But why not? He needed her help. What a novel and remarkable idea! He needed her. He would never have won that invitation by himself, and he could not go to Barrington’s country home without her.
She wrote her reply immediately, ringing for Michaels to arrange its delivery. After the door closed again, though, it occurred to her that one small fly marred the ointment: Elma.
Elma would forbid such adventures. Indeed, Gwen had no doubt that Elma was complaining of her right now. Lady Lytton, the wife of the English ambassador, was a particular favorite of the Beechams’, and Elma was slated for lunch with her in the Palais-Royal. I brought her all the way to Paris, Elma would be complaining over oysters, and now she refuses to accompany me anywhere. Indeed, this morning she refused to leave bed.
Lady Lytton would not be surprised. She would nod understandingly and pat Elma’s hand. Of course, nobody could expect better from a girl who’d been jilted, crushed, flattened, twice now.
Gwen did not feel flattened, though. For the first time in what seemed like ages, she felt positively . . . robust.
Your help would be useful, Alex had written.
With a laugh, she flopped back onto the bed and spread out her limbs. As a girl, she’d visited a museum in Oxford that had displayed a dried sea specimen called a starfish. If one of its limbs got chopped off, the curator had said, another would grow overnight. Something like that had happened to her, perhaps. She felt more cheerful, even, than she had in the days before her jilting.
On an impulse, she lifted her heels into the air. Her nightgown fell down to her thighs. She considered her bare legs with interest; the cancan dancers at the Moulin Rouge had given her material for comparison. Slim ankles, nicely rounded calves. She preferred the dimpled knees she had seen last night; her own looked sadly knobby. But she could kick as well as anyone. She pointed her toe and delivered a solid punt to an imaginary Thomas Arundell. She felt better prepared than ever to give him a bit of what-for. Lily Goodrick was the Queen of the Barbary Coast, after all. She took guff from no man, least of all a spineless toad.
Perhaps today she’d find him.
* * *
Except, of course, for the small fact that Thomas had left Paris already, making him unavailable for the what-for she’d been composing in her head all afternoon. Upon learning these tidings, Gwen nearly dropped the teapot. “Are you certain?” she asked Elma. How on earth had he come and gone so quietly?
“Completely certain,” said Elma. She sat across from Gwen in the sitting room, nearly vibrating with good spirits. “I had the news from Lady Lytton herself. He is her second cousin twice removed, you know, and he always pays her a visit before he leaves town. I suppose he thinks of her as he might his own mother, were his mother not such a dragon.” Elma paused to give a delicate shudder. “Narrow escape you had there, my dear.”
“But where has he gone?” Gwen asked. This was beyond deflating.
“Baden-Baden, says Lady Lytton, and thence to Corfu.”
Gwen nodded, now thoroughly confused. Elma had proposed a celebratory tea; were these the tidings they were meant to celebrate? If so, Gwen could not help but think it slightly mean-spirited. Elma knew that she had come here to retrieve the ring. Thomas’s absence was no cause to rejoice.
“Never fear,” said Elma, seeing the doubt on her face. “I have better news yet. But first, let’s raise our glasses.”
Wary now, Gwen held out one spindly china cup—cream with a splash of tea, per Elma’s preference. It was always possible, she supposed, that Elma was not about to propose that they toast the death of some countess on her wedding night, or the sudden expiry of an heir who’d had the audacity to be married already but whose younger brother yet languished in bachelorhood.
An anticipatory smile slipped free of Elma’s lips. “Darling,” she said, “first I must apologize for my temper this morning. I know that you’ve had a very trying time of it, and I should have realized that Paris is no place for a young woman in a troubled state of mind. What you required was rest, not this nervous, constant stimulus.”
“Oh no,” Gwen said quickly. “Please don’t apologize. I am sorry to have worried you, but I assure you, I had a grand time last night.”
“No, no, don’t forgive me; it wasn’t you whom I owed my temper. The blame rests solely with Mr. Ramsey. I confess, I expected a great deal more of him. Of course I know he is not widely considered worthy of respectable company, but I supposed our connections to his family would hold him to a better standard of behavior. I was gravely disappointed by what you told me, but as I said, rightfully it is he with whom I should quarrel.”
“But I was the one who insisted on going to Chat Noir,” Gwen said.
Elma lifted a brow. “Well,” she said, after a significant pause. “As I said, you’ve been through a trial. And one night won’t have done you any harm, provided you met no one we knew.” She frowned. “Goodness—you didn’t, did you?”
“No,” Gwen said hastily. “Nobody at all.”
Elma exhaled. “Then, as I said, no harm done. But I do think it’s time to leave, darling. To the countryside, for a bit of a constitutional, exactly as the Ramsey sisters suggested. Guernsey, we’d proposed, although Cornwall could serve nicely, too. Which do you prefer?”
Guernsey? Good heavens. “Aunt Elma,” she said carefully, “I think you misunderstand the situation. I do not feel overwrought in the slightest. Last night—”
“Enough about that. Don’t you wish to know what we’re celebrating?” Elma’s stern expression melted into a twinkle as she reached into her purse. “I have the most lovely surprise for you. First, you are well rid of the viscount, dear. His love is not for one such as you, it seems. You must not blame yourself one whit for his behavior. But while he is a rascal, he is not a dishonorable one—nor a thief, I am glad to say! Just look what he left in the care of dear Lady Lytton.”
She opened her hand. In it was Richard’s ring.
Gwen’s lips parted on a silent breath of surprise.
“Yes, dear,” Elma said gently. “Take it, do. I know how much it means to you, and I’m so glad to be the one who managed to return it to you.”
Slowly Gwen reached out. For a moment, as her fingers closed on the band—so much cooler than the air, a hard and alien pressure in her palm—she had a curious sense of déjà vu.
She ran her thumb along the band, finding the familiar striations at each side. It was the right ring. The brilliant gleam of the gold surprised her. It seemed as if recent contact with Pennington’s finger should have tarnished the metal.
She glanced up and found Elma beaming at her, waiting, no doubt, for some cathartic bout of tears, or, failing that, a fluttering joyous clamor. The occasion deserved it. With the return of the ring, her honor was redeemed, she supposed. And she was glad to have it back—truly. It was a piece of her family; it belonged with her. She would not have rested easily so long as it was missing.
But as she turned it over in her fingers, she realized that somewhere, during these last few days, the blemish that its absence had gouged into her self-regard seemed to have healed.
This ring had traveled farther, and had enjoyed so many more adventures, than she had.
“I wasn’t wrong to have given it to him,” she said, and this time, she believed it. “It was he who was at fault. I couldn’t have known.”
“No, of course not,” Elma said. “Nobody could have! But now you have it back, you will put him from your mind entirely. So many other men in the world! In London, right now, the bachelors are swarming.” She leaned forward, the rope of pearls at her neck swinging free. “Just think,” she said mischievously. “Some handsome lad in town is waiting for you, never suspecting the good fortune about to enter his life!”
Gwen laughed. Indeed, to the swarming bachelors, that would be precisely what she signified: a fortune, no more. She doubted Elma was even aware of the irony of the statement. “But I’m afraid my feelings haven’t changed, dear.”
If anything, they had strengthened. “I’ve no wish to begin that rigmarole again. Indeed, I think I would like to stay in France a while yet.”
Elma’s mouth pursed. The movement drew into prominence the little lines she so loathed, which fanned out from her lips and the corners of her eyes. “Gwen, do be reasonable. After last night, I can hardly countenance remaining here.”
“Yes,” Gwen said hesitantly. “I understand; it would not be conscionable.” She lifted her own teacup to her nose, breathing deeply of the calming fragrance. The spice from the bergamot rind never failed to put her in mind of her father, who had drunk so much of the stuff that the scent had seemed permanently impressed into his clothes. He’d grown up on bohea, a watery broth made from third-rate scraps; he’d claimed that no luxury had ever startled and delighted him more than discovering the taste of proper tea. What a miraculous transubstantiation for common water, he’d often said. I tell you, Gwen, no man-made chemistry has ever surpassed it.
Exhaling, she set the cup down. “You needn’t stay, of course. I’m old enough to look after myself!”
The other woman’s eyes shot wide. “I—good Lord. You cannot mean to say you think to remain here alone?”
The incredulity gave her a moment’s pause. Yes, it did sound quite outré, didn’t it? “But . . . it wouldn’t be so unusual, would it? That is, I see women of my age all the time unchaperoned! In St. Pancras Station, for one.” She paused, struck by that truth. For all the money she had, she’d never experienced any true form of independence. “Why, they stand alone at the refreshment counter—drinking brandy, even! Many of them look quite respectable.”
Had she sprouted another head, Elma might have gawked at her so. “Working girls,” she said. “Typists, Gwen. Postal clerks! Surely you don’t mean to compare yourself to those people!”
“I—of course not.” That would be foolish. Such women did as they must in order to keep a roof over their heads. Perhaps, if they could have afforded it, they would have preferred to be looked after by somebody like Elma. “But that doesn’t make them disrespectable, surely. That is—they are no better or worse than my mother, before her marriage.”
Elma shook her head slowly, her lips forming an O. “Your mother,” she said. “Your mother wanted better for you than that!”
Gwen looked down to her tea. “But she would not have wanted me to marry without love,” she said.
“Nobody is asking you to do so. God above, what happened to you at that altar? Was your brain broken along with your heart?”
“My heart was not broken!” Gwen slammed down her teacup. “I’ve been trying to tell you that for some time now!”
Elma’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, so you have. But this is another order entirely.” Voice growing cold, she said, “Perhaps I should remind you that when I took you into our household, I vouched for your character. I risked my own name to promote you. What you may not know is that my friends warned me against it. They said, Elma, orchids do not grow from common barnyard soil. But I refused to hear a word against you. I told them they did not understand the sweetness, the sterling nature, of your character. Certainly I never dreamed—”
She broke off, her lips compressing; violently, she shook her head and looked away.
Gwen watched her miserably. The only response that suggested itself was supremely unkind. The fruits of common barnyard soil had, of course, paid the Beechams’ household bills for ten years now. It was not admiration for her character that had prompted Elma to take her in.
Elma’s head swiveled back. “No,” she said sharply. “I will not permit you to do this. And I shall hear no further debate on it! Do you understand me?”
The door opened without a knock, giving them both a dreadful start.
Alex leaned against the doorway, buttoning up his glove in a casual gesture. “Did I hear yelling?” he inquired pleasantly. “May I be of some assistance?”
Oh, dear God. Gwen shot him an urgent look of warning. Now was not the time!
“You,” Elma hissed, and came to her feet. “This is all your doing.”
Chapter Nine
“Ta!” Elma called, waving her handkerchief out of the window. “Don’t forget to write!”
Gwen grunted as Alex’s elbow landed in her ribs. “Every day!” he cried in reply, and then, under his breath, muttered, “wave, damn you, or we’ll never make it aboard.”
“Oh.” Numbly, she lifted her hand. The handkerchief flapped an energetic reply, then retreated into the window, which snapped shut decisively.
With a great sigh, Alex slapped his felt hat back onto his head. “All right,” he said. “Quickly, now, before she decides to stick her head back out.” He took Gwen’s arm and turned on his heel, starting down the platform at a rapid clip.
People scattered from their path, either because he was over six feet and dressed all in black, like a thief with midnight plans, or because there was an innate and intimidating elegance to the way he wore his great caped coat. He drew the attention of every female passing by, eighteen to eighty, and this was not simply Gwen’s imagination at work: from the corner of her eye, she spied a silver-haired grandmother on a nearby bench twisting at the waist to ogle him as he passed.
“Here we are,” he said to her. A hiss came from the train; a great roiling mass of steam spilled out from the warming engines. He leapt up the steps into the carriage and turned back for her just as the carriage lurched and began to roll forward.
Gwen, one foot on the stairs, cried out and lost her balance.
He caught her by the waist and hauled her up inside, directly into his chest. She held very still for a moment, in his arms, breathing in the scent of him—wool and soap and the faint, spicy hint of one of those tonics men used to soothe shaving nicks.
And then she began to smile. She pulled away, laughing. “A dramatic beginning!”
He grinned back at her. “No doubt.”
A throat cleared itself very pointedly in their vicinity. They turned. An astonished gray porter stood gawking at them. “Les—les billets, s’il vous plait?” he asked tentatively.
“Ah, yes,” Alex said, and reached into his jacket for the tickets while Gwen sank back against the wall. The train was picking up speed, the floor beginning to shudder beneath her slippers. “I rented the whole damned carriage, so this should work,” Alex said in an aside to her. “Even if she decides to wander, she won’t be able to come back into our section.”
She gazed at him. How . . . cleverly he’d managed all of this.
He glanced briefly toward her, then glanced back again with a frown. “Oh, Christ. And what ails you? Are you about to weep? It’s not too late to jump back down, you know.”
She found a smile. “Yes, it is.” The platform was flying by now. Paris was over.
“The next station, then. I can figure out Barrington myself.”
“No,” she said quickly. “And I wasn’t going to cry. It’s only—” She slanted another glance at his angular face and swallowed her next words.
It’s only that you’re rather frightening, she wanted to say. Alex had come into the room this afternoon and taken the seat next to Elma, ignoring with grave dignity her insistence that he leave or be thrown out by security. Capturing her hand, he had meekly invited her to recite his sins. Meekly! Gwen had never seen him meek in her life.
Naturally, Elma had obliged, unleashing a volley of accusations about his black character and his terrible effect on her charge. In reply, he had nodded, squeezed her hand, and made numerous sympathetic murmurs of accord.
Just when it had looked to Gwen like she was about to be shipped back to London, Alex had introduced, with all apparent amazement, the idea of how trying his behavior must have been for Elma—which insight somehow had led the discussion off-course entirely, traversing various subjects including the misery of a life spent beholden to ingrates, the endless anxieties of keeping face in society, and the woeful injustices to which beautiful women of a certain age proved subj
ect. Another conversational sleight of hand had then narrowed focus specifically to Mr. Beecham, at which point Elma had burst into tears and collapsed onto Alex’s shoulder, wailing as he’d patted her arm.
Indeed, Gwen could feel certain of only one thing: by the end of the conversation, Elma had felt convinced that she was the one in need of a holiday. “From every obligation that troubles you,” Alex had specified. “Including Gwen, of course.”
Now Elma was four cars ahead of them, on the first leg of her journey to Lake Como, in northern Italy. Before leaving, she had secured their repeated and ardent reassurances that they would not breathe a word of her jaunt to anybody, most of all Mr. Beecham. The three of them planned to reunite in Marseilles in five days’ time.
“It was just . . .” She paused. “A very sudden departure. I am a bit—addled, I suppose.”
“Hmm.” He seemed to accept this. “Perhaps you require some dinner.”
The carriage Alex had booked contained three sleeping compartments and a small sitting area, where lunch was served atop trays the porter screwed into the floor. The spread was far more impressive than what the English railway might have mustered: first came the prawns, radishes, and chilled Marennes oysters, accompanied by a fine Madeira. The main course, to be delivered in an hour’s time, would consist of braised partridges with garnishes of Gruyère cheese and salade à la Romaine. For dessert, they were assured a choice selection of fruits, coffees, and cognacs.
It promised to be a long dinner in which to avoid Alex’s eyes.
“Enough,” he said curtly after the prawns arrived. “Something ails you. If you’re regretting your rashness, tell me. I can put you on a returning train at Lyons.”
“Nothing ails me,” she said for the fifth time. She stared fixedly out the window. They were traveling past breathtaking scenery: ancient manors perched atop cliffs that glowed in the vermilion sunset; stands of woods that rose up suddenly and cast the compartment into a darkness broken only by the dim light of the single lamp above them; and then, as the woods fell away again, great fields of sunflowers, beyond which, in the distance, lay small towns, church spires, and the turrets of crumbling castles, picturesque as any fairy tale.
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