by Darcie Wilde
“It would, very much, dear,” his mother said indulgently.
Madelene dropped her gaze toward the carpet, her cheeks burning.
“Yes, you may very well blush, missy,” Lewis said loftily. “Home’s the proper place for a young woman, not gadding about with artists!”
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong, Mama,” Madelene said. Lady Reginald had insisted Madelene call her Mama from the moment she moved in. Madelene had tried to accustom herself to it and failed. “It was a public exhibition, and . . .”
“Huh. Only public exhibition I saw was the one you were making of yourself!”
“That’s enough, Lewis,” Lady Reginald said, with that edge to her tone that seldom failed to silence her son. “I’ll speak to your stepsister alone.”
“All right. All right,” he muttered. “I’m only the oldest son. Why should anyone want to hear what I have to say?”
But Lady Reginald’s glance was as sharp as her tone. Lewis raised his nose as far in the air as it could go and withdrew, leaving Madelene facing her stepmother alone.
“Come by me, dear.” Lady Reginald patted the sofa.
A wave of cold swept over Madelene, but she had no choice except to do as instructed. She would have sat at the furthest end, but it would be a futile gesture. She’d just be asked to move closer and have to watch her stepmother waiting with cool patience while she did.
Mama laughed, a sound anyone else would have taken for fondness. “Now, dear Madelene, don’t look so distressed. You know I don’t believe a word Lewis says.”
Madelene made no answer.
“I know you’re a good girl and entirely trustworthy. Lewis is just upset. It seems he’s gotten himself into one of his little pickles over money again.”
Madelene swallowed.
“It is so difficult, isn’t it, for a young man trying to make his way in the world? It’s almost as bad as it is for a woman. So many appearances to be kept up! Clothes and carriages and of course play at the tables. But that’s what the world expects! If I was on my own, I should much prefer a quiet life, but with your brother and sisters to think of . . . well, we must all make sacrifices, mustn’t we?”
She paused and waited for Madelene to make polite agreement. And Madelene meant to, she was certain she did. When she opened her mouth, however, something quite different came out.
“How much does he need this time?”
Lady Reginald drew back. Her eyes narrowed. “Well. If the needs of your family have become that onerous, perhaps you should go to your new friends. I’m sure they’d be happy to shelter and protect you.”
Madelene looked at her hands, no longer neatly folded but tightly knotted together.
“After all, what are we to you?” Lady Reginald went on. “We’re only your father’s second family. There is no reason you should have any feeling for those who are no blood relation to you. I’m so sorry to have troubled you with my little problems. I never will again. I have jewels yet to sell. That will give Lewis what he needs. Go now, do not worry about any of us.”
Madelene looked up at her stepmother. A single tear trickled down Lady Reginald’s lightly rouged cheek. Anger, old, thick, and exhausting, flowed through her. She wished she was more like Miss Sewell or Helene Fitzgerald. Miss Sewell would no doubt answer this outpouring with some cutting remark. Helene would just walk away and not listen to any of it. She might even pack up and go to Miss Sewell’s to stay for good.
Except then there’d be a scandal, and a scandal would ruin any chance of the success they hoped for. If she left home, if she ran away . . . she’d ruin everything.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she made herself say. “I should not have spoken as I did. Please forgive me.”
The words flowed easily. She’d said them so many times. Only this time she didn’t feel the regret or the guilt. All she felt was tired.
Mama smiled, all gentle sorrow. She took Madelene’s hand and pressed it. Did she feel how entirely cold Madelene was? If so, she gave no sign. “Madelene, you know how very much we depend on you.”
“I know.”
“It would be different if your father’s business affairs were less complex at this time, or if Lewis were . . . well, he will grow out of it.”
“I’m sure he will, Mama.”
“Until then we must make do.” Lady Reginald sighed briskly and lifted her chin. “I know you do not want Lewis or your sisters to suffer because they do not have your advantages.”
“Of course not.”
“I know that in a year or two, when your father sees there is a real need, he will be able to understand that he must arrange the finances to ensure good dowries for both Glorietta and Maude.”
And when he doesn’t? What then?
But she knew what then, because it would be the same as when Lewis lost more thousands and when Father’s investments required just a little more capital.
“But that will come in its own good time,” Lady Reginald was saying. “Until then . . .”
“We must make do,” murmured Madelene.
It was another mistake. Her words had hit entirely too hard, and Mama’s oh-so-brave smile drooped. “I’m sure I don’t mean to go on. If you are so tired you cannot be polite, perhaps it would be better if you went to your room to rest. We can resume this conversation when you are feeling better able to be civil.”
Dismissed like an unruly child, Madelene rose and curtsied. She walked out of the room and past Glorietta, who giggled to see that her prediction had been entirely fulfilled.
* * *
It had taken every bit of Madelene’s tact to get Lady Reginald to agree to let her bring her own bedroom furnishings when they came to town for the season. Of course, it also took convincing Mr. Thorpe, the chairman of her trustees, to advance several hundred pounds extra toward the cost of Glorietta’s and Maude’s, and Lady Reginald’s, new wardrobes.
The furnishings were an older style, too heavy and too dark for current fashion, but Madelene loved the polished wood and the carvings of flowers and birds on her bed’s head and footboard. She looked forward to the moment every night when she could draw the blue velvet curtains and lie in her private darkness and dream.
This time, though, when she hurried into her room, it was to find a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine sitting on the bench at the end of her bed.
“What on earth . . . ?” Madelene murmured.
“It came in the afternoon post, Miss Valmeyer.” It was Rose in the corridor behind her. “Phillip got it up here without anybody seeing.” The servants were of course fully aware of how matters stood between Madelene and her father’s family. More than one of them expressed their sympathy in small ways, like this.
“I . . . Thank Phillip for me.” Madelene’s mouth had gone dry. She touched the package and felt the sharp corner and the complex series of bumps that could well be a carved picture frame.
But it couldn’t possibly be. Could it?
“Here’s the note that came with it.” Rose pulled the sealed square of paper out of her apron pocket. “Would you like me to open your present, Miss Valmeyer?”
“No, thank you. Just, please close the door behind you.”
The maid did, and Madelene turned the key in the lock before she hurried to her dressing table for a pair of scissors.
It can’t be. She cut the string on the package and pushed the paper open.
It was.
It was The Prelude, with its beautiful colors and its rendering of a private moment Madelene never would have believed anyone, let alone such a man as Lord Benedict, could understand.
She opened the note without looking at her own hands. It was as if she believed that looking away from the painting would cause it to vanish. When she could finally stand to tear her eyes away, she read:
You are no
t alone. The door is open.
B.
Madelene ran her fingers across the words. She lifted the paper to her and breathed deeply, imagining she could smell the scent of him again, the sharp, clean, masculine fragrance. Oh, she was making a fool of herself.
She couldn’t keep it, of course. She was an unmarried girl, and, marquis’s son or not, Benedict Pelham was an unmarried man. Worse, he was an artist, which raised expectations of the most unruly sorts of behavior. He had no business sending her a painting of any kind, let alone one that could be considered of questionable decency.
But she didn’t call for Rose to come take the thing away. She stared at it, drinking in the colors, the delicate brushwork, and most of all, that sliver of light that shone through the open door.
You are not alone. The door is open.
A firm step sounded in the hallway outside. Madelene jumped and slapped her hand over her mouth to cover the shocked cry. A knock sounded, and her heart beat out of control. What do I do? Where can I hide it?
But then came Helene’s voice. “Madelene? It’s me. May I come in?”
Madelene rushed to unlock the door. Helene marched in, her eyes sweeping the room. When she spotted the painting, she closed and locked the door before Madelene could even reach for the key.
“Oh, Helene,” murmured Madelene. “You startled me. I was afraid. I...” But Helene wasn’t listening. She crossed the room and, without waiting for permission picked up the painting. Her brows lowered, which in Helene was an indication of surprise and strong consternation. Madelene felt her cheeks heating up, because she knew Helene did not miss the similarity between herself and the girl in the picture.
“Where did this come from?” Helene asked as she carefully placed the painting in Madelene’s dressing room and shut that door.
“Lord Benedict sent it.” Madelene passed Helene the note. Helene read it and frowned.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Madelene folded the note back up and tucked it into her sleeve. “I can’t keep it.”
“Not here,” agreed Helene thoughtfully. “I’m sure Miss Sewell would keep it for you if you wanted.”
“I don’t know what I want.” Madelene smoothed her hair back from her forehead. She’d been through too many wild swings of emotion; from the desperate hope when she sat among her friends, to the anger and exhaustion and the endless wearing worry that swamped her when she came home, to this . . . this grand, beautiful gesture from a man she barely knew, a dangerous man with dark eyes whose lightest touch set her mind wandering down the most wicked paths.
“I expect you do know,” Helene said. “And better than you’re ready to admit.”
Madelene didn’t answer that. “Sit down, Helene. Tell me why you’ve come.”
Helene took one of the round-backed chairs by Madelene’s small hearth. “I came to make sure you were all right after all that talk at Miss Sewell’s.”
“Oh yes, I’m fine . . .”
“Madelene,” Helene cut her off firmly. “You know you don’t have to be polite at me.”
“Polite at me,” Madelene repeated. “You’re the only person I know who talks like that.”
“Once we’re successes I shall set a new fashion in language. Please, Madelene,” Helene added softly. “I’m sorry if we upset you. You don’t have to write your cousin or do anything about Lord Benedict. Send back the painting, and the note if that’s what you want. I’ll help you.”
“Then what do I do to help your plans, Helene?” She spread her hands. “Keep being the moneybags?”
“That is a vulgar expression.”
“Perhaps I’ll set a fashion in language, too. Wouldn’t that surprise everybody?” Madelene tried to smile, but it faded quickly. “I want to do something. Really do something. It’s what we’ve talked about, isn’t it? If I don’t try new things, I’ll just keep being afraid.”
“But if it’s too soon . . .”
“It’s not too soon,” Madelene said. “But I’m afraid it might be too late.”
“Never.” Helene pressed her hand. “I won’t let it be.”
“Have you considered there are some things that might be out of your control, Helene?”
“Yes. I’m making a list.”
Madelene laughed. The mirth came as a surprise and was all the more wonderful because of it. Helene returned a smile that was more a flash in her eyes than an expression on her face.
Then those eyes grew hard again. Madelene had become used to Helene’s hard looks. They were not deliberate. It was just that when Helene was thinking, she paid attention to nothing beyond the currents of her own mind. It was the thoughts she was looking at, not Madelene.
“Madelene, are you attracted to Benedict Pelham?” Madelene wasn’t sure what expression showed on her face just then, but whatever it was, it was strong enough to make Helene pull back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have said that differently.”
“It’s all right, I, just . . . I’m not sure, but I think so.”
“Look at me, Madelene.” Helene took her hand. “It’s all right if you are. Adele’s talked with Mar . . . Lord Windford and Monsieur Beauclaire. They say he’s a good man.”
“Yes, I know, that is, I feel sure he must be. And please don’t ask me how I can tell.”
Helene waved her words away. “The question is, Madelene, do you want to see more of him?”
Madelene bit her lip. She pulled the note out of her sleeve and read the words again. You are not alone. The door is open. He had a firm, clear hand. Not a wasted motion, no blots or blurs.
“You know what happened last time I got a proposal,” she said, running a thumb across the B.
Helene nodded. Memory churned Madelene’s stomach. The entire family had collaborated in the scenes. Her stepmother began with a stream of laments that her poor, dear, helpless Madelene was throwing herself at a fortune hunter; that her cruel husband would take control of her money, leaving her, and all her family, in rags. Her father joined in, mostly at mealtimes, droning on in icy disapproval about what a worthless, loose woman Madelene was, encouraging the attentions of every vagabond wastrel in a well-cut coat. Lewis raged at everyone. Glorietta and Maude wept at the drop of a hat about how their looming poverty would doom them both to spinsterhood.
It had gone on for days until Madelene had allowed Mama to dictate her refusal note to the gentleman in question.
“Not that I think Lord Benedict would ever propose to somebody like me,” Madelene croaked. “I mean, he might consider it for the money, I suppose, but . . .”
Helene squeezed her hand, and Madelene closed her mouth around the words.
“Do you want to see more of Benedict Pelham?” Helene asked again.
Madelene tucked the note back into her sleeve. She got to her feet and walked over to her window. She rested her fingers lightly on the sill and stared out at the street. She did not see the fashionable neighborhood below, or the rooftops of Grosvenor Square three streets over. She saw the long procession of years, sitting in a room like this, staring out a window like this, fearing the step in the hall and the knock on the door. She felt the cold dread of each meal, and each afternoon in the parlor, because they might bring another demand for money, or another bill in the post.
She saw the glittering celebration Mama would insist on for her twenty-fifth birthday. After that, it was only a matter of time. She would be still unmarried and worn entirely down, and all they had to do was wait a little longer until Madelene became so tired that she would do what was wanted. She would sign the money away to her father and his second family, just so she could at last be left in peace. Once that money was theirs, she might finally be allowed to marry whoever would agree to take her without a fortune, or she might even be allowed to retire to someplace like Bath or Bristol with a paid companion.
It would be a bleak, barren life, but it would be better than this.
Madelene turned away from the window. She glanced toward the locked door and Helene, who was waiting patiently.
Then she went to her desk and took out paper and quill and ink. She wrote out a letter, sealed it, and penned the direction of the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane. Then she wrote a second letter:
Miss Sewell,
Enclosed you’ll find a letter for my cousin Mr. Henry Cross asking him to call and explaining some of our plan. Will you please post it from No. 48? I’ve directed him to send any reply there, to save the awkwardness of questions at home.
Yrs. Sincerely,
Madelene Valmeyer
* * *
Without a word, Madelene sanded and sealed the letter. “Here,” she said, holding out the quill to Helene. “You’d better write the direction on this one so it’s not in my hand, in case anyone in the house sees.”
Helene nodded and did as Madelene suggested. Then she stowed the letter in her reticule. “And what about Lord Benedict, Madelene? Miss Sewell thinks one of us should be the subject of his painting to be unveiled at our ball. Will you do it?”
Will I?
She knew what her answer should be. She also knew what it must be. “Helene, if I don’t get out of this house I’m going to die. I know that sounds hysterical and you hate hysterics, but it’s the truth, I promise it is. I have to make this season work, all of it. It’s not just about a party or a . . . a flirtation, do you see? It’s not even about social position. It’s about a life for me.”
Helene laid a hand on her shoulder. “You know we’ll help you. All of us.”
She smiled, and tears stung her eyes. “I may need a lot of help.”
“You just watch,” Helene said. “Together, there is nothing we can’t do. This letter”—she patted her bag—“this is only the first step.”
“The door is open.” Madelene touched her sleeve and felt Benedict’s note press against her skin, exactly where he’d held her to keep her steady when she stumbled.
