“Erm. Yes?”
“Indeed, I told him so quite honestly when he came for supper. I took the liberty of writing out some suggestions of more suitable topics for the man. One should never shirk the proper denunciation of behaviour that leads to divine displeasure: one must encourage trembling hands and faltering lips. And naturally I wrote of it to our mutual cousin, the dear Lady Dunwell. She is such a goodly creature that she is certain to have many sound suggestions for his improvement. I wonder if she will attend our nuptials. She does not approve of frivolity, and weddings are always frivolous despite one’s best attempts to the contrary, I am told. My aunt has gone to London, to order confectionary, because Papa says it is fitting. But I think it shocking, when bread and butter would do just as well.”
Mr Stanhope turned even more pale at the thought of bread and butter. Maggie suspected that the indomitable Lady Dunwell would have been suitably impressed.
Pleased with herself, Maggie decided that she was a much better actress than she had previously given herself credit for being.
Maggie watched with thorough enjoyment as Mr Stanhope struggled for words, no doubt picturing himself wed to a younger Lady Dunwell. This confirmed her suspicion that he, too, received regular and damning correspondence from the woman.
“And do you frequently correspond with my Lady Dunwell?” Maggie’s would-be suitor asked carefully.
“Oh yes! It is ever so rarely that one meets persons equal integrity and intelligence with her ladyship. I have come to admire her greatly over the years and value her advice above all else. It’s a shame that she lives such a great distance away. Where is your home, Mr Stanhope?”
“Three miles outside Bath, Miss Dacre.”
“Is that so? Why, that is certainly most agreeable. I shall be able to visit her often – such a dear elderly lady. I think, after we are wed, we must ask her to come and stay with us. Certainly, you are aware that I have no mother, and Lady Dunwell has been offering to teach me all I need to know to be a suitably irreproachable wife. She has a great many tips for running a household beyond compare.”
Maggie wanted nothing more than to lean back and enjoy the expressions of horror and dread flash across the man’s face. However, she forced herself to keep the rigid posture of the irreproachable Miss Margaret Dacre.
Cecile came in not long after with a tray of tea and the driest biscuits to be found in the larder.
“You refreshments, Margaret,” she said.
“Thank you, Cecile. That is most thoughtful. Mr Stanhope, would you care for a biscuit? I have them made especially by our cook. They have not an ounce of sugar. I believe sweet and rich foods pollute not only the body but the spirit. One ought to stave off corruption at every turn.”
“I am sure they are delightful,” Stanhope said faintly, accepting a biscuit but not tasting it.
Maggie peered at him owlishly over her spectacles, before nodding approvingly. “I shall have cook detail the recipe so that you may introduce them into your own household. She also makes a fine cabbage soup – just cabbage and water, of course.”
Privately, she wondered where Cecile had managed to find the dreadful things. The added touch was truly genius.
It was fortunate that the spinsterly Miss Margaret Dacre would never be so frivolous as to show any sigh of enjoying the biscuits, because she didn’t think her acting would hold up to that.
Stanhope cleared his throat. “You are too kind.”
After a moment, however, his horror was replaced with a flash of determination and then the most false expression of joy Maggie had ever seen.
She felt a stab of irritation: she had hoped to have him running for the door the moment the biscuits were brought in. Mr Stanhope, it seemed, was as desperate to contract the match as she was to escape it.
She wondered what his motives might be.
“Indeed, I must say I think that will be most agreeable, my petal.”
“Miss Dacre, if you please – I do not stand on informality. And I am pleased to hear that. I know you have been widowed for quite some time, and certainly a gentleman cannot run a household with the correct degree of frugal precision. No doubt you have fallen victim to the current fashion and employed a French cook. There will be none of that nonsense when I have charge of your establishment, you need not worry. Now, will you stay for supper? I never have dinner.”
Satisfied of having conveyed a suitably frightful impression, even if Stanhope was doing his best to ignore it, Maggie was about to set down her cup of tea and leave the room.
“I should be delighted. But first, we ought to get know each other somewhat better.” The glint in his eye was near mad with desperation.
“You are quite right. You are welcome to come with me to call at the vicarage before supper.”
“I thought perhaps we might speak privately?” The lascivious glint was back in his eyes.
“We are speaking privately, Mr Stanhope.”
In a minute, he had left his chair and joined her on the settee.
“But not privately enough. I declare, I am overcome with adoration, Miss Dacre. Your beauty has taken prisoner my trembling heart! I shall die if you do not kiss me. Do not be so cruel as to turn me away in my hour of need!”
“Mr Stanhope!” Maggie exclaimed in her most scandalized voice. “I believe it improper for a gentleman and a lady to sit so closely before they are lawfully wed.”
“To sit… And what of dances then?” He leaned into her.
“I never dance. It is corrupting and foolish. I prefer to indulge in reflection, instead. You may hear me read from my favourite book of sermons by Mr Bell, if you please. There is a fine one on the subject of chastity.”
She was determined to give him no opportunity to speak at all.
“Ah, I am most fond of reflection, my dearest. Reflection on matters of the heart, in particular. And now, perhaps, that kiss to seal our engagement?”
He made to grab Maggie and plant a kiss on her lips, but she was much too fast for him, upending her tea over his absurd trousers and shooting to her feet.
“How dare you take such liberties, Mr Stanhope!” she gasped. “What kind of woman do you take me for? I am not some society flirt. I hope you understand that I will not tolerate such immoral behavior, either now or after we are wed. A man’s wife is his bastion of goodness.”
“Well! A willful wife, are you now? And this after you have ruined my finest trousers!”
“You would do well, I think, to read up on the many moral dangers of wearing silk, sir. Good day to you.”
With that, Maggie swept imperiously out of the room, up the stairs and into her bedroom, where Cecile awaited her. Firmly shutting the door, Maggie burst into a fit of giggles.
“Well, I have done just as Papa wished: Mr Stanhope met a very paragon of womanhood.”
“His lordship will be furious,” Cecile said in an awed whisper.
“As well he might: he wished for an obedient daughter, and I gave him a flower of English piety. I can only wonder what it is Stanhope wants of me that he tried so hard to play along with my little farce? He professed his adoration. Devil take him, he seemed determined to persist.”
Not five minutes later, Maggie was summoned back downstairs to face her furious parent. Lord Chenefelt rose from his seat to pace and rant while Maggie stood in front of his desk, looking entirely unapologetic.
“What were you playing at, you imbecile child? Mr Stanhope’s trousers have been ruined and he is under the impression that my daughter is the most prudish creature alive, fit only to be companion to Lady Dunwell! Piety? I have yet to see a shred of piety in you!”
“But Papa, you said you wished me to be virtuous and modest.”
“And I suppose you think you have played a clever game, do you? Well, it won’t do. You will marry Kingsley Stanhope. Whether it be in muslin or grey wool, I care not. ”
Maggie said nothing to that.
“It is your brother I blame for planting all o
f these wild notions. Your display was entirely unbecoming in my daughter. Of all the damned possible inconveniences, now I must to London, to see if I cannot make amends once Stanhope’s temper has cooled off. I warn you, my girl, you will be dearly sorry yet for your little game.”
“You will chase after him? Papa, don’t you care that I do not want to marry that oaf?” Maggie demanded.
She could not believe his indifference, though it was being enacted before her very eyes.
Lord Chenefelt waved his hand in dismissal. “Certainly not. Young girls never know what they want. Your mother didn’t want to marry me at first, but she was perfectly content with her husband and family once she did. Your aunt will tell you as much. The same will happen for you.”
Not if I can help it, Maggie thought to herself.
“Now I must somehow dispel the embarrassment you have brought on this family. You are to remain in this house, do you, hear? And reflect upon your most unbecoming conduct.”
*
Lord Chenefelt departed his country seat under his own personal stormcloud, having instructed Maggie to prepare herself for her upcoming nuptials and to expect her aunt’s return in three days’ time.
Maggie knew that she daren’t wait for Aunt Verity. What if her aunt had no good news to impart?
This was no time to be missish or uncertain. She had either to make a choice and forge the rest of her life, or sit back and let herself be swept up into an unhappy union with Kingsley Stanhope.
“You still mean to run away? To go to France?” Cecile asked when Lord Chenefelt’s carriage was out of sight. She looked deeply uneasy.
“Certainly. But it is not running away. I am taking a short tour – or a long one, perhaps. I am escaping a hopeless grey world before it should swallow me whole. I stand by my offer – you need not accompany me if you do not wish it. I will leave some sort of proof that you were ignorant of my plans, and you will keep your place at Chenefelt, or go to Aunt Verity’s household, if you prefer.”
Cecile considered. “Thank you, but I shall go with you. Goodness knows you’ll want a friendly face with you, in a strange country all alone. And the crossing is frightful.”
Maggie was deeply touched by the brave sacrifice Cecile was making. Her eyes prickled with tears as she took her friend’s hand in her own.
“Thank you, Cecile. I am aware of what this decision means for you. I promise that you will not suffer for it. I shall use some of my mother’s money and help you set up your shop. Perhaps, it will be a solution for us both!”
“You would do that?” There was an unmistakable longing in her voice.
“Yes, you have my word. Mama’s money will serve us in good stead, at least for a while. Will you pack a few necessities? Not many. Paris will require new gowns, I believe. I’ve heard it said that there was once wild blood in the Dacre line – knights, conquerors, and the like. I think perhaps it’s time I found out whether there is even a drop of it in me. Vivez san regrets – that is our motto, and I shall do just that.”
She would take her sketchbooks with her, she thought. They might just be the key to a whole new life. Such dresses she would make!
Of course, they would need new identities, Maggie thought, to match new gowns and new lives.
Her mother’s money would be of great help, if she could get at it. “I must raise the wind,” she mused aloud once Cecile had gone to bed. She considered selling her horses instead… but it would only be a matter of time before someone in the stables noticed and told her father.
The trouble was that Maggie had no way to access her portion without her father’s man of business getting involved…
Unless she should write to him in His Lordship’s hand, a skill taught her long ago by Frederick when he came home from Eton for the vacation. She could insist that His Lordship was quite intolerably busy and could not think of attending the bank himself, but that Maggie was to be given access to part of her portion in addition to her pin money. Given a suitably demanding tone, such a letter would not be out of character for her father.
Well, she decided, I may as well leap with both feet in.
Maggie got out of bed, and lit a candle, taking it to her little writing table.
She produced the note her father had sent to summon her to his study, and turned a fresh sheet of paper up-side down just as Frederick had shown her, before beginning her brief missive. Thankfully, her father’s letters were always abrupt, so she was spared any tricky explanations.
Pleased with herself, Maggie sealed up the letter, and crept downstairs, to add it to the pile which would go out in the morning.
After a few hours of restless sleep, Maggie spent the day packing, repacking and doing her best not to worry about what future lay in wait for them. On the day of their departure, Maggie rose early under pretence of taking herself to London to look at wedding silks. She made a huge production of compiling a list of dressmakers over breakfast before calling for her little brougham.
With Cecile as her chaperone, and a few bags for each of them, cleverly hidden in the carriage, they made for Dover.
Chapter 3
The road to Dover proved long and tiresome. Maggie and Cecile passed the hours by attempting to formulate a likely story and new identities. Maggie felt somewhat giddy at this new freedom – she had never attempted anything this daring in her whole life.
“I’ve done with all of it: Stanhope, the dreadful solitude of Chenefelt and most of all The Ballroom Etiquette for Young Ladies,” Maggie said as they flew down the country road as fast as they could. She thought of the world around them, the myriad new possibilities that lay beyond the next twist of road. She could do so much.
Already it felt as if the dull life she had led at Chenefelt belonged to someone else. Someone quite different.
“To think, the boot is quite on the other leg now, and it is our turn to be free, Cecile. We must become women of independent means – it is intolerable to spend one’s entire life obliged to hang on someone’s sleeve. But how shall we do it? We must have the shop, and some way to make our gowns noticed. Oh, I know! It is so obvious, now that one thinks about it. I shall be a fashionable widow just out of mourning, and a great covert to the art of our secret seamstress. I think the widow must be French. I shall go by Marguerite, Madame la Baronne de Gramont. I read about a Baronne de Gramont who lived a long time ago, and she had had a very splendid life. Perhaps I can be like her and then no one will tell me how I ought to live my life. Who would you like to be, Cecile? Perhaps you will be my cousin? We look enough alike.”
“Yes, I like that,” Cecile said with a gentle smile. “Though I think I should rather work on my shop than attend society. I find it so wearisome in the country that I dread to think how it must be in Paris.”
“I know. But we are starting anew, and you don’t have to go to any parties if you dislike the notion. You can be my bookish, quiet cousin, which will explain your absence when you choose to be occupied with the shop.”
Cecile laughed. “I think I shall enjoy being an eccentric bluestocking!”
*
When Maggie and Cecile arrived in Dover late that night, exhausted after a number of stops at various inns along the way, they drew more than their fair share of startled glances.
Ladies did not usually drive their own broughams into Dover, after all, and then proceed to lay up at the nearest inn as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Maggie and Cecile were observed carefully and speculation over their identities quickly travelled across the little town.
There was something unmistakably striking about the defiance with which Maggie held her chin, and the elegant way Cecile descended the vehicle even after hours of travel. The watchers were convinced the ladies had to be personages of some wealth.
Was Cecile a great artist’s muse? Was Maggie the latest artiste come from London? Or the treasured paramour of some grand gentleman, on her way to order hats in Paris? When she failed to behave in a
manner that was in any way theatrical or artistic, however, it was assumed that she was nothing more than an officer’s wife on her way to join him in occupied Paris.
As Maggie ordered for the bags to be brought into the inn, she was amazed to discover how easily the role of Marguerite came to her. She found that she could command respect with just a flutter of her fan.
Trying out this new power, she levelled a cool look at the stout Mrs Smith, the innkeeper of the The Dock and Galleon, who met the lady’s imperious gaze nervously as she informed her that, as of that morning, there were no rooms free.
“No rooms!” Maggie exclaimed, because such a possibility had not occurred to her and she wasn’t certain what to do next. Maggie and Cecile had been travelling for a good nine hours and Maggie was exhausted enough to fall asleep where she stood.
She had never had to drive such a distance before, and both women felt stiff and sore from the long journey.
“I’m afraid not, madam. I can offer you a warm meal, however?” She hesitated before continuing, “There is The Weighted Anchor down near the docks, and they might have lodgings available, but I would not advise it as a place suitable for ladies of quality.”
“Certainly not,” said a gentleman’s voice from the parlour door.
Maggie and Cecile turned in surprise to find a tall and handsome man frowning at the innkeeper. He looked somewhat familiar.
“Your Grace?” asked Mrs Smith.
Maggie’s blood ran cold as she recognized the Duke of Strathavon, whose wife was the same Lady Strathavon her aunt had gone to see in London. Had he recognized her too?
“Let the young ladies have our lodgings. My wife and I have no need of them as we shall press on home after supper.”
If Mrs Smith was surprised by this, she gave no sign. She curtseyed. “Very well, Your Grace.”
“That is too kind, sir. We couldn’t!” Maggie said. It was a most unexpected generosity.
Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley Page 4
