Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  “And did you see them?” he inquired.

  “I—I saw two of ’em,” I replied, thinking it best not to identify them. “They were dressed ever so grandly—velvet and satin and laces. Me, I’d love to wear velvet and satin. I’d love to be beautiful.”

  My voice was wistful, rather sad, not like me at all. Why was I telling these things to him? Why did I feel so … well, close to him? Didn’t make a bloody bit of sense. He was as ugly as sin and mean as hell and my bottom still stung and I had every reason to hate him, but instead I felt this curious sympathy and kinship like him and me—he and I—were somehow two of a kind, like neither of us belonged. Get hold of yourself, Angie, I scolded. That fall must’ve addled your brains.

  There were a lot of big, thick shrubs in back of the gardens, all green and overgrown, and The Bastard led me through them and to a rusted iron gate in the back wall. He opened it and spread his right palm against the small of my back and gave me a brutal shove. I pitched forward and stumbled through the gate and almost fell down. I whirled around and glared at him with angry defiance, and Hugh Bradford gazed back at me with bored indifference as though I were a worrisome but harmless gnat. Stood there like a gawky scarecrow, he did, tall as a beanpole, thin as a whip, boots muddy and breeches too tight, loose white shirt sweaty and soiled, that dark wave dipping across his brow like a lopsided V. I gave him the finger. His wide mouth curled slightly at one corner in what might have been another grin.

  “Don’t ever let me catch you around here again,” he told me. “Next time I just might use the thumbscrews.”

  “Sod you,” I said hotly.

  The Bastard did grin then, no mistake, and I glared at him for another moment or so and then tilted my chin and marched haughtily away. I heard a clang as he closed the gate, heard leaves rustling as he moved back through the thick shrubbery, and then there was just the sound of the breeze rustling the grass and making the daisies dance. I went back around the wall and retrieved the basket of eggs and started home, dawdling, lost in thought. I decided I wouldn’t say a word to Eppie Dawson. Something strange had happened to me there in that garden. Silly goose like her wouldn’t understand at all. I wasn’t sure I understood it myself.

  Chapter Two

  As I sauntered down the lane with elm trees making shadowy patterns on the sunny road, my bottom still throbbed, still felt warm and prickly, but the sensation wasn’t at all unpleasant. My knees were scratched and my face was probably dirty, but that didn’t concern me. I was worried about my torn skirt which, I knew, would give Marie conniptions. Marie wasn’t cruel, just bitterly disappointed with her lot, buried alive in a rustic backwash, she felt, but her sarcasm could be devastating. Shrewd, shrewish, she faced life with a tight mouth and glittering yellow-green eyes that missed nothing. My ruined skirt would be just another example of the sad lot she had to bear.

  My own mother had died from complications three days after I was born, and six months later my bereaved father had left me with a wet nurse and gone for a much-needed holiday in Brittany, and it was there that he met the French widow with two young daughters. In her early thirties, Marie de Valois was vivacious, attractive and quite desperate. Although she claimed an impressive aristocratic background, she was completely impoverished, living in cheap lodgings and taking in sewing in order to pay for food and rent. The handsome English schoolmaster must have seemed a godsend to her. My father extended his holiday. When he returned, he had a new wife and two beautiful stepdaughters whom he legally adopted shortly thereafter. The chic, sharp-tongued Frenchwoman had detested life in our village from the first, always contemptuous, always an outsider, and though her husband provided a secure, comfortable home, he provided none of the frills and fripperies she felt essential for civilized living.

  Passing the bank of rhododendrons with their lush purple blossoms and dark green leaves, I turned and started toward our cottage. Of mellow golden-beige stone with a thick, grayish-brown thatched roof, it was the largest in the village, which, as Marie pointed out, was hardly a distinction. It was on the outskirts of the village, actually, with pleasantly ragged flower beds in front and two large oak trees that provided bountiful shade. Our fat gray tabby was lazing on the front steps and waved her tail idly as I passed. Snug, comfortable, mellow with age, the house seemed to welcome me as I stepped inside the shadowy front hall with its worn oriental carpet, murky mirror and worn but lovely rosewood table.

  I heard Janine and Solonge talking as I passed the parlor on my way to the kitchen in back of the house. Marie was at the counter, wearing a dark garnet silk dress and a black apron. She was kneading dough, intent on her work, her lips pressed tightly together. There was a wonderful smell of spices and freshly baked bread. Three golden-brown loaves were cooling on a rack placed on the window ledge. Marie might be testy and shrewish, but she was a marvelous cook, preparing the fanciest meals with little or no visible effort. Grand pastries. Delicious sauces. Not for us the bland meat and vegetables that sustained the rest of the village. I set the basket of eggs down. Marie turned, scrutinizing me with those shrewd yellow-green eyes.

  Tall and bony, my stepmother had faded orange-blonde hair that had once been a lustrous red-gold, worn atop her head in a stack of waves with short, curly ringlets spilling over her brow. Her thin, sharp-featured face was invariably painted, and the cosmetics she skillfully—and generously—applied only stressed her years, the blue-gray lids and rouged cheekbones and scarlet lips giving her the somehow pathetic look of all middle-aged women who strive to look younger. It was a harsh, waspish face, the glittering eyes alive with bitter discontent. Marie longed for London, longed for activity, longed to be among people who could help her daughters get ahead, but in eleven and a half years she had been unable to pry my father away from his snug nest here in the country.

  “You took your time about it,” she snapped, eyeing the eggs.

  “I hurried as fast as I could,” I lied.

  “And you’ve torn your dress! Another expense. Climbing trees again, I suppose. Running wild through the woods like a red Indian, always covered in dirt, scratches on your knees—I despair! I despair!” She shook her head, the dangling jet earrings she always wore swaying to and fro. “Don’t run off again,” she cautioned. “I’ll be needing you to set the table in half an hour or so.”

  Got off lucky, I did. That tongue of hers wasn’t nearly as scathing as usual. It wasn’t that Marie was vicious—she wasn’t, nor was she particularly malicious—but I was merely someone whose presence she tolerated, without affection, without interest, a nuisance to be endured as she endured the dreariness of country life. Marie gave an exasperated sigh and turned back to her dough, and I scurried out of the kitchen, snatching an apple off the counter as I did so, relieved she hadn’t bombarded me with questions. I moved back down the hall and peered into the parlor where my stepsisters were idly chatting, Solonge standing at the window, Janine stretched out on the sofa as was her wont, a glossy light-blue box of bonbons beside her.

  Ordinarily being plain wasn’t so bad. Most of the time I didn’t think about it, but when I was in the presence of two exquisite creatures like my stepsisters, I was painfully aware of my mousy-brown hair, my too large mouth and the light freckles scattered across cheekbones that were much too high. I couldn’t help feelin’ gawky and awkward with those two so lush and opulent, so sleek and lovely. Solonge was only fifteen, but she already had a body that made all the boys pant and a face usually referred to as piquant. Her hair was a glistening pale red-gold, tumbling to her shoulders in thick, glossy waves. Her eyes were a lively hazel, more green than brown, her nose a dream, her mouth perfect, pink as a rosebud. Solonge had freckles, too, but hers were pale gold and only made her face all the more enchanting. She reminded me of some gorgeous, vivacious pixie, though Solonge was much worldlier than any pixie I ever heard about. Wearing a dark pink dress cut almost as low as Laura’s, she gazed out the window, the sunlight turning her hair to molten gold.

&nbs
p; If Solonge was lively and restless, full of energies she found hard to repress, Janine was just the opposite. With silver-blonde hair and limpid blue eyes and a complexion like cream, she was as lethargic as she was lovely, always lolling about in placid indolence. Taller than her sister, with a large, voluptuous body, she was so beautiful you could scarce believe it with her delicately flushed cheeks and generous pink mouth. If Solonge made the boys pant, Janine made them stare in awe, but, unlike Solonge, she seemed totally unaware of their interest. Solonge thrived on masculine attention, encouraged it with capricious abandon. Janine found it utterly tiresome. Her sky-blue skirt rumpled, lacy petticoat showing, she idly reached for another bonbon and popped it into her mouth.

  “If you keep stuffing yourself with those, you’re going to get fat,” Solonge informed her, turning away from the window. “Statuesque is one thing. Plump is quite another.”

  “Who cares?” Janine inquired lazily. “You brought the chocolates home, sister dear.”

  “I have the good sense not to eat them. I could scarcely refuse them—Johnny Martin felt he was doing me such a favor, giving them to me. I thought Angie might like them, didn’t know you were going to make a pig of yourself on them.”

  “Johnny Martin, was it?” Janine yawned. “Maman know about it?”

  “His father is one of the richest men in the country and Johnny is going to Oxford next year. Maman knows. Maman approves. All hands and mouth, he is, never knew a man quite so horny.”

  “And?”

  “I told him I wasn’t that kind of girl. A little white lie never hurts now and then.”

  “You’re incorrigible, Solonge,” her sister scolded.

  “I also have a drawer full of stockings and a solid gold locket. Maman doesn’t know about the locket, so keep your mouth shut.”

  “Johnny?”

  “William Randolph.”

  Janine lazily elevated one brow. “He’s little better than a hooligan, not a penny in his pocket. Must have stolen the locket.”

  “But he has such shoulders,” Solonge said.

  Both girls looked up as I took a bite of apple and munched it. Solonge frowned. Janine smiled faintly. I sauntered into the parlor, taking another bite of apple.

  “How much did you hear?” Solonge asked sharply.

  “Enough,” I replied, “and I think William Randolph’s a dolt, always showin’ off, thinkin’ he’s God’s gift just because he has blond hair and smoky-blue eyes and a body by Michelangelo.”

  “What would you know about it?” Solonge snapped.

  “Eppie Dawson and I spied on him last time he went swimming in the river. We were hiding among the willows. He wudn’t wearin’ a stitch. His thing’s as big as a stallion’s.”

  “That explains it,” Janine said wryly, reaching for another chocolate. “Who is this Michelangelo?”

  “He was an artist, you ninny,” Solonge informed her, “sculpted a lot of naked men. If you say one word, Angie—”

  “I never tattle,” I replied airily, “you know that. Eppie Dawson says girls who chase after boys like you do always end up in trouble.”

  “Girls who end up in trouble are inexcusably careless, and Eppie Dawson is a smart-mouthed little brat who doesn’t know beans. I brought these chocolates home for you. You’d better take them before Janine makes herself ill.”

  “You don’t have to bribe me. I won’t squeal.”

  “They’re not a bribe. I thought you might like them.”

  I took a final bite of apple, chucked the core out the open window and removed the box of chocolates from Janine’s reach, placing the glossy blue lid on top and setting the box on the mantelpiece. Janine yawned again and stretched out full length on the gray velvet sofa, her silvery-blonde hair spilling heavily over the cushions. Her sky blue skirt and lacy petticoats slipped back to reveal a considerable amount of naked calf.

  Solonge still looked testy, not at all pleased that I had overheard their conversation. She knew I wouldn’t squeal, though. Solonge was wild and worldly and had a tongue almost as sharp as her mother’s, but she was genuinely fond of me and treated me with what I could only call bitchy affection, as opposed to Janine who lazed through life with sleepy indifference and was fond of nothing but naps.

  “What’s the matter with Marie?” I asked. “She seems to be off her mettle this afternoon, didn’t snap at me nearly as bad as she usually does, and I was at least an hour late with the eggs.”

  “She’s out of joint because Solonge and I weren’t invited to Master High and Mighty Clinton Meredith’s birthday party,” Janine said wearily. “We’re gentry, you know. Our stepfather might be a mere schoolmaster, but our father was the great grandson of the Marquis de Valois.”

  “So she claims,” Solonge said. “I, for one, am bored to tears with her incessant babble about our supposed genealogy. Our father was an underpaid advocate who died without leaving her a sou. I’m not even sure she was married to him.”

  “Probably wasn’t,” Janine agreed, burrowing against the cushions. “She can be so tiresome at times. Who cares who our grandfather was?”

  “Ridiculous of her to think we’d be invited to Greystone Hall. We’ve never been asked before, and it’s not likely we’ll be asked in the future. Families like the Merediths don’t associate with the hoi polloi, and, supposed genealogy aside, that’s what we are in their eyes—hoi polloi, two flashy trollops from the village.”

  “Speak for yourself, sister dear.”

  “I was at Greystone Hall this afternoon,” I told them.

  That got their attention, all right. Janine actually sat up, and Solonge stared at me in patent disbelief.

  “Well, I wudn’t actually there,” I added, “but I climbed up the wall and into a tree and watched for a while. I saw Master Clinton—he looks just like a prince, much better lookin’ than William Randolph, ever so elegant. He was wearing satin and laces and spoke in a voice like thick honey.”

  “You spied on him?” Solonge exclaimed.

  “For quite a while. He was cuddlin’ up a lady named Laura—she was wearin’ a dark blue velvet gown, and he popped his hand into her bodice and pulled her teat out and squeezed it until her nipple got hard as a cherry pit.”

  “Lady Laura Troy,” Solonge said, “I’ve read about her in the society columns—heard she was coming down to Greystone Hall. She’s a tramp.”

  “I thought maybe I’d get to see ’em copulatin’,” I continued, “but they decided to wait until tonight. He’s going to her room.”

  “This perpetual spying of yours is going to get you into serious trouble one day,” Janine informed me.

  “It already has,” I confessed. “Soon as they wandered off these three huge greyhounds came galloping up and started barking and leaping at me and I almost fell out of the tree. One of ’em got hold of my skirt, that’s why it’s torn. They would’ve had me for sure if Hugh Bradford hadn’t come along.”

  At the mention of his name, Solonge’s greenish hazel eyes lighted up with new interest, but she strove to hide it, idly brushing her dark pink skirt and pretending to be indifferent.

  “What did he do?” Janine asked.

  “Shook the tree till I fell out. Then he spanked me.”

  “Spanked you!” Solonge exploded.

  “Hard,” I said.

  “That son of a bitch! How dare he lay a hand on you! I—I’ll take a horsewhip to him, that’s what I’ll do! If he thinks he can brutalize my little sister without paying for it he’s due a very big surprise!”

  Janine smiled another faint, secretive smile, and I suspected she knew something I didn’t about her sister and Hugh Bradford. Solonge’s cheeks were a vivid pink. Her eyes were snapping green-brown fire. She looked absolutely gorgeous all riled up like that.

  “I guess I deserved it,” I told her. “He was—well, kinda nice afterwards, in a funny sort of way. I didn’t really mind the spanking.”

  “The man’s a brute!”

  “I’d leave
it be, sister dear,” Janine said languidly. “He may be tall and dark and terribly attractive with those quirky, brooding good looks, but he’s no William Randolph, he’s no Johnny Martin you can wrap around your little finger. He’s a primitive, crude and rough and totally without scruples. You may have a yen for him, but a boy like that could only spell trouble for a greedy little girl with more hunger than sense.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “Just thinking of your welfare, love.”

  “I wouldn’t give Hugh Bradford the time of day.”

  “The time of day, no.”

  “Bitch!”

  “It runs in the family.”

  Solonge glared at her sister, and Janine yawned and nestled her shoulders against the cushions, sinking deeper into the sofa. Yen? How could a gorgeous creature like Solonge have a yen for a surly brute like The Bastard? And what did Janine mean by “with more hunger than sense”? How could you be hungry for someone unless you were a cannibal? Puzzled me.

  “I’d love another chocolate,” Janine drawled.

  “You’re not gettin’ one,” I snapped. “You’ve already eaten half of ’em.”

  “Stingy gut.”

  “Sod you!”

  “Angie, dear,” Solonge said sweetly, “I’d like for you to do a favor for me.”

  I was instantly suspicious. I always was when she employed that particular tone of voice.

  “You know that new dress of mine—the one Marie had made up for me?”

  “The turquoise silk with all the beige lace and pink velvet bows?”

  “That’s the one. You’re such a wizard with needle and thread. I’d like for you to remove all the lace, remove all the bows. Marie’s idea of fashion is looking like a wedding cake. Could you do it for me?”

  “Easy as pie.”

  “I’d also like for you to take it in two inches at the waist and lower the neckline two inches as well.”