by Joan Wolf
Louisa kindly gave me a moment to collect myself. Then she said, “You are very like him, Kate.”
I shook my head. It was true that I looked like Papa, but inside I was quite different. I changed the subject. “It is nice to be away from Charlwood. The place is like a tomb.”
Louisa shivered. “It has always been like that. When I was young I hated having to go there on a visit.”
“Was it like that then when my mother was young?” I asked curiously.
Louisa nodded, then glanced around the crowded tables as if she was afraid someone would overhear her words. “Your grandfather ...” She stopped and looked down at her lemon ice.
“Yes?” I prompted when it seemed she was not going to speak again.
She finally said simply, “Your grandfather was a hard man.”
I said nothing. On the other side of the room a little boy dropped his spoon and called out imperiously for another. A waiter hastened to his side.
Louisa looked up at me again and said, “I am sure that Lizzie found life with Daniel, however hard, infinitely preferable to life at Charlwood.”
Two fashionable young men in elegant blue coats stared at me rudely as they passed our table. I ignored them and said to Cousin Louisa, “If you dislike Charlwood so much, why ever did you agree to come and stay with me?”
She sighed. “I had no choice in the matter, my dear.”
“Nonsense.” I was still young enough to believe that grown-ups always had a choice.
“It is not nonsense,” Louisa said sadly. “I live with my brother’s family, you see, and Charlwood offered Henry a large sum of money if he would dispense with my services and allow me to chaperone you. My brother accepted, and so I had to go.”
“Services?” I asked, puzzled. “What services, Louisa?”
“I act as my sister-in-law’s housekeeper,” Louisa said. “They don’t call me that, of course, but that is what I am. And then, because I am not an employee but a dependent of theirs, they can ask me to do all kinds of other things.”
A girl’s high voice came from one of the tables around us. “Oh, la, Mr. Wetmore! You are such a jokester!”
“What kinds of other things?” I asked Cousin Louisa.
“Oh, I go to the village on errands, sit up with the children if they are ill. That sort of thing.”
“Do they pay you?”
She smiled forlornly. “They give me a home, Kate.”
I put my spoon down on the table’s white cloth. The ice had all of a sudden lost its flavor. “Why do you put up with such treatment?”
“I have no husband and I have no money of my own,” Louisa said. “I have to live, Kate.”
“You couldn’t earn your own money?” I asked.
Louisa shook her head. “The only position open to a lady with no means of her own is to become a governess, and that is not a life I aspire to. At least now I am considered a member of my brother’s family, no matter how ill-used. Believe me, Kate, the life of a governess is much worse. You are not family and you are not a servant. It is a wretched existence.”
I thought it sounded much less wretched than the life she had just described to me. At least one got paid for one’s labor! I drew concentric circles on the tablecloth with my fingertip and asked thoughtfully, “Just what credentials does one need in order to become a governess, Louisa?”
My cousin didn’t answer, but I could feel her looking at me. I glanced up, my eyes full of innocence.
“Don’t even consider it, Kate,” she said. “No one would ever hire you.”
That made me indignant. “Why not?” I demanded. “Mama taught me herself until I was ten. And Papa was always willing to buy me books, so I learned a great deal on my own.” I raised my eyebrows and gave her my loftiest look. “I assure you that I am perfectly capable of instructing young children.”
Louisa said bluntly, “It wouldn’t matter if you were a scholar, my dear. You wouldn’t be hired because no woman in her right mind would let you near either her husband or her sons.”
“Nonsense.”
“It is true,” Louisa said. She sounded very positive.
I decided to confide in her. “The thing is, Louisa, I do not want to go back to Charlwood, and so I need to find a way to support myself.”
“Find a husband,” Louisa advised.
I could feel the expression that Papa always referred to as my “mule’s look” settling over my face. “I don’t want a husband,” I said.
Louisa smiled at me as if I were a child. “Every woman wants a husband, my dear.”
I wouldn’t dignify that comment with a reply. Instead I thought of our morning’s shopping expedition, of the dozens of expensive dress shops and hat shops that lined Bond Street. I had a depressing feeling that Louisa was right about my chances of becoming a governess, but surely there were other ways.
“There are plenty of shops in London,” I said. “Why couldn’t I get a position in one of them?”
Louisa looked scandalized. “Do you really think Charlwood would allow his niece to take a position in a London shop?”
“He doesn’t care about me,” I said. “He’ll be glad to get me off his hands.”
“He will care about what society says about him if his niece is reduced to becoming a milliner’s assistant!”
I had an answer for that. “Why should anyone know? I will get a position in a shop that society doesn’t frequent.”
Louisa looked very grave. At this point both of us had forgotten about our ices, which were slowly melting in their glass dishes. “You must not leave your uncle’s protection,” she said. “If you should do that, Kate, if you should try to live on your own in London, you would not be safe.”
“I can take care of myself,” I said.
“You would be raped within the week,” Louisa said sharply. “London is not the country, Kate. It is filled with unemployed rascals who would show no respect for a solitary female.”
I bit my lip. “I’ll get a gun,” I said. “I know how to shoot.” I have never been one to give up easily.
Louisa cast her eyes upward. “I cannot believe I am having this conversation! Kate. Think. If someone jumps out at you from the shadows, you will not have time to use a gun.”
I was not a stupid young girl who knew nothing of the world. I remembered the many times my father had stood between me and some man who had looked at me with hot and greedy eyes. Louisa was right. Unfortunately. I ate a little bit of my soupy ice and cudgeled my brain. Suddenly an idea exploded in my mind with all the brilliance of fireworks in the night sky.
“I could pretend to be a boy!” I said. “I used to wear breeches to school the horses. If I cut off my hair...” I smiled triumphantly. “What a splendid idea, Louisa! No one would rape a boy!”
“You are funning me,” my cousin said.
“Not at all. I assure you, Louisa, I could get a position in any stable I applied to. I really am very good with horses.” No point in false modesty, I thought. The more I considered this idea, the more I liked it. “Think of Rosalind in As You Like It,” I said enthusiastically. “She fooled everyone. Why shouldn’t I?”
Louisa was looking at me with a mixture of admiration and horror. “I don’t care if you are a genius with horses.” There was still color in her cheeks, and she looked almost pretty. “No matter what position you might manage to find, Kate, you will not be given the luxury of a room to yourself. You will have to share your living quarters, and there is no possible way you can keep your sex a secret if you have to share a room with other men.”
I scowled. I did not like the way she kept pouring cold water on all my beautiful schemes. “You are so gloomy, Louisa!” I exclaimed.
“I am realistic, my dear,” she said. The pretty pink faded from her cheeks. “Find a husband, Kate. It is the only solution.”
Chapter Two
My entrance into London society, or the ton, as it was called in the newspapers, was hardly an unqualified success.
Because of my uncle and Louisa I was invited to a number of the larger balls, but it was clear that I would never be considered worthy enough to be admitted into that inner sanctum of the English aristocracy, Almack’s Assembly Rooms.
My dance card was always full at the balls we did attend, and I was invited to a host of other parties: routs, breakfasts, musical evenings, and so on, but the young men who danced and talked with me were clearly more interested in flirting than in proposing.
Since I am being honest, I will have to admit that I was disappointed. I yearned for a home with all my heart, and, much as I might despise Cousin Louisa’s advice, I knew she was right when she said that in order to find a home I had first to find a man. I suppose this strong desire for permanency stemmed from my nomadic upbringing. One always seems to want what one does not have.
My uncle had been away from Charlwood for most of the winter, so these weeks in London were the first time I had ever spent an extended period in his company, and he did not grow on one. In fact, the more I was with him, the more uneasy he made me. I kept telling myself that I was being ridiculous, that he was my mother’s brother, that he had taken me in, had lavished money on me, et cetera.
But I did not like his eyes. On the surface they seemed so extraordinarily clear and direct, but when one returned his gaze, one found that one could not see in. There was something about that deceptively cloudless gaze that reminded me of someone, and it wasn’t my mother. I had a feeling that this resemblance was the cause of my apprehension, but I didn’t place it until the evening of the Cottrells’ come-out ball for their second daughter.
I remember that I was standing in the Cottrell ballroom, in front of a very lavish arrangement of pink and white roses, waiting for my partner to bring me a glass of punch, when I happened to glance across the floor at my uncle just as his face changed. It was only a momentary lapse, and then his customary clear look returned. But in that instant I knew who he reminded me of—Sultan, the only horse my father ever had put down. The bay gelding had had the same kind of opaque brilliance in his gaze that I saw in my uncle’s, but Sultan had tried to kill me.
“Only horse I ever knew who’s bad through and through,” my father had said. “I could sell him to some unsuspecting soul who’d buy him for his looks, but I won’t have it on my conscience that I’ve passed on a rogue.”
I looked to the door to see what had caused that momentary flicker of hatred on my uncle’s face. And for the first time I laid eyes on Adrian.
He was standing at the top of the three steps that led down into the ballroom, his head bent to listen to something his hostess was saying. Mrs. Cottrell looked small next to him, but I had stood beside her earlier in the evening and I knew she was taller than I.
“Here is your punch, Miss Fitzgerald.” My partner had returned.
“Who is that talking to Mrs. Cottrell?” I asked.
Mr. Putnam looked across the crowded dance floor to the man on the stairs. “That is Greystone.” There was an unmistakable note of awe in his voice. “He gave up his commission a few months ago to come home to England. They say he is going to join the Government. Castlereagh wants him at the Foreign Office.”
Even I knew the name. Major Adrian Edward St. John Woodrow, Earl of Greystone, Viscount Wraxall and Baron Wood of Lambourn, was one of the most notable heroes of last year’s Battle of Waterloo. He had been singled out for commendations by the Duke of Wellington, and his exploits had been lauded in Parliament. He had remained in France after Waterloo to help Wellington administer the Army of Occupation the Allies had seen fit to quarter on the French nation.
The music ceased and I watched him as he crossed the crowded floor. His hair was so pale a gold that it glimmered like moonlight as he passed under one of the three crystal chandeliers that hung from the ballroom’s gilded ceiling. People fell away from in front of him as he advanced, and I watched as he tossed a genial word or two in the direction of people he knew, all the while not once slowing his forward progress. He came to a halt directly in front of a tall slender girl whom I knew to be the daughter of the Duke of Wareham. They stood talking for a few moments, and when the next dance was announced they went out to the floor together.
My uncle appeared at my shoulder and claimed me from Mr. Putnam. Hiding my reluctance, I accompanied him to the floor. He inserted himself into the line next to Greystone and I took my place beside Lady Mary Weston.
She smiled at me as she made room. We had spent a few minutes together in the ladies’ withdrawing room at a previous ball and she had been very pleasant to me. Many of the young ladies I met were not.
“How are you, Miss Fitzgerald?” she asked now in her soft, sweet voice. “I hope you are enjoying the ball?”
“It is very nice, Lady Mary,” I replied politely.
The set finished forming up, the music started, and the dance began. It was a quadrille, one of the new dances that had been imported from France, and I had only learned it a few weeks before so I had to concentrate. When it finished, my uncle and I were left standing next to Lord Greystone and Lady Mary.
“Greystone,” my uncle said with his most charming smile, “allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Cathleen Fitzgerald.”
His hair was so fair that I had assumed his eyes would be light, but they were a strikingly dark gray. He had a face Michelangelo would have loved. He said in a deep, pleasant voice, “How do you do, Miss Fitzgerald. I hope you are enjoying the ball.”
“It is very nice,” I answered for about the twentieth time that evening. Standing this close, I could see how tall he really was.
“I believe I’ve come across something that will interest you, Greystone,” my uncle said. “Are you still collecting Saxon weapons?”
“I am still interested in Saxon artifacts, yes.” The earl’s voice was coolly polite. I got the distinct impression that the antipathy I had seen earlier on my uncle’s face was fully reciprocated. “What have you found, Charlwood?”
“The owner told me it was a sword that once belonged to King Alfred.”
I noticed that all the people in our vicinity were trying not to look as if they were looking at us, but they were. “They all say that their swords once belonged to King Alfred,” Greystone replied.
“Well, this fellow was very persuasive.” My uncle smoothed an imaginary wrinkle out of the sleeve of his black coat. “Supposedly the sword’s been in his family for hundreds of years.” He looked up. “He has documentation.”
Against his will, Greystone was interested. “It might be worth my looking at.”
“I’ll call on you tomorrow and we’ll arrange a visit,” my uncle said.
There was a pause, then Greystone replied slowly, “I will be at home in the morning.” My uncle nodded and the orchestra struck up the first strains of a waltz.
“May I have this dance, Lady Mary?” my uncle promptly asked.
She glanced at Greystone, as if seeking guidance, but his face was unreadable. So she smiled agreeably at my uncle and allowed him to lead her back to the floor. This left Greystone stuck with me.
With perfect courtesy he said, “May I have this waltz, Miss Fitzgerald?”
“I suppose we shall have to,” I said glumly. “It will make you look rude if you abandon me here.”
His lips twitched. “It would,” he agreed. “I beg of you, save my reputation and dance with me.”
“We can’t chat,” I warned him. “I have only been waltzing for a few weeks and I still need to mind my steps.”
“I will maintain absolute silence,” he promised. And on that note, I accompanied him out to the floor and stepped into his arms.
When the waltz was first introduced into England after the Congress of Vienna, many people had considered it immoral, but until that waltz with Adrian, I had never understood why. We had not taken half a dozen steps, however, before I realized that the sensations the closeness of his body were provoking in mine were far too exciting to be proper. A full turn of the room convi
nced me they were immoral.
I had performed the waltz many times during my stay in London, and nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I didn’t quite know how to account for it. He held me at the correct distance. He didn’t try to squeeze my waist—as several other gentlemen had done. But I was intensely and acutely conscious of the feel of that big hand, of the closeness of that big body.
It was a thoroughly unnerving experience, and I was extremely glad that I did not have to talk to him! When the waltz was over, my uncle reclaimed me and escorted me from the floor.
* * * *
“You looked lovely tonight, Kate,” my uncle said as we rode through the streets of London in his coach. “Certainly the young men present thought so—you danced every dance. Even Greystone danced with you! I am impressed.”
There was a silky note in his voice that was making the muscles in my stomach tighten.
“Lord Greystone was just being polite,” I replied, striving for a light tone, “After all, you left him very little choice, Uncle Martin.”
“He did not look like a man who has been coerced,” my uncle said, his voice even silkier than before.
Cousin Louisa spoke out of the dark from the opposite seat, “It is well known that Lord Greystone is on the verge of making an offer for Lady Mary Weston.”
For some reason this remark appeared to amuse my uncle. He chuckled.
My heartbeat accelerated at the sound, and for the first time I let myself acknowledge that I was afraid.
It was not an emotion I was overly familiar with, and I didn’t like the feeling at all.
Don’t be a fool, I scolded myself. You may not like Charlwood, but there’s nothing in him to fear!
My heartbeat did not slow; my stomach muscles did not relax. Every part of my being shrank away from the man who was sitting so close beside me in the dark. When he reached out his hand and put it over mine, I jumped.
“Did I startle you, Kate?” he asked. He turned my hand so it lay palm-up upon my lap.
He repelled me. He was like one of the faerie folk my father used to tell me about—beautiful to look upon but fatal to trust. His finger moved across my exposed palm in a confident caress.
