The
Earl's Invention
Diana Campbell
1
The wardrobe was empty, as were the desk and chest of drawers, and Bonnie frowned into her portmanteau. The bag had been full when she arrived in London; in fact, she had been compelled to tie it round with ropes in order to keep it closed. Now, however, it was scarcely half-filled, and she gazed about the room wondering what she could have forgotten. She had certainly packed all her dresses . . .
Her dresses; that was it, of course. She had brought six gowns to town, and during the ensuing five years, two had simply worn out. Then, last spring, the Powell boys had appropriated one of her remaining dresses from the laundry and ripped it into "banners,” which were subsequently carried into battle by the Knights (Teddy and Samuel) and the Saracens (Lucas and Oliver). Bonnie supposed that, as the children’s governess, she should have been pleased to discover they had learned enough about the Crusades to reenact the Battle of Acre; but in the event, she judged this dubious evidence of their educational attainment scant compensation for the loss of her best gown
Reduced to only three dresses, Bonnie had expended the whole of her meager savings on a simple but handsome frock of apple-green jaconet, and that was the dress the boys had destroyed this afternoon. She glared at the crumpled heap of
muslin on the bed and fervently hoped the ink was soaking through to the counterpane. She had been unable to determine which of the wretched Powell brood had poured a pool of black ink on the seat of her chair in the schoolroom; the boys had all howled with equal glee when she sat down and leapt immediately back to her feet. Any of them could have perpetrated the prank, and—more to the point—any of them was eminently capable of plotting and executing a similar trick in future. Which was why she did not intend to spend another night, another hour, under Theodore Powell’s roof.
Bonnie turned the dress over, gingerly touched the great black spot on the back of the skirt, and found it still wet. If she put the gown in her portmanteau, the ink might well spread to the rest of her clothes, and what would be the use? The damage was almost surely irreparable, unlikely to be disguised by cleaning or dyeing or clever patching. Furthermore, she doubted that life with Aunt Grace would require an extensive wardrobe.
Aunt Grace. From the moment she'd fled the schoolroom, Bonnie’s thoughts had been clouded with rage, and she now experienced a belated jolt of reason. She could not be certain Aunt Grace would agree to take her in, she realized, sinking weakly onto the bed. Indeed, when it came to that, she was not even sure her father’s elder sister was alive. They had exchanged brief letters every Christmas since Bonnie's removal to London, but this was the first week of May. Aunt Grace was nearly eighty and had complained of delicate health for years; it was entirely possible that she had at last succumbed to one of her numerous vague maladies.
But she would have been notified of her aunt’s death, Bonnie decided. If—as she had been given to understand— she was Aunt Grace’s principal heir, she would have heard from a solicitor; barring that, she would have received some sort of communication from the housekeeper. So the odds were excellent that Aunt Grace was alive and would be perversely delighted to see her wayward niece. Aunt Grace had predicted that Bonnie would come to regret her employment most bitterly, and Aunt Grace loved nothing more than to be proved Right.
“Did I not tell you?” Bonnie could almost hear the shrill, grating voice. "Did I not say you should have come to Nantwich in the first place? Particularly inasmuch as it was your dear mother’s dying wish." Since Aunt Grace had never approved of Mama and had hardly spoken to her sister-in-law throughout the thirty-odd years of their acquaintance. Bonnie could only collect that her constant posthumous references to "your dear mother" were a peculiar form of canonization.
Which would not have been altogether inappropriate. Bonnie reflected, for Mama was the saintliest person she had ever known. She had kept her final illness a secret as long as she could, brightly attributing her increasing debility to "silly little flutters" in her heart. It was only when she grew too weak to leave her bed that she revealed the terrible prognosis Dr. Harding had pronounced months before: her heart was hopelessly diseased, and she had but a very short time to live.
"You are not to cry," Mama said sternly as Bonnie emitted an involuntary gasp of grief. "Certainly not on my account; I shall be joining your father in a better place. And you needn't tease yourself about your own future, for I have arranged for you to live with Grace."
She gestured toward an envelope on the bedside table, and Bonnie repressed another gasp when she observed how pale her hands were, how thin her fingers had become.
"As you know," Mama continued, "Grace and I do not . . . do not get on. But you mustn’t tease yourself on that head either because she is exceedingly fond of you."
If that was the case, Bonnie thought grimly. Aunt Grace had hidden her fondness prodigious well. Insofar as she could recall, she had never detected the slightest flicker of warmth in the icy blue eyes, the tiniest trace of a smile on the small set mouth. Apparently her doubts were written on her face, for Mama assumed a brilliant smile of her own.
"And you will be with Grace only a brief while after all." she said cheerfully. "Every young man in Nantwich will soon be pounding on her door, and I daresay you'll be wed before a year has gone.”
Bonnie did not suppose there could be many young men in a small town in southern Cheshire, far from any major city. Nor that Aunt Grace, a lifelong spinster, would much welcome whatever suitable partis there were “pounding on her door.” But she could not shatter Mama's brave optimism, and she bobbed her head in agreement.
“My one regret is that I shall not live to see you settled.” Mama’s amber eyes clouded for the first time. “But you are not a child, are you? You are nineteen; nearly a woman grown. And I’m confident you’ll be quite happy with Grace until such time as you marry.”
“Yes, Mama,” Bonnie choked. “Yes, I’m confident I shall.”
Her words to the contrary, Bonnie did not believe, then or during the few remaining weeks of her mother’s life, that she would be in the least happy with Aunt Grace. Worse yet, she entertained a nagging fear that circumstance had doomed her to follow in her aunt’s footsteps. She could not but wonder if—half a century hence—she, too, would be an embittered spinster, lacking even the companionship of a niece to brighten her old age.
Had Bonnie clung to any vague hope that residence with Aunt Grace might be bearable after all, such hope would have been dispelled when the formidable Miss Gordon arrived in Stafford the day after Mama’s death. Having spent blessedly little time with Aunt Grace in recent years, Bonnie had forgotten her habit of complaining—loudly and endlessly—of every inconvenience—real or imagined—that intruded on her life. After describing at length the current lamentable state of her health, Aunt Grace began to grumble about her journey from Nantwich, the recital of her grievances requiring nearly as much time as the three-hour trip itself. By nightfall, she had voiced her negative opinions on a whole host of additional topics, ranging in importance from the color of the dining-room draperies to the conduct of the government; and in the morning, she delivered a long, furious indictment of the mattress on which she had been forced to sleep. Though she managed to hold her tongue during the funeral, she hastened to point out—as soon as it was over—that the rector had “mumbled” throughout the service and twice lost his place in the prayer book.
At some juncture, between complaints. Aunt Grace had declared that they would repair to Nantwich as soon as possible; and on the evening of the funeral, she instructed Bonnie to put her affairs in order the following day. Bonnie—her stomach churning with panic by now—cast desperately about for so
me means by which to persuade her aunt that this endeavor would take considerable time, but nothing credible came to mind. Aunt Grace was well aware, as Bonnie was, that she and Mama had all but exhausted Papa's minuscule estate: their solicitor would need virtually every remaining pound to pay their outstanding bills. Since Papa’s death, his widow and daughter had occupied a leased, furnished house, and Bonnie estimated that their personal effects could be packed up in under half a day. Hard as she thought on it. she could conjure up only one other small task which had to be performed: that of advising the landlord of her intention to vacate the house. She realized she could readily dispatch him a letter to this effect, but she was so eager to escape Aunt Grace that she elected to visit his office in person.
In an effort to prolong her respite as much as she could, Bonnie fairly crawled toward the leasing office, and as she did so, she glimpsed a slender ray of hope: perhaps the landlord would refuse to terminate the lease. Well, not the landlord, she amended; Theodore Powell would take no personal interest in the rental of one insignificant property. But maybe his agent would fly into the boughs and threaten her with legal proceedings if she did not continue to pay the rent until the lease had expired. How she could pay the rent, she had no notion; but since a term in Newgate seemed distinctly preferable to life with Aunt Grace, she rushed past the last few streets and through the door of the leasing office.
Bonnie's perverse hope began to dim the instant she identified herself to the man behind the desk.
“Miss Gordon!” He sprang to his feet, solicitously guided her to the chair in front of the desk, then stood beside her, sadly shaking his head. “I was most dreadfully sorry to hear of your mother’s death. I do trust there is some relative to ease the pain of your loss and provide you a comfortable home.”
“Mama did arrange for me to live with my aunt in Nantwich,” Bonnie murmured. “But as the lease on the house has not yet expired—”
“Oh, my poor Miss Gordon.” He patted her awkwardly on one shoulder. “I should hate to think you've been troubling yourself about the lease in the midst of your great sorrow. The contract was with your mother, and it ceased upon her death. You are quite free of any legal obligation, entirely free to vacate the premises and go to Nantwich.”
“I see,” Bonnie muttered. “Well, thank you anyway. I realize the situation is beyond your control.”
Divorced from the context of her dismal thoughts, her final remark was an utter non sequitur, and. not surprisingly, the agent frowned in puzzlement. Bonnie gave him a bleak smile, rose, and started to trudge back toward the door.
“Miss Gordon?"
The voice which caught her up was not that of the agent, and when Bonnie spun around, she beheld a second man emerging from a doorway at the rear of the main office.
“Forgive me," he said, striding across the room, "but I could not avoid overhearing your conversation with Maynard. I am Theodore Powell.”
He reached her side as he finished speaking, and Bonnie strove to mask her astonishment. Mr. Powell was reputed to be the wealthiest man in Staffordshire, one of the wealthiest in England; and inasmuch as he had amassed his whole enormous fortune himself, she had assumed him well into middle age. But the man who swept her a bow was not much above forty, she judged, and had he not been altogether too plump, she fancied he would be quite handsome. As it was. his heavy jowls sagged over the top of his neckcloth, and the but. ns of his elegant waistcoat threatened to pop at any moment.
“I collect you’re the daughter of the late Reverend Mr. Gordon?” he said. Bonnie nodded. “And that you've no great wish to remove to Nantwich with your aunt?”
“I . . . ah . . .” She could not confess her dislike of Aunt Grace to a perfect stranger, and as she attempted to formulate an innocuous response, Mr. Powell’s fleshy cheeks creased in a smile.
"I quite understand. Miss Gordon,” he said soothingly. “A pretty young woman such as yourself is naturally looking to make a good marriage, and there can't be many young bucks in Nantwich, can there?”
Though this was not Bonnie’s primary objection to Nantwich. neither was Mr. Powell entirely wrong, and she flushed and dropped her eyes.
’’Fortunately,” he continued in the same soothing voice, “I am in a position to tender a proposition which could be of benefit to both of us.”
A proposition! It was commonly known that Theodore Powell was a man of dubious background, far from a “gentleman,” but Bonnie could scarcely conceive that he would offer a carte blanche to a respectable girl he had encountered only five minutes before. She opened her mouth, but before she could deliver the stinging rebuke he so richly deserved, Mr. Powell went on.
“Yes, I am in desperate need of a governess to educate my two daughters Mana. who is nine, and Anne; Anne is seven. As you're the daughter of a clergyman, an educated woman yourself, I daresay you're amply qualified to fill such a post.”
”I , . . I . . .” Further wotds eluded her because, in truth, she had no notion what she planned to say. She believed she was qualified to be a governess—Papa had supervised her education and often praised her quick mind—but she had never considered the prospect of employment in any capacity.
“I should provide your room and board, of course," Mr. Powell said, "and pay the prevailing salary. And you'd soon have suitors in droves. I'll warrant," he added with another smile. "I fancy you’d meet dozens of suitable young men in London. ”
"London?" Bonnie echoed sharply. She had been quite certain Mr. Powell resided in Stafford; indeed, she vaguely remembered Papa pointing out his house.
"Did I fail to mention that?" Mr. Powell said rhetorically. "Since the end of the war, my business interests have expanded to the Continent, and a month since, I relocated in the capital. In fact, that is why I require a governess; Mrs. Baker did not wish to reside in the city. At any rate, I traveled back to Stafford yesterday to attend to a few final details, but I shall be returning to town tomorrow. And I believe you would quite enjoy living in London, Miss Gordon. I’ve a large home in Portman Square ..."
His voice trailed provocatively off, and Bonnie wondered if he was somehow reading her mind. If he perceived that of all the blandishments he might have offered, this was the one most likely to gain her acquiescence. She had never been to London, and she longed to see it, longed to stroll through the parks and visit the shops and attend the theaters. And, yes, she longed to meet the dozens, the thousands of suitable young men who must surely throng the streets of the city.
"Have we a bargain then?” Mr. Powell asked briskly. "If so, I should like you to accompany me back to town tomorrow. Unless you have some compelling need to stay on in Stafford a day or two.”
Tomorrow? Bonnie thought wildly. Her head was whirling with the shock of Mr. Powell’s proposal, but in truth, she had no compelling need to stay. To the contrary, if she remained in Stafford, Aunt Grace would undoubtedly feel obliged to stay on as well in order to chaperon her niece. And Bonnie calculated that Aunt Grace would be quite sufficiently overset without the injection of additional complications.
In the latter regard, Bonnie was not disappointed.
“You are going to London?” Aunt Grace screeched after Bonnie had announced her precipitate decision. “To serve as governess to that horrible man?”
“I found Mr. Powell exceedingly pleasant.” Bonnie protested.
“Humph.” Aunt Grace snorted. “His son are invariably pleasant when it serves their ends to be so.” She heaved a tremulous sigh. “I can scarcely bear to contemplate what your dear mother would say to such a plan."
Bonnie had deliberated this very factor as she raced home from Mr. Powell’s office and had concluded that—beyond all else—Mama would have wanted her to be happy. And she was persuaded she would be far happier in London with Mr. Powell and his family than in Nantwich with her odious aunt. But she could hardly express this opinion to Aunt Grace, and she bit her lip and said nothing.
“However, your dear mother did not see f
it to appoint me your legal guardian.” Aunt Grace punctuated this disclosure with a fearsome scowl. “Consequently, I cannot prevent the rash, foolish course you have elected to follow. I can but warn you that you will soon come to regret most bitterly that you did not heed your dear mother’s wishes."
In the event, Bonnie reflected, glancing round the room again. Aunt Grace had erred only in respect to the “soon." And not even entirely on that head, she admitted, for though she had not immediately regretted her decision, she had been disillusioned almost at once.
As Mr. Powell had indicated, his home was a grand brick structure in Portman Square, but the bedchamber to which Bonnie was assigned proved a good deal smaller than her room in Stafford. She supposed she should be grateful not to be banished to the attic with the rest of the staff, and she tried not to mind that the bedchamber was so crammed with furniture that it was prodigious difficult to walk about. As she grew familiar with the house, she discovered that every room, whatever its size, was similarly crowded; and she shortly concluded that Mr. and Mrs. Powell were so excessively wealthy that they were hard pressed to find ways to spend their fortune.
Mrs. Powell's wardrobe certainly tended to confirm this theory, for during the entire first year of their acquaintance, Bonnie did not observe her in the same garment twice. Unfortunately, despite her plethora of clothes, Mrs. Powell never looked truly handsome. She was not an attractive woman to begin with—as lean as her husband was fat, with light brown hair, pale brown eyes, and a sallow face that seemed to run ail together—and as if these deficiencies were not enough, she was always hideously overdressed. When she went out in the afternoon, she wore an evening gown suitable for dinner; to dinner, she wore a ball dress. On the rare occasions Bonnie had seen her rigged out for an actual ball, Mrs. Powell had been wearing a gown so elaborate, jewelry so ostentatious, that she might well have been mistaken for a cyprian holding court in her opera box.
The Earl's Invention Page 1
