Scandal's Heiress

by Amelia Smith

  Aunt Celia fanned herself. “Surely you cannot be so naive as all that?” she demanded. “Everyone, and I mean everyone, will know where it came from. No other lady will be able to converse with you for fear of her own reputation… No, it really does not bear thinking about.” She paused for breath, then addressed Mr. Butler.

  “Take yourself off, man,” she said. “You are not welcome in this house.”

  He acknowledged her command with a slow nod of the head, but did not speak to her.

  “Miss Grey,” he said. “Would you have me retain these for safekeeping?”

  “Yes,” Hyacinth said. “I will inform you when I have obtained my own lodgings and we can meet again.”

  The solicitor shook his head. “I believe that in this, your relative…” he gestured towards Lady Talbot, “has the right of it. It would be most unusual for a young lady to take her own lodgings, and I believe that even the sainted Mrs. Miller would have counseled you against it.”

  “Sainted!” Aunt Celia clutched a chair for balance, horrified at the thought.

  “I will take that into consideration,” Hyacinth said noncommittally. She could not tolerate her aunt’s interference any longer. She was determined to take herself off, and soon.

  Mr. Butler swept the papers into his case, bowed, and departed.

  The door closed behind him. Aunt Celia leaned against it and took a deep breath to steady herself.

  “I forbid you to go out,” she said. “You will stay in this house until you see sense.”

  Hyacinth's heart raced. She would not be kept prisoner. “Oh, will I?” she said, trying not to shake. “What about the ball? That is tonight, isn’t it? People are expecting to see me there.”

  “I will tell them that you are indisposed.”

  “That would be a terrible waste of a ball gown.”

  Hyacinth pushed past her aunt and into the hallway. She barely noticed the flash of Sophie's dress as she slid into her hiding place behind the stair. She went straight to her own room and closed the door. Blood pounded in her ears. Her hands shook. She clutched her skirts, trying to still them. The dress Aunt Celia had had made for her. She wanted to tear it off, but what else was there? Her dresses from Gibraltar were too thin, and besides, they looked shabby to her now, only a half-dozen weeks after her arrival into Aunt Celia's realm in the darkest month of the year. Her fine gown of a morning dress burned into her as if it were her aunt's eyes, constraining her to habits that were not her own.

  She took a deep breath and sat down at her desk. She had enough money to travel, she thought, and she could have the solicitor arrange for more to be sent to her. She must go. She would go. Maybe even before the ball.

  She opened the drawer and set out paper to write on. She found her pen, the blotter, and a bottle of ink. It was almost dry. How much money would she need to rent lodgings, or, better yet, escape to her grandmother's estate? Her plans for a school would have to wait. Yes, she would go.

  A knock at the door startled her. Hyacinth put her head in her hands, despairing of the lack of ink, the small writing desk, the frustration.

  “Go away!” she said.

  “Miss?” It was Maria. Maria. Hyacinth sprang up to let her in.

  “Come in!” she urged. “I'm sorry, I thought you were my aunt, and I can't... I just can't bear to see her.”

  Maria looked over her shoulder down the hall and slipped into the room. “She is in her room,” she said. “With a headache.”

  Hyacinth nodded. “Maria, can you bring me ink?”

  “Yes, but... the coach from Portsmouth will arrive soon.”

  “The coach from Portsmouth?” Hyacinth echoed. “Oh! George!” She laughed at herself. “I nearly forgot. I'm sorry Maria, I've been very angry. We really must go.”

  “Now?” Maria said.

  Hyacinth nodded. “As soon as possible. I am going to give you a short letter to deliver to Mr. Butler at Lincoln's Inn. Take it on your way to the coaching inn. You are to ask him for a bit of money, for the fare for both of us to travel to H-shire in the morning. Buy tickets when you collect George. But first, bring me ink.”

  Maria nodded.

  “Good,” Hyacinth said. She straightened the paper on the too-small surface of the writing desk and used the last ink from the old bottle to write to Mr. Butler.

  #

  She would write to Aunt Celia, and leave the letter on her desk. Father could be reached through the Navy's offices, so she wrote to him there. She was considering whether or not to write to Sophie, or Thomas, when there was a knock at the door. Surely Maria wasn't back already?

  “Hyacinth?”

  It was Sophie. Hyacinth sighed and tucked her letters away, then went to open the door.

  “Come in,” she said. “I was just... getting ready for the ball.”

  “No you weren't,” Sophie said. “You were writing. Who were you writing to?”

  “Well, I was thinking of writing to you,” Hyacinth said.

  “Why?” Sophie plunked herself down in a chair, letting her skirts bunch up into wrinkles.

  Hyacinth walked to the window and looked out at the grey, cold day. She thought she saw a break in the clouds, but it darkened a moment later.

  “I'm leaving,” she said at last.

  “Leaving? But I'm sure mama didn't mean...”

  “No,” Hyacinth said. “She would let me stay, even if we disagree, but neither of us are happy about it. I can't stay here.”

  “Is it about your inheritance?”

  Hyacinth nodded. “I have my own house, in the country. I've never seen it. I'll go there, I think.”

  “But we could take you there!” Sophie said. “Don't leave me. It's so boring with just Mama.”

  Hyacinth sighed. “I'm sorry. I don't think your mother would want to have anything to do with the place, and you must stay with her. She's … oh, I don't know. She's your mother.” She looked at Sophie, caught between pity and envy. She had a mother, which Hyacinth hadn't had since she was even younger than Sophie, but such a difficult mother. Aunt Celia did mean well, though. She did. She was just impossible in her ideas of respectability, in her contradictory flirting and obsession with fashion.

  “I have to go,” Hyacinth said. “By myself. I mean, I'll take Maria, but you must let us go. Don't let your mother know until I've left. I've written to her. I'll leave the letter here.”

  Sophie pouted. “But I'll miss you.”

  “And I'll miss you, too.” She looked around the room. She would have to instruct Maria to pack her things.

  “Will you keep my books for me?” Hyacinth asked.

  Sophie brightened. “Oh, could I?”

  “You must. They'll be too heavy for Maria to carry, and I'm sure there will be some at my grandmother's house, my house. In any case, I'll be buying more. For the school.”

  “What school?”

  Hyacinth cringed. She wished she hadn't said that, but her guard, her sense of discretion, had been worn to the breaking point. “I'm thinking of starting a school,” she said. “For girls. Girls about your age. To train to be governesses and such, housekeepers, maybe.”

  “Oh, I'd love to go to your school.”

  “But Aunt Celia would never permit it. She'd worry about you too much. I think you're very precious to her.”

  Sophie squirmed in her chair. “May I take your books to my room now?” she asked.

  “No!” Hyacinth exclaimed. “My goodness. I'm not gone yet. You may come get them at breakfast time tomorrow. I'll leave them in a bundle on that chair for you.”

  “Thank you,” Sophie said. “I'll make do with them until we come visit you.”

  “All right,” Hyacinth said. “Now you really must go. I have another letter to write and I have to decide what to bring with me.” She led Sophie to the door and ushered her out.

  Back inside, Hyacinth frowned and bundled the books. She certainly hoped that her grandmother had a library, and that somehow Sophie could persuade Aunt C
elia to at least find her a governess, or maybe a day school in London. She would ask Georgiana to help. She sat down to write her a short letter, and just as she was folding it to send, there was another knock at the door.

  Maria slipped in, with George at her heels. He was the same, only ever so slightly taller. The school seemed to have improved his posture. He crossed the room in two long strides and embraced his sister.

  “How are you, Hy?” he said.

  “I'm well. And you?”

  “Oh, grand. You were right. School's not so bad, but this weather is beastly, isn't it?”

  “It is.” Hyacinth squeezed him close, then pushed away.

  “I'm sorry about all this sneaking around,” she said.

  “I don't mind at all! Evil step-aunt.”

  “She's not evil,” Hyacinth said – too quickly.

  Maria rolled her eyes.

  “She's just insufferable. That's different.” Hyacinth looked at George. He was definitely a little taller, it wasn't only that his posture had improved. He didn't look in the least bit sickly.

  “I'm so glad you could come,” Hyacinth said, “but it isn't going to be much of a visit, I'm afraid.”

  Maria nodded. “And Mrs. Murphy, that's the housekeeper, she'll wonder what Harold's nephew is doing in the house.”

  George grinned. “Yes. I'm to pose as the coachman's nephew,” he said. “Isn't that grand?”

  Hyacinth sucked in her breath and exhaled slowly. “I suppose it's as a good a tale as any, but I only wish we didn't have to tell tales to visit. Don't worry, though. Next time we'll be at my own house and we won't have to pretend. Now. Tell me all about school, and the journey here.”

  #

  Maria spirited George away to the servants' quarters at supper time. In the dining room, Sophie sat demurely – or at least not visibly sulking – near her mother. She looked up when Hyacinth entered, and Hyacinth answered with the barest of nods. Aunt Celia refused to look at her. Hyacinth sat. The footman served her. No one spoke. Forks clinked on plates. She could hear the crinkle of linen as glasses were set down, or lifted up. Her heart beat quite loudly, but the sound of the footman shuffling his feet was also quite prominent. In the dim background, rain fell on the streets outside. Sophie cleared her throat and eyed her mother.

  “You may go,” Aunt Celia said, breaking the silence at last.

  “I intend to,” Hyacinth said.

  Sophie scurried out. The moment the door closed behind her, Aunt Celia rose, too.

  “You will go to the ball, I mean,” Aunt Celia said to Hyacinth, without actually looking at her. “The carriage will come around in one hour. I will send you my maid. I'm sure that Spanish girl doesn't know a thing about coiffure.”

  Hyacinth opened her mouth to speak, but Aunt Celia held her hand up to stop her.

  “One hour. At the door. You needn't thank me.”

  The door swung shut behind her. Hyacinth looked down at her plate. The food was nearly untouched, but now that Aunt Celia had left the room, she realized that she was quite hungry. With the footman standing uneasily at the kitchen door, she wolfed down her cold lamb and a bit of bread, then set off to prepare for what would probably be her only London ball.

  Upstairs, Aunt Celia's maid waited with her ball gown. Maria stood beside her, looking skeptical, and helped Hyacinth out of her afternoon dress, which was plain but flattering. In contrast, the ball gown was a confection: pale blue silk, trimmed with sapphire velvet and a hint of gold. Stepping into it, she was transformed. As she sat before the mirror, the maid swirled her hair into an artful coiffure, kept in place with a borrowed comb. The lamplight caught in the thread of gold. Hyacinth glimpsed herself in the mirror, still trying to steady her breath and her racing heartbeat against her anger, her apprehension.

  The lady in the mirror before her looked a bit like a fairytale princess, certainly not a schoolmarm. A diamond of the first water? Was that what Aunt Celia had said? The mirror suggested that she might have been right, ridiculous as it was. And Hyacinth had a ball to attend.

  She decided that she would enjoy it.

  #

  Thomas dressed according to the recommendations of his new valet, the younger son of a wool merchant. Jones approved of his eye for details, and Thomas liked him: he was sensible, moderately well-read for someone of his class, and seemed to be patient and even-tempered.

  A little after eight o'clock, they gathered to wait for the coach. Thomas's mother nodded to her sons as they entered, but was deep in conversation with Georgiana.

  “Do any of the young ladies suit?” she asked.

  “For Thomas?” Georgiana said. “I'm sure I don't know. There's a Miss Bennett who is a favorite this year, but only for her looks. They say that she has outstripped her allowance on her wardrobe already.”

  “If a young lady is going to spend her money, she could do worse, I suppose,” his mother said.

  Georgiana’s silence did not imply that she agreed.

  “And then there’s Miss Grey. Thomas went riding in the park with her.”

  “Did you?” his mother said, turning to him as if she suddenly cared for his opinion. “Who is this Miss Grey? Has she a respectable fortune?”

  “I don’t see what her fortune has to do with it,” Thomas said. “Nate's the one with gaming debts.” Nathan had shuffled into the room and slumped in a chair, apparently still suffering from the previous night's excess.

  “If there weren’t ladies present,” he grumbled, “I’d ask you to step outside.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Thomas said.

  “…Lady Talbot’s niece,” Georgiana was saying.

  His mother fairly hissed. “No. Not those Greys. That is too bad. Thomas, you must see that that will never do, never.”

  “And why not?” Thomas said.

  “First, there is the question of her fortune. I cannot believe it would be sufficient.”

  “Sufficient to what?”

  “Well, it’s not desperate, you understand, but the Lawton hasn’t been terribly profitable in the past few years, and I'd like to see it brought back to itself before I die.”

  “I am hardly a pauper, myself,” Thomas said, “and you don't look like you're about to fall into the grave.”

  “I should hope not,” his mother said.

  If the estate were in jeopardy because of mismanaged funds, that was a problem he could sort out on his own. The idea that he would have to marry for money was ridiculous.

  “I had accounted the rumors of your recently acquired wealth as mere gossip,” his mother sniffed.

  “Does it displease you, then?” he asked.

  She coughed. “It is demeaning for someone of your standing to engage in trade.”

  “I did not find it to be demeaning. Quite the contrary,” Thomas said.

  “So what’s the trouble with ‘those Greys’?” Nathan butted in.

  “To begin with, that woman, Lady Talbot, is a viper,” their mother said, as if relieved to have something other than Thomas's dubiously-earned fortune to think about. Here, Thomas thought, she was on more familiar territory. “The family are completely without a sense of propriety. I shudder to think of any child of mine tolerating their company.”

  Mr. Jones appeared at the door.

  “Your carriage is coming around, my lady,” he said.

  “Thank you, Jones,” Thomas's mother replied.

  Georgiana strode from the room. In the hallway, a handsome footman appeared with her coat. Thomas hurried after her.

  “What is the story?” he asked her.

  Georgiana shrugged. “It’s some story about Lady Talbot and my father. It was a very long time ago. I don’t think she was out of the schoolroom.”

  “And what, exactly, occurred?” Thomas asked.

  “I don’t know, but I believe that one of Lady Talbot’s brothers challenged father to a duel.”

  “I see,” Thomas said. The challenger must have been Captain Grey. It might not have taken m
uch to raise his hackles, or prejudice him permanently against the Pently clan.

  “We had better go,” Georgiana said, “or we'll be more than fashionably late.”

  The men rode in silence most of the way, while Georgiana informed his mother of various pieces of London gossip. They continued to chatter as the footmen opened the carriage door and they walked into the opulent town house. Inside, they scarcely looked around except to greet their hostess. Out of the corners of his eyes, Thomas glimpsed several young ladies and their mamas, eying him. He feigned interest in Georgiana's story about one of the young Pently's ponies and ignored his brother, who shortly disappeared into the card room. Thomas's mother eyed a row of young ladies in pale gowns.

  “Do you like none of them?” she asked.

  “I suppose they are all fine girls,” Thomas said, “but no, I would not choose any of them to be my bride.”

  “You’ll have to, you know,” she said. “Unless you think that Nate is suited to manage even a little place like Lawton. I've become accustomed to life in Town, and no one ever expected me to manage the estate.”

  “But you know it as well as anyone, don't you?” Thomas said.

  She waved him away, as if he were a fly buzzing in her ear. “You wouldn't want to charge Nate with siring an heir for Lawton, let alone the duchy, in case Lady Caroline is only carrying a girl, after all.”

  Thomas stopped listening. Across the room, Hyacinth emerged from a crowd of admirers. Their eyes met. Then he noticed the bauble on her chest. And what a bauble it was. He intended to claim his dance at once.

  #

  Hyacinth rode to the ball with one hand clutched around her reticule. She hadn't put on her grandmother's necklace, not yet, but she carried it with her. She wasn't even sure if she would wear it. What if someone recognized it, and associated it with her grandmother? But how could they? The very proper ladies of the ton would hardly admit to having known a courtesan, even if they'd crossed her path. If they had, Hyacinth considered, there was a very small, though unlikely, chance they might have considered her grandmother a friend. That would be worth the risk, that very small chance that she might find another friend. Besides, while Aunt Celia would berate her in private, she would not want to create a scene with half of society in earshot. Aunt Celia would know that she was not bowing to her will, and would be less surprised when she woke to find her gone the next morning.