by Jane Ashford
“I don’t want you to use…”
“Vulgar cant phrases. You didn’t send me to school so I could talk like a navvy.” Sarah grinned at Emily, who couldn’t help grinning back.
“Well, we didn’t.”
“Your lord’s a big handsome fella,” said Sarah teasingly.
Emily nodded uncomfortably. She didn’t like deceiving her friends.
“When’s the wedding?”
“Oh…not for a while.” Struck by inspiration, she added, “Mama and Papa have come up to town to meet him.”
“They’re here in London?” cried Mrs. Fitzgibbon.
She nodded. “Papa’s already created a small scandal at a ton party.”
Mary laughed. “Mr. Crane has his own ways. But he’s always been very kind to us.”
“I’ll tell him you’re here. I’m sure he will want to see you.” It would be a relief for her father to spend time with old friends like these. Then a reservation surfaced. “I’d rather you didn’t tell him about the inquiries we are making. He might not… That is…”
They gave her identical shrewd stares, which showed Emily that Sarah had been brought fully up to date on her previous visit.
“Men are much happier if they don’t know everything,” replied Mrs. Fitzgibbon.
“Their brains are limited,” agreed Sarah. “It doesn’t do to tax them.”
Relieved, Emily nodded.
“He and Daniel will be too busy reminiscing to worry their heads about anything else.”
“Do you recall that time Dad and your father were lifting a pint at the pub?” Sarah paused. “Don’t recall what town it was. We were always on the move.”
“And so were we,” said Emily. The Fitzgibbons’ acting troop had always found them in whatever house they had shifted to from year to year.
“It was Kent, I think. Anyway, the local vicar came in, and it seemed he was very low church.”
Emily nodded in recognition. “He started haranguing them about the evils of playacting and wanton actresses parading their ‘nakedness’ on the stage.”
“We certainly never had anything like that,” huffed Mrs. Fitzgibbon.
“And so Dad told him,” supplied Sarah.
“But he didn’t listen. That sort of person never does.” Emily was smiling broadly by this time.
“They can’t hear for talking,” put in Sarah’s mother.
“And so your father stood up and gave him one of his ‘earl’ looks,” continued Sarah. “Told him he wasn’t wanted and to take himself off.”
“Which didn’t set well with the vicar at all.”
“He called your father a maker of graven images.”
“And Papa upended a pint of bitter over him. Someone else’s pint.”
“It’s fortunate the townspeople didn’t like that vicar above half,” commented Mrs. Fitzgibbon. “Otherwise both of them would have ended up in gaol.” She was smiling, though, at the girls’ laughter. “Aye, we did have some good times.”
“I’ll send Papa over soon,” said Emily, rising to go. They would be starting to wonder where she was.
Saying her good-byes, she left the house with a smile. She was still in a mellow mood when she reached the duchess’s house and heard that a “family party” had been arranged for that evening. Richard would be bringing his mother to see them. The possibilities in such a gathering were enough to sober her most thoroughly.
* * *
Richard barely listened to his mother chatting with Lydia Farrell. As their carriage made its way through the streets to the duchess of Welford’s house, he was thinking about Emily and the odd succession of events that had brought them to this moment. He had never known a woman like her. Most probably, considering her eccentric upbringing, there was no other woman like her. He could imagine her, he realized, at his side in South America, hacking her way through the jungle vegetation, eating whatever they managed to capture with their own hands.
The mental picture surprised him considerably. Why should he be thinking such a thing? That was the past, and Emily Crane had nothing to do with it. She had nothing to do with anything. She might be of some small use in this matter of the supposed attacks on him. He ought to be thinking about those.
“You’re very pensive,” commented Lydia.
Richard looked up to find her watching him.
“I suppose this first family party is enough excuse,” she added.
“First…? Oh, yes.”
“You have met Miss Crane’s parents before?”
He nodded.
“I have heard they are exceedingly odd,” complained his mother. “And of course there was that scandal, years ago. This really wasn’t a very wise choice, Richard.”
He repressed a grimace.
“They are staying with the duchess, and she is the best of good ton. But after his behavior at Geraldine’s artistic evening, I declare I am afraid of Mr. Crane.”
“It was only an easel he broke,” Richard reminded her.
“Yes,” agreed Lydia in an ironic drawl. “He only threatened to cover the hostess with paint and box her ears.”
Richard’s mother groaned.
“Don’t worry, Aunt. Richard will protect us.”
She seemed to enjoy mocking him, Richard thought. Apparently he hadn’t convinced her that the old reprehensible Warrington was a thing of the past. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“You must stay by me, Richard,” demanded his mother. “Don’t leave me alone with him.”
“I confess I am looking forward to this evening with the liveliest anticipation,” commented Lydia.
“It will be a perfectly conventional visit,” Richard assured her. “I daresay you will be rather bored.”
“Surely not. I’ve never met anyone who eloped to Gretna Green, let alone the daughter of a marquess.”
Richard’s mother groaned again.
* * *
They were conducted upstairs to a large reception room in the duchess’s house—not the main drawing room, Richard noticed. Nor was there any sign of the Welford family. Emily came forward to greet them and made the introductions with a certain constraint. Everyone sat down. There was a short silence.
“So, you are an artist, Mr. Crane?” said Lydia.
He scowled. “When I am allowed to be.”
“Allowed?”
Richard could hear the amusement in his cousin’s voice. He hoped she could restrain herself from doing mischief.
“I cannot paint here,” Crane declared belligerently.
“The landscape of London does not inspire…?”
“Inspire?” He made the word a curse. “I am always inspired. Olivia’s damn sister won’t have the smell of paint in her house.”
Richard heard his mother gasp.
“She can’t be any kin of yours,” Alasdair complained to his wife. “I mean to say—the smell?”
“But Mrs. Crane and the duchess resemble each other so closely,” said Lydia.
Richard tried to signal her to silence.
“Are you enjoying London, Mrs. Farrell?” said Emily.
“Prodigiously.” Her lazy smile implied that the current scene was a rich source of this enjoyment.
“It is my first time in London.” Emily’s tone and expression showed a determination to avoid explosions.
“Yes, I know.”
“Lady Fielding,” said Emily’s mother, “I understand you have attended a number of spirit calling sessions.”
Richard gave her a sharp look. Where had she heard that in her short time in town? He noticed that Emily was gazing at her mother with exasperation. His mother was nodding with more enthusiasm than she had shown so far.
“Have you found them convincing?” Olivia added.
“I beg your pardon
?”
“I believe these people employ all sorts of tricks.”
His mother drew herself up. “Herr Schelling is a gifted man. He has no need of tricks.”
“Nonsense,” answered Mr. Crane. “It is impossible to communicate with the dead. They’re…dead.”
“Just so,” murmured Lydia with a laugh in her voice.
“Herr Schelling can reach beyond the veil,” insisted Richard’s mother. “He brought Richard back.”
Everyone turned to look at Richard. Even Emily, he noticed with annoyance. “I wasn’t dead,” he said curtly, feeling ridiculous.
“You were the next thing to it,” argued his mother. “In that dreadful jungle.”
“Jungle?” said Alasdair. “I have always wanted to see a jungle. Astonishing variety of color, I hear.” He gazed at Richard.
“Very colorful,” he muttered.
The door opened. At precisely the same instant, Richard and Emily both said, “Ah, here is the tea tray,” and rose, bumping into each other as they moved toward the footman carrying the tray.
Lydia stifled a laugh. Olivia Crane looked at her with raised brows.
Refreshments were offered and poured, occupying a few minutes. But all too soon, everyone was settled again. Richard was searching his mind for a safe topic when his mother addressed Emily’s. “How do you occupy yourself in the country while your husband is painting, Mrs. Crane?”
“I paint as well.”
“You paint…?”
“Pictures,” was the dry response. “A woman is fully as capable, artistically, as a man.”
From Emily’s expression, Richard judged that this was a common topic, and not one she was pleased to have broached here and now. He felt a rush of sympathy for her.
“Though, of course, it is made much more difficult for a woman.”
“Is it?” Lady Fielding murmured.
“Hampered by ridiculous conventions, refused admission to the studios.” Olivia Crane shook her head in righteous indignation. “As if the sight of a naked body could corrupt anyone.”
Lydia and Lady Fielding choked on their tea.
“But a girl must be protected…” ventured Richard’s mother after a moment.
“Protected from learning? From expressing herself in any way? What rot!”
Richard covered a bark of laughter with a cough. He had never heard a lady of Olivia Crane’s standing use such an expression, and he was sure his mother never had either. She looked as if she had been turned to stone. His cousin, however, appeared fascinated.
“But you must admit, there are those who would take advantage of a young girl’s…enthusiasms,” Lydia said.
“Oh, yes. Girls should be given pistols, and taught to shoot them, as soon as they reach twelve years of age. If I had not found Alasdair…”
The Cranes exchanged a searing look. Richard was at the same time shocked and envious. Emily appeared to have dropped into despair, he noticed. His cousin was avid. His mother was eyeing Emily with suspicion, as if wondering whether she had firearms concealed in the folds of her skirts. Should he overturn his teacup? Simulate a fit?
“Can’t we just have a normal conversation?” cried Emily.
Everyone turned to look at her. She quailed slightly, but didn’t retreat.
“What is a normal conversation?” asked her mother.
“Seems quite normal to me,” grumbled her father at the same time.
“You must have had them when you were young?” Emily answered desperately. “When you went about in society.”
“You mean the sort of thing Julia talks about?” Her mother seemed genuinely perplexed, and interested in what she meant.
“Gossip and sport?” barked Alasdair.
“How would I know? I have never seen it. You never talk about anything…”
“Normal?” wondered Lydia.
Richard gave her a look, asking that she be quiet. She pressed her lips together obediently, though her eyes continued to dance.
“Never mind,” said Emily. She looked at Richard’s mother. “Please forgive my outburst.”
Her father looked outraged at this apology. He would have spoken, but his wife put a hand on his arm. “Have you been to the opera this season, Lady Fielding?” she asked.
The following half hour was filled with irreproachable, and deadly dull, exchanges about the events of the season, the theater, and possible family connections that—after some truly tortuous examination—turned out not to exist. It was, Richard supposed, a normal conversation for members of the ton on such an occasion. And he was finding it deuced difficult to stay awake.
“We should be going,” said his mother. “So pleasant,” she added, fooling nobody.
Their farewells weren’t prolonged. Emily looked relieved, Richard noticed, but also miserable. The occasion hadn’t gone well, true. But did it really matter? He lingered a moment in the hall, letting his mother and cousin walk on. “Was that the sort of normal conversation you wanted?” he heard Olivia Crane ask.
“How should I know?” Emily replied. “I’ve only Aunt Julia to go by, and…”
“I haven’t been so bored in twenty-five years,” complained her father. “And don’t tell me you weren’t, my girl, because I could see your eyelids drooping.”
“No, Papa,” conceded Emily in a tired voice.
* * *
“You cannot marry that girl,” said Richard’s mother when he joined them in the carriage. “It’s impossible, out of the question.”
“Why do you say that, Aunt?”
It was easy for Lydia to enjoy all this, Richard thought. None of it involved her.
“She is utterly unsuitable. That unladylike comment about ‘normal’ conversation! What if she were to repeat it in a more public place? And her parents…”
“They are unusual,” began Richard.
“They are outrageous. Was she joking? About the pistols? I suppose it must have been a joke—though she didn’t look as if it was—but it was in the poorest possible taste.”
“I think she meant it,” offered Lydia.
“Pistols!” repeated Richard’s mother. “Can you imagine? Young girls running around brandishing pistols?” She looked from one to the other of her companions. “How can you smile?”
“Well, it is quite a picture,” answered Lydia.
Lady Fielding blew out an exasperated breath. “I forbid you to marry her, Richard.”
This was an odd twist. He had no intention of marrying her, yet he couldn’t tell his mother that without revealing things she wasn’t to know. He found he didn’t much want to, in any case.
“Do you hear me?”
“I am twenty-nine years old, Mother.”
“And acting like a moonstruck stripling. How could you have engaged yourself to such a…a hoyden?”
“You are not being fair.”
“Fair?”
“Her behavior is perfectly…” What? Richard wondered. Understandable? Acceptable? Agreeable?
“Dreadful,” declared his mother. “You must break it off, at once.”
“Even if I wished to, it would not be the act of a gentleman.” And he didn’t wish to, he realized. He was having far too much fun. How long had it been since he had had fun?
“We must contrive something. Some excuse. It shouldn’t be difficult, with that girl.”
“You aren’t to interfere, Mother.” He would enjoy the situation to the full, and then, of course, they would end it. That was clearly agreed.
“You expect me to simply let you ruin your life—”
“I am not doing any such thing. And I am perfectly capable of managing my own life, thank you.”
“Oh really?” His mother leaned toward him. “You have engaged yourself to a chit who hasn’t a penny to her name. How do you ex
pect to live? I will not help you, not with such a girl as that.”
“I have already said I don’t want your help,” replied Richard through his teeth.
Lydia threw him an unreadable look.
“And her parents obviously haven’t two shillings to…”
“I will be speaking to Taft about what may be done to…”
“I do not understand you at all any more. This is just a disaster. Tell him, Lydia.”
“I don’t think, Aunt…”
“Enough.” Richard faced their startled looks directly. “This is my affair. You will leave it to me.”
He had been a bit too forceful, he saw. His mother, in particular, looked frightened. He had to be more careful. But it was damned difficult when he seemed to be besieged from all sides.
Ten
Emily was alone the next morning when Richard was announced. Her father had finally snapped at breakfast and insisted that they find their own lodgings if they were to stay in town. Her mother had seen the wisdom of this without much urging, and so they had gone off to look for a suitable place. It was just as well. Richard could tell her, in that roundabout way people used, that his mother had been horrified by the freewheeling Cranes and that he really could have nothing further to do with her. She had heard the same thing, spoken with more or less finesse, a score of times. Her parents’ absence would make it quick and easy. No one said such things to Alasdair Crane’s face, of course.
But when Richard was ushered into the small parlor they had been using, Emily felt a pang. She didn’t want to hear him trying to spare her feelings as he explained that the visit yesterday had been…really…rather…unusual and—and all the rest of it. “Just say it straight out,” she said when he greeted her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What you have come to say. There’s no need to spare my feelings.”
He looked puzzled.
“I’ve heard it all before. Repeatedly.”
Richard frowned. “I came to say I thought we should make a clear plan.”
She couldn’t take it in at once.
“Decide what we are going to do,” he added, “how we will proceed.”
“Proceed?”
“What did you think I was going to say?”
