“No. Most of it is true, you know. My parents died and I could not go to my uncle in England, so I went to Paris where I was very poor. Sometimes I stole things to sell in the streets so we could eat. And with men I was…” She shrugged. “Well, I was not very concerned with their kind of virtue, and they will say this makes me a harlot and hussy and trollop and many other words I have learned since I came here. To them, these names they call me are the only truth. They do not care about my love for Richard, or his love for me. They do not care that I wanted only to be a good wife to him for the rest of my life.”
They also hadn’t cared that she was going to be mother to their grandchild, until it was lost. But he didn’t say that, because he didn’t want the wistfulness that came into her face when she talked about Richard to turn into real sadness. He also didn’t want to hear about this great love of her life, or his childish jealousy might eat him alive.
No, what he wanted to know was how she was so impervious to their condescension. They looked at her and saw a common slut, disreputable and dirty, and they would never let her forget what she came from. Yet their opinion of her didn’t seem to touch her, and he envied her for it.
Almost as though she could hear his thoughts, she said, “But there is a bigger reason it does not hurt me to be called these names. It is because, to me, these are not insults. It is not a sin to be poor or filthy or hungry. Even to call me a whore, I do not feel the insult. What is so bad about whores, after all? I have known many. They go about their business and no one is hurt by them. It is more than I can say for these ‘respectable’ people.”
Going about your business without hurting anyone – that was as good a definition of respectable as he’d ever heard. She believed herself more respectable than them, and felt no shame because she had nothing to be ashamed of. He envied her for that, too.
“I believe you might make a good duchess yourself,” he informed her.
She shouted with laughter. “It is possible I would! But I would be so miserable, I could never hope for it. I only want my little life in my little cottage in my little village.” After a few moments of contemplation, she gasped in sudden realization. “Oh, but the dresses! I could wear such beautiful things. Maybe it is worth a little misery, hm? It is possible you are right, I would make a wonderful duchess.”
“Well, Releford’s father is the current duke, and he’s widowed and ancient. You’d be a well-dressed widow within a few years, I bet. Get your dresses and get out.” He gave her the smile he’d learned she liked best, and watched the curve of her mouth steepen and the dimple appear. “You help me out of my engagement, and I’ll help you scheme to catch him.”
“Hah. And I will reward you when I am duchess with a very handsome waistcoat.”
“Make it a hat, in the worst possible color for my hair so Sir Gordon’s eyes water whenever he sees me. Pink or violet?”
He delighted in her laughter all the way home, as she imagined the trouble she could cause as a duchess and he wondered how on earth she had ever convinced herself to want nothing more than a little village and a little life.
“Describe their reaction in detail, if you please, Marie-Anne. I shall go to my grave wishing I had been there to witness it.”
Though the entire Huntingdon estate was at their disposal and the guests newly arrived, Joyce had chosen to make herself at home in the room she had given Marie-Anne. Lady Huntingdon sat on a stool with her feet propped up on the bed as she watched the maids unpacking dresses. After thoroughly admiring each one, she told the servants to go and threatened them with dismissal if they lingered outside the door to eavesdrop. Marie-Anne was quite sure she meant it, too. The Huntingdon servants were entirely too cavalier about privacy, which concerned Joyce very little except in select circumstances. By giving this warning, she had clearly signaled to them that other guests might be fair game, but Marie-Anne was absolutely not.
Marie-Anne did not care in the least if the little scene with the Shipleys became gossip spread by servants, but she was happy enough to let Joyce to decide which whispers mattered and which did not.
“They were bubbling like champagne, they were so excited,” Marie-Anne said, sitting herself down at the dressing table. “They were planning already, the wardrobe they would pack to bring here. And when I said they are not invited?” She made a grab in the air with her hand. “It was like taking toys from happy children. In an instant, poof – all the joy left them. Now I understand the happiness of ogres. It was very satisfying.”
“The happiness of ogres,” Joyce chuckled. “But they are the monsters, dearest, and they deserve so much worse. ‘Because I do not like you!’ Oh, it must have felt wonderful to say it outright. And to think I almost believed you’d forgiven them for the girls’ sakes.”
“Forgive them?” Marie-Anne gave an indelicate snort. “I am not a saint, I have said it many times. They did not allow me to attend my Richard’s funeral. They put men at the doors of the church to stop me. There is much I can forgive, but never that.”
“I should think not. Nor will I, for that matter.” Joyce looked thoughtful. “What a shame you’ll please them to no end in making their daughter a duchess. But if you will insist on it, do let’s balance things by marrying their youngest girl to someone they’ll positively loathe.”
“Oh, this is a very good idea! Let’s think. Do you have any young and attractive gamekeepers or gardeners? It is possible a very good body will tempt Phyllida away from the beautiful St. James.”
Marie-Anne, who was completely serious, was startled when Joyce let out a bark of laughter.
“You may very well be right, my dear, but I can’t think of any man here who fits that description better than Mr. Mason. And I can see you would not wish her or any other young lady to marry him.”
Marie-Anne opened her mouth to disagree with this assessment of Mason’s physique but, upon remembering how his thighs looked in his close-cut trousers, she shut it again. She then drew breath and prepared to object that Mr. Mason was a perfectly acceptable candidate for marriage but, forced to admit to herself that indeed she did not wish Phyllida to marry him, she closed her mouth once again. She had only just decided to change the subject to something less fraught when Joyce positively cackled.
“I shall sit you before the fire where you will serve as a fine bellows, if you keep flapping like that, Marie-Anne. Though it’s warm enough I daresay we’ll not need to light any fires. Now,” she said, regaining her composure as she stood, “I’ve assigned Lucy as your maid. She’s experienced in dressing ladies, so you’ll have help getting into those lovely new gowns. You may wonder that I’ve put you in this room, as the view is so unremarkable and the other guests are a bit farther down the hall. But I know you like the quiet and will take full advantage of it. Oh, and I must show you this.”
With a notably innocent expression, she walked to the corner furthest from the door, not far from the bed, and put a hand to the wall. “The two wings of the house meet here, you see, and a great many rooms there are in each. The manor is far too large and very old, with so many of the little oddities one expects in old houses. Like this.”
She pulled at the wood molding and a panel came open. Behind it was another wall, which looked to be made of a plain, unpainted wood. It was very strange.
Marie-Anne blinked. “There is a door in the wall?”
“Yes, rather unexpected, isn’t it. Well, you see – before the renovations, it used to be that the only stairs were at either end of the house, so the servants would use this to pass more quickly between the two halves of the house. You have only to lift this latch here on the opposite door and it opens into the next room. There are joined rooms like this on the floors above and below, too. The doors haven’t been used for decades. Well, not by the servants anyway. Most don’t even know these panels are here.”
Marie-Anne raised her eyebrows in question, but was only met with that determinedly innocent look. “I think you must want me to guess w
hy you have given me a room with a secret door.”
“I think you’ll have little trouble guessing it yourself, my dear.” She patted Marie-Anne on the shoulder as she passed by her, preparing to exit. “And you need not fear you’ll be disturbed unless you wish it. I haven’t told Mr. Mason it’s there at all.”
“Mr. Mason?” Marie-Anne asked, alarmed to find her voice rising into a higher register. “What has Mr. Mason to do with this?”
“Oh, did I not say? It’s his room, on the other side of the panel.”
Her friend gave a wicked smile and turned to leave. Marie-Anne rushed to stop her.
“Joyce!” Marie-Anne put a staying hand to the door, then found she did not know what to say. She hadn’t said a word to her friend about her attraction to Mason, but obviously it was apparent. “Quelle absurdité,” she finally managed. Then she sputtered. “A hole in the wall, I have never heard… And what do you mean to suggest…”
“My goodness, I never thought to see the day.” Joyce looked at her in wonder. “Why, Marie-Anne de Vauteuil is positively scandalized! And you blush! I did not think you capable of it. Do you think Helen will believe me when I tell her? No, I daresay she never will. Oh, how I wish she was here, Norway can’t possibly have anything as marvelous or improbable as–”
She was cut off by Marie-Anne’s sudden burst of laughter, which continued for quite some time. Nothing had seemed quite so funny in a very long time.
“Oh,” she gasped at Joyce. “Oh, I have been among respectable people for so long I am infected with the horrible propriety.” She kept laughing until her sides ached. If Aurélie could see her now. If anyone she’d known in Paris – or, as Joyce said, if Helen could hear her protest the propriety of it – oh, how they’d laugh.
After some time she regained her breath and leaned her back against the wall. “But really! It is preposterous, a secret passage for a lover! Who was ever so scandalous to put it here?”
“Some Huntingdon long dead, I’m sure. After all, what good is a country house unless one can have a house party? And what good is a house party without rampant impropriety?” Joyce smiled as she surveyed the room. “To hear my grandmama tell it after a few glasses of sherry, romping about from one bed to another was the whole point – and still is in many circles – so they designed things to make it easier. Take advantage, Marie-Anne. Charlotte and I always did.”
Charlotte. There was a name she had not heard for some time.
“You used to have this room?”
“No, but there is a hidden niche in the east salon that serves very well, and also the priest hole behind the north staircase. Then there is the folly beyond the hedge maze where we used to meet, the maze itself of course, and the abandoned hermit’s cottage… I shall take you on a tour of all the best places for secret assignations.” She patted Marie-Anne’s arm. “We rarely go to any of them anymore, and only out of nostalgia.”
“Oh really?” Marie-Anne was thrilled to be distracted by this unexpected news. “You and Charlotte are together again?”
Joyce nodded. “Very much so. Quite possibly forever. So do please remember to be less careless in your words to her, she’ll arrive in a few days.”
“Of course.” Marie-Anne had, upon meeting Joyce’s lover years ago, laughed at what she thought was an invented and intentionally bad French accent, only to learn Charlotte was from Martinique and speaking in quite her normal voice. The poor girl had looked as if she wanted to die on the spot, and Marie-Anne still occasionally woke in the night with mortification over it. But how wonderful, that the lovers were still together.
She smiled at her friend. “I am so happy you have her, mon amie.”
“As am I. And I am so eager to be happy for you that I have conveniently placed a handsome man behind a door next to your bed.” Joyce opened the main door on the empty corridor and stepped out. “I spare no efforts in seeing my guests are well cared for, you see?”
“You are a very good hostess, Lady Huntingdon,” Marie-Anne assured her. “I’m sure I will be very comfortable.”
“Well if you aren’t, my dear, it will be no one’s fault but your own.”
Chapter Eight
The manner in which so many women were drawn to a duke – that is, as a matter of principle, as though the idea of not being attracted to a duke was simply unthinkable and unnatural – had used to be a source of persistent bafflement for Marie-Anne. The allure seemed only marginally attributable to money and property, as so many men who were not dukes were fabulously wealthy. It could not be simply a matter of nobility, as the far more abundant titles – earls and viscounts and so forth – did not cause such extreme reaction, and even princes did not elicit the same quality and quantity of female sighs. Very few dukes were good-looking, though all seemed to believe themselves devastatingly handsome. And, having some experience of the average duke’s character and personality, she knew for a fact that the appeal had nothing at all to do with hidden charms or fascinating depths.
No, she had long ago dismissed the phenomenon as the inexplicable attraction of flies to shit. God had designed the world thus and as a mere mortal, she could not hope to understand the grand mystery of it.
She could, however, discreetly stick her dinner fork into the Duke of Ravenclyffe’s hand where it had come to rest on her thigh beneath the table.
“Are you quite all right, Your Grace?” Phyllida inquired from across the table, as Ravenclyffe appeared to choke on the fish.
He nodded, coughing in earnest and reaching for his water glass. When Phyllida seemed anxious at his continued distress, Marie-Anne cheerfully pounded her fist against his back with as much force as she could muster – which was quite a lot, she found – until he finally spluttered to a stop and announced rather peevishly that he was perfectly well.
“Then of course I shall stop,” said Marie-Anne. “It is so unpleasant when one is given attention that is not wanted.”
Miss Ainslie, the singer who sat on Ravenclyffe’s other side and who had earlier warned Marie-Anne about the duke’s wandering hands, suppressed a titter. Marie-Anne instinctively avoided looking up at Mason. She could feel him watching the little scene, and knew if she met his eye that she would not be able to conceal her mild embarrassment at being treated so poorly.
A change of topic was called for. Marie-Anne cast about for something, knowing only that she should avoid the subject of horses as they were a particular passion of Ravenclyffe’s, and she would not like him to think she was interested in anything about him. He had enough women inexplicably fawning over him.
“Phyllida, what were you saying about your walk today?” she asked. “You found something when you played the explorer, I think.”
“Oh, yes! It was not a thing, Marie-Anne, it was a person. A hermit!”
Phyllida’s dark curls bounced as she talked excitedly, her eyes shining as she described the patch of tame wilderness she had wandered into. She was turning into the beauty of the family, Marie-Anne thought, and it had more to do with her vivacity than her features. Young, lively, overly romantic, and eagerly following meandering paths among the trees: it was a recipe for disaster. Marie-Anne made a mental note to give her a warning about Ravenclyffe, though Phyllida seemed blessedly immune to the allure of dukes. More importantly and unlike Marie-Anne, she had no sordid past and no reputation for loose morals, which meant she was likely to be safe from his advances. Such were the principles of noble men.
“It is very strange,” Marie-Anne said. “Lady Huntingdon mentioned the hermit cottage to me, but I am sure she said it was abandoned. Hermits are very out of fashion now.”
“Poor Mr. Mason, you are confounded at this talk of hermits, I see!” trilled the poetess, who was seated next to him. “I don’t believe they were ever the fashion in America.” Then she leaned in to tell him all about it, a private little conversation among the general chatter.
Her name was Miss Wolcott, but Marie-Anne only used her name if she was forced by circum
stance. She thought of her always as The Poetess, and always with exasperation, for she had grown to very much dislike the woman. Full of her own inflated sense of importance, The Poetess had a ridiculously affected manner which was more irritating than amusing. Worse than that, instead of attracting Mr. St. James – which had been the entire purpose in inviting her, though she couldn’t know it – The Poetess had immediately repulsed him. Apparently they could never be in accord because he had expressed contempt for a poet she admired. Now the two cordially ignored one another while Phyllida continued to fawn over St. James and The Poetess set her sights on Mason.
The whole situation made Marie-Anne want to throw things.
“The cottage is not abandoned, and he is a very good hermit,” Phyllida was insisting.
Marie-Anne tore her eyes away from where The Poetess had put her face very close to Mason’s, and was speaking in a low and breathy voice. She rather wished for a good reason to stab the duke with her fork again.
“What makes him a very good hermit? The point of a hermit is to hide from other people, and if you found him then he cannot be very good at it.”
“It was quite an effort to find him! But I meant his wisdom, of course. That is the purpose of a solitary life, to gain wisdom.”
“A very noble pursuit,” said Marie-Anne, determined not to laugh at her.
“It is!” Phyllida agreed, and began to extoll the perceived virtues of this man who seemed to have done very little but sit in silence in the middle of the woods. From the corner of her eye, Marie-Anne saw Mason smiling at something The Poetess was whispering. Then he laughed, which once again made her want to throw things. How could he be genuinely amused by someone so absurd?
Thus far the house party had not been nearly as enjoyable as Marie-Anne had anticipated. Five days, they had been here. Five days of talking and laughing with Mason at every opportunity, that was true. But these five days were also filled with regular waves of resentment at the stupid Poetess, and five nights of trying to forget the convenient opening in her bedroom wall as she lay awake thinking of kissing him – and then thinking of quite a bit more than that while she pleasured herself, faute de mieux, with her fingers between her legs. And now she sat stewing in jealousy, feigning interest in an ornamental hermit, and stabbing randy dukes with the cutlery. It was perhaps time to consider that The Poetess was not the most absurd woman at the table.
House of Cads (Ladies of Scandal Book 2) Page 10
