Lady of Fortune

by Mary Jo Putney

  Christa spent most of her evening teaching reading and writing to those of the staff who desired to learn. She had started with four students the week before, and her class had now grown to seven. The butler, Mr. Morrison, had found funds to pay for primers and slates, and now every quiet evening after supper Christa and her students would take over one end of the servants’ dining table. Many of them were motivated by a desire to improve their positions, since most upper servants had to know how to read and write. However, a few were like the head groom, there for the pure pleasure of learning, and Christa took special pride in their progress.

  The evening passed quickly, and Christa retired to lie down and doze until Annabelle returned. It was past midnight when the Kingsleys returned, and Annabelle was bubbling with excited chatter. Christa had anticipated this and had a kettle of hot water ready to make her mistress a cup of relaxing herb tea.

  “Oh, Christa, you were right—everyone was so kind!” Annabelle was sitting in front of her dressing table, her eyes bright with happiness. “They seemed happy to see me, and when I went out of my way to talk to some of the shyer girls, they acted so pleased, as if I were doing them a favor! It was remarkable. And when we danced after the dinner, I stood up for every set. Why, Alex said every unattached man there was fluttering around me.” She giggled in pure delight.

  Christa smiled at her mistress’s reflection as she removed the pins that held twists of golden hair at the back of Annabelle’s head. “So your evening was a success?”

  Annabelle nodded vigorously. “It was more fun than I ever imagined. And you were right: when I stopped worrying about what people thought about me, and started thinking about them, they responded so well! It was remarkable.”

  Christa chuckled and started brushing Annabelle’s long tresses down over her shoulders. “Congratulations. Besides having learned the secret of beauty today, you have also learned the secret of charm.”

  “Which is … ?” Annabelle’s eyes were dancing as she met Christa’s gaze in the mirror.

  “To let the other person think that he is the most interesting person in the world. With those two secrets, London will be at your feet.” Christa flourished the brush grandly before returning to her task.

  “It is going to be at Alex’s feet, actually,” Annabelle laughed. “The women there wouldn’t leave him alone. Ouch!” She squeaked as the hairbrush jerked painfully in a snarl.

  “Forgive me, Miss Annabelle,” Christa murmured, her lips a trifle stiff. She resumed the smooth, gentle brush strokes, then said carefully, “It is only to be expected that your brother would be popular. He is handsome, a hero, wealthy, and available. An answer to a maiden’s prayer, in fact.”

  “Well, it wasn’t just maidens that were after him. Twice I had to rescue him from a predatory matron that acted as if Alex were catnip and she the cat.”

  “Me-o-o-w,” Christa said with a twinkle.

  “Well, it may sound unkind, but it is true. It was surprising, actually. My big strong brother seemed to become paralyzed when she was around. Alex was comfortable enough with the men, but he seemed to avoid most of the ladies.”

  “Perhaps he has some of the same shyness you had,” Christa suggested.

  Annabelle frowned thoughtfully. “You may be right, though it is a difficult idea to accept. Well, Alex and I must learn to conquer London together.” She yawned. “That tea doesn’t have much flavor but it is effective! What’s in it?”

  “Oh, valerian, anise seed, hops.”

  “It certainly made me ready for bed. Good night, Christa.”

  “Dream of your triumphs,” Christa said as she quietly closed the door to her own little room. It looked like Annabelle was making excellent progress. And Christa had no right to find the news of Alex’s success so depressing.

  The pattern established in the first week lasted all summer. East Anglia has drier summers and colder winters than most of Great Britain, and this summer of 1795 was particularly fine, each long golden day succeeded by another. While conditions were hard on crops, for the Kingsleys it was the stuff memories are made of.

  Alex took his crew sailing two or three times a week. Soon both Jonathan and Annabelle were adept at handling sails and rigging, though neither had the intuitive affinity for wind and sea that Alex and Christa shared. The three blond Kingsleys found their hair bleaching to white-gold, and even Annabelle’s alabaster skin acquired a light tan in spite of Christa’s best efforts with bonnets and cucumber lotion.

  Christa herself was brown as a nut, her gray eyes startlingly light against her tanned skin and black curls. Alex found his eyes following her when no one was watching. He admired how she blended in, seldom volunteering comments but always ready with a merry quip when someone addressed her. She seemed almost a part of the family, yet never crossed the line of what was proper for a servant.

  Alex was unquestionably the captain at sea, but the dance lessons were another story—there Christa was firmly in charge. A local music teacher played the pianoforte while Christa drilled her fumble-footed charges. By the third week, Alex and Jonathan had mastered several dances so Christa added a new dimension to the lessons by requiring that they converse. There is an art to speaking with a partner while whirling in opposite directions, and by the end of the summer the Kingsley menfolk had mastered it. In fact, after an initial relapse into cross-purposes and collisions, they found that talking made dancing easier because it kept them from thinking about the movements.

  The twice-weekly sessions were filled with laughter as the participants chatted about what they knew best. Alex regaled them with tales of the Navy and foreign lands, convulsing his partners with anecdotes that always seemed to make him the hapless victim. A listener could have been forgiven for assuming that he was an outrageous incompetent rather than a highly regarded naval officer who had distinguished himself from the Battle of St. Vincent, when he had been a scant fifteen years old, through the Glorious First of June and beyond.

  Annabelle’s shyness had made her a keen observer of her neighbors, and her increasingly forthright comments were shrewd and amusing without ever being unkind. The biggest surprise was Jonathan, who turned out to have a passion for poetry in addition to his undoubted expertise about horses and the Army. If any of the Kingsleys had stopped to think of it, they might have been surprised at how fluently the lady’s maid could converse on every topic offered. Had they but known, their teacher had been acclaimed as one of the best dancers and conversationalists in Paris in the days when frivolity reigned in that capital. Instead, the dancers merely enjoyed the discussions and they all learned a great deal.

  By the time they packed to return to London, the two younger Kingsleys no longer kept the head of the family on quite so high a pedestal, and the three siblings had developed deep bonds of affection that would last the rest of their lives. Jonathan had grown two inches and his voice made a permanent transition to the lower registers. As his gangling frame filled out, his resemblance to his older brother became even more pronounced.

  Annabelle became the belle of the neighborhood. It was the fashion among the young men that summer to languish after her, and she developed a latent talent for flirting to elegant perfection. Soon she could accept compliments gracefully, put a bashful swain at his ease, and make an older man feel young again. Her natural sweetness prevented any hearts from being seriously damaged and made her popular with her own sex as well. The prospect of the Season no longer held terrors for her.

  Alex was satisfied with how the summer had passed, and deeply grateful to discover that his younger brother and sister had not been irrevocably damaged by their mother. Their growing confidence was a source of pride to him, and much of his guilt over neglecting them had been assuaged.

  Yet when Alex thought back over the months in the country, it was Christa that occupied his thoughts—Christa scampering around the Annabelle in her all-too-revealing breeches, Christa’s warm shoulders beneath his hands as she walked him through new danc
e steps, Christa glancing up through those glorious black lashes to make some devastatingly acute comment as they chatted their way through reels and country dances.

  Alex’s resolution not to lead her astray was coming under increasing pressure. He had never known a female who attracted him more, and on nights when sleep eluded him, he lay and wondered if she would accept a carte blanche. He was more than willing to make a settlement that would give her security for life, and he found himself wrestling with the ethical question of whether her situation would be better or worse as his mistress. Many girls of her station would be delighted at such an offer, but Alex had an uneasy suspicion that she would not be one of that number. Besides, if he did start keeping Christa, Annabelle would be deprived of a superlative abigail.

  Christa felt restless the last night before leaving for London. All of Annabelle’s packing was done, as well as the extremely modest amount required for Christa’s own possessions. The reading class had done so well over the summer that the more advanced students now taught the others, and her services were no longer needed. Annabelle was fixed for the evening at the home of a female friend and would not need her until late, so Christa decided to stroll down to the shore.

  She hadn’t walked here at night since the first evening when she had met Alex and shared that kiss. The memory was sweet but her practical French nature led her to avoid temptation for the rest of the summer. On this particular evening she felt a little reckless. When the household was settled in London, she would see almost nothing of her master, and she was already missing the playful companionship they had shared.

  The moon was full and Christa easily picked out his dark figure silhouetted against the shining waves as he sat on the end of the pier that thrust its way into the cove. The moonlight reflected off his hair, turning its gold to silver. She had known he would be here, would almost have sworn he had been calling her.

  Alex looked up at the sound of her soft steps on the oak planking, and smiled a greeting. “I thought you would come here tonight, to say your farewells to the sea.”

  She smiled a reply and seated herself next to him, close, but not too close, her legs swinging over the water. “Yes. It makes me sad to leave here, my lord. There will never be another summer like it.”

  “True. Next summer no dance lessons will be required. I would never have believed that I could be made presentable for a ballroom. You are a remarkable teacher.”

  She ignored the compliment. “The credit belongs to you and your brother. You both worked most diligently.”

  “You made it a pleasure for all of us. Anyone who can convince a fifteen-year-old boy to spend afternoons indoors should be in the diplomatic corps.”

  “As I recall, you first used your lordly authority to order his presence.” She chuckled. “But it was in a good cause. That one will be a heartbreaker when he is a few years older. Put him in a Hussar uniform and there won’t be a maiden in England whose heart will be safe.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” the proud brother said gloomily. “Before he returns to Eton I must have a talk with him about responsible behavior, or I’ll be having irate fathers seeking me out. This head-of-family business can be heavy going.”

  “You seem to take to it well, my lord. Teaching your brother and sister to sail was inspired. Miss Annabelle is much more confident now that she has learned to do something well.”

  “I think a good deal more credit goes to what you have done with her hair and wardrobe. What was all the giggling I heard yesterday morning? I would have investigated, but I was due at one of the tenant farms.”

  “Oh, that!” Christa laughed reminiscently. “I was showing her how to wear a shawl gracefully. It was very long, six yards by two yards, I think. There is a real art to wearing one without falling over it or looking like a gin-soaked street woman.”

  “Hmm, I can see the problem. Fashion has unsuspected hazards. Did she learn the skill?”

  “Eventually. First she took it into her head to wrap herself in the shawl like an Indian woman. Then I showed her how an Arab might wear it. One thing led to another, as you can well imagine. That must be when you heard us giggling.”

  “I’m sorry I missed it!” He laughed aloud, then said, “London will require more dignity, I fear. But there will be another summer next year.”

  Christa shrugged. “Things will have changed. Perhaps Miss Annabelle will be married by then.”

  Alex was silent for a long moment, his face hidden in shadow. “It won’t be the same with Jonathan and me here in a bachelor establishment.”

  “Nothing is ever the same. That is why we must live each moment we are given.”

  He laughed, a warm sound in the night. “I have never known anyone else who approached life so much as a study in philosophy.”

  He could hear a smile in her voice. “I warned you before that we French are a philosophical race.”

  “Tell me,” Alex asked curiously, “are all Frenchwomen as politically knowledgeable as you?”

  Christa considered a moment to find an answer that would be true without being too revealing. “My country is different from yours in many ways. For example, a third of our peasants own their own land, not like here, where almost everyone is a tenant or laborer. And if one owns something, is there not a greater desire to understand, to participate in what is happening?”

  “I never really thought about it,” he answered slowly. “But it makes sense. I feel a responsibility to study the issues and use my seat in the Lords on behalf of myself and my tenants. Any man would feel the same.”

  “And any woman,” was the tart reply. “Someday, perhaps we shall have the same power over our destinies as men.”

  “You are a proper revolutionary, aren’t you?” Alex said admiringly. “I begin to fear that one morning I will come down and find a mob led by you and Monsieur Sabine demanding new laws and better wages.”

  Christa laughed. “No need to worry—the Monsieur is a royalist. Besides, there is no one in your household that feels ill-used. Most of your servants believe themselves singularly fortunate to be in your employ.”

  He turned to face her, his face suddenly serious. “And how do you feel, Christa? Are you happy to be in my household?”

  Her heart accelerated its beat but her reply was calm. “Of course. Your rescuing me from the streets of London was the best thing that had happened to me in years.”

  The first time Alex had kissed her on impulse, but this time he was entirely deliberate. He reached out and cupped her cheek gently, then moved his hand behind her head and turned her face to his. She could easily have eluded him but made no attempt to do so. This moonlit night was for romance, not reason.

  What began as a leisurely embrace flared into passion with stunning force. How could she have forgotten the taste of his mouth, the warmth of his body pressed into hers? Her gossamer-thin muslin dress and shift were scarcely a barrier, and she could feel the escalating beat of his heart, the tensing of his muscles as he fitted her curves into his angles. Christa was hazily aware that they were lying on the hard planks of the pier and Alex’s body half-covered hers, protecting her from the cool sea breeze.

  They lay locked together for long minutes, exploring all the subtle variations of lips and tongues. At length Alex rolled onto his side, his arms pulling her close against him. “Oh, Christa, Christa, what am I going to do with you?” he said softly, his voice nearly a groan.

  Christa buried her face against his chest, unable to reply. You fool, she thought despairingly, you unutterably smug fool! At what point in this perfect summer had respect and affection insidiously turned to love? She had been so sure that her mind controlled her heart, that a moonlight kiss with a man who could be trusted not to go too far was a simple, harmless diversion.

  Instead, she found herself racked by waves of unfamiliar emotion. Christa had always known that Alex was attractive, that he was a considerate master, a loving brother, a hero who could laugh at himself. She had enjoyed
sailing and dancing and talking with him, admiring the way their minds fitted. But the feeling sweeping through her now was so much more than the sum of those things—it was a profound sense of physical and emotional attunement beyond anything she had ever known.

  The loss of her family in the revolution had outweighed all other deprivations, but now Christa found herself raging against the cruel fortune that had taken her name, her wealth, and her right to meet this man as an equal. She knew that Alex cared for her, and there was no doubt that he found her attractive, but that would be an end to it. It would not occur to him that he might love a maid, any more than Christa would have thought to fall in love with a footman in the long-ago days when she was a wealthy countess. Lust there might be between master and servant, but mutual love? Unthinkable.

  Alex stroked her back and said tenderly, “Are you trying to burrow your way through me, ma chérie?”

  The French endearment almost overset her composure before pride came to her rescue. If Christa told him of her feelings, he would be kind, but also embarrassed; perhaps even secretly amused at her presumption. And if she said her birth was equal to his own, it would be even worse—he might doubt her or he might pity her, but neither of those unpalatable alternatives would be the love she craved from him.

  Christa raised her head and rolled away from his embrace, lifting herself on one elbow. She was proud of the steadiness of her voice when she said, “I think I was trying to hold on to a moment that should never have happened, my lord.”

  He brushed the silky curls from her cheek, his fingers lingering, then trailing down her smooth neck. “I wish that once you would call me Alex.”