Lottie began to wonder whether the Wantage circulating library had a big collection of Gothic novels. Mrs. Ormond certainly seemed to have fallen under their influence at some point.
“I confess that my regard for Lord St. Severin has nothing to do with his personality,” she said, “dangerous or otherwise. It is based solely on the enormous size of his—”
Mrs Ormond drew back with a gasp.
“—fortune,” Lottie finished sweetly.
“Oh!” Mrs. Ormond straightened, seemed to recall precisely whom she was addressing and took a hasty step back. Her hands fluttered. “Well, Miss Palliser…” She seemed at a loss.
“It was a delight to make your acquaintance,” Lottie said, smiling, “though you need not fear that I will boast of it amongst the more straitlaced ladies of Wantage. I would not wish to put you to the blush.”
“You are very good, Miss Palliser.” Mrs. Ormond hesitated. “I wonder…before we go… Do you think the puce or the maroon silk would suit me best? With my complexion?”
“Either,” Lottie said, smiling broadly. “Both. They are equally flattering.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Ormond gushed. “Mr. Winkworth? Mr. Winkworth! I would like to place an order for material for two gowns….”
A couple of hours later, as Lottie was sitting alone at home taking tea, a letter arrived:
Dear Miss Palliser,
Pray excuse me for not being able to call in person. I appreciated your advice a very great deal this afternoon. You have such splendid style! I wonder if you would be even kinder and settle for me a disagreement that I have with my friend Millicent Bennett? She says that it is quite acceptable for me to wear my striped red-and-white spencer with my spotted blue-and-white gown, but I am not sure. What do you think?
This missive was signed artlessly, “Your very great friend, Miss Mary Belle Ormond.”
Highly entertained, Lottie sent for ink and paper and composed her reply.
My dear Miss Ormond,
Thank you very much for your letter. It was a great pleasure to meet both you and your mother, and I am happy to have been of service. It is difficult to tell without seeing the gown and the spencer, but as a general rule spots and stripes should not be mixed. A plain spencer will look nice with a spotted dress and a striped one with a plain dress provided the colors match.
Very best wishes, Lottie Palliser.
She sent Margery off with the letter and a half hour later the maid returned carrying a large parcel wrapped up in brown paper.
“Miss Ormond was very grateful for your help, ma’am,” Margery said, starting to untie the string. “She asked if she might trespass further on your kindness and beg you to take a look at the enclosed material. Her mama wishes it to be made up into an evening gown for Miss Ormond but the young lady is afraid that it will make her look like an old maid.”
“Oh dear,” Lottie said, holding up the material. “Oh dear me, no. Poor Miss Ormond! She should wear cream, not white, with her coloring, and not this shiny satin! This will not do at all!”
“Dear Miss Ormond,” she wrote, ten minutes later:
I really cannot recommend that you go out in public tricked out in this material. I fear it will make you look a frump. I did notice some pretty pale lilac gauze in Mr. Winkworth’s shop when I passed by. That would be most becoming for you. If you have not outrun your allowance, or if you can persuade your mama to exchange the material, I am persuaded that you would look a great deal better in a color than in this bright white.
It was the start of a considerable correspondence. Mary Belle Ormond wrote every few days for advice on everything from how to match a reticule to a hat, to whether or not unmarried ladies should wear jewelry. Every so often she would include a little thank-you gift with her letters such as a hand-painted card—very badly painted, Lottie noted, art evidently not being Miss Ormond’s forte—or an embroidered handkerchief. After a week Miss Ormond’s friend Miss Bennett also started to write for advice on clothes, and then Miss Bassett of the Letcombe Bassetts, and then Miss Goodlake, daughter of the Justice of the Peace, who had evidently overcome her jealousy that Lottie was Ethan’s mistress. Lottie referred a couple of the young ladies to the goods she had seen displayed in Mr. Winkworth’s shop; after a week or so, Mr. Winkworth sent round a pair of leather gloves as a thank-you for increased sales. A few days after that Mrs. Gilmore, the milliner, sent some sample ribbons around and an extremely becoming bonnet, with a carefully worded note to the effect that she hoped Miss Palliser would like her goods sufficiently to recommend them to other ladies. A day later Mr. Mattingley, the other draper, sent an embroidered shawl.
“You are getting quite a reputation around town, ma’am,” Margery commented one morning, as each day brought new letters from ladies and even gentlemen on occasion, requiring sartorial guidance.
“I thought that I already had one,” Lottie said, sighing.
“No, ma’am,” Margery said. “I meant a reputation for the best advice.”
Within a few weeks, however, it seemed that the nature of advice the townsfolk of Wantage required from Lottie was changing. No longer were their requests merely about gowns and accessories. The ladies were moving on to matters more delicate.
“Dear Miss Palliser,” Lottie read aloud from her pile one Monday morning, “I understand that you are experienced in matters of the heart, so I beg that you will help me.”
“Experienced in matters of the heart,” Lottie said to Margery. “That is certainly one way of putting it.”
The letter continued:
I have been married to a very worthy gentleman for the past ten years. He is kind and benevolent and a good husband.
“Poor woman,” Lottie said. “How dull.”
“However—” the letter was warming to its theme, the writing becoming even loopier “—he has no idea of my womanly needs.” The last two words were underlined. The final line contained a request:
I wonder if you might proffer some advice on how I might attract his attention and help him to understand what I desire of him?
“I admire her for wanting to try,” Lottie said, sighing, “but husbands are the very devil to retrain.”
“That sounds as though it will be from Mrs. Duster, the Parole Officer’s wife,” Margery said. She had come in with a pot of tea and some freshly baked walnut cake. “Everyone knows he is a stuffed shirt and that he has been plagued with digestive problems since the French came to the town. Lives on his nerves, they say.”
“I thought him a very kindly man when Ethan introduced us,” Lottie said, “though most frightfully embarrassed to have to acknowledge my existence.”
“Mr. Duster doesn’t approve of mistresses,” Margery said with a giggle.
“He will approve of his wife behaving like one once I have given her some advice,” Lottie said. “And we shall send some soothing pastilles for his stomach problems, too.”
The final missive of the day was from a young and impressionable lady who was apparently in love with one of the prisoners at Whitemoor gaol.
“These Frenchmen,” Lottie sighed. “They cause so much trouble.”
“Well, you would know, ma’am,” Margery said.
“I was not aware that one could visit Whitemoor,” Lottie said. She tapped her quill pen against the letter. “It seems quite odd to allow the townsfolk to mingle with the prisoners.”
“There is a market at the gaol every third Tuesday in the month, ma’am,” Margery said. “The prisoners sell items that they have made—carvings from wood and bone, ships in bottles, dominoes and suchlike—and us Wantage folk go along to buy it. Well—” she corrected herself “—no one goes to buy the goods, to be fair, but to gawp at the prisoners, ma’am.”
“Like a freak show,” Lottie said.
“Not really, ma’am,” Margery said, staring. “Many of them are quite handsome, ma’am, and not freakish at all.”
Lottie refilled her teacup and wandered out into the garden.
She wondered if Ethan knew of the Whitemoor markets. Surely he must have heard of them. One thing that was for sure was that the officers on parole would never be permitted to visit the gaol and see their fellow countrymen. She was beginning to appreciate the true nature of Ethan’s punishment the longer she was here in Wantage. He was penned up within three miles of his son. He could see the prison but never visit it. He would be tormented each and every day by the knowledge that Arland was so close and yet out of reach to him. Lottie’s heart twisted with compassion. Perhaps Ethan never spoke of his son because the hurt was simply too great. She understood that, understood how one might lock the pain away somewhere deep and never access it because to do so could be soul destroying. She looked at Whitemoor’s towers, so dazzling in the sun, and felt a long shudder down her back.
When Margery had gone out to take her replies to the post office, Lottie turned to the one remaining letter on the pile. It was from her brother, Theo, writing under the guise of an imaginary friend called Clarissa Bingham and it was somewhat plaintive.
My dear Lottie,
I hope that you are well and enjoying your new situation. Do you have any news for me? I have been awaiting your letters with impatience but so far you have neglected to write about our mutual friend. I am hoping to hear the most exciting reports. Send to me at your earliest convenience.
Your dearest friend, Clarissa Bingham.
The phrases mutual friend and earliest convenience were heavily underlined.
Lottie sighed. She had secretly been hoping that Theo might have forgotten about her commission. She had nothing to tell him—not that she had tried very assiduously to spy on Ethan—but there had been no letters left lying carelessly around and no mysterious strangers calling by with clandestine intelligence, so what was she supposed to do? Theo had told her simply to keep her eyes open, and she did, but she saw nothing. It was almost as though Ethan knew her game and was at pains to thwart her.
Lottie felt the panic and guilt rise up in her throat. Theo’s reminder meant that her time was running short. If she did not come up with something for him soon he might be inclined to cut his links to her and her hopes for the future would be extinguished. For once Ethan left her she would have nothing other than the assistance that Theo could give. His pledge to help her in return for information was her lifeline now. Besides, she had promised herself that she would be the one to leave, taking her pride and her self-respect with her. She would not wait for Ethan to dismiss her.
She grabbed the last remaining piece of writing paper and wrote quickly:
My dear Clarissa,
How delightful to hear from you! I trust that you are well and not too bored with your current post. I fear I can add nothing to the sum of your entertainment for now. Our friend leads a most exemplary life and indulges in nothing that would arouse your curiosity. In fact I sometimes wonder if you are quite mistaken in your opinion of him. If anything should occur to capture my interest I shall be sure to pass it on immediately. I hope to have better news for you soon. In the meantime I remain your devoted friend…
She sealed it, added the address that Theo had given her and took it to the post herself.
She felt the most abject traitor.
THERE WAS A REWARD of ten shillings for any member of the public who caught a prisoner breaking his parole, so on those nights that Ethan slipped away to meet his contacts he was always extremely careful. The British habitually set a man to spy on him, a man who claimed to be a gentleman called Ponsonby and had rented the manor of Stirlings for the summer. Ponsonby had British Army stamped all over him, Ethan thought, and stood out like a sore thumb loitering in the marketplace as he tried to keep an eye on what the French officers were up to. Ethan had some sympathy for him. Ponsonby was easily outwitted and could not have garnered a single useful piece of information to feed back to his paymasters. It was no wonder, Ethan thought, that they had upped the stakes by recruiting Lottie, as well. Very possibly they had other spies and informers, too. Betrayal was rife. It paid to trust no one.
On this particular night, Ethan waited until the parish clock struck midnight and then slipped out of The Bear and headed in the direction of Lottie’s cottage. There was a curfew on the prisoners—the bell rang at eight in the evening to call them back to their lodgings—but Ethan knew that Duster, the Parole Officer, would not make a fuss over him spending the night with his mistress. In the past few weeks Ethan had deliberately set up a routine of visiting Lottie after curfew and Duster was far too buttoned-up and embarrassed by the whole business to have raised it as an issue with him.
It was a warm night, clear with a bright sickle moon. The shadow that was Ponsonby—a somewhat substantial shadow—detached itself from the darkness and followed him at a discreet distance. Ethan could hear the echo of his steps on the cobbles. Ponsonby did not have a talent for passing unseen or unheard. Ethan smiled to himself and strolled along casually, hands in pockets, with the self-satisfied demeanor of a man contemplating a night of erotic pleasure.
When Ethan reached the corner of Priory Lane he quickened his pace suddenly so that Ponsonby, taken by surprise, missed the actual moment he slipped through the garden gate of Priory Cottage. Instead of entering the house he trod softly round into the orchard at the back. Here he paused for a moment to listen for sounds of pursuit—but there were none. Ponsonby would, he thought, be loitering in the lane wondering if it was worth waiting for Ethan to reemerge or whether he would be exercising his sexual prowess all night. Poor Ponsonby. What a tedious job he had.
There were lights in Priory Cottage. Ethan paused for a moment and realized that he could hear music faintly on the summer air. Lottie must be playing the piano in the parlor. He had not even known that she could play. He felt a little odd to realize it. There were so many aspects of Lottie’s life and character about which he knew nothing at all. The piano had been part of the furnishings of the house when he had rented it; he had not provided it for Lottie’s pleasure. Now he wished it had been a conscious choice, not simply part of the fittings.
He listened to the lilt and fall of the music. There was a descant there, a rich, golden cascade of sound. The canary, he thought. Day after day it had sat mute in its cage until he had almost stopped noticing it. Now it was singing. How extraordinary.
Ethan almost turned and went back to the cottage door. He wanted to see Lottie. The lure of the lighted windows and the sound of the music drew him. He knew that he habitually withheld something of himself from her when they were together. Sometimes he could feel himself slipping closer to confidences and drew back. He was a man who had never given away a part of himself to any woman and had never seen the need to do so before. Yet with Lottie he felt the urge to draw close, as he did tonight, and he had to make himself fight it. In bed he demanded that she be as uninhibited and unrestrained as he wanted and she never refused him. Their sexual relationship was intense and exciting. But something was lacking, something that had touched him briefly during those two days in London when they had first met, something that was deeper than the merely physical, something that even now he wanted back….
The music seemed to change, picking up speed, the notes dancing across the night air like the gaudy tune of a barrel organ. Suddenly the sound in Ethan’s ears was the raucous, brazen blare of the traveling circus and he was back without warning in the days of his childhood. He could smell the horses and see the vivid costumes of the tumblers, the clowns with their white faces, the acrobats turning cartwheels. And there was his mother holding out her arms to him and she was warm and smelled of flowers and she was smiling…. When he had run away from Eton at the age of fifteen he had searched halfway across Europe for her, following the circus from town to town, always running to catch up, chasing her shadow, never quite finding her. Where she was now he had no notion. He did not know if she was even alive.
The music jarred to a stop and Ethan shuddered, released from his memories. He could hear Lottie speaking laughingly to Mar
gery; lamplight pooled by the window. Quickly he slipped across the bridge that spanned the brook, away across the priory fields, keeping in the lee of the hedges. The ease with which he could reach the open country was another of the reasons he had chosen Priory Cottage for Lottie. Her role as decoy and distraction was not simply about creating scandal; she was his alibi, too, a tool to be used.
He had almost reached the place where he was to meet his contact when his luck ran out. In the lane that led westward across the Downs, a hay cart was rumbling downhill late, without lights. The horse saw his shadow and shied. The driver drew rein and jumped down, and Ethan felled him before the man had a chance even to see him. The laborer went down with a grunt to slump at his feet, and Ethan hauled him into the back of the cart and led the horse off the road to tie up in a nearby field.
“You didn’t kill him, did you?” a voice said, behind him. Ethan turned to see a man in the red of a British Army uniform step out into the moonlight.
“I hope I’m not such an amateur,” Ethan said. “I don’t agree with senseless killing.” He held out a hand. “Good to see you again, Chard. You had a safe journey?”
The other man grinned. “The best. A uniform and set of false papers eases the way.”
“You have messages for me?”
“Of course. You have the money I need?”
“Naturally.”
The exchange took place.
One Wicked Sin Page 16
