When week after week a woman was too stiff to rise from her church pew unaided and her children were perfectly behaved regardless of all provocation, even a gormless lad knew something was amiss.
“I am not an expert on abused women, but Miss Ferguson moves with a deal of bodily confidence. Her caution seems to be more of words and emotions than deeds, so I’d say no. Gentlemen are to protect the ladies and ensure their well-being though. That can easily shade into stifling a woman’s freedom and disrespecting her independence. I’m sure a female of spirit and wit would be hurt by such insults.”
“Lannie taught you that.”
Doubtless, Jacaranda, Avery, and Worth’s infant daughter were teaching him the same lesson. “You’ll see what you can learn regarding Leggett?”
“He’s trying to curry my favor, so a few polite inquiries from me will flatter his ambitions. Shall we storm the nursery?”
Yes, please. “Daisy and I are walking in the park with Miss Ferguson and her young friend on Wednesday at eleven. Perhaps Avery would like to join us?”
Worth crossed to the garden and held the gate open. “How will you get to steal any kisses with an infantry square of small children underfoot?”
Hessian sauntered through the gate. “The children occupy one another, leaving many an opportunity for a stolen kiss between the adults. It isn’t complicated, Worth.”
Worth should have burst forth in whoops of fraternal disrespect, should have punched Hessian on the shoulder, should have quipped that Jacaranda had stumbled upon that strategy months ago.
Instead, Worth walked to the house without another word, suggesting to Hessian that the family financial genius could learn a thing or two from his dull stick of an older brother.
* * *
Tippy was aging, and the realization both saddened and unnerved Lily.
Miss Ephrata Tipton hadn’t been young when Lily had met her more than twenty years ago, and she was the closest thing Lily had to an ally. She was a slight woman, with intelligent brown eyes and graying brown hair. She’d doubtless been pretty when Lily had been too young and frightened to notice.
“You’re kind to pay a call on me, miss,” Tippy said, “but you needn’t bother. Mr. Leggett sends my funds regularly, and I have all I need.”
An odd thought occurred to Lily. “Do you have friends, Tippy?” She always seemed so brisk, so confident and self-sufficient.
Tippy’s little parlor was a riot of cabbage roses—even her porcelain tea service was adorned with cabbage roses—dried bouquets, cutwork, and other evidence of a woman’s pastimes, but Lily had never once come upon another caller here.
“Chelsea is growing so fast these days,” Tippy said. “I hardly know who my neighbors are anymore.”
Chelsea had the dubious fortune to lie close to London, and in a direction the city seemed determined to sprawl. Beyond the village, fields and pastures clung to the rural past, but every year, more houses and streets sprang up, and the fields receded, acre by acre.
“Does the vicar look in on you?” Did anybody take notice of a woman who’d spent her life devoted to a family to whom she wasn’t related?
“I don’t always get to services,” Tippy said, opening her workbasket. “The weather can be so nasty, and my hip does pain me.”
She took out an embroidery hoop, one she’d likely owned since before Lily’s birth. The needle moved more slowly now, but the stitches were as neat as ever.
“Tippy, if I asked you to, would you move back to Uncle Walter’s house?”
Tippy bent very close to her hoop. “Himself wouldn’t want an old woman like me about. Creates awkwardness among the help to have a pensioner at the table.”
Something about Tippy’s posture, hunched over, getting in her own light, sent a chill through Lily. “You’re afraid of him.”
“You are too,” Tippy retorted, “because we’re both sensible creatures who know what he’s capable of. You be careful, Miss Lilith Ann.”
“You’re not to call me that.” Though Lily was glad she had.
“He’s not here to chide me for it, though you’re right. I ought not. How’s that Oscar getting on?”
Why ask about him? “He’s harmless and bored, drunk more often than he’s sober. If he’s to take over the family fortune, he has much to learn, and he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to learn it.”
Tippy’s needle moved in a patient rhythm. “Or his father isn’t in a hurry to teach him.”
Walter spun a web of influence and money, money and influence. He’d never turn over control of the finances to Oscar willingly, but if Oscar made himself useful, he’d at least be prepared when the transition became inevitable.
“Tippy, do you recall meeting the Earl of Grampion’s heir?”
Tippy gazed off into the middle distance, sunlight gleaming on her poised needle. “Tall boy, blond, quiet? Odd name, something German. He was named for where his mother’s people came from.”
Increasingly, Tippy’s recollections were like this—a mosaic of useless detail, speculation, and the occasional relevant fact. She still gave off the vibrant intelligence she’d had earlier in life, suggesting to Lily that Tippy simply disliked the memories of Lily’s childhood.
“His given name is Hessian,” Lily said, “and he informed me that, as a girl, I detested bugs.”
Tippy’s hands fell to her lap, hoop, needle, and all. “Oh dear.”
Lily waited while Tippy frowned at the cabbage rose carpet.
“Children are invisible,” Tippy said, smoothing a finger over the French knots in her embroidery. “They don’t attend social functions, often don’t use courtesy titles, and are mostly relegated to nurseries and schoolrooms.”
Daisy was not invisible to Grampion, which was good. Lily was not invisible to him either, which was not good, however useful it might be for Uncle Walter.
“Outings to the park were very frequent,” Tippy said. “Headstrong little girls benefit from fresh air and a chance to move about. Other children played in the park, some with nannies, some at that awkward age, boys not quite ready for university, impossible to occupy with studies all day. You could have met him on any number of occasions, possibly met the spare as well.”
Tippy scooted about on her cushions and produced a small flask from some hidden pocket. She tipped a dollop of amber liquid into her tea.
“For my hip.”
“Tippy, Grampion says we did meet.”
Another dollop. “Then you explain to him that you’re not right in the brainbox, you took a bad fall in Switzerland, and you can’t recollect as well as other people. It happens.”
It had not happened to Lily. “He noticed that bit about the bugs, he might notice some other inconsistency. Lying doesn’t solve all problems, and one grows weary of deception.”
One grew weary of being a deception.
“One does not grow tired of eating, Miss Lily. One does not grow tired of having a safe place to sleep, or a warm cloak in winter. You’ve read all the diaries, you’ve learned all I have to teach you. You’ve spent years being accepted as Walter Leggett’s niece, and he’s a powerful man.”
The problem in a nutshell. No one dared cross Uncle Walter, least of all a frightened, half-starved fourteen-year-old girl who had no other options and didn’t own a set of stays.
“Would you care for a nip, miss? It’s a patent remedy and works a treat.”
“No, thank you.” Oscar could dwell in a continuous state of inebriation, but Lily dared not return home with a “patent remedy” on her breath. “The boy who recalled my disgust of bugs is the earl now, and Uncle wants me to cultivate his friendship.”
“I wish I could help, miss.”
Tippy had helped. For years, she’d been Lily’s sole companion, her guide and support. That support was slipping, and not only because Tippy had decided to grow forgetful. If women occupied a vulnerable position in society, older women with neither fortune nor family navigated a sea of risks daily.
>
Lily rose. “If you recall anything, please do send for me.” Notes were not a prudent way to communicate information of substance.
Tippy set aside her embroidery and pushed to her feet, though she moved more slowly than she had even a year ago.
“Tippy, are you ever lonely?”
Lily was lonely. Amid other emotions—terror, resentment, anxiety—loneliness had lurked unnoticed until recently. The girl Daisy had awakened it, and Grampion had given the loneliness a bitter, hopeless edge.
“I like my own company,” Tippy said, linking arms with Lily and walking her to the door. “And I’m always glad to see you, but it might be best if you didn’t come around for a bit, Lily. You can send me a note if you think I might be able to recall a detail or two, but I’ve grown forgetful, and it’s all very much in the past.”
Tippy had begun making this suggestion that Lily keep her distance about a year ago.
“Has Uncle Walter threatened you?” Though, if anything, Uncle would threaten Tippy for a lack of recall.
“No, miss. What’s he to threaten me with? I have more than a bit put by after all these years. I help you to the best of my ability whenever you ask it of me. I’ve never breathed a word to anybody, and I never will. I was governess to Miss Lily Ferguson, and she will always be in my prayers.”
And yet, something was changing, despite the tidy sameness of Tippy’s cottage. Lavender sachets held back the curtains. A rose velvet footstool sat before the window-end of the sofa. Embroidered cabbage roses adorned pillows, table runners, and framed samplers. Tippy even smelled faintly of roses, not a scent she could have afforded while in service.
God Save Our Good King George. Lily’s work, a dozen years old, but nearly indistinguishable from Tippy’s accomplishments.
And on the mantel, beneath that sampler, sat a pipe.
Oh.
Oh.
Tippy had a gentleman caller. The knowledge stabbed at Lily from many directions. She should be happy for Tippy, but instead, she was resentful, of the man, of the deception. She hoped he was worth Tippy’s time and attention, and she was terrified that he’d take Tippy away.
“I’d best be going,” Lily said, bending to envelop her former governess in a careful hug. Tippy had always been diminutive, and now she seemed fragile. “Send for me if you need anything. Anything at all.”
“You drop me a note if you have more questions about your earl.”
He’s not my earl —though I wish he could be. “Thank you.”
Lily climbed into the coach, knowing the duration of her visit would be reported to Uncle Walter, though none of the servants could relay what had passed between Tippy and her former charge.
“She’s leaving me,” Lily informed the elegant comfort of the town coach. “My only ally.” Though Tippy, too, was Uncle Walter’s creature.
And yet, Tippy had been the one to advise Lily to stash what pence and quid she could in a location Uncle Walter knew nothing about. A lady needed to save against a rainy day, Tippy had said with a wink, because in England, rain fell frequently.
Lily did have some money saved, though not enough. Not nearly enough.
Chapter Eight
* * *
Hessian’s invitation to take the children to the park had been extended in a weak moment. He much preferred a ride at dawn, when all was still and calm, and the most that might be expected of him socially was a tip of the hat or muttered greeting.
For Daisy’s sake, he’d ridden later in the morning, amid the nursemaids and governesses and their noisy, shrieking charges.
Now, he must brave utter chaos on foot for the sake of another hour spent with Miss Ferguson—and for Daisy’s sake too, of course. A rowdy gang of schoolboys was playing kickball down by the Serpentine, a toddler had erupted into tears beneath a plane maple sporting a stranded kite. Other children threw rocks into the water, while nannies and governesses read—books positioned immediately before their faces—despite all the noise.
“I’ve come armed for combat,” Miss Ferguson said, patting a large reticule. “My companion refused to stir from the house when the sun was so strong, but I have a ball, blanket, storybook, a few purloined tea cakes, and a flask of lemonade. What of you?”
“A flask of brandy.” Hessian was telling the God’s honest truth, and earned himself a smile. “Shall I carry your provisions?”
“You’d carry my reticule?”
“Of course.” Hessian slung the strap over his shoulder. “You’re the commanding officer on this sortie. You must be free to maneuver. Daisy, if you climb that tree, you’ll get no pudding for a week.”
This admonition—also entirely in earnest—provoked a spate of laughter from both Daisy and Bronwyn. They raced off after a hapless rabbit, while Miss Ferguson surveyed the surrounds as if she were indeed scouting enemy terrain.
“We want to avoid any stray boys,” she said. “They are loud, mischievous, and curious.”
The reticule weighed more than Hessian’s longest fowling piece. “Was I loud, mischievous, and curious?”
“Bronwyn, do not stomp in that puddle.”
The girl contented herself with finding a pebble to toss into the puddle, and for a moment, both children watched the rings spread across the surface.
“I mean you no insult, my lord, when I say that I can barely recall you as a boy.”
Not an insult, but lowering. “I was not particularly memorable. My younger brother made it his mission in life to make sport of me, while my father expected a miniature earl to toddle out of the nursery, complete with consequence and self-possession.”
The rabbit reappeared from the hedge, and the children crouched as if to sneak up on the poor creature.
“You were doomed,” Miss Ferguson said, regarding Hessian with more seriousness than the moment wanted. “Your brother wanted a playmate, your father wanted a peer.”
Habit prompted Hessian to disagree with her, to brush off the contradiction she pointed out.
With Lily Ferguson, only honesty would do.
“You are not wrong.”
Her gaze was commiserating more than pitying. When had anybody commiserated with Hessian, Earl of Grampion?
“We must find a place in the shade,” Miss Ferguson said, “where we can keep a vigilant eye on the children without the general public keeping its vigilant eye on us.”
“Miss Ferguson, dare I hope you have designs on my person?” Worth might have said something like that, but the words had come from Hessian’s own mouth—more honesty.
The rabbit hopped off a few yards and resumed nibbling. Bronwyn and Daisy, hand in hand, crept along behind it.
“You dare not hope any such thing,” she retorted. “We are in Hyde Park, in view of half of Mayfair, and if I had designs on your person—not that I’d admit to such an unladylike ambition lest it fuel your manly self-importance—they would be inappropriate except in the most private of settings. I have designs on that patch of grass there.”
She marched off, and Hessian followed.
Not quite a set-down, but neither had she exactly flirted with him. Hessian chose to be encouraged, because if Lily Ferguson wanted to deliver a set-down, she’d do so without ambiguity.
She chose a spot in dappled shade, away from the busiest walkways without being secluded. The blanket was a thick patchwork quilt gone soft with age. Her storybook was Aesop’s Fables.
A second rabbit ventured from the hedge, and the girls held a conference, likely deciding whether to stalk one hare or both. Hessian offered Miss Ferguson a hand as she settled to the blanket, then took the place two feet to her right.
He had told Worth the truth: He enjoyed Miss Ferguson’s company. She was a cool, tart lemonade compared to the overly sweet, tepid tea of the typical debutante or designing widow. Hessian had sampled the wares of a few of those widows, and had his own wares sampled, and found the encounters physically enjoyable.
Also sad.
“I feel a compulsion to
warn those rabbits,” Miss Ferguson said. “They are entirely too entranced by their clover.”
She made a pretty picture in a wide-brimmed straw hat and old-fashioned walking dress of faded chocolate. Her millinery was as plain as any goose-girl’s, not a frill, feather, or extra ribbon to be seen, and that only set off the elegance of her profile.
“The breeze warns those rabbits of the peril behind them. Most wild creatures who graze will arrange themselves thus, with their backs to the prevailing wind. Their eyes guard them from what’s downwind, their noses from what’s upwind, and their ears from hazards unseen.”
Rather like Hessian in the ballroom. He kept his back to the wall, potted palms on at least one side, and eyes alert for a hostess seeking to pair him with any women save the wallflowers.
He liked the wallflowers, and hoped they liked him as well.
Miss Ferguson opened her book of fables to a random page. “You notice a great deal, my lord.”
He noticed that Miss Ferguson was in a less approachable mood than when they’d shared an alcove with Apollo.
“I’ve spent many an hour pursuing wild game on my estate. For the most part, I tramp about, making a great racket and taking the air, but I have learned a few things from the beasts of the field. I notice that your ear has healed quite nicely, for example.”
He’d like to nuzzle that ear. Perhaps all that twaddle about fresh spring air and the mating urge had some basis in science.
“My ear?”
“This very ear here.” He touched her earlobe with his thumb and forefinger. “You slipped in the middle of a game of tag and got quite the gash on your ear. Your concern was not for your hearing, not for the consequences of a blow to the head, but for the imperfection your misadventure would leave. For weeks, you wore your hair such that your ear was covered, because there was a scar.”
That ear was perfectly nuzzle-able now, no sign of any childhood mishap.
“Children heal better than adults do, but you should know, my lord, that my propensity for bad spills followed me past my childhood.”
His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen Book 4) Page 10
