Yes, before Rupert had entered her life and destroyed it, Felicity thought. She knew that her mother’s patience, despite all of her understanding, was limited. Much like any good mother, she wanted to make sure that her daughter was married to a respectable gentleman, and since the duchess had three daughters, it was all the more difficult to get them all under the hood. So, Felicity pushed aside her memories of the events that had occurred in the early summer and gave the viscount a smile that strained every single one of her facial muscles.
The poor man, who had almost reached her except for a few steps, turned white as soon as he saw her face, and excused himself with a hastily muttered apology.
Her mother sighed, but Felicity saw Lady Blankhurst’s corpulent figure tremble in a sudden but suppressed outburst of cheerfulness. “I believe the young men these days do not have any courage in their bones,” her mother decided. Even the corners of the duchess’s mouth twitched, if only briefly.
“I believe that your daughter has no interest in the male species at the moment and…” Lady Blankhurst began, but then fell silent when the next young gentleman approached.
Even before he could voice his request, Felicity had dismissed him with a curt movement of her bejewelled hand. Sometimes Felicity thought that if she had been allowed to lead the British troops into battle, she would have brought even a stout general such as Napoleon to his knees.
“I just have no taste for… those things anymore. Everything seems so redundant to me, so meaningless.” Her objection was only partially true. In fact, Felicity knew she had to marry someday. She even wanted to, but not to any of those aristocratic peacocks. With that type of man, she had finished, forever and ever. She would prefer a softly spoken clergyman or, even better, a country vicar, to ask for her hand in marriage and to take her away from this city. She wanted a man whose character was kind and God-fearing. Someone, who knew egotism only as a word – yes, that man she would happily follow to the altar.
Unfortunately, her parents had different plans for her. A man who was literally as poor as a church mouse, and who did not have the remotest chance of gaining a title, was out of the question for their daughter. “Hell will freeze over before I will allow you to throw yourself into the clutches of some cleric,” had been her father’s words when Felicity had hinted where her preferences lay. “Is it not enough that your sister had to marry an idolater?”
This tirade had gone on and on. She had wondered if her father’s aversion was exclusively aimed at the status of clergymen, or whether he would have raged had she presented him with Mr Hawthorne as a prospect. She had met the Bow Street Runner the previous year for the first time, and to this day she found his presence rather pleasant. Although her mind had been preoccupied with other things during their first encounter, Felicity still believed that his interest in her exceeded the purely occupational aspect. At certain moments, Felicity wondered if she and the detective would have become closer, had she not been his prime suspect in a case back then. His gaze had noted every single detail of her appearance, Felicity was sure of that. Or was that just some figment of her imagination? She chided herself a fool. Was it not enough that she was unable to forget the events of the summer? Did she also have to yearn after missed opportunities?
“You need something to cheer you up, sweetheart. Besides, you have to think about your sister, Rose. If you do not marry, she will not have the opportunity to find a suitable husband for herself.” The duchess was not so conservative as to believe that she should not seek a suitable husband for her youngest daughter, Rose, before her middle child, Felicity, was married. However, Felicity’s father, the duke, and the heir to one of the oldest aristocratic families in the British Kingdom, felt that it was his absolute duty to follow the old rules of the establishment. This included that the eldest daughter married first and the youngest last.
“May I not simply stay at home? I do not mind if Rose marries before me.” Felicity knew that her objection would fall on deaf ears, but the longer she stayed here at the dance evening, organised by Lady Scatterborough, the less comfortable she felt. The overwhelming number of candles created enough heat for her to feel unwell, and the relentless noise of the voices and clinking glasses sounded louder in her ears with every passing minute. At her request, the small group had already positioned itself to the right side of the hall, away from all the immediate turmoil. Still, her throat seemed to feel tighter as more couples joined the dancers in the middle of the room, thereby forcing the remaining guests closer to the walls. The cheerful melodies of the trio playing their string instruments – after all, it was just a small event and an orchestra would have been out of place – seemed to become more and more jarring.
“Here, drink this,” the duchess ordered and handed her daughter a glass of champagne, but Felicity only took a tiny sip. She was unable to force one drop past the uncomfortable lump in her throat.
“I want to go back home, Mother,” she pleaded, and finally, her mother’s face softened.
“I will accompany you,” Lady Blankhurst said, even before Felicity’s mother was able to make a decision. “I completely agree with your daughter, my dear Julia. Even a mausoleum is more exciting than this. We should go.”
With her head held high, Lady Blankhurst walked through the crowd, closely followed by the duchess and Felicity. Their farewell to the hostess, who seemed to take their early departure as a personal affront, took torturously long in Felicity’s eyes.
It was not until they were outside the entrance to the townhouse, with its overbearing and eclectic architecture, that Felicity could take a deep breath. The smell of the city blended with the pungent coal steam and some unpleasant waste from the horses, into a combination that was a familiar odour that she had known since she was a child, and which she preferred over the perfumed air wafting around Lady Scatterborough’s house.
“Why don’t you send your coachman home and ride with me? I have an idea that I would like to discuss with you.” Felicity’s heart jumped in her chest when she saw the sparkle in Lady Blankhurst’s eyes. She knew her mother’s friend well enough to know that their journey home together would be more fun than the entire evening earlier.
“Please, Mama,” Felicity begged as her mother hesitated.
“Very well,” the duchess gave in. “If you promise me that you will show more perseverance the next time we are invited…” She sighed and followed Lady Blankhurst towards her Landauer, after she had given George, the family carriage driver, her instructions. Lady Blankhurst sat opposite Felicity and her mother, and leaned back, as the horses started to pull the carriage away.
“Well, Evangeline, do not keep us waiting any longer and tell us about your idea. I am sure that my daughter will be ecstatic but will leave me with the burden of making it sound attractive to her father.” The duchess smiled to take the harshness out of her words, but that was not necessary.
The two elderly women had known each other since childhood and were as close to each other as sisters. Lady Blankhurst leaned forward conspiratorially, whereby her cleavage threatened to burst out of her low-cut dress. She was the only woman Felicity knew, who simply had no shame about showing off her voluptuous body, and who also did not shy away from calling physical procedures by name. She sometimes wished that her mother had a little more of the directness her friend possessed. Then she would talk to her much more openly, and perhaps even tell her what had truly happened in the summer.
“I do believe that it will be good for your daughter to see something else for a few days, other than the same old surroundings. Why don’t you allow her to stay with me for a while and accompany me on my visits to the poor?”
Surprised, Felicity glanced from her mother to Lady Blankhurst. She was not entirely sure whether to feel excited about this strange proposal or not. Deep in her heart, she had expected an invitation from her mother’s friend to her country home, but not something that promised more work than pleasure. Her mother returned Felicity’s glance
, and she seemed to study her daughter’s face carefully. Through the folded-down window of the carriage, enough moonlight fell in, so that they could see each other.
“Why not,” the duchess said hesitantly. Between her and her friend, something unspoken seemed to go back and forth – a hidden message that was not to be spoken aloud, and just delivered by thought. “It will be a change and it should be good for Felicity to not wallow in her own misery for a while.”
Felicity opened her mouth, and then closed it again. Her mother had asked often enough. It had been Felicity’s decision not to confide in her. Now it was too late to explain the reasons for the heavy melancholy and world weariness that dragged Felicity down like iron chains. If only Annabelle would return from her honeymoon! Then she would be able to live in the house of her sister and her new husband! Annabelle, who was now the Countess of Grandover, and married to a papist, knew everything; she had played an important role at Rupert’s…
“What do you say, my child? Would you like that?” The duchess interrupted Felicity’s heavy musings.
Felicity nodded and tried extremely hard to put the appropriate amount of excitement and gratefulness into her voice, when she replied: “I am very happy and can hardly wait.”
Chapter 2
On the drive back to his father’s house, Luke did not think about what to expect. If he had learned one thing during his year in the Royal Navy, then it was this: he would learn soon enough, what kind of role he was to play in his father’s never-ending plans. Branwell sat next to the carriage driver, up on the coach box, probably marvelling at the splendour of the metropolis, and Luke appreciated it. The ride to Grosvenor Square was probably the very last quiet moment he would have in his life, before resuming his duties as successor to the Duke of Somerset. Unfortunately, that entailed much more than managing the wealth, which was predominantly comprised of real estate in Cornwall. It also involved taking his rightful seat in the parliament. Normally, Luke would have been able to settle for that. No, what sat heavily in his stomach, was something else entirely.
His father, rightfully, expected him to carry on the Somerset name. He could only do so if he fathered children. This, in turn, was only possible if he had a wife. However, a spouse was the last thing he had on his mind. He remembered all too well the deceit and pitfalls he had been subjected to during the season before his entry into the navy – a mean-spirited observer could indeed have called his departure an escape. Noble mothers had tried unerringly to couple him with their daughters, and his father, the Duke of Somerset, had calmly watched this perfidious game from a distance. Here and there, he had commented on the qualities of the particular family that Luke was trying to flee from and did nothing but watch his only son and heir struggle.
He had only intervened once, in a most cordial manner, when Corinna Carstairs, the daughter of an American trading mogul, had stretched out her fingers possessively towards his son. His father’s intervention had been completely unnecessary; by then, Luke had already enlisted with the navy, and was dreaming of a glorious career at sea. The dalliance with Corinna had not been serious, at least not from his side. Nothing had happened between them, apart from a stolen kiss and a few stolen caresses. In this case, it had not been her wealth that had aroused Luke’s interest in Miss Carstairs, but rather her bluntness. She had been so refreshingly different from all those dainty English flowers who were presented to him one after another at every single ball, dinner, and even at court. But would this endearing bluntness have been enough to lay the foundation for a lifelong marriage? Probably not. Once the hostility between Great Britain and the former colonies flared up again, all thoughts of marrying an American woman had settled itself.
So, the roundel started again from the beginning. More precisely, it would start as soon as word got out that Luke had returned to London. Luke noticed that the horses had slowed down, so he folded down the window on his right side. At first, he had the impression of staring at a grey wall. Then the muted clapping of hooves carried into the inside of the carriage and the massive wall turned into thick misty fog.
Luke was truly at home.
The carriage came to a halt. He did not wait for either old Harriman, who had been sitting on the coach box of all the Somerset’s carriages for more than thirty years, or for Branwell, to open his door and unfold the two steps to ease his descent. Instead, he simply jumped out of the coach in a highly non-aristocratic manner. The rain-soaked cobblestone pavement could easily compete with the slipperiness of the wet ship’s planks on which he had been dancing for the past year. Heaven, how much he missed the clean smell of the sea and the feeling of the rolling waves beneath the Eurydice! Even the attack of a buccaneer or, for that matter, the American fleet, would have been almost more pleasurable to him than the dance on the parqueted floors of high society that he was facing.
Branwell appeared beside him like a ghost, materialising from the mist. While the young man was still trying to cover his utter astonishment at the sight of the glamorous manor in front of them, the front door opened. Luke’s father’s butler appeared at the top of the stairs. It was a sign of his appreciation that Foreman, himself, had appeared at the door to welcome the young master personally. Although no muscle twitched in the man’s face, he clearly managed to convey his delight at Luke’s return home; Luke was not able to say how Foreman was able to do so.
Some of the dreary heaviness that had weighed on Luke’s shoulders since his departure, disappeared. He jumped up the stairs and only slowed when Foreman raised his eyebrows by nothing more than a hair’s width. It was sufficient to remind Luke that he was Lord Layton again. He turned around, regardless – to hell with all the rules, tomorrow was soon enough to force himself into the stiff corset of English manners – and looked for Branwell.
“Welcome, Lady Felicity,” Lord and Lady Blankhurst’s butler greeted her and opened the door a little wider. “Lady Blankhurst is expecting you.”
Behind her, George dragged her luggage into the house. Although she had the impression, while packing, that she may not have chosen enough clothes for every possible occasion, the sight of the two huge pieces of luggage now seemed disproportionately excessive.
Why did everything she decided on turn out to be some error of judgement? She wished she were more like Annabelle, with her acumen and incorruptible observation skills. Or like Rose, who kept her nose buried in books, refusing to acknowledge the world around her. Then Felicity would not have to bother with reality.
“Thank you,” she replied politely, and avoided the young servant, who took pity on old George and relieved him of both suitcases. In the hands of the young man, the heaviness and unwieldiness of the two pieces of luggage was revitalised, as Felicity noticed with a sigh of relief. She handed the butler her hat and coat. She was in the home of friends, so there was no need for formalities.
“Lady Blankhurst is waiting for you in the parlour,” the man said and handed her belongings over to a waiting maid. “May I show you the way?”
The warmth from the fireplace surrounded Felicity as she entered the old-fashioned room. For a moment, she felt light-headed; the walls with the dark tapestries seemed to rush towards her like something that was alive. Lady Blankhurst, despite her corpulent body, was surprisingly quick on her feet, and was at her side before Felicity knew what was happening.
“Please bring us some tea, Chester,” her mother’s friend said to the butler. “And some toast and broth. Nothing too heavy, please. The pigeon soup from last night’s dinner should be sufficient, if there is some left.”
After the butler had retreated silently, Felicity sank into a high armchair by the fireplace. Lady Blankhurst spread a blanket over her knees, even though Felicity did not feel cold. Nevertheless, it felt good to be mothered in such an unpretentious manner.
Felicity burst into tears.
“Oh, child, cry it all out,” Lady Blankhurst encouraged her, as Felicity desperately tried to get her composure back. It was only after th
e maid, who had taken her coat and hat earlier, returned with a full tray, and Felicity smelled the delicious aroma of fresh bread and hot broth, that her tears slowly dried.
“Now eat something. You will feel better afterwards, and then you can tell me what is weighing on your heart,” the lady said. She lifted the lid off the bowl full of broth and handed Felicity the small dish and a spoon.
Felicity did not know what it was that ultimately released her tongue (even though she had sworn never to speak of it to a living soul other than her sister). Perhaps it was Lady Blankhurst’s facial expression, that had nothing to do with the relentless pity she got from her own family, or maybe it was her direct prompt, which she voiced in a loving way, but did not tolerate any objection. So, Felicity told her everything about what had happened during the summer. She began with the way the viscount had stolen her heart by storm and how he had convinced her to elope to Gretna Green with him, to get married there without her parents’ permission.
“He was so charming,” she told Lady Blankhurst, and realised that a deep longing had crept into her voice, that she resented with every fibre of her being. “I believed him when he said that he would love me even more when I fled with him. But then it turned out that not only did he have no honourable intentions to keep his promise, but that our elopement was part of a plan to lure Marcus St. John into a trap.”
“Your sister’s husband?” Lady Blankhurst interjected, handing Felicity a cup of tea, which she had lavishly loaded with four spoonsful of sugar.
“Yes, exactly,” Felicity continued. “By a stupid coincidence, my father thought he had caught Annabelle and Marcus in the gardens in a secret rendezvous – of course, it had only seemed that way. In all the mess that followed, my escape with the viscount was no longer an option.”
The Three Evesham Daughters: Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Trilogy Page 22
