Good heavens, Meg told herself, could she really be contemplating staying on? She must have taken leave of her senses! But she was already in disgrace. Didn’t she deserve a little holiday from being proper for once?
Her mind still in turmoil, she went down to dinner.
His lordship awaited her at the foot of the stairs, offering his arm in gentlemanly fashion and leading her into the long dining room. “So formal, in the country?” she inquired, glad that at least he seated her beside him rather than at the far end of the massive oak table.
“I am accustomed to taking dinner in my study, but in honour of your arrival, I thought it would be pleasant to hold a sort of celebration.” The marquis surveyed a chilled bottle of Italian wine proffered by Franklin. “Would you care for some?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Meg, although she hardly ever drank anything stronger than ratafia.
She was starting on the soup of creamed cucumbers and wondering how to broach the subject of her identity when Lord Bryn himself took up the matter.
“When I went upstairs just now to say good-night to the urchins, I was told the most amazing tales.” His brown eyes caught Meg’s blue ones over the wineglasses.
“Indeed?” Her breath came rapidly. The nearness of the man was daunting. Seated so close to him, she could not help but be aware of the strong planes of his cheekbones, nor avoid noticing the way his gaze kept returning to her face.
“First of all, Thomas informs me that you sprang to the mouse’s defence and chastised the children firmly for risking its life and limbs. Not the sort of conduct one normally encounters in a governess.” He awaited her reply with evident interest.
“Children must learn to be kind to creatures that are weaker than they,” she replied. “Furthermore, I once had a pet mouse myself.”
“And then,” said his lordship, “Vanessa told me some things I found even more unusual.”
“Yes?” Now she was for it, Meg feared.
“She said that you are not a governess at all, but a lady of fashion, who has been presented at court. Wherever can she have got such ideas?” It might have been amusement lurking at the corners of his mouth, or merely a dry irony, but in either case how pleasant it would be to tease him, to joke and flirt, Meg thought, to her own surprise. She had never particularly enjoyed such pursuits in London, but then she had never met a man as magnetic as Lord Bryn.
In any event she must strive to be honest. But by the time she gathered her wits to speak, the servants arrived with venison in caper sauce, fillets of turbot, broiled mushrooms and ham fritters. She drew in a deep breath until the two of them were left alone.
“Vanessa got those ideas from me,” she said, and awaited his reply with a tight squeezing sensation across her chest.
“From you?” The marquis poured himself a second glass of wine, although Meg had scarcely begun her first. “How intriguing. It might work, you know.”
“Might work?’’ she repeated.
“The child is incorrigible,” he said. “She has no respect for man or beast. Except for grand ladies, since she expects to be one.”
“I would hardly call myself grand.” Meg kept her speech short, so that she might better enjoy the meal. To her surprise, she was ravenously hungry, and the food was excellent.
“Nevertheless, your description of Queen Charlotte appears to have made an impression,” he said. “You might turn that wild creature into a young lady yet, Miss Linley.” He saluted her with his glass before emptying it.
Meg nearly choked on a bite of the veal. He was taking all this as a game! “Suppose it were true, my lord?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Suppose I were in fact a lady on my way from London to Derby, and on account of my weak eyesight I mistook your carriage for my post chaise?” Now she’d said it.
“Then what has become of the real Miss Linley? Or Lindsay?” A glint in those dark eyes told her he was enjoying the sport.
“She, er, was falsely accused of a theft, and even though she was proved innocent, she quite lost all her courage and insisted upon turning back.” The tale sounded impossibly weak in Meg’s own ears. “She really was a fluttery creature, not at all suited to the upbringing of such sturdy children as your wards, you see.”
“Indeed.” The marquis nodded in mock gravity. “Now let me see. Ah, you haven’t yet explained why a young lady of good breeding such as yourself would be travelling unaccompanied.”
“I had brought my maid from London to Manchester, but she left, with my blessing, to join her true love, who is about to depart from Liverpool for Canada.” Oh, dear, thought Meg, I wouldn’t even believe that one, were it told me by the prime minister!
“Not quite up to your invention about the governess being accused of thievery, but excellent work for a moment’s notice,” said the marquis. “I must tell you, Miss Linley, that I am delighted to find myself employing a raconteuse.”
“Suppose I’m telling the truth?” She couldn’t quite bring herself to tell him so straight out. How could she bear to ruin the most pleasant evening she’d enjoyed in months?
“If this preposterous invention were fact,” mused the marquis, “I should nevertheless beseech you to grace us with your company, for the children are desperately in need of a governess. And I—” His voice broke off, as if from some strong emotion. In that moment, for all the weakness of her eyes, Meg believed she’d glimpsed a dark sliver of despair and loneliness slipping out through his tightly controlled features.
What had the war done to this man? Was she a fool to think that he needed her, and that duty required her to stay? More than duty, the caged needs of her own heart answered silently. If I am never to have a husband or children of my own, at least there can be this short respite. I want to be near him for a time, until I am strong enough to go my way alone.
“I will stay a while,” said Meg. Oh, Lord, what had she done? Dessert was brought in, but she scarcely tasted the Chantilly crème, and excused herself as soon as the meal was finished.
Impossible, she told herself as she hurried up the stairs. She must write the marquis a note. Giving him her parents’ names would suffice to clear up the matter. She might also confess her friendship with Helen Cockerell, the cousin of his intended.
Yet even as she commanded herself not to remain under this roof for a second night, Meg knew that she would. He had touched a place in her buried so long that she had ceased to believe in its existence.
She turned the knob and stepped into her bedchamber, halting as she caught sight of something sparkling on the dressing table. She crossed the room, picked up the silver-rimmed glasses, and perched them upon her nose. Two side extensions balanced them loosely upon her ears.
Around her, the room came sharply into focus. How bright the golden bed cover appeared, and how the polished lamp gleamed in its own light. How could she have failed to notice the intricate leaf pattern on the wallpaper, which now leaped out at her?
They were the most splendid glasses Meg had ever used. She did not see how she could bear to be parted from them. But as the property of the late Lady Bryn, they could not possibly be taken away from the premises. Perhaps it was a sign, she told herself shakily as she began to undress.
That very evening, Meg wrote notes to her cousins and her mother and Helen, describing her delight at unexpectedly renewing old acquaintance with a dear friend and telling how she had accepted the invitation to visit for a few weeks.
Chapter Six
Angela passed the evening following her sister’s departure in a state of unaccustomed agitation, although she hid these emotions from her mother by keeping her head lowered over a piece of embroidery.
How terribly she missed Meg! And how she resented the shallow society that had, in effect, banished her. Those silly ladies and gentlemen would forget the incident in a week, so long as Meg was absent. Why should they levy so strong a penalty for a mere misunderstanding? Angela loathed them all. How, then, could she still year
n so to be a part of that society, to dance with handsome gentlemen and go riding in Hyde Park? Her longings shamed her.
Lady Mary read aloud as they sat in their private parlour, a task that Meg had always fulfilled before. Angela scarcely heard the words, but she noted the dryness of her mother’s voice that signalled her advancing years.
I shall do it for Mother, Angela told herself, pleased at this compromise. I shan’t go about to gratify my own selfish wishes, but for all our sakes I must find myself a husband.
Would it be right, under the circumstances, to marry someone she did not love? Perhaps she should make a noble sacrifice. But it would hurt Meg and Lady Mary to see me unhappy, she reminded herself. With a sigh of relief, the girl concluded that duty required her to do exactly what she most wanted, which was to go out and enjoy herself, and to find a man she could cherish.
The next morning, Angela bounded out of bed with unaccustomed enthusiasm. Vauxhall, tonight, was to be her initiation—albeit an informal one—into the exalted realm of the ton.
Upon opening the wardrobe to select appropriate apparel for the morning, Angela noticed the dresses her sister had left behind. They reminded her that she must speak with her mother about ordering new gowns for her come-out.
There would be a ball in her honour! Angela whirled about the bedroom in delight. So many wonderful things to enjoy! People arriving in carriages, dressed in their finest, and instead of peeking down from the stairwell as she had done in her childhood, Angela would stand with Lady Mary to greet them.
She would have to wear white, of course—but that was so insipid. Perhaps ivory; the colour flattered her fair complexion. And for her hair? A wreath of tiny roses, she decided.
Angela descended for breakfast in a splendid mood, until she remembered that Meg was not here to share her happiness. “Do you suppose it was terribly uncomfortable, spending the night on the coach?” she asked Lady Mary, helping herself to coddled eggs and ham from the sideboard.
“I cannot think it was the most pleasant night she ever spent,” said her mother over a cup of coffee. In the morning light, her face looked more creased with worry than Angela had ever seen it. “But there was no helping it, and they should be arriving in Manchester shortly.”
They both lapsed into silence, each with her private thoughts. How to bring up the subject on her mind without appearing insensitive? Angela wondered. “What shall I wear to Vauxhall tonight?” she inquired at last.
“The pink muslin,” replied Lady Mary without thinking, as it was Angela’s only presentable gown.
“Shall we call on the dressmaker today?” her daughter continued.
“Beg pardon?” said Lady Mary.
“The dressmaker,” pressed Angela. “I must have gowns if I’m to come out. Do you think we’ll receive vouchers for Almack’s?”
“One can only hope.” Lady Mary brushed a wisp of hair back from her forehead.
Angela couldn’t understand why her mother failed to respond with more enthusiasm. “They cannot send the vouchers until I’m formally introduced to society, can they, Mother?”
“No, indeed.” Lady Mary was clearly listening with only half her mind.
Her daughter toyed with the food and poured out a cup of coffee for herself. “Is something amiss, Mother?”
“What?” A startled expression. “No, no. I was only thinking about... things.”
“We must make plans, for the season is almost half over,” Angela pointed out. “How many new dresses shall we order? I can make do with some of Meg’s clothes for riding and day wear, I think, but don’t you agree I shall need new ball gowns? And we must make arrangements for the band, and the food, and of course the flowers.”
Finally her mother paid full attention. “Oh, dear,” she said.
That did not bode well. “Have I said something wrong?” Angela asked worriedly. “I’m only concerned that the season will be over before we begin.”
“Quite right.” Lady Mary pushed aside her cup and was about to speak when the maid returned to clear away the dishes. “Come upstairs, Angela. We have matters to discuss.”
Matters to discuss? the girl wondered as they ascended. Always before it had been Meg who shared their mother’s confidences, and she felt vaguely uneasy even as she enjoyed being treated as an adult. If only the words didn’t sound so foreboding.
Lady Mary led the way into Angela’s bedroom, closed the door firmly behind them, and went to open the wardrobe. She began examining Meg’s dresses. “We can have this made over.” She lifted out a gown of silver gauze embroidered with tiny rosebuds. “The waistline can be raised to suit the new styles.”
Angela watched in distress. “But can’t I have my own ball gowns?” she asked. “Someone might recognize this one and say the Linleys are woefully pinchpenny!”
Her mother turned to face her. “Sit down, Angela,” she said with a speaking look.
The girl sat in a gilt chair by the dressing table. “Have I been rude, Mother?”
“No, my dear.” With a deep sigh, the older woman sat on the bed with the silver dress over her arm, forgotten. “It is time we discussed the matter of finances.”
“Finances?” Angela knew nothing of bank accounts, rents and investments, so surely her mother did not mean that.
“When your father died, I was left with a modest competence,” said Lady Mary. “Enough to keep us in comfort, if we lived quietly in the country. But that would have meant no chance for either of you to marry well, and so we came to London.”
It had never occurred to Angela that they could not afford their current way of life, and she stared at her parent in dismay.
“The expenses of a London season are considerable,” her mother went on in the same calm voice. “Meg’s come-out ball and her gowns were expensive. I’m afraid, my dear, that we cannot afford the same for you.”
“We can’t?” Angela’s voice emerged in a squeak.
“Fortunately Meg took great care of her dresses, and they can be altered,” Lady Mary went on. “Her...disgrace gives us good reason to avoid the ostentation of a ball. We shall seek some more modest means of bringing you out.”
“Then I shan’t be invited to Almack’s?”
“Although unfortunately both your grandfathers’ titles have devolved upon distant cousins, we are still well enough connected, and I have some old school friends who would speak in our behalf,” her mother said. “We may yet obtain vouchers.”
Angela stared glumly down at her hands. Much as she despised her own frivolity, she had looked forward to selecting fabrics for her gowns and decorations for her ball. How was a gentleman to notice her, if she were seen only at an occasional card party?
“My dear, I am terribly sorry to disappoint you,” said Lady Mary. “Even Meg wasn’t fully aware of how straitened our circumstances have become.”
Meg. She’d gone off to Derby without protest, more than willing to give Angela her chance. The younger girl lifted her chin and met her mother’s eyes squarely. “Forgive me for my selfishness.” She managed to keep her voice steady. “I shall do my best to acquire a suitable husband, Mother, and I shall be honoured to wear my sister’s gowns.”
Seeing that Lady Mary still appeared distressed, Angela distracted her by reaching for the silver gown. “You’re quite right that we should raise the waistline, and supposing we add a bit of pink ribbon at the neckline and hem? No one will recognize it, not even Helen.”
The stratagem proved effective, and soon mother and daughter were fully absorbed in devising ways to turn Meg’s old dresses into new ones.
Gaily decorated lanterns filled the night with dabs of colour, musicians played themselves into a seeming frenzy in the golden cockleshell at the centre of the gardens, and the wine flowed merrily in the reserved box at the Rotunda.
Assured that his sister, Helen, was enjoying herself in the company of their Aunt Emily and two young cousins, Mr. Edward Cockerell leaned back in his chair and gazed at the motley crowds
circulating through Vauxhall.
A pity that anyone could enter—the cost was a mere pittance—he reflected, noting a pair of ruffians who swaggered across the grass, freely eyeing the ladies. Ranelagh had been far more exclusive and elegant, which was perhaps why it had closed for lack of funds six years before, when Edward was three and twenty.
Helen poked her brother in the ribs, startling him so that he nearly overturned his chair. “I see Lady Darnet.”
Edward felt himself blush a deep unaccustomed scarlet, aware that his sister’s voice had been heard by everyone at their table.
“Who’s Lady Darnet?” squealed their twelve-year-old cousin Rachel, who, with her brother and mother, was their houseguest for the summer.
“That lady yonder.” With her ivory fan, Helen pointed to a tall young woman walking on the arm of an older man.
Cynthia Darnet, married at eighteen to a count and widowed childless a year ago at seven and twenty, had been esteemed an Incomparable at her come-out. And as Edward well knew, the intervening years had in no way dimmed her cool beauty, which was accentuated by dark upswept hair and glacially serene grey eyes.
“Who’s that man with her?” piped up Cousin Teddy, with the unrestrained gusto of a ten-year-old.
“One of her suitors, I expect.” Helen cast a sideways glance at her brother, and Edward cleared his face of all expression.
It was no secret that he sometimes called upon Lady Darnet since her emergence from mourning. A man had a duty to wed, and with the great age of thirty looming before him, Edward intended to fulfill his familial obligations. Lady Darnet was by far the most likely prospect among his acquaintance.
“Looks cold as a mackerel to me,” declared Rachel. “Do you notice how she barely nods to the people she knows?”
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