, trimmed with green ribands that formed a large bow in the front. “I trust your friend today will be much more deserving of my attention than the pathetic Mr. Fernworthy.”

  “I will humor your aspirations, or at least pretend to.” Aunt Hedra puffed out her cheeks. “Mrs. Anna Bookbinder is a well-known writer here in town, and she expounds on the edification and education of women.”

  “And she’s a member of the Bluestockings, that famous literary circle. I have read a few of her treatises on women’s rights: Measure my Brain as it’s the same size as a Man’s, and just as Rational, No matter what You’ve Heard, was especially enjoyable.” Melwyn entered the cool interior of the museum, anxious to visit Sir William Hamilton’s collection of Greek and Roman artifacts.

  A tall reed-thin woman approached them. “Hedra, good afternoon. This must be your niece. Why, isn’t she precious.” Her long face with aquiline nose broke into a skeptical smile. “A fledgling archeologist did I hear, young lady?”

  “I am indeed honored to meet you, Mrs. Bookbinder. I’m Melwyn Pencavel.” Melwyn took in the woman’s severe attire, a closed robe grey gown with a starched white kerchief tucked in the bodice. She resembled a nun without the wimple, and was the cliché of a bluestocking.

  Melwyn compared it to her own dress, a round gown of striped muslin, the train trimmed with a broad green satin riband; the short full sleeves trimmed with lace. Just because a woman had brains didn’t mean she had to look frumpy.

  “I’m sure you are, as I am a clever expert in numerous fields, and though a spinster, I rail against marriage as a slavery for women. They can be beaten by their husbands if they misbehave, and he determines what constitutes misbehavior.” Mrs. Bookbinder nodded her hatchet face. “You must read my newest publication: A Few Women are only Stupid because their Men have beat them Silly.”

  “That sounds riveting. And is why I’ll never marry. Do you delve into the sciences at all?” Melwyn surveyed the famous Warwick Vase, a marble receptacle with Bacchic—wine-related—ornamentation, found at Hadrian’s villa in Tivoli.

  “Hadrian, was it?” Aunt Hedra raised her quizzing glass. “Wasn’t he the man who built the wall to our north to keep out the barbarian Scots? For what good it did.”

  “I’m so proud of you, Auntie, you do listen to my talks on history.” Melwyn smiled, genuinely pleased.

  “Sciences, you ask? I haven’t delved into them personally. But many women have excelled at math. Sadly they’re mostly Italians and French, races far inferior to we English.” Mrs. Bookbinder stared down her slope of a nose at the Portland Vase. This urn was blue and white cameo and depicted seven figures, one believed to be Paris. “I could use this piece for flowers.”

  “You’re not very open-minded, when it comes to races or vases,” Melwyn whispered to herself, so as not to be rude to her aunt’s friend—and respect her elders. Another disappointing encounter. “What a beautiful objet d’art. I wish I could unearth something as momentous.” Melwyn sighed and studied the other artifacts: coins, medallions, jewelry, and bronze sculptures. “Much of this was discovered in Pompeii. I must go there. Sir William Hamilton, our illustrious ambassador in Naples, however, believed that vases and sculpture should be left unrestored.” She tapped her chin in contemplation. “I’d like to write my own treatise on why women should be included in this new field of archeology and welcomed at the Royal Society.”

  “I will admit that you’re right, Hedra.” Mrs. Bookbinder nudged her aunt with a sharp elbow. “She does go on and in my opinion tends to be a braggart. I see no literary merit in the child as she’s never been anywhere or a
ccomplished anything.”

  “Yet you admitted to preaching about the disadvantages of marriage, and you have never ventured between the matrimonial sheets,” Aunt Hedra reminded her. “Don’t be so dismissive of her attributes. I’m afraid the gel is determined, and that’s what worries me.”

  Mrs. Bookbinder snorted. “Don’t work yourself into a tizzy. She’s too comely, so no one will ever take her seriously. Read my article in last week’s Bluestocking Bulletin, ‘Why a Pretty face often Hides a Flibbertigibbet.’”

  Melwyn fought down a stabbing retort. A footstep to the left alerted her. Someone slipped behind a huge statue of Zeus brandishing a lightning bolt. She quivered as visions of Lord Lambrick sprang to mind. Would he grab her here and carry her off like the heathen he was? Why did that excite her?

  She tried to peer around Zeus, to catch a glimpse. A figure hurried off, but he was much shorter than the viscount. Could Lambrick change his height at will?

  Melwyn slapped a hand on Zeus’s marble thigh, deciding it time to return to Cornwall and put an end to these machinations.

  ****

  Griffin entered the tavern, The Pig and Pickle, in Highbury in Islington, leaving the reek of cow pens behind as cattle were driven through here on their way to Smithfield.

  The dim, low-beamed place smelled of ale and smoke, and rarely scrubbed bodies.

  He scanned the faces in the common room, candlelight flickering over sneers and glares. A man wearing a green bandana around his throat, as previously arranged, gestured Griffin over to a corner table.

  Griffin stroked the handle of his pistol tucked in his breeches, approached and sat down across from him. “Mr. Shadedeal, I deduce?”

  The man lifted the brim of his round hat. He had a pock-marked face with deep lines around his bulging eyes. “Aye. Will you share an ale with me, with you payin’ o’course, since you has the higher income?”

  “As long as you don’t waste my time. I’m on my way home to Cornwall.” Griffin waved over a pot-boy and ordered two ales. The drinks arrived and they sipped, watching each other carefully. Griffin wasn’t impressed with the house ale as it tasted watered-down. “Now what do you think you might have for me?”