A Chance to Dream

by Lynne Connolly

  Thus was she dismissed, but she didn’t care.

  Now, waiting for Lord Blyth, her light-hearted mood refused to dissipate.

  He didn’t keep her waiting long. He came out of the library dressed for the outdoors, and smiled in greeting. “Shall we go?”

  “Yes. Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

  His smile broadened into a grin. “No. It’s not far. I’ve had the curricle drawn up.” He glanced at her. “I’ll drive.”

  “Of course, sir,” she said with a glint of a smile.

  She followed him outside and allowed him to help her into the curricle. The tiger swung up behind and when Lord Blyth had settled himself they left.

  He had a single horse harnessed, a sprightly black he had no trouble controlling. Violetta had to admit he drove to a pin. Her driving skills were adequate, no more. He drove without effort, taking time to nod to a few acquaintances, one of whom stopped dead and fumbled for his quizzing glass. “I do wish you had worn something more becoming,” he complained. “My reputation is suffering.”

  “You know I can’t,” she replied, mindful of the tiger behind them.

  He sighed heavily. “I know. I must hope my reputation is good enough to survive.”

  She laughed. “Better me than La Perla Perfetta.”

  He shot a glance at her, mischief in his gaze. “I think my reputation might be enhanced if it were known I could keep her by my side. Miss Lambert, I’m shocked! What would you know of such things?”

  “Very little.” She bowed her head to hide her smile.

  Instead of driving towards one of the fashionable parts of the city, Lord Blyth went in what was known by the polite world as “the wrong direction” up Oxford Street. He crossed Tottenham Court Road, something that filled Violetta’s heart with dread, because it was one of the main thoroughfares out of London, filled with private and public vehicles. At least it wasn’t a hanging day. The traffic in the vicinity of Tyburn was murderous on hanging days.

  Having crossed the road they passed into a quieter area. A respectable residential area, plain fronted houses lining the long street. His lordship brought the curricle to a halt.

  “Come.” He waited for the tiger to come round to the front, tossed the reins to him and leapt down, walking around to hand Violetta down to the freshly laid pavement, a wonder in itself since so many streets in London had none.

  At the end of the street Violetta could see green fields, and signs of activity. He followed her gaze. “They’re still building. Shall we?”

  She looked doubtfully at him. “I asked for your opinion, don’t forget. This street is mine—at least it’s mostly mine. I want to know what you think of the houses.”

  She laid her hand on his arm and allowed him to unlock the front door and lead her in.

  She looked around the hall, clean black and white tiles on the floor and a strong scent of freshly cut wood and paint. He sniffed, and wrinkled his nose. “It’s been finished for weeks and it still smells.”

  “It needs a good airing,” she said absently. She opened the nearest door.

  A charming room, empty of any furnishings, painted plain white, waiting for its first owner to imprint her personality on it. “This would make a wonderful morning room.”

  “Wouldn’t it?” He came into the room after her, his voice echoing off the bare walls.

  “I’ve never been in a new house before.” She looked around her at the bare walls, the sparkling clean windows. There was not a flaw anywhere.

  “I’ve been in a few in recent years. Including my own. There is a certain charm in a new house. It’s a blank canvas. Shall we?” He indicated the open door and she gladly followed him to continue her explorations.

  She liked the house very much. The kitchens and servant’s quarters were neat and furnished with the latest in cooking equipment, all shiny and unused. The rooms were well proportioned but not too large, all painted white, no nail marks on the walls where pictures had been, no old curtain rails or dents on the polished floors where heavy furniture had rested. Nothing save clean floors and walls and shining, uncurtained windows.

  A fresh start. Something Violetta longed for. No reputation, no name, no distinctive looks. Nothing to mark her out.

  Violetta entered the last room, a small room on the second floor. Above them were the servant’s bedrooms, but time was getting on and she would have to leave to go to her mother’s soon, to effect her transformation into La Perla Perfetta. She had seen enough. “I think it’s an excellent house. It’s well proportioned, airy, and quiet, considering how close to the main road it is.”

  “You like it.”

  “Very much.”

  He held out the key. “It’s yours.”

  She whirled away from him, recoiling in an instant, hands gripping the stuff of her gown. “What do you mean?”

  “I would like you to have it.”

  “Why?” She felt desperate, and couldn’t work out why, her mind in turmoil. Trapped somehow. Suddenly the realization came to her. She was alone in a house with a man. All the warnings her mother had impressed on her returned now. La Perla was a courtesan, but she was also Italian, a race very protective of their children.

  Lord Blyth wouldn’t do this to her, surely he wouldn’t do such a thing! The move was cold, calculated, just the sort of thing a man would do to a prospective mistress. She couldn’t reconcile it to the man who stood before her, the key forgotten in his hand, a puzzled frown drawing his brows down. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Why do you want to give me this house?” she choked out.

  “I—” He paused, studying her closely. Whatever he was going to say remained unsaid. He changed his mind. “Why do you think?”

  She edged towards the door. “Because you want to buy me.”

  Anger rose in his eyes. The blue became a spark of fire. “Buy you? Are you a slave, then?”

  “My mother has been one. When you’re born into slavery, you are automatically a slave. I should have known!” She turned angrily away from him and dashed the tears from her eyes.

  “Should have known what?”

  “All this! It’s been a ploy, hasn’t it?”

  “Has it?” His fury not abated he turned on her. “I introduced you to my household to seduce you, did I?”

  “Not entirely,” she admitted, “but when you saw me you decided to do it.”

  He turned his shoulder. “Did I? You did your best to put me off. Is that why you wore that padding, those spectacles? You’re afraid of yourself!”

  “So you chase everything in a skirt, do you? You want a courtesan, a mistress, someone you have power over?”

  “Dear God, what did I do to deserve this?”

  She was crying now, unable to stop herself. “I may take you up on your offer, but I may take offers from any number of gentlemen first! Dear Lord, don’t you know that when a man wants to make a courtesan his mistress he gives her a house!”

  He stared at her, dumbstruck, his mouth slightly open, anything but the epitome of sophisticated aristocracy. She glared at him, tears pouring down her face unchecked. She fought for her voice. “I’ll wait in the curricle. I hope you’ll be good enough to take me to my mother’s.” She walked away, her shoes striking hollowly on the floor. She wanted to stop somewhere, to wipe her tears but she knew he would hear her falter, and perhaps come after her. She wanted the last word. She fished out her handkerchief and paused before the front door, wiping it hastily across her face. It was all she had time for before she wrenched open the door and hurried out to the curricle.

  Orlando stared after her, listening to the retreating footsteps. Even they sounded angry. He strode to the window and stared out at the expanse of green that would make someone a fine garden someday. Not Violetta, though. His anger was as much at himself as her. He should have made his gift clear from the outset. This house was to be her bonus, the bonus Perdita had reminded him about that morning. “You promised,” she had said.
“I won’t need her much longer and she deserves a parting gift.”

  “You’re still not walking,” he had reminded her.

  She had given him an arch look. “I’ll wager it won’t be long.”

  He had wondered at that, but had decided she would tell him in her own time.

  Now he had wanted to make Violetta happy and had forgotten the realities of her life. It was true. The first thing a courtesan did with a new lover—or perhaps the second, if she decided to give him a free taste of the goods—was to sign a contract with him, for a house, or the use of one, and an annuity. Jewels were very pleasant, but their resale value didn’t do them justice. Fine clothes were the same. How could he have been so stupid?

  He held himself rigid, afraid that if he moved he might smash a window or something else equally foolish. The scene just enacted must remain private. She had not trusted him. She hadn’t waited for an explanation, or asked him what he meant by it. That hurt him.

  Slowly he turned and left the room, closing the door very carefully behind him. He took his time descending the stairs, polished shiny but left uncarpeted, hearing his footsteps as though they belonged to someone else.

  She was sitting in the curricle, bolt upright, staring ahead. He took the reins and waited for the vehicle to dip, indicating the tiger had taken his place. Without looking at her he drove off and left her at the end of the street where her mother lived. She would not want him to stop outside the door. His one attempt at explanation met with a short “Not now,” and after one glance at her rigid face he decided she was right. He wasn’t giving in, but he wouldn’t press the matter now. She wasn’t in a mood to listen.

  After a curt “Good day,” she walked away. He didn’t stop to watch her, as he might ordinarily have done. He drove off, to an appointment he had with his brother’s wife, to take her shopping to try to cheer her up.

  Was he cursed to be surrounded by dissatisfied, angry women?

  Chapter Twelve

  Violetta went straight upstairs and indulged in a hearty burst of tears before going outside her door and calling for her maid. The girl came quickly, and the customary conversion from Charlotte Lambert to La Perla Perfetta took place in just over half an hour. Violetta held her arms up when required, tipped her head back for her hair to be brushed out and re-dressed, and drank the tea which was brought up. One look at her mistress’s face in the mirror convinced the girl speech was not necessary today. Until La Perla swept into the room it could almost be called peaceful.

  La Perla made sure the maid had gone before she met the hard, set face of her daughter in the mirror. “Well?”

  “I have an appointment at Cerisot’s. Lady Perdita kindly gave me a few hours off.”

  La Perla made a “tsk!” noise and dragged a chair up to sit next to her daughter. “You come in, not a word to anyone, and storm up here as though the hounds of hell were after you? Dio! Do you think I am foolish? Have you quarrelled with him?”

  “Who?” she asked, deliberately obtuse.

  “Do not be stupid with me, child! Your lover, who else?”

  She knew there was no help for it. Violetta turned in her chair. “He tried to give me a house.”

  “So he should! What is that to the matter?” La Perla reached out and took her daughter’s hands. “Is he good to you? Tell me, and if he is not we will show him what we can do!”

  “No—no. He is good to me.” Violetta could not, after her mother’s sorrow at her fall, tell her she was mistaken. It would be cruel to reverse her opinion now she had come to accept it. La Perla had always told her daughter she must make her own decisions. An unwavering realist, she had accepted her own fate and never complained, teaching her daughter to do likewise.

  “Then why should he not give you a house? Was it a poor one?”

  “No.” Violetta looked down at her lap. Her white taffeta petticoat gleamed under her hands, taunting her with its pristine perfection. “It was a good house.” She looked up at her mother’s face, taut with concern. “I think I was foolish.”

  Her mother patted her hand. “You did not wish him to perceive you in such a way.”

  “It puts me in my place, Mama. If I accept it, I will be there when he wants me, at his whim. I couldn’t bear to think of that.”

  A spasm passed over La Perla’s face, instantly suppressed. “The first time, it hurts. I think you should go to Italy and take your rightful place immediately. This life is not for you, cara. I have always known. If you had wished for it, I would not have stood in your way, but you are not happy with it.”

  Violetta shook her head, too distressed to think straight. “I won’t go to Italy and disown you. I would be all alone, with people who hate you.”

  La Perla’s hand was firm in hers. “No, you are wrong. They do not hate me. How do you think I got to England when I fled? Your uncle, your father’s brother, helped me to escape with you. Without him we would have been caught. When he discovered how I made my living, he made me promise not to bring the family name into it, and explained that I could no longer be welcome at home, but he helped me all he could. It would not be right for me to return. They do not know who I have become. I have accepted that. That is all.”

  “They wanted me to say you were dead. I won’t do that, Mama!”

  La Perla shook her head, setting her curls dancing. “One day you must leave me. Be careful with this lover, and if you do not wish for him, come to me. I do not need anyone to support me any more, and neither do you.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Despite her depression, Violetta felt the comfort warm her. She could never abandon her mother, always so careful of her, so loving. She had felt ashamed of her feeling of shame when anyone had spoken of her mother. The other night at the theatre had been humiliating in more ways than one. She had been aware of her shame, and felt deeply guilty for that.

  “You will go to Cerisot, and have your fitting. You will enjoy it, and you will return to me soon, I think?” La Perla got to her feet and shook her skirts into place.

  “I can’t come back today.” Violetta glanced in the mirror, checking her appearance before she left the room. “I’m on duty later.”

  “Pah! The lady will not need you much longer. You know it is not that I meant. You will return soon and we will plan your future. Yes?”

  Violetta got to her feet and gave her mother a hug. She was almost the same height as her mother, both small, but never overlooked. When she shook out her skirts it was an unconscious similarity. “I will. Thank you, Mama.”

  “Think nothing of it. Come and have something to eat before you go. There is something laid out in the dining room.”

  Violetta went downstairs and found, despite her distress, she was hungry. Lord Ripley was there, and took some food with them. Violetta was used to his presence but she kept shooting glances at him until he turned to her and demanded, “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no of course not. Should there be?” She flushed and looked down. With a grunt he returned his attention to his plate. Both knew what Violetta thought, though neither had ever spoken of it. Violetta didn’t dare. She knew Ripley met her mother shortly after her marriage to the Conte d’Oro. He fell in love with her on sight, although he returned to England to try to make a success of his marriage, so there was a long gap before they met again.

  The times were right. The new Contessa d’Oro had fallen pregnant almost immediately and gave birth to her only child six months after Lord Ripley returned to England. Violetta knew they had been in love for most of their lives. She knew Ripley fathered a family here in England, but she could see no resemblance between herself and Lady Judith. When she realized she would be close to Judith, she had taken the opportunity to study her, but she saw nothing. It didn’t follow that they weren’t half siblings, although knowing Lady Judith better now, she hoped there was no connection between them. The arrogance, the assumption of superiority all belonged to Lady Ripley, not her father.

  She would have loved Ripley for a f
ather, even though that would mean her actual, if not technical, bastardy, since her father’s family had accepted her without question. Perhaps they knew something she did not, or perhaps, in the light of her mother’s recent revelations about the family, they wanted to make amends, but either way, she would have given a great deal to be sure.

  It was entirely possible that her mother didn’t know who the father of her child was. The thought filled Violetta with a nameless fear. She told herself it didn’t matter. Her mother loved her. Lord Ripley cared for her. She had enough money to ensure an independent future. That was all that mattered, surely?

  If it were only her physical well being that mattered it would be fine, but it wasn’t. Her soul needed to belong, to find a place it could call home. She had felt it all her life, before her mother had told her what her real name was, and where she came from, when she was masquerading as an English gentleman’s daughter at the school in France, swamped under silken layers of marquesses and comtesses. That was where she had first taken on the name of Charlotte Lambert, although the wig and spectacles were later additions.

  Now she would have given her modest fortune to know who she was, whose daughter she was, what her place was in the world. Something.

  Violetta could not shake off her melancholy, nor the residue of her anger. Cerisot found her far from the cheerful customer she was used to. “Mad’moiselle, you are not attending!” she said for the seventh time that afternoon. “Would you like floss or spangles on this?”

  Violetta regarded her reflection in the long pier glass. The gown was finished, but Madame had suggested a delicate application of some kind of decoration around the hem of the skirt. She picked a finish at random. “Spangles. Just a few.”

  Cerisot nodded and began to unpin the gown. “You’ve lost weight. I’m going to have to take it in. I hope your employers haven’t been working you too hard.”

  “No.” It wasn’t that, though Violetta knew something had inhibited her usually hearty appetite. She didn’t want to examine the reasons. It was all too raw, too painful.