Lady Incognita

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  “No! Oh no. Philip, you must not.”

  Atherton’s eyes glittered with anger. “Understand me, Louisa. I will know what Jersey said to you. Now, will you tell me or shall I go to her?”

  With those dark eyes on her, Louisa could only capitulate. “She ... she said I was an item of gossip.”

  “How so?”

  “That, that either you were dangling after me or that you expected to win your wager through me.”

  “I see.”

  Louisa felt like sinking through the floor. “I know, I know it isn’t true, the part about dangling. I told her she was wrong. That you were only befriending me because of your sister and Mama.”

  “And what else did she say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Louisa, you are a poor liar. Now, out with the rest of it.”

  His eyes seemed to draw the words out of her. “She ... she said you were a poor ch-choice for a girl like me. That you had had innumerable connections and liked women with experience.”

  The hand on her arm tightened so that she winced in pain but his voice was entirely calm as he repeated, “I see.”

  As Louisa watched, his eyes became opaque, even the anger in them becoming hidden from her. “Here comes my sister. Shall we return to our box?” he said as calmly as though nothing had passed between them.

  As Louisa let herself be guided back into the box she realized with a pang how many dreams she had allowed herself to build, dreams in which Atherton asked for her hand. But now, she saw how foolish such dreaming had been. The Viscount had obviously been angry; he did not like having Jersey interfere in his life.

  But it was obvious, too, that he had no intention of offering for Louisa; how patently foolish she had been to ever imagine such a thing. Jersey, all malice aside, certainly knew Atherton’s tastes. And, after all, he had not even bothered to deny her charges, as he surely must have if her regard mattered to him.

  No, she must face the facts clearly, Louisa told herself. To a man of the world like Atherton she could be nothing more than an amusement, an antidote for ennui.

  And, she realized as she settled in her chair, she had no cause to complain, not really. Atherton had been charming, that was true. But he had not in any sense been forward with her. He had only treated her as he most probably treated any woman within his purview. If she, foolish creature, had chosen to build castles in the air upon so unsubstantial a foundation the fault was most assuredly her own.

  How humiliating, too, to have to relate such things to him. He must think her a regular chucklehead.

  The play resumed and Louisa watched attentively. It seemed to her that she had, in some indefinable way, split in half. Half of her was mourning the loss of her dreams while the other half continued to laugh at the play.

  When the performance was over, this unreal part of herself let Atherton guide her back to the carriage; it made amiable conversation on the way home; it even bid Atherton a calm good-bye at the door.

  It was only when Louisa reached the shelter of the great oak bed that the protecting numbness left her, and then the tears came as she grieved for those lost dreams - dreams of a love that would never be.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was not until she woke the next morning that the other import of Jersey’s words hit Louisa. If the ton ever discovered her true identity, Atherton would suffer for it. Even his interest in the wager would not save him from the ridicule of the fashionables whose boredom made them welcome any diversion, no matter how painful for the victim.

  Whatever his reasons for seeking to discover the true identity of Lady Incognita, he certainly had not intended to be seen dangling after a Lady Author. Not even the wager could save him from the whispers of the ton.

  But even worse than that was her terrible feeling that he would lose whatever regard he now had left for her. Certainly he could only look with con-tempt upon such a creature, a creature who had deceived him cruelly.

  And when he read Love in the Ruins, as he most assuredly would - Louisa felt panic wash over her. What if he recognized himself in Reginald? After all, there was so much of him there, so many of his mannerisms. Louisa fought to put down the panic. If he recognized himself, he would hate her forever.

  And if someone else recognized him ... Oh, that would be even worse!

  Hurriedly she jumped from the bed. She would go to Mr. Grimstead, she thought with a terrified glance at the clock, just as soon as the library opened. She would tell him that she simply must have Love in the Ruins back. She would shut herself up with it until she had so changed Reginald that he was unrecognizable to anyone.

  * * * *

  Several hours later Louisa descended from a hackney coach in Leadenhall Street. She had no eyes now for the statue of Minerva, spear in one hand and shield in the other, that stood guard in the niche above the door. All she could think of was to get to Mr. Grimstead.

  The greetings of the shop boy, the smile of the man behind the library counter, all were equally lost on her as she hurried to Mr. Grimstead’s door. So distraught was she that she did not even take her customary look around before entering.

  Mr. Grimstead, his friendly round face reflecting concern, showed her to a chair. “I hope there’s no ill health in your family,” he said anxiously.

  “No, no,” Louisa replied. “We are all well. But I need to have Love in the Ruins back again. I ... I have to change it.”

  Mr. Grimstead frowned. “But Miss Penhope, it’s the best you’ve done. The hero is a trump, a real out-and-outer.”

  Louisa felt the tears dangerously close as she struggled to go on. “I must have it. Please, I must.”

  Mr. Grimstead shook his head. I’m sorry, miss. I see it’s very important to you, but I can’t do a thing about it. The book’s already at the booksellers. There’s no way in the world to get it back now.”

  Louisa fought to keep down the tears. “Are ... are you sure?”

  “Quite sure, miss. Come now, whatever you think, it’s a fine romance. The best yet. And your new one’ll be capital, too. I’m sure. How’s it coming?”

  “Oh, it’s all right, I guess,” replied Louisa distractedly, barely hearing him. She rose hastily to her feet. “I ... I have to go. Thank you.”

  There were tears in her eyes as she made her way out his door, tears that blinded her so that she did not see the man who stepped in front of her until she was almost upon him. Only then did she recognize Lord Harvey.

  “Miss Penhope,” said he in stentorian tones, “are you in distress?”

  And then Louisa, disregarding all etiquette, brushed past him and out the door where she threw herself into the waiting hackney and tearfully gave the direction for home.

  The coach had almost reached Arlington Street before she was able to gather her scattered senses into some semblance of order. She simply must pull herself together. Drimble, despite his silent tongue, had quick eyes. And life must go on as it had before. At least, until the storm broke.

  This thought almost threw Louisa back into tears, but she controlled herself. She had been foolish to build castles in the air on such flimsy foundations and now she was merely reaping the results of such foolishness.

  And worse, she had to contend with Lord Harvey. For the pomposity would obviously have his curiosity engaged by such an unusual sight as Louisa emerging from Mr. Grimstead’s office in tears. How could such a thing be explained? She searched her mind, but for once her fertile imagination failed her. She was too distraught, she told herself, to think properly about such things. She would tell Drimble she had a headache and retire to her room.

  Having made this decision, she was able to pass the rest of the journey in relative calm and, on reaching her destination, to pay the driver, march in and announce to Drimble, “I have a headache. I am going to lie on my bed and rest awhile.”

  She began to mount the stairs. “And Drimble, I am at home to no one.”

  “No one?” repeated Drimble with the merest of inton
ations.

  “No one,” replied Louisa firmly and hurried on up the stairs before she should disgrace herself in front of her butler.

  She dared not see Atherton now, if he should decide to call. For in her distress she might give herself away. She simply had to think.

  * * * *

  Several hours later when Louisa emerged from her room, she was no nearer a solution to anything. What she had accomplished was to calm her quivering nerves and restore her features to some semblance of rationality.

  Thus she took up her needlepoint and settled in the chair near the window where she could look out from time to time on the disordered array of flowers that her mother had loved so much. If only Mama were here to help her now, she thought with a deep sigh, perhaps she could tell her what to do.

  For Louisa’s imagination still refused to give her any help in explaining her tearful departure from Mr. Grimstead’s office to Lord Harvey. That an explanation would be demanded, Louisa had no doubt. Lord Harvey considered himself an old friend of the family now.

  Louisa wiped away a stray tear. If only they would all go away and leave her alone, she thought with a half sob. Life had been simple until that fateful visit to the abbey.

  She tried to force her mind back to the adventures of Sir Percival and his beloved Corrine. But it obstinately refused to stay there. Her daily quota of pages would not be met this day, Louisa knew. And she was angry with herself for it.

  She would simply tell Lord Harvey that she did not wish to talk about her visit to Leadenhall Street. After all, the man had no right to demand an explanation from her.

  She was straightening her shoulders with determination when the sound of Drimble’s voice rising in dismay reached her ears. “Lord Harvey, you must not. I have informed you. Miss Penhope is not at home.”

  “We’ll see about that,” replied Lord Harvey. “And if you’re giving me the truth, my man, then I’ll just wait in the drawing room until she is at home.”

  “Milord!”

  There was the sound of a scuffle by the door and Harvey burst into the room.

  Louisa had dropped the needlepoint, prepared to fly, but she was too late.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” said an aggrieved Drimble from the doorway. “But the gentleman forced his way in.”

  “That’s all right, Drimble,” soothed Louisa. “You have done your duty.”

  Drimble, still aggrieved, could be heard marching off down the hall. Louisa steeled herself for what was coming.

  Lord Harvey seemed willing to keep her in suspense. With great deliberation he drew a chair up to hers. “Now, my dear, you are not to worry your pretty head about a thing. I shall take care of it all.”

  Louisa stared in amazement. “I am sorry, Lord Harvey, but I do not perceive your meaning.”

  Harvey smiled knowingly. “You mustn’t think about supporting your family any-more in such an undignified fashion.”

  “Lord Harvey,” said Louisa, withdrawing the hand he had captured. “I still do not take your meaning.”

  “I know that you are Lady Incognita,” said Harvey, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that would, under other circumstances, have been very amusing.

  Louisa tried denial. “I? Lord Harvey, you have been too much in the sun.”

  Harvey shook his head. “I am not going to be put off by any Banbury tale. I know you are Lady Incognita. And this proves it.” With a nourish he drew from an inner pocket a blue-bound copy of Love in the Ruins.

  Louisa fought to keep her presence of mind. If she did not corroborate Harvey’s guess, he would have only that - guesses.

  “I think you have mistaken me,” said she quite calmly. Under stress her imagination finally came through. “Mr. Grimstead was an old friend of my Papa’s. I often stop to see him when I go to the library. This time we were talking about Papa. That’s why I was in tears.”

  Harvey did not seem impressed with this story. He seized her hand again with such strength that she could not pull it away. “Do not fear, little girl. I will keep your dreadful secret.”

  “I am not a little girl,” said Louisa, setting her teeth against the anger she felt gathering in her. “And I do not need to be taken care of.”

  “Yes, indeed,” continued Harvey, unperturbed. “After our marriage, Lady Incognita will write no more and she will gradually fade from the minds of the ton.”

  “Our marriage?” echoed Louisa in disbelief.

  “Of course, my dear. I would never dream of letting the world know the previous identity of my bride.”

  “But ... but I cannot marry you.”

  “I should think very carefully,” said Harvey with a strange smile, “before I disparaged such a golden opportunity. After all, I have no moral obligation to keep secret the identity of Lady Incognita if she is not to be my bride.”

  Louisa heard the thinly veiled threat and shuddered inwardly.

  “It would really be too bad,” observed Lord Harvey, regarding the blue-bound book on the table, “if the ton should discover your identity. How they would crow over Atherton too. Right on the scent of Lady Incognita for weeks and deprived of his prize.”

  Louisa’s heart fluttered in her throat. What was she to do?

  “I ... I must have time to think,” she stammered. “I had not considered such an alliance.”

  Harvey kept her hand imprisoned in his. “I have long cherished such a de-sire,” said he pompously. “And now it is within my grasp. My love.” His grip on her hand tightened.

  Louisa felt the anger surging through her and was about to remind him that blackmail was hardly a sound foundation for love, but she managed to hold her tongue. “This is too sudden,” she repeated. “Please, I must have time to consider.”

  “Of course.” Harvey patted her hand in a way that made her long to strike him. “You shall have plenty of time. Of course, I shall call daily. We must get to know each other.”

  This remark, delivered with a glint in his eyes, caused Louisa to feel revulsion. But she made no reply. She would have to suffer the pomposity’s unwelcome presence until she could come up with some plan of action.

  “Yes, of course,” she agreed. “But for now ...” She summoned her most winning smile. “I must really ask you to go. I have had a headache all day - and now I find it is getting worse.”

  “Of course, my dear.” Harvey, seeing things going so smoothly, rose urbanely. ‘I shall call tomorrow.” He kissed her hand and she bit her lip to keep from pulling it back. Oh, how she longed to put this ridiculous creature in his proper place, but she managed to keep her tongue between her teeth.

  Docilely she followed him to the door. His eyes, sharp beady eyes that she had never noticed before, regarded her coolly. “Kemble is doing Macbeth in a few nights. By the express desire of Princess Charlotte and the Prince Saxe-Coburg. I will be by for you in our carriage. Mama will accompany us. That will give her a chance to meet you.”

  With this final remark he strutted off, leaving a Louisa who did not know whether to laugh or cry. The man was unreal, absolutely unreal, she thought as she sank into a convenient chair. How could he imagine she would consent to such an arrangement? Even Betsy’s future could not be bought at such a terrifying price.

  But she could not give him the set down he deserved, not when he had such damaging information about her. She glanced at the table where Harvey had left the copy of Love in the Ruins. Soon it would be in the hands of all the ton.

  She put her hands to her aching head. She must think. She must puzzle this out. Perhaps she could deny Harvey’s accusation. After all, what proof had he?

  “Oh,” Louisa said aloud in her despair. “How stupid I have been. I should have asked him what proof he had. Perhaps he cannot prove it. Then there would be only his word against mine. I believe I could carry it off. But if he has some kind of proof ... I simply must find out. Tomorrow. Tomorrow when he comes to call I will see what I can discover. And in the meantime I shall not worry myself about it. I
simply shall not.”

  And thus decided she left the drawing room and spoke to Drimble. “Lord Harvey will be calling tomorrow. I will be home to him and no one else.”

  “To Lord Harvey and no one else,” repeated Drimble, his ordinarily imperturbable face reflecting his amazement.

  Louisa’s expression softened. “I trust,” said she, with something of her old self, “that this state of affairs will not be of long duration.”

  “I, too, trust so, miss,” replied the old butler, not quite hiding the relief in his voice.

  As Louisa ascended the stairs to her room she considered. If Lord Harvey was going to think himself lord of the castle and take to popping in at odd hours, he would interfere seriously with her writing time. But the writing must continue. No matter what happened in reality - the crashing of her beautiful dreams, the semi-nightmare of Harvey’s aspirations - the adventures of the gallant Sir Percival and the lovely Corrine must continue.

  If she ceased to write, thought Louisa as she locked the door behind her and settled at the desk, there would be no more life in the house on Arlington Street. They would have to move to the country, to the small farm that Papa had purchased with the intent of learning about agriculture in his later years. The farm had tenants, but there was still a small cottage empty. Probably there they could live on much less.

  She picked up the knife and began absentmindedly to sharpen the pens. Suddenly she stopped, arrested by a thought! If Harvey did have proof, she would move the whole family to the country, forget the cruel world of the fashionables, and begin a new life. The manuscripts could be posted to Mr. Grimstead and no one in far-removed Shropshire would bother themselves with vain speculations about the identity of an author. People there were far too busy getting a living from the soil, and rightly so, thought Louisa.

  Yes, she told herself as she took the key from her pocket and unlocked the drawer of the writing desk. If worst came to worst that was what she would do. For she would never, under any circum-stances, consider an alliance with Lord Harvey. The very thought filled her with revulsion.