The Bridal Season

by Connie Brockway

  At this the snickers turned into outright laughter. Someone from the back shouted, “You tell ’em, Gracie!”, which caused the housekeeper to go beet-red to the roots of her improbably black hair and beam with delight.

  “I should hate to stand across from you in a court of law, Mrs. Poole,” Elliot said.

  “No chance of that as long as we women can’t vote, now is there?” Grace shot back.

  “Oh, no!” Constable Burns shouted. “None of that suffrage claptrap here. Not now, Grace, or I’ll arrest you for disturbin’ the peace.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Grace muttered flatly, inciting another peal of laughter.

  Letty looked around in stunned confusion. Where was their animosity, their sense of betrayal? The whole proceeding was taking on the aspects of light entertainment. They must want her to pay for her crimes.

  She frowned, baffled and uneasy. A slow warmth was unfurling deep within her. She distrusted it, feared it. People were never so ready to forgive. She’d spent four days trying to get used to the idea of prison: cold, drafty rooms; gray uniforms; no music; no laughter. No Elliot.

  “Quiet down,” Elliot called. “Mrs. Grace Poole has a point. Does anyone here wish to bring a complaint against Letty Potts and act on Lady Agatha’s behalf?”

  Eglantyne Bigglesworth cleared her throat and slowly rose to her feet. It was a monumental act of bravery for a woman so naturally reticent, and the laughter died away as everyone strained to hear her.

  “I rather think the point is that Miss Potts has already acted on Lady Agatha’s behalf.”

  Several people nodded thoughtfully.

  “Lady Agatha had left us, as Mrs. Poole pointed out and as Miss Potts would so colorfully phrase it, in the lurch. Miss Potts, as Colonel Vance would so picturesquely put it, leapt into the breach.”

  Letty felt the corners of her mouth lift. The darling would never make a playwright, not with mixing metaphors like that.

  “She has done all the work we asked of Lady Agatha and she hasn’t been paid a red farthing for her efforts. Regardless of whether you make Miss Potts stand trial or not, I believe we owe her our thanks. And Lady Agatha’s fee.”

  Letty gasped. Behind her Dorothy Himplerump gasped, too. Grace and Merry cheered. Anton puffed out his cheeks and said, “Good show, Eggie.”

  Angela stood up and linked her arm through her aunt’s. “I owe Miss Potts far more than my thanks,” Angela continued. Behind her Letty heard Mrs. Dorothy Himplerump gulp anxiously. “She has become my friend. She has offered me invaluable advice and aid. And if you do charge her with some ridiculous crime, Sir Elliot, I shall personally see that she has the finest counsel in England represent her.”

  Elliot arched a brow, considering the girl a moment before releasing her from his gaze. “Anyone else care to comment?”

  Colonel Vance chose that moment to awaken. His cane clattered from his lap to the floor and his head snapped upright. He blinked, looking around and scowling. Spying his daughter beside him, he shouted, “What’s happened? What’s going on with the girl who used to be Lady Agatha?”

  “Nothing, Father,” Elizabeth replied loudly. “They’re still deciding.”

  “Deciding what, for God’s sake?”

  “If she’s a criminal!” Elizabeth shouted back.

  “Well, of course, she ain’t. She gave me a strawberry trifle, didn’t she? What criminal gives a fellow a cake?” he said with such profound disgust that no one could help but smile. Including Letty.

  They were the kindest, most generous people in the world. But she couldn’t allow them to forgive her so easily. She deserved punishment. Perhaps she needed it. She cleared her throat, but before she could speak, Atticus March did.

  “Well said, Colonel.” He struggled painfully to his feet. “If I might speak, Elliot?”

  Elliot nodded, watching his father closely.

  “It seems to me we have a twofold problem here,” Atticus said. “The first, whether Miss Potts has committed a crime for which it is Elliot’s duty to charge her, seems to be resolved. No one wants to press charges, and in light of Miss Potts’s efforts toward Miss Angela in Lady Agatha’s stead, there is some question as to whether it is even ethical to do so. I believe we all agree it is not.”

  The crowd rumbled with sounds of concurrence. Except for Catherine Bunting, who remained silent. Letty stared ahead, dazed by their magnanimity.

  “The second problem is a bit trickier. It involves scandal.” The voices abruptly died away. “In little over a month, a large number of Londoners will arrive in Little Bidewell. They will be here only a short time, a week or so, and then they will be gone. They will take our Angela with them when they go, our daughter, niece, and friend.”

  Angela lowered her eyes modestly.

  “I am sure we all want Angela’s happiness.” Everyone nodded; every smile was tender with affection for the pretty, sweet-natured girl. Even Kip Himplerump looked sentimental in a sulky sort of way.

  “We all know that if these strangers ever hear about the background of the woman who planned Angela’s bridal party, if they ever hear anything about her profession or where she came from, Angela’s wedding ceremony will be forever stained by scandal.”

  Grumbles and dark looks shot back and forth between the spectators, as though everyone was already searching for the lout who’d ratted out the story of Angela’s actress-cum-wedding planner.

  “We can’t allow that, can we?” Atticus waited a minute for the shouts of “no” to die away. “Now, if we arrest this poor girl,” he gestured toward Letty, “and she is held over for trial, and possibly from there remanded for the Session Courts, the story will leak out.”

  The spectators traded worried glances.

  “However, if she is not charged with any crime, I am reasonably certain that we can keep the whole affair quiet.

  “Of course,” Atticus said soberly, his gaze touching on every person in the room, “there is one small matter. If anyone should ask, which it is very doubtful they will, we must all of us to a man—and woman—agree that Miss Potts was here under Lady Agatha’s auspices.”

  Letty waited. She understood why it would be best if she wasn’t charged with a crime; she conceded that if there was a chance to save Angela humiliation, it would be worth releasing a two-bit con artist.

  But there wasn’t a chance. They couldn’t carry it off.

  Letty knew far more about lies than they did. You needed to keep them simple and you needed to let as few people in on them as possible. There were upwards of fifty people in the room.

  She stood up and said so in a clear, carrying voice.

  Atticus regarded her politely as she explained the madness of their plan, and then he waited just as politely for her to sit down again.

  “While Miss Potts’s concern certainly does her credit—”

  Letty moaned. They mustn’t insist on attributing her with characteristics she didn’t own.

  “—she does not understand Society.”

  Now that was doing it a bit rough! Letty started to stand up again, but a sharp glance from Elliot put her grumbling softly back in her chair.

  “There’ll be scant chance of any one of us spending time in lengthy conversations with the Marquis of Cotton’s friends and relatives. Except for Paul and Catherine, of course.” He nodded toward the Buntings. “Most of us won’t speak to them at all. We need only keep mum for a few days, for a few minutes at a time. I daresay we can pull that much off.”

  “Of course, we can!” Paul Bunting cried. But Atticus knew very well who in the room could be counted Letty’s friend and who her foe.

  “What do you think, Catherine?” he asked, his gaze holding hers. “Can we remain mute for Angela’s sake?’

  She was caught as neatly as a rabbit in a snare. Struggle though she might, there was no way out. The smile on her face was stiff. “Why, of course we can,” she said clearly and, just as clearly, “For Angela’s sake we can do anything.�
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  The others had added their voices of assent until the whole room rang with their intention. Atticus turned back to where Elliot sat in broody thoughtfulness.

  “Well, Elliot,” he said quietly. “What’s it to be? Is Miss Potts under arrest?”

  Elliot stood up. Letty trembled as he regarded her, afraid he would release her, equally afraid he would not. She stood up and waited for his judgment.

  “Miss Potts, you are free to go.”

  Chapter 31

  Don’t try to turn a tragedy into a musical.

  Merry burst into the Marches’ morning room, her white maid’s cap askew and her eyes bulging. “She be leavin’ on the noon train ter London!’’

  Elliot rose from his seat at the breakfast table.

  “I got Ham ter drive me over, but you best hurry if you’re thinkin’ to stop ’er, Sir Elliot, sir.”

  “Ring for Mrs. Nichols, if you please, Father, and have her bring Merry a glass of water.”

  Atticus reached for the bell, but Merry shook her head. “Thank you kindly, sir, but I’ll be fine as soon as I catch me wind. I have to get back and slow her down.” She glared meaningfully at Elliot. “And you had best hurry. She has The Hat on!” And with that pertinent bit of information, she wheeled about and disappeared.

  Atticus regarded his son worriedly. He’d no doubt that Elliot loved Letty, and from what he’d seen, she felt the same about Elliot. But whether they could be brought to act upon their emotion was another thing entirely.

  “Miss Potts is an uncommon sort of female,” he said.

  “I am glad to have your opinion,” Elliot replied.

  “Ah.” Atticus nodded. “Then you have given thought to Miss Potts and her future.”

  “Quite a bit, actually.” Elliot watched him closely “She probably ought to be in prison.”

  “I imagine there are those who would take that view,” Atticus admitted.

  “I am not one of them,” Elliot said quite forcefully.

  “Oh? Neither am I.”

  “Good,” Elliot replied flatly, and then gave his sire a half-smile. “I’m sorry.” His dark face set into naturally imperial lines. “Father, I love Letty. I have never loved a woman in the same way, and before you advise me of the dangers of being intrigued by a woman because she has such a diverse background from my own, let me assure you I have told myself the same thing time and again.”

  Atticus hoped the poor, honest fool hadn’t said as much to Miss Potts. Being a woman of sensitivity, she would—

  “It’s not true,” Elliot said. “I do not love her for what she is, but for who she is.”

  “And that is?”

  A smile of such extraordinary pleasure appeared on Elliot’s lean countenance that Atticus drew a breath. “Why, a woman who would give a fellow a cake.”

  Letty placed the sheaf of papers on Eglantyne’s desk, satisfied that the directions for the wedding festivities were as complete as possible. She glanced at the wall clock. The London train left at noon. Until then, she could only pace and wait, memories of him standing at her shoulder and whispering in her ear.

  Where had he gone after yesterday’s hearing? What was he thinking? Did he regret making love to her? Would she ever see him again? If she occasionally walked down past the House of Lords, would she ever see him come out and catch a carriage, bound for a late-night dinner? With a lady? A real lady?

  “Miss Potts?”

  Startled, Letty turned. She’d been so immersed in her thoughts she hadn’t heard Eglantyne enter. She was carrying Fagin.

  “Yes, Miss Eglantyne?”

  Eglantyne held Fagin out. “I’ve brought you lambikins. I gather, what with all the distractions and so forth, you forgot him.” Her grave expression clearly told what she thought of such an oversight.

  “His name is Fagin. At least that’s what I’ve always called him. I suspect you might call him anything you like and eventually he’d answer to it. He’s a smart little beggar.” She took a breath. “And I didn’t forget him, Miss Eglantyne. He chose to stay.”

  The older woman’s eyes grew round.

  “He was never my pet, just a mate that shared the road for a ways, is all. Never thought we’d see the end of the line together, and looks like I was right.” She smiled at Eglantyne’s disbelief. “Why should he go searching about for what he’s already found. Someone who loves him as much as he loves her.”

  “Oh, Miss Potts—”

  “Letty. Please.”

  “You’re pulling my leg. Dogs can’t love.”

  Letty shook her head. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last few days, it’s that none of us can say who ought to love who, and if it’s right or possible or proper. It just is, Miss Eglantyne. Love just is.”

  “Are you sure?” Eglantyne asked, slowly withdrawing her arms. Fagin relaxed, cradled against her thin chest.

  “Doesn’t matter if I am,” Letty said, a hint of roughness in her throat. “He is.”

  “Thank you,” Eglantyne whispered. Her eyes were overly bright, and the thin hands stroking Fagin’s head trembled. “Thank you so much.”

  A discreet knock sounded on the door and Eglantyne turned, overcome with emotion, leaving Letty to answer. “Come in.”

  Cabot opened the door and stood back. “Sir Elliot.”

  She hadn’t expected to see him again, and his appearance caused her heart to flutter uncontrollably. He looked so beautiful: Clean and masculine and fine. Yet there were subtle signs that he had come in haste. His shirt cuffs weren’t straight and his tie was slightly askew. She longed to fix it.

  He saw her and his body tensed. His gaze traveled past her to Eglantyne. “Miss Eglantyne, if you would be so kind as to allow me a few minutes of Miss Potts’s time?” His voice was cultured and resonant and velvety, sending shivers through Letty.

  Eglantyne didn’t answer. Still holding Fagin, she simply brushed past Elliot, closing the door behind her.

  The morning light filtering through the windows picked out glossy blue highlights in his hair. The crinkles at the corners of his extraordinary eyes looked deeper, as did the lines bracketing his nose and mouth. The bruises on his face had faded a little, the darkest areas blooming yellow.

  “I am so sorry he hit you.”

  “I assure you it was a mutual exchange.” His smile was self-conscious and utterly disarming. “I ought to regret it, I suppose. It’s a childish sort of way of expressing oneself.” His smile grew wry. “But it was vastly satisfying.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. His gaze warmed with shared amusement.

  “He didn’t hurt you too badly?” she asked.

  “No. The worst thing about it is not being able to boast of the manly way I dispatched the ba—the bounder.”

  “And why can’t you do that?” she asked, her tone still flavored with amusement.

  He shrugged. “It isn’t done. You’d think me coarse.”

  Her smile faded. “Never.”

  The single word seemed to bring him abruptly back to the reality of their situation. He clasped his hands behind his back, and it looked to her as if he wasn’t sure how to begin or what to say. Such indecision was foreign for him, she was sure. He frowned, glanced up at her, frowned again, and paced a few steps. He stopped abruptly.

  “That,” he said, his gaze rising above her face, “is the most confoundedly attractive hat I have ever seen.” Whatever she’d expected, it hadn’t been that. Her bewilderment relaxed him and he moved closer, his gaze traveling with flattering attention over her hat. “Audacious, bold, yet vastly feminine.” His gaze fell to her eyes. “Exactly the sort of hat one would expect you to own.”

  She couldn’t think of how to reply. She had no idea where he was leading. She could only stand helplessly, wanting to fix his tie, wanting to be in his embrace.

  “Merry said you were leaving this morning. Going back to London.”

  She nodded.

  “Isn’t that rather precipitant? I mean, it
was assumed that you would finish making the arrangements for Angela’s wedding.”

  “I’ve finished,” she said. “Or as good as. I’ve made sketches of the set designs and instructions. The caterer and wine merchant are already engaged and the extra servers hired. The staff has all been apprised of their duties.” She lifted her shoulders. “Everything is done.”

  He did not look convinced. “But won’t this need someone to oversee the lot?”

  For the first time since he’d entered, she smiled. “Grace Poole and Merry are more than up to the task.”

  “I see.” He didn’t appear pleased and she understood his displeasure. He didn’t know these women as well as she did.

  “It will all be well,” she promised. “Besides, I received a telegram this morning. I’m to testify at Nick Sparkle’s hearing.”

  His brows drew together. “And you will do so?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “If he is set free, are you concerned he’ll seek retribution?” he asked. His scowl had become fierce, his expression dangerous.

  Could he still care?

  “No,” she answered breathlessly. “That is, I don’t see any possible way he can be set free.”

  Elliot moved within a few feet of her. His gaze was somber, his concern clear. Despite what she’d done, planned to do, despite having stolen his love for one night, he cared for her.

  “But if he is set free?” he insisted.

  She could no longer resist. She reached up and jiggled the knot until it aligned with the fall of his tie. “Well, that’s why I’m going to testify. To make certain he isn’t.”

  “If you married me, I would make certain you were safe.”