by Matilda Hart
She couldn’t protest any further. Her crushed lungs simply wouldn’t allow her to. The procession of servants followed Constance, ready to take orders. Abby stayed behind. She could clearly understand what her young mistress was going through.
“Come then. Lets get you some water.” Abby said with a friendly smile.
“Thank you.” Joan gasped.
So then, it would be a dinner party that night, Joan thought to herself.
But there was always the chance that she wouldn’t survive that long. That was Joan’s secret hope. And considering the state of her lungs, it was a grave possibility.
Chapter Three
“I have heard of your father. Great architect. Such a pity that his talents are confined to France; and Versailles of all places!” Sir Walter Eldridge said to Joan.
Such a pity that my fists are confined to this cutlery, and cannot be punched into your face. Joan could never say something like that, of course. Thoughts of that nature had been plaguing her all night, but she held her tongue until she feared she might explode.
“Quite.” Joan replied. She had quickly learned that to prevent herself from speaking her true mind, she would just reply ‘quite’. It was very English of her.
“The pheasant is most delectable.” Eldridge’s wife said. Joan wondered how on earth that woman could be enjoying the meal in front of her, considering the impossibly small bites that she was taking. It seemed to be the hallmark of proper dining etiquette, but Joan was a girl who liked to eat hungrily. Luckily she had no taste for English food, and certainly wouldn’t be able to digest it with the construction around her waistline.
The greasy, bland faire that they had dined upon included pheasant dripping in oil, flavorless potatoes mashed in cream, creamed peas, creamed spinach, creamed carrots, and sherbet. Joan couldn’t imagine how the people of London, already forced to survive the endless fog and soot, could possibly endure such a grey and mirthless diet.
In Versailles, the meals were all about color. There were fresh tomatoes, berries, succulent squashes, fragrant pies, crisp and fluffy breads, vibrant cakes, and aromatic cheeses. If only the high society of London knew how little taste they have.
“And how do you plan on making your entrance into society, young lady?” Sir Walter asked. It was a stupid question, and one that Joan didn’t think she should answer. But alas, she couldn’t just ignore her dining partners.
“Well, I guess I’ll just open the door and step in.” Joan said flatly. Her side of the dining table gave a polite laugh. There were perhaps fifty people that night at the dinner, and Joan wished to not be acquainted with any of them for a moment longer.
“We hope to be receiving invitations soon to various balls and cotillions.” Constance chimed in, lest the guests got the wrong impression of the wayward girl.
The meal continued in the same boisterous and pompous manner, and Joan was relieved when it was announced that it was time for a game of piquet.
“Tea shall be served in the drawing room.” The hostess, Genevieve Lawrence proclaimed - a woman of unparalleled wealth and stature in high society circles. Little did the guests know that the occasion was for the express purposes of scouting out a wife for her handsome and eligible son.
Looking down at her melting, soupy green sherbet, Joan realized that she could take it no longer. If she had to answer one more inane and narrow-minded question, she might just scream.
As the guests exited into the drawing room, Joan saw her chance. She made a b-line to the veranda, and ran down the vast stone steps towards the gardens. The plan was simple; she was to rid herself of that ridiculous costume, find a way to transport herself to the harbor, and sail back to France that very night. She would even swim there, if she had to.
Running through the gardens, she was reminded of Versailles, and began to tear-up from the homesickness that enveloped her. She was cursing to herself as she ran, and started by ripping off her heavy overcoat and throwing it onto the grass.
“Stupide!” She muttered, untying her corset and releasing herself at last.
“Morceau de merde!” Joan then untied her hair so that it could flow free. Still moving at a quick pace, she was only wearing her robin’s egg blue dress and stockings. She’d take that off, too, if she could, but Joan needed to maintain some level of respectability.
Just then Joan barreled into something that she didn’t see coming, and gasped.
“What the devil?” The man said.
“Why is it no one in this damn city will get out of my way!” Joan yelled, and continued running.
“Wait there!” He called out.
Joan perceived that the man had been attending the party as well, and that if he saw her fleeing in a state of undress, he’d try to confiscate her and bring her back to the party so that she could be put before an army of scrutiny; which was her due. She continued to flee with a new urgency.
Little did she know that Duke Emil Lawrence had been fleeing the party with the same vehemency as Joan was. He pursued her. He could see that the woman was clearly troubled and out of her mind. She sounded French, so that diagnosis seemed ever more plausible.
“Please, leave me alone!” Joan said, as she could see and hear that she was being followed.
“Are you in need of help?” He asked, making considerable progress at catching up with her. Had he not seen her during dinner, and admired her outer appearance, he might believe that this was a woman newly escaped from the sanatorium.
“No!” She yelled back. Joan could tell that she was running in vain because the man was getting closer. She decided to make a sharp right turn and dodged underneath a hedge, hoping that he would lose track of her.
The maneuver worked for a time, and the Duke stood baffled. He looked about from side to side, but could not tell where the girl had gone.
From that vantage, Joan could finally get a good look of the man. Even in the darkness she could see that he was of considerable height and build; no more than 25 years of age. His hair was quite dark; almost black. The color of his eyes was not apparent, but they seemed to be unusually light for coloring so dark.
Joan watched him walk away. It seemed as though the man had given up on following her. She thought that it was a good time to continue her escape, so she sprung from the hedge and continued her sprint.
Joan did not make it very far at all before out of nowhere the man grabbed her with both arms and pulled her into his broad chest.
“Shhhh.” Emil said.
“What are you doing?” Joan said.
“Guards. Just right up ahead.” He replied.
Sure enough, should Emil not have stopped her at that point, she would have run head-first into a couple of estate guards roaming the garden.
“Cold night, it is.” She could hear one guard say.
“Going to be a thick fog.” The other replied.
They waited for minutes until the guards had fully passed by.
“That was close.” Emil said, letting her go. “You wouldn’t have been too happy running into them.” He smiled, and instantly Joan felt something strange.
“Thank you.” She said looking down, trying not to make eye contact.
“Shall we go back now? Perhaps we could retrieve the rest of your apparel along the way.” Emil said humorously.
“There’s nothing I would hate more.” Joan replied.
“I hate this wretched costume of mine as well.” Emil said, loosening his collar a bit.
“And I can’t stand parties like this. They’re infuriating.” Joan said angrily.
“Yes, I hate these kinds of forced affairs. It’s particularly infuriating when the party happens to be your own.” The Duke added offhandedly, and began a casual walk back to his estate.
Joan followed in shock.
Chapter Four
“Duke Emil Lawrence. Isn’t it a scandal! Genevieve Lawrence never mentioned a thing.” Constance said. Her eyes were alight with excitement.
As it ha
d turned out, the whole dinner was about secretly scoping out eligible ladies to make a match with the Duke. He was far too embarrassed and reluctant to set the whole thing up himself, but Genevieve insisted. He only agreed to the dinner if the purpose of it remained a secret to all. The Duke himself didn’t even attend the dining portion of the evening, claiming that he had lost his appetite.
“I’m told the man owns the Lawrence estate. His mother has been pressing him to marry for years.” Mrs. Eldridge said, her voice full of intrigue.
All that Joan could do was remain quiet and try to take it all in. How could that rebellious - and helpful - young man from the garden possibly be the Duke? And escaping his own party, no less! The thought brought a little smile to her face.
“Joan, my pet, you must needs try to dance a quadrille with him later.” Constance advised.
“A quadrille? Are you trying to tell me that this party isn’t over yet?” Joan asked. It already felt like it had gone on for days.
“Don’t be childish. There will be dancing well into the night. Especially now that everyone knows what the real purpose of the party is.” Mrs. Eldridge surmised.
“Quite right.” Constance chimed in. “We’re going to have to stick around as long as we can. There are many eligible ladies here - and parents trying to unload them - so we need to fight to have a personal interaction with him. And fight we shall.”
Joan was infuriated by her aunt’s insistence that the whole affair of finding a suitable match was some sort of battle. She knew the only battle she would be fighting would be to get herself out of the whole ordeal - and fast.
“Oh! The dancing has begun. Come, Joan. Now’s your chance.” Constance said.
Joan suddenly became aware of the fact that she was quite hungry and almost faint. She hadn’t eaten scarcely a bite during dinner, and she wondered how she would be able to get through the night.
“Perk up, dear. And get on the floor.” Mrs. Eldridge instructed.
Indeed, the music had started and the dancers took to the floor. Girls arrayed in their most luxurious finery were pink-cheeked and full of anticipation. Everyone was looking around to see when he would be arriving. But the Duke was still nowhere in sight. The crowd was hushed.
Finally, looking a little trepidatious and full of dread, Emil Lawrence appeared and straightened his collar. Now that Joan could see him in full light, he was much more handsome than she thought he was. Tall, with broad shoulders and striking blue eyes, the Duke had a rugged yet refined appearance that she found pleasing. Some might assume at first glance that he appeared haughty, but Joan could tell he simply didn’t want to be a part of the evenings proceedings. His misery matched her own.
Joan didn’t feel inclined to dance with Emil, but more so wished to find a way to subtlety disappear and perhaps make her way down to the kitchen, so that she could procure a crust of bread or a piece of fruit. As the dance began she could see the other girls climbing over one another to get to the Duke, each trying to position themselves within the pattern of the dance so that they would eventually come to be his partner.
Joan actively avoided coming in contact with him. She was partly embarrassed by her behavior in the garden, but she also realized, through keen calculation, that if she kept herself on the outskirts of the dance she would eventually be positioned near the exit, just as the dance was concluding.
Finally, the music ceased. The dancers bowed and clapped; congratulating one another on how superior they all were. Joan gave a barely enthusiastic curtsy, and snuck right out the door. The kitchen couldn’t be far, she thought to herself. A little bit of exploration would get her right where she needed to be.
As she walked through the Lawrence estate, unencumbered, she wondered how it was that the Duke wasn’t the biggest snob she had ever met. The man clearly had a great deal of wealth, and it was conspicuously displayed. No doubt the workings of his mother, Joan thought to herself.
She couldn’t help but think how much her father would have enjoyed the architecture of the house. Everything was well laid-out, and it didn’t take Joan long before she found herself in the kitchen - it was just where she thought that it would be.
Joan gave a sigh of relief when she saw that there was no one inside. The servants had had ample time to clean up, considering that the party had been going on for what felt like half the night. She quickly explored the pantry to see what she could find lying around. Sure enough, there was a medium sized loaf of bread that was just what the doctor ordered. Joan heard her stomach growl with neediness.
Nearby there was also the larder. Joan peeked inside to see what there might be to accompany the bread.
“Hmm.” Joan purred. There inside, she found what looked to be a fine, light cheese that would go perfectly with the bread.
As she placed the bread and cheese upon the butcher block, she procured a large knife and began to cut the food into slices. She placed one large piece of cheese onto a wedge of crusty bread, and took a greedy bite.
This is the best meal I’ve had since coming to London, she thought to herself.
“Would you mind sharing?” A voice in the doorway asked. Joan nearly choked on her bread. When she looked up, she covered her mouth as she coughed. It was the Duke. He was standing in the doorway with a pleasant smile on his face.
“Please. Have some.” Joan replied through her coughing. The Duke took off his coat and threw it onto the countertop.
“Is it just me, or is it not disastrously stuffy in there?” He said, taking a seat and removing the tie around his neck.
“In more ways than one.” Joan said.
“Now this is a meal.” Emil said, and took an enormous crust of bread and slice of cheese. “I never understand why these dinner parties begin with stuffing oneself with indigestible cuisine and are followed by exerting oneself with insufferable dance.”
“I agree. In Versailles, there’s a little bit of dancing, then a little bit of food, then a little more dancing—and you can leave whenever you please.” Joan explained. Indeed, the parties in France did seem to be more bearable.
“That sounds infinitely more tolerable.” Emil said.
After that there was a silence for a while which any other two people in the world would have thought awkward, but between Joan and the Duke it was quite pleasant. They were each refueling themselves; enjoying the simple meal and the relaxed company.
“I suppose that we need to go back soon.” Joan said, finally feeling sated from the food.
“We need courage first.” Emil thought to himself for a moment. Then with resolve he got up from where he was seated and found a bottle in the cupboard behind him. “Do you drink red wine?”
“Do I drink red wine? I’m French!” Joan exclaimed. That made the Duke laugh again. Emil got two water glasses and placed them on the butcher block next to the bottle.
“It’s not terribly fancy but it’s going to have to do.” He said.
“Perfect.” Joan replied.
“I imagine that you’re here because you’re in the husband-seeking business.” Emil said, pouring wine into both glasses.
“My aunt Constance is in the husband-seeking business. I’m just a reluctant employee.” Joan explained.
“I see. My mother Genevieve is in the wife-seeking business, and I’m the reluctant business owner.” Emil countered.
“What’s all the fuss about, anyhow?” Joan said.
“It’s all about titles, I suppose. And inheritance. I was given this estate by my father. It has come down through a long line of Lawrence’s, and my mother insists that marriage is a necessity so as to carry on the family lineage.”
“I have no property or family name to protect. So why am I here?” Joan asked in dismay.
“Well, your situation is quite unlike mine. Women must shoulder a different kind of burden. You cannot do as you please nearly to the extent that I can.”
Joan was put at ease in the presence of Emil. He felt like he could be a true friend
to her; someone that she could talk to plainly and without conceit.
“I do wish that I never had to wed at all. It might just be selfishness in me! But I have so many interests that I want to pursue. There are many things that I want to do and explore with my days, and none of these involve caring for a husband.” Joan explained. For a moment she feared that perhaps the red wine was going to her head. She was telling the Duke far too much than she should.
“I must tell you that I feel quite the same way. It might sound selfish of me, but I’m perfectly content with how the estate is run without a lady of the house. Every time my mother comes over and insists on rearranging flowers, or bringing me a new coat and boots—it all makes me want to scream. I’m perfectly content riding my horses for the better part of the day- the fresh morning air, my hounds by my side, coming home to an early supper of whatever I choose. I could dine off of stew and country bread every night.” Emil explained. Joan could tell that he, too, was relaxing under the hazy veil of red wine.
