Autumn Rain

by Anita Mills

  His flush deepened. "Don't want any of 'em," he declared firmly. "There ain't another like you."

  CHAPTER 9

  Elinor stared past her mirror, out her bedchamber window, scarce seeing the profusion of flowers in the garden below, her thoughts on Bellamy Townsend—and on Charles Kingsley. For the past ten days, the dashing viscount had fairly haunted the house, and his presence was an unsettling reminder of what her marriage denied her. There was a vague ache, a certain loneliness that no matter how Charles tried, he could not completely dispel the sense of the emptiness that was her life. But God knew Charles did try, and she could not help loving him like a brother for it.

  Poor Charles, she reflected wearily. He'd set himself up at every juncture as her protector against Lord Town-send to the point of utter rudeness. It was as though he saw himself as some sort of rival, and his determined concern was beginning to come to the notice of Arthur. Already there were signs of a widening gap between her husband and his grandson, particularly since he'd caught her and Charles coming back from watching the fireworks at Vauxhall. He'd told his heir angrily that it was not a place for Baroness Kingsley, and they had quarreled.

  Still, she admitted to a certain bond with the younger man, for she knew what it was to wait for someone to die—she knew the resentment—and the guilt. Not that she wished any harm to come to Arthur, of course. Nothing of the sort. If she were free, she did not care if he lived forever. Even that candid thought yielded guilt, for she suspected that he could not help what he was, that the years of making his fortune had given him a singleness of purpose that precluded any degree of intimacy with anyone. For all his wealth, Arthur Kingsley was a man apart, a man alone.

  "Blue-deviled, my lady?" Mary asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  Elinor sighed. "I suppose I am."

  "It's a lovely day."

  "Is it?"

  Elinor wanted to cry out that it did not matter that the sun shone, or that the flowers bloomed, for it would be but a day like any other. She would drink her chocolate, dress, then wait aimlessly for Charles and Arthur to join her for a light nuncheon, where Arthur would dampen any attempt at lively conversation. After four and one-half years of marriage, it still mystified her that he expected her to be witty, gay, and scintillating among the ton, but he preferred her to be quiet, almost subdued at home.

  And after she and Charles stared at their plates, mumbling naught but the merest pleasantries for exactly one-half hour, she would escape to look forward to the stilted, always correct calls. Most of the time, she counted it a mercy when the cards were merely left in the silver salver in the hall, and she was spared exchanging the merest commonplaces with empty-headed titled ladies, whose only interests seemed to be exhibiting their husbands' money on their backs and titillating each other with the latest on-dits. And today she simply had no interest in more fatuous gossip. If someone were to say that Prinny's latest favorite was the dean of Canterbury's wife, she'd not care.

  No, she'd much rather racket about seeing London with Charles, doing those things that vexed Arthur, like the excursion to the Royal Mint, which had turned into an entire afternoon—or like entertaining Viscount Townsend, whose manner was pleasing and whose conversation was amusing.

  She had to admit to a certain liking for Bellamy Town-send, for he was as handsome, witty, and engaging as her husband was not. Unfortunately, he was also becoming assiduously obvious in his attentions, and it would not be long before Arthur drew the line there also. That would leave only Charles. And if Charles did not cease guarding her like the proverbial bone... well, it did not bear thinking. But already Arthur had remarked mildly but definitely that he was afraid they were inadvertently inviting gossip.

  "Ye got the headache again," Mary murmured, drawing the brush through the tangled copper hair. "I can see it."

  "No."

  "The master said ye was to know he means to be out."

  "Oh?"

  "Gone to meet with his solicitor, he said, and then to his club." The brush hit a snarl, and the maid had to stop to carefully separate it with her fingers. "But he's to be home before Almack's, he told Daggett to tell ye."

  Almack's. The last bastion for Arthur Kingsley to storm before he counted himself a success. Despite the honor of Sally Jersey's voucher, Elinor found herself strangely loath to go. Perhaps it had been the three days' discussion of what she would wear, to whom she must speak, of how she must comport herself, but she was heartily sick of the place before she ever stepped inside it. Like much else in her life, she expected it to be a crushing bore, another aimless night of being seen. But to Arthur the invitation was her greatest triumph.

  Mary held up a lock of Elinor's hair, surveying it critically in the mirror before them. "Don't know why he wants the diamond pins with the peach gown," she grumbled. "Me—I think ribbons would show better. I mean, ye got the diamonds on yer neck, don't ye? Too many of 'em and they's looking at the stones instead of ye."

  Elinor sighed. "My dear Mary, by now you surely must know that were it possible, I should have to wear the entire vault to please him. I am but the display case for his money, after all."

  There was no mistaking the bitterness in her young mistress's voice, and for a moment, the maid was taken aback. "Ye don't give a fig fer any of it, do ye?" she murmured sympathetically.

  "Oh, I do not deny that some of it amuses me," Elinor admitted, "but much of my life is always the same." She twisted her head to look up at the maid and forced a smile. "How ungrateful I must seem to you, when I have so much."

  "Well, I wouldn't mind being ye, if it wasn't fer his lordship," Mary conceded. "What ye need is a wee one in yer nursery. But I don't spose—well, guess he's too old ter get one. Guess he ain't got as much—"

  "What an improper thing to say." Shaking her head, Elinor returned to disabusing the maid of the glamour of her existence. "You might not think so, but you would soon tire of the life. The smiles are false, the friendships shallow, and everyone waits for a misstep that he may amuse himself over it. And there are only so many dresses one can wear. It's a shocking waste—all of it." Looking again to the mirror, Elinor made a face at her reflection. "One day I shall be as empty as they are, you know." And as she said it, she knew it for the truth.

  "Ye cannot say Lord Townsend does not admire you," Mary murmured slyly.

  "I suspect Lord Townsend admires the chase more than the chased."

  "Or the chaste."

  Both women turned at the sound of Charles Kingsley's voice. Moving into the room, he apologized, "Didn't mean to intrude before you are dressed, Elinor, but I thought perhaps later we might watch the balloon ascension in Hyde Park." His blue eyes took in the copper hair that cascaded over the shoulders of her embroidered silk wrapper, and his mouth went suddenly dry. Despite the race of his pulse, the catch in his breath, he managed to grin crookedly. "Look good en deshabille. Truly." Even as he said it, his face flushed, betraying him. "So— want to go?" he asked eagerly.

  "You know there will be callers," she reminded him.

  "If you are speaking of Bell Townsend, he can dashed well leave his card," he declared brutally. "Fellow runs too damned tame in this house to suit me, anyway."

  "Arthur—"

  "Won't know of it—I swear."

  "Like he did not know of our visit to Vauxhall?"

  "Thought he was going to stay at his club. How the deuce was I to know he'd be home early? And you cannot say it was not great fun. Besides, it's day—and I'll have you back for Almack's," he coaxed. "And I won't let anybody ogle you, I promise. Be good to go somewheres besides the modistes."

  It was tempting, but she did not want to be the cause of another peal read over him by his grandfather. Reluctantly, she shook her head. "I don't think I should—not today."

  For a long moment, he stared at her, and his flush deepened. "I see," he declared stiffly. "You would rather exchange inanities with Bellamy Townsend than go anywhere with me."

  "Of course not, but�
��"

  "You need say no more on that head, Elinor." Gathering his affronted pride about himself like a cloak, he turned on his heel and stalked out. "I ain't a complete fool yet," he flung over his shoulder.

  "Charles—oh dear—" She half-rose, calling after him, "Charley—it's no such thing!" When he did not answer, she sank back onto the padded seat. "Do you think I ought to go?" she asked Mary uncertainly.

  "If ye do, his lordship ain't going ter take it kindly," the maid pointed out reasonably. "Seems ter me as he's already vexed with the boy."

  "Yes." Elinor exhaled heavily. "And I am afraid it's my fault."

  "No, it ain't. Ye cannot help it that the boy's head over heels fer ye."

  "It's no such thing, and I'd not have you repeat it." But even as she said it, Elinor did not quite convince herself.

  "Humph! Only the blind as don't see it."

  "We are relation, after all," Elinor retorted. "And neither of us has anyone else for company much of the time."

  The maid shrugged. "Most young bucks haunt the clubs."

  "Arthur would like that even less, for he is opposed to gaming. He keeps nearly as tight a rein on Charley as on me, if you would have the truth of it."

  "Mebbe so," the maid acknowledged noncommittally.

  Before Mary could pursue Charles's growing attachment further, Elinor turned the subject. "I'd best get dressed."

  "And which was ye wanting ter wear t'day? The master favored the blue-figured muslin, Daggett says."

  Daggett says. Daggett says. She was heartily sick of the valet. In fact, she was heartily sick of everything. On this, the day of her supposedly great triumph, she longed not for the approbation of the patronesses at Almack's, but rather for a life like anyone else's. She wanted to be a schoolgirl again, to laugh and tease with other girls, to be free to wear what she liked over and over again.

  "You really think ribbons?" she asked, looking into the mirror again.

  "Tell ye what Lady Landsdowne's dresser said ter me— 'it's the simple as is elegant'—and she has an eye fer it. But his lordship—"

  "Where would you go for ribbons?" Elinor wondered slyly. "I mean—if you were to buy them, where would you shop?"

  "Me? I don't—well, I ain't got the money, but—"

  "If you had the money," Elinor interrupted impatiently.

  Not following her mistress's reasoning, the maid decided, "Well, if it was after quarter day and I had me wages, I'd get m'brother Tom ter take me to th' market."

  "What market?"

  "St. James—got stalls of everything, they do, but it ain't a place fer a lady—" Mary blushed. "Got everything fer sale in Market Lane, ye know—everything," she added significantly.

  "But you shop there?"

  "Ain't no place like it," the maid said solemnly. "Got everything from smuggled lace and purled ribbons to th' gimcracks fer the females—and Tom says a man can get anything from dressed to tumbled there. Aye, and if ye was to look fer 'em, ye can see the opium holes along the alleys." Then, deciding she'd said too much, Mary's mouth flattened with disapproval. "But it ain't no place fer a lady," she declared, repeating herself.

  But the lure of the forbidden already beckoned, bringing an uncharacteristic sparkle to the amber eyes. Compared to the stuffy, effusively condescending atmosphere of the premier modistes, there was a certain fascination for a place where one could get everything. It was ever so much more exciting than the confining life at Kingsley House.

  "Ribbons, you say?" Elinor inquired impishly.

  "Lor' luv ye, but he'd clap us both of if ye was to go there!" Mary cried, alarmed.

  "We'll take Charles," Elinor decided, "and thus there will be none to spy on us."

  "The tiger—"

  "I shall have Charles insist that we do not need him." Elinor rose again, this time going to the door. "Charles! Charles!" When he did not appear in the hall below, she turned her attention to Hensley, the front butler. "Have you seen Master Charles?"

  "I believe he has gone out, madam."

  "Did he say where?"

  "Wilson said he slammed the door before he answered."

  "Oh."

  "Would you have a footman sent up when he returns?" he asked politely.

  It could be hours, nightfall even, and she knew it. "No."

  When she retreated into her chamber, Mary merely murmured her relief. "Guess we ain't going anywheres. Besides, ye got Lord Townsend a-coming."

  The image of the handsome viscount came to mind and with it the knowledge that he meant to pursue her openly. And already his flattery was taking its toll. In a moment of cowardice, Elinor shook her head.

  "We'll take Jeremy, the youngest footman, for he'll not tell. And we shall have the carriage set us down near Carlton House. There can be no exception to that, I should think. It will be considered that we mean to admire the flowers and perhaps walk to Marylebone Park."

  "I don't think—"

  "And I shall of course give you five pounds to spend on yourself—it will be an escapade between us," Elinor went on eagerly.

  Five pounds was a considerable sum to a lady's maid. As Mary contemplated the unexpected windfall, she wavered, then capitulated. "Well," she conceded slowly, "I ain't ever had no trouble there. But ye got to promise me a character if the master was to find out and discharge me."

  "Fiddle. As if I should let him." Elinor's eyes met her skeptical maid's for a moment. "I have but to refuse to go to Almack's with him, you know," she declared mischievously. "Besides, we won't let him discover where we have been, so naught's to worry over, is there?"

  CHAPTER 10

  Nothing in her sheltered life had prepared her for the dirty hurly-burly of the streets around the St. James Market, and Elinor thought it inconceivable that such a place could be situated so close to the Prince of Wales's home. Market Lane itself was narrow, strewn with filth, and crowded with an assortment of street urchins, pickpockets, beggars, and bargain hunters who elbowed their way from stall to stall to examine all manner of wares. Ahead of her, a fellow haggled over two shillings for a silk waistcoat, calling it robbery.

  A dirty hand caught at her skirt, pulling it, and when she looked down, a toothless beggar grinned up at her. With his free hand, he gestured to his ragged, empty pantleg. "A penny fer a soldier—a penny fer a soldier," he chanted, singsong. His eyes were glassy, his grin almost vacant. Mary started to brush him away, but Elinor fumbled in her reticule for some coins.

  "Don't—"

  But before she could stop her, her mistress was bending to hand him a shiny guinea.

  Jeremy looked back uneasily, then bent close to Elinor to whisper, "Don't be a-showing the gold, my lady."

  "Thankee. Thankee." The fellow's grin broadened, showing white gums. Holding the guinea up for all to see, he struggled to stand, then leaning on his gnarled staff, he hopped toward an alley.

  "Humph! Going to smoke opium, or me name ain't Mary," the maid muttered.

  Stung, Elinor snapped, "The man lost his leg for England! Would you let him starve?"

  Noting the curious stares of the people around them, the young footman caught Elinor's arm and pulled her past the haggler, who'd got the price of his prize down to one shilling, seventy pence. Suddenly conscious of what he'd done, Jeremy dropped his hand and mumbled, "Your pardon, my lady, but I'd not see you robbed—or worse." He looked down at the bulging reticule. "Best tuck that under your arm," he advised nervously.

  "Here"—Mary removed her plain brown shawl and draped it over Elinor's arm to cover it—"too many flash coves as would cut our throats fer that."

  "Did you see the price of that waistcoat?" Elinor asked, betraying her awe. "Arthur must pay fifty times that."

  "Daresay it could be flashed," the footman said.

  "Flashed?"

  "Filched," Mary explained. "A flash is a thief."

  It was a different world, this enclave of enterprise that thrived within a stone's throw of the fashionable houses in Piccadilly. And for all th
at it was seedy and seamy, it was nonetheless exciting to explore. Stopping from time to time to feel of silk scarves "from Norwich," cloth openly described as having eluded "Boney's blockade," colored kid slippers of every description, soft gloves, artificial flowers, dyed ostrich plumes, exquisite laces, and purl-edged ribbons at a fraction of the price at Grafton's. It was a veritable paradise to one used to the sedate establishments Elinor patronized.

  "Ye paid what he asked!" Mary fairly howled after the purchase of a fine Norwich shawl. "Before we are to the end, they'll all know ye fer the gentry mort ye are! They'll up the price when they see ye."

  "A gentry mort?"

  "A lady," Mary muttered in explanation. "Leave the ribbons and laces ter me." To demonstrate, she stepped up to a stall displaying what was marked as "Belgian lace." Winking at the proprietor, she gestured to Elinor, "Me n' the duchess'd like some of the wide."

  "And me and the Queen'd be pleased to sell," he shot back. "Six shillings to the yard."

  Elinor nearly gasped at the cheapness, but Mary retorted, "We ain't here to be robbed. Three."

  The fellow lifted the delicate lace, letting them see the pattern. "It's worth six," he insisted.

  "Come on, my lady," Mary murmured. "Old man Grosset's got the same thing fer less."

  "Five shillings—it's my best," the merchant whined.

  "It's lovely," Elinor said, reaching to touch it.

  "Wait until ye see Grosset's."

  "Five shillings," he repeated.

  "Come on," Mary insisted. "We can do better."

  "How much better?" he asked, wavering.

  "Four."

  "You only offered me three!"

  "Well, if he was to start at four, I expect he'll come to three, don't ye know?" the maid countered practically.

  "Four."

  "And thread to match."

  "A penny a spool."

  "Come on, my lady." Looking across to the nearly apoplectic proprietor, Mary shook her head. "And ye could have said ye had her Grace fer a customer."