by Beverley, Jo
She certainly didn’t want to be an eccentric.
Perhaps it was weak to shrink from that. Perhaps she should be willing to be like brave women of the past who’d flouted society to follow a dream, but examples like Joan of Arc came too readily to mind. No one was going to burn her at the stake, but she’d hate being sneered at as peculiar, whispered about as a scandal, and forever excluded from normal life.
When she arrived home, she found her father, but Charlotte Johnson was there, too, smiling, welcoming. Oh so clearly they were intent on making her part of the new family.
She wanted to scream, but she took a light supper with them and managed to bear her part in the conversation. She told the Stevenhope story again, but Charlotte said, “It perhaps wasn’t kind to make fun of the man, Lucy.”
“He made a fool of himself, and I kept a straight face. I was the only one.”
“Such a cruel world,” Charlotte said.
“On the contrary, I find many people kind. Lady Ball and Lady Vandeimen have helped me feel at ease. They were both acquainted with my mother, of course.”
Even as she spoke she could hear the edge, and was she even flaunting aristocratic acquaintances?
Charlotte showed no upset. “Your mother’s lineage must make you more comfortable in that setting. I’m sure I could never be.”
She made that sound like a virtue.
“Some of the activities are very interesting, and often informative.” Lucy described concerts, exhibitions, and even a talk on bone carvings, but she felt humored.
She’d probably once felt as Charlotte did—that the beau monde flitted about in idle pleasures while others worked.
“Of course,” she tried, “all these people will soon be back taking care of their estates.”
“Or off to Brighton to play games with the Regent,” her father said.
Unfortunately true.
Charlotte surprised Lucy. “I gather sea air is very healthy, and even sea-bathing, if done decently. I wouldn’t wish to visit Brighton, but some other, quieter place might be beneficial, as might country air.”
“I’m sure you’re right, dear,” Lucy’s father said, and she recognized the tone. He had no intention of doing any such thing.
Her mother had always accepted that tone, for it was rarely used, but Lucy had the feeling Charlotte would not. She had the horrible feeling that Charlotte had plans, not just for trips to the seaside, but for a move out of the City, to a leafy villa and clean air. And that Charlotte, in her own way, had a will as strong as her father’s.
She retired early, leaving the couple alone.
Would they kiss, or were they too old for that sort of courtship?
Would they in time be engaged in battle over where to live and raise their children? Lucy could have told Charlotte how to win. Simply suggest that City air had played a part in her mother’s death. With or without that, she suspected that Charlotte would triumph in the end.
She opened her journal, realizing that she hadn’t written in it since returning home. She’d had infinite time and privacy, but she’d written nothing. Because thoughts written down became more real?
She forced herself to lay it down.
This is no longer my home,
And may soon not be my father’s home, either.
Not here for me to visit if I wished.
I will have no home.
There. Set into words, like the carving on a gravestone.
I long to restore the past,
To belong here once again,
And live as I once lived,
Part of this exciting City world.
But perhaps I never did.
Perhaps that was illusion.
The world I knew is breaking up
Like the ice on the river after the Frost Fair.
Cracking, floating away, dissolving entirely.
Even if it still existed, would I want to remain,
Barred from true involvement by my sex?
The last word was clumsy because she’d worn her pencil lead down to nothing. She took her sharp knife and whittled away wood to expose a fresh, clean point. With it, she wrote:
I must accept the loss, and build a new life.
After a moment, she surrendered, though she wrote it gently, the pencil hardly pressing on the page.
David. His name is David.
David and the kite.
Playful, warm, tender with a child.
Remember that. It must be as much
A part of him as the earl in amber light.
Groomed, polished, dark and dangerous.
Too dangerous for an earl,
Or for an estate manager.
She paused to consider that.
Who is the real man?
Such mysteries should make me wary,
But instead they add to his wicked appeal.
They draw me to the flame.
He is a mystery I must explore
All my life long.
That was where this had been heading.
As her mother had wanted her father, so she had wanted, from the first, the very first. Perhaps even from that first glimpse in Winsom’s. At least she hadn’t fixed on an impoverished young merchant. She was madly, passionately in love with a handsome young earl. Impoverished, yes, but definitely a step up.
She couldn’t help but smile.
A whole staircase up!
Her mother’s father had disapproved, but her own father would be delighted.
She remembered his queries about Wyvern, but she knew he’d like him when they met, because in some ways they were alike. They were both practical rather than scholarly. They both had clear, sharp minds. They were both strong in a particular way that came from having had to carve out their fortunes.
Even their origins were similar. Both had grown up believing themselves to be bastards. David had the edge in knowing who his parents were, but his mother was a wanton and the identity of his father had been confused.
Her new life would present challenges, but she enjoyed challenges. The wife of an impoverished earl would have work to do. She had little experience of the management of a large house, but she could learn. She could be frugal, for her parents had never indulged in foolish extravagance.
There could be work for her to do on the estate and she could learn that, too. There could even be business to make prosper. Many noblemen had mines on their lands. There were tin and copper mines in Cornwall. Did that extend into Devon?
Fish? She knew nothing about the fish trade except that there never seemed to be enough fresh fish to supply the needs of London. Dried and salted fish was imported from abroad at a good profit. Could more be made close to home?
Her money could be used to develop many types of industry in the area. If there were fast-running streams, they could power mills and even factories. There were new developments in steam power, and new machinery to be run by it.
She laughed. Her father would say she was running away with an idea, as she was wont to do, but it felt wonderful. All she really wanted in life was a worthwhile purpose.
And an earl. A particular, unusual earl.
Who didn’t want to marry her.
She shrugged that away. She knew what she felt, and what she sensed in him. She had only to remember their kisses.
He was hers to claim.
* * *
Betty’s wedding took on new brilliance in the light of Lucy’s thoughts. On her wedding day she’d shine with joy as Betty did. She’d look at her husband—at David—as Betty looked at James. She’d leave her wedding breakfast in expectation of a wondrous wedding night.
All the same, when she hugged Betty farewell, Betty said, “Tears? You?”
Lucy smiled and wiped them away. “Silliness.”
“No, I feel it, too. It’s an end of some things, isn’t it?”
“And a beginning of everything.”
“For you, too? You’ve found your love? A lord?”
Lucy longe
d to share everything with her friend, but this wasn’t the time. “Not a Scottish one, I promise. When you return from your honeymoon, perhaps I’ll have a tale to tell.”
“I look forward to it. I want you to be as happy as I am.”
“That would be a blessing,” Lucy said and hugged her friend one last time.
A silly thought, but as Betty said, this marked an end to so many aspects of their lives.
That night in her bed Lucy couldn’t help thinking of Betty, discovering the full mysteries of marriage. Knowing Betty and James, there would be laughter along with passion. But would they attempt the extraordinary positions in those Indian drawings?
The kite-flying man would be a lighthearted lover.
What sort of lover would the darkly masterful man be? Remembering the way he’d seized her in that garden, she shivered, but it wasn’t with fear. He’d excited her in a way she’d never experienced before, but wanted to again, soon.
So would it be.
* * *
On Sunday morning, Lucy longed to rush back to Mayfair, but she was expected to attend church before leaving. When she went downstairs, ready to walk to St. Michael’s, she must have shown the effects of a night spent in waking dreams.
Her father said, “I wouldn’t have expected a simple wedding to wear you down, pet, when you’re accustomed to ton gallivanting.”
Lucy knew lies wouldn’t work, so she said, “I lay awake a while, thinking about changes. Betty and I will never be the same again.”
“True enough, but as young married women you’ll be as close.”
She might as well prepare the ground. “Not if I marry into the nobility.”
“Ah, you have a man in mind?”
Lucy realized that this wasn’t the moment, not when her father had suspicions.
“Perhaps, but nothing is settled.”
“I hope not. Of age you might be, Lucy, but I’ll have my say.”
But not right of refusal, she said silently.
It was pleasant to attend service in the familiar church where she’d been baptized, and to chat afterward with people she’d known all her life. But then she began to feel that they already saw her as part of another world. Perhaps it was her clothing. She was wearing the pink gown in which she’d moved to Aunt Mary’s, and a bonnet raised eight inches with a confection of feathers and flowers. No other lady was dressed that way.
In church, Charlotte and her daughters had shared her father’s pew. They were already treated as part of the Potter family, perhaps more comfortably a part of this world now than Lucy was.
So be it. She was reconciled to that.
As they turned to stroll back to the house, Lucy maneuvered to walk with the girls and their nursemaid, letting her father walk with Charlotte, as it should be.
When the carriage came to the door and she took farewell of her father, he said, “You’ll be back home soon for our wedding, pet.”
She agreed, but her mind was already turned toward other futures, other homes. Today was Sunday, which her aunt insisted on treating as a pious day. How was Wyvern to woo her, and how was she to pay with kisses?
She was sure he’d find a way.
Chapter 17
“How was the wedding?” Clara demanded as soon as Lucy was through the front door. “Did you cry?”
“Of course,” Lucy said. “It was lovely, probably because Betty and James are so much in love. They glowed.”
Clara clasped her hands. “I hope I’m like that on my wedding day!” But then she asked, “Was she not a little nervous?”
“No. Why should she be?”
Clara dragged Lucy up to their bedroom. “The wedding night!”
“Oh, that. She and James have known each other for years.”
“You mean . . . ?”
Lucy laughed. “Not in the Biblical sense! Really, Clara.”
Clara was red. “I’m sorry. I just thought . . . in the country, you know, some betrothed couples do, you know. Before the wedding.”
“Truly? Why?”
“Because the farming life is hard for a childless couple. Generally, if there are no children, they adopt some from families with too many, but it’s better to have plenty of their own. I thought it might be like that in the City. After all, your father must want a son. That’s doubtless why he’s marrying again.”
It still hurt.
Lucy took off her bonnet. “Tell me, what news of Town?” Speak to me of Wyvern.
“Tittle-tattle. Nothing of importance. Except Stevenhope has offered for Lady Iphigenia and been accepted. So the poor Peasant Earl has lost his love. I teased him about it.”
“Stevenhope?”
“Wyvern! He danced with me at Lady Galloway’s ball, but only because he wanted to know why you weren’t there.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Of course it was! At least . . . I don’t think he asked me to elope with him.”
Lucy turned to her. “What?”
“I don’t think so. It was such an odd thing to say.”
“What did he say?”
“That it would be exciting to elope.”
Pure rage sizzled through her. “You must have been mistaken.”
“I wasn’t! The exact words. More or less. Then I teased him about Lady Iphigenia, because Stevenhope was leading her out for the first dance, which can have significance, as you know. Do you think that’s why Wyvern sort of proposed? Because I agreed to the first dance with him? But I have only a modest dowry, so I’m sure not, and there was nothing of that in his manner, though he was a little odd. Do you think madness can be concealed?”
I think a short time with you could derange anyone.
“So he didn’t actually propose?” Lucy asked.
“No. But why else mention elopement?”
Lucy had no idea, but equilibrium had returned. There were a host of reasons Wyvern wouldn’t want to marry Clara and scarcely a one that he should. She dragged talk back to a firm point.
“Stevenhope and Lady Iphigenia. Is she the type to enjoy being described as a wilting bloom?”
Clara giggled. “I fear so, because she does wilt. As if her bones were soft. Even her curls droop. And he’s quite well-to-do, so she’ll be a comfortable wilt as long as she can humor his mother.”
“His mother?”
“Sour and eagle-eyed.”
Lucy sat down. “I never even considered mothers. Never say she lives nearby.”
“Not merely nearby—in his house! Not even in the dower house, though a mother-in-law can be formidable from there. I shall attempt to find a husband with a dead or absent mother.”
“Wyvern’s mother is as far away as a mother could be.”
Lucy immediately regretted saying that, but Clara merely giggled. “A point in his favor!”
It was indeed. As was him needing to know why she was absent. He must have missed her. . . .
“Don’t you think?”
Lucy had been far away. “About what?”
“Lord Darien! Is he a murderer like his brother?”
“Who’s Lord Darien?”
Lucy listened to the latest scandal—a story gory enough to be in a novel. Lord Darien’s brother had murdered an innocent young lady, and now suspicion hung over him, too, because bad blood ran in the family.
“Poor man,” Lucy said.
“You have such a soft heart!” Clara protested. “Darien looks a thorough villain. He scowls and is scarred.”
“That surely isn’t to be counted against him. Didn’t you say he’d been a soldier?”
“Oh, very well, but he certainly wouldn’t be a comfortable husband.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
“I’m not sure,” Lucy said, but it was another deceit. A comfortable husband sounded like a feather bed—good for sleep, but not for the waking hours. And perhaps not for passion, either.
Wyvern would not be an entirely comfor
table husband. He’d shown her that.
When would she meet him again?
She had his address now and could write to him. So tempting, but she had enough sense left not to show her hand so clearly. She’d wait for him to make the move.
She was sure he would.
The Caldrosses were so bold as to stroll in the park in the late afternoon, for Aunt Mary declared that admiration of God’s work was suitable for His day. Conveniently, this meant encounters with others of the same devout purpose, charitably intent on sharing gossip. Stevenhope and Lady Iphigenia were mentioned, as was the Darien scandal, but there was a bounty of more trivial news.
Lucy was struck by the fact that she now knew most of the people mentioned, at least by name, and could understand much of the innuendo. Willy-nilly, she’d become part of this. But the principal person on her mind, Lord Wyvern, did not appear.
Devout obligation to family took them out of the house in the evening to dine with Lord Caldross’s younger brother, a naval captain. Aunt Mary traveled with the manner of a Christian martyr approaching the Coliseum, and Lucy could share her feelings, for of a certainty Wyvern wouldn’t be there, either.
She assumed her aunt expected tedium, but she soon understood why red-nosed Captain Fytch was landlocked with a position at the Admiralty. She certainly wouldn’t trust him with a ship. He was on the go when they arrived, and rollicking drunk by the time they left. He tried to pinch her cheek, with a look in his eye that suggested other desires. She made a startled movement that “accidentally” struck him just below his bulbous nose.
He staggered back, cursing.
Lucy gushed apologies while allowing Aunt Mary to drag her away.
To think she’d sometimes regretted her lack of close relatives. Wyvern’s strange parentage and lack of family was more delightful by the moment. But where the devil was he, as suitor or as employee demanding wages owed? Sunday propriety shouldn’t present an insuperable problem.
Perhaps he’d tired of the game. Was she out of sight, out of mind? Was he back in attendance on Miss Florence? Her heart wouldn’t believe it, but her mind preached the inconstancy of men.
