by Gina Conkle
“His lordship found I’m more than adequate for the task.” One corner of her hoyden’s mouth curved up as she verbally caressed that final word. She tipped the pot, and finished splashing tea into the last cup with only a dribble hitting the tray. “Of course, you would have concerns about this, it’s only natural.”
Edward watched her play hostess, holding back the odd mixture of mirth and reproof that played in his head. He wasn’t sure if he should kiss or scold the minx the first moment they found themselves en prive. The idea of his lips touching hers brought a new spark to this uncomfortable venue. But her brazen innuendo set the countess back. Good, Miss Montgomery could hold her own doing battle with his mother, and her quick reconnaissance of the situation, along with her choice to adroitly stand her ground, impressed him.
Both footmen, however, lingered in the background too long as they gawked. Claire’s polite cough came from the doorway, and they quit the room in haste.
Claire frowned at the lads, who were sure to get a set down once out of sight. Miss Montgomery needed just such a scolding, if he could deliver it straight-faced, but he’d give her the lead for now and see how far this went. That his mother was momentarily speechless, near gulping hot tea, was a battle coup, and judging from the paleness of her features under her powder, she raised a tentative white flag of surrender.
“I can see my son finds you most entertaining. He has a penchant for surrounding himself with”—his mother paused and gave a pointed look at Jonas with his braided beard—“unique and colorful people not of his station. I do not deceive myself. You are simply another one of the oddities with which he surrounds himself.” The countess held her cup elegantly and finished, “But what, pray tell, will happen when you go out into Society?”
His mother replaced her cup with a triumphant clink. The regrouping had already begun.
Miss Montgomery fidgeted on the settee, and drops of tea splashed her fingers and skirt. “Lud, but I hadn’t anticipated that.” She kept her eyes glued to the offending liquid, setting her cup down with a rattle and clank, to snatch a napkin. “Perhaps you can give me some guidance? Daughters of the nobility are taught proper decorum. Why not me?”
His mother’s blue eyes glittered as she watched the napkin unravel from its careful fold. The cloth flopped about like a helpless fish on land as Miss Montgomery wiped her fingers and rubbed the napkin across two coin-sized spots on her skirt.
“We speak of young ladies of noble birth.” She huffed again as the corners of her mouth drooped. “Their training takes years, and begins early in their upbringing. And you, my dear, are not fresh from the schoolroom.” His mother’s small nostrils flared as she delivered that thinly veiled set down.
“Then my maturity works in our favor, doesn’t it? Because I’m a fast learner.” Miss Montgomery winked at the countess and reached for a petit-four with her fingers. A crumb fell into her lap as she popped the tiny delicacy into her mouth, then she brushed the crumb onto the floor.
The countess’s perfectly plucked eyebrows pressed together at the ill-mannered display, but Jonas kept a stoic face in his corner of the arena.
Lydia chewed the tiny confection quickly and swallowed. “I’m putty in your hands, my lady. I ask only that I have an hour or two to sketch for his lordship and a few hours to paint for my own pleasure, and then I’m yours for countess training.”
Miss Montgomery reached for a larger pastry, balancing the flaky crust on her jumbled napkin. His mother’s eyes narrowed on the continued evidence of rustic manners.
“Painting?” The countess lifted a small plate and pinched silver tongs on a miniature biscuit. “You do watercolor? I’ve enjoyed a bit of painting from time to time.”
“Watercolor? No, I work strictly in oils.” She took a healthy bite, and apple filling squished out the side onto the napkin. She chewed, swallowed, and swiped a corner of her mouth. “Such a blasted mess I’m making. Tea was much simpler with my great-aunt, what with the smaller tray and simpler food.”
Jonas chuckled softly from his corner and nodded his agreement before taking a healthy swallow of tea. The Countess’s stiff spine went straighter, though he didn’t think that possible. She sipped slowly from her cup and watched the fire in silence, her face a mask of decorum and stillness.
The unfolding play turned from skirmish to truce, but Edward, setting his teacup back in its saucer, didn’t trust his mother’s slight, amicable shift in conversation; this was a change in tactics. She didn’t come all this way to give up in one meeting. No, she’d come at Miss Montgomery or him or both with new armaments. He’d never known his mother to quit easily, but then, Miss Montgomery deserved praise for courage under fire. The fact that she was not a simpering country miss probably set the countess into another momentary retreat.
“Oils.” Jonas spoke into the arena, reaching for a plate and heaping it high with the table’s offerings. “I thought only portraitists and professional painters used oils.”
And then Miss Montgomery dropped an altogether different salvo into the theater of battle.
“After we’re married, I plan to sell my artwork. In London. The sooner the better.” Miss Montgomery set her becrumbed napkin on the closest tray and licked her lips. “It’s what I’ve been working for these past three years.”
“What have you been working for? Selling your art? Or marriage?” Jonas asked, selecting a biscuit from the mound of food on his too small plate.
“My art, of course.”
Another facet revealed itself from the diamond in the rough known as Miss Montgomery. Edward glanced at Jonas, whom he expected to be full of mirth at the pronouncement, but instead, a different light shone in his friend’s eyes. His man of business tipped his head in something of an admiring salute. Miss Montgomery may not have garnered Jonas’s friendship, but she’d surely won his respect. Work was not a dirty word to his friend. His mother, however, let decorum slip when her jaw near unhinged. Of course, that moment was short-lived, for she needed full use of her mouth to heap words of malcontent.
“Edward! She can’t be serious. Did you know about this crude merchant’s behavior?” His mother asked the question but charged ahead, not waiting for his reply. “That will besmirch our good name. People of our class purchase goods. We don’t hawk them on roadways like street urchins.”
“Of course, I’ll not hawk them as you say on street corners, my lady.” Miss Montgomery made that statement as if she were the voice of reason. “I’ll be discreet and sell them through a solicitor in your London town house when I host an art salon.”
“What?” The countess gasped, and her head swiveled from Miss Montgomery to Edward. “You cannot allow your future wife to engage in anything so, so vulgar as…commerce.” She spoke that last word as if it were vile on her tongue. “This plan of yours to marry a commoner is folly.” Her chin pointed as high as her neck would allow. “I’ll not stand for it.”
Edward’s elbows pressed into the chair’s plush leather arms. He didn’t answer right away. His mind ticked, mulling over this new side of Miss Montgomery. Fundamentally, he had nothing against commerce; business simply failed to hold his interest compared to science. Mercantile endeavors provided minimal appeal but had become a financial necessity. That a woman could engage in such a practice bore careful consideration.
Weren’t there plenty of English wives of the craftsman and artisan class who partnered with their husbands, thus adding to family coffers? Logic supported this notion. But none of those women were the Countess of Greenwich, a factor that carried some weight.
“Edward. This is unconscionable.” His mother’s voice was close to shrill when he failed to respond. “Did you know about this?”
The cup and saucer rattled in her hands, threatening to upend on shimmering skirts.
He raised his hand, halting the feminine stream of words from the settee. “You know how I feel about hysterics.”
Miss Montgomery spoke into the fray, tugging her shawl tighter
about her shoulders. “There are plenty of female artists. Why Clara Peeters of Flanders does wonderful still lifes and supports herself admirably—”
“Ahhh,” the countess groaned, shocked speechless. She touched her hairline where Edward was sure a mal-a-tête, real or fake, formed.
“And there’s Lavinia Fontana, an Italian artist. People pay a pretty penny for her work,” Miss Montgomery said with firmness, defending her position like a stalwart soldier.
His mother winced and groaned anew at the mention of something so crass as a pretty penny. Jonas finished off his biscuit in silence, his alert stare darting from one woman to the other, and Miss Montgomery battled on with her defense.
“And there’s Maria van Oosterwyck. Why you have one of her paintings here in your own gallery.”
Edward pushed off the chair, deciding to interject objectivity into the heated arena of female emotions. No, with his mother, simple reality would do. He wasn’t decided yet on what exactly to do about Miss Montgomery’s ambition, but he’d dissemble that topic later. There wasn’t time, however, to negotiate for another future countess. His deadline loomed, and he rather liked the current candidate sitting in his study, truth be told.
But he needed to deal with one issue at a time, and Edward grudgingly admitted his mother had some parts right. Miss Montgomery needed lessons in comportment, if only to ease her navigation of Society as mother to the Greenwich heir would require. Women could be such cats, making life miserable for another of their sex, if they so decided. Miss Montgomery deserved a fair start, and his mother was the perfect teacher for that realm. But first things first. He needed calm in his household.
Edward strode to his desk, where tangible materials for his point waited. Some bits of straw remained scattered on the floor, crunching under his boots. He heard the loud rustle of silk behind him as the countess must have swiveled around on the settee to follow his path to the open crates. When he looked over, he saw a great deal of the whites of her eyes.
“Edward, are you listening?” His mother gripped the back of the settee as one might grab the rail of a small boat—while watching her larger ship sink.
“They’re all fine artists, my lady. Their work’s well received here in England.” Miss Montgomery’s voice raised a notch in volume and firmness as she defended what was clearly a passion of hers.
His mother groaned. “Yes, Continentals, all of them.” She pivoted on the settee, and when facing Miss Montgomery, her voice rose to quavering heights. “It’s simply not done in England.”
Edward picked up the small creamer pitcher he’d examined earlier, remembering his joy and awe at the triumph of science and invention. He glanced at the tableau before him: his mother outraged, her earbobs swinging from the furious movement of her head jerking from Miss Montgomery to him; Miss Montgomery’s glass-green eyes were as set as her stubborn chin; and Jonas, sitting a safe distance behind the battle line of upset women, hiding his amusement in what now must be lukewarm tea. Edward cradled the creamer in both hands and planted his hip on the side of his desk.
“Ladies, would you join me?” One boot braced the floor, while he hooked his knee over the desk corner. “I’ve some things to show you.”
His mother touched her temple and spoke sharply. “This is not the time to discuss Greenwich dishware.”
“I say it is.” The firmness of his tone brooked no disagreement as he faced the women. “Both of you. Over here.” Then he tipped his head and softened the command. “If you please.”
Miss Montgomery’s mouth pursed like a recalcitrant schoolgirl, but she slid off the settee. She sauntered over, jamming her arms across her chest, and the holes in her shawl stretched even more across her shoulders. His mother followed, sighing and pinching her skirts. She moved to the other side of Edward, keeping a mutinous distance.
He waved an arm over the display. “Please, examine the dishes and tell me what you see.”
His mother huffed but picked up a soup bowl, and Miss Montgomery held out her hand for the creamer cradled in his.
“May I?” She gave him a level gaze.
Her eyes burned dark green, but the way her gaze flicked from the small dishware and back to his eyes told him she would bear him out on this. Good. He liked that quality; that bespoke the ability to give and take reason. More women needed this, in his opinion.
“What you hold in your hands, ladies, is the perfect joining of art and science: the work of a chemist friend of mine, William Cookworthy.” He took a slow breath and said quietly, “A commoner whose genius may save us with the manufacture of light, pretty porcelain dishes affordable for the masses.”
Miss Montgomery’s gaze snapped wide as he spoke. Did she comprehend his subtle clue? She stepped closer, and that simple movement into his sphere stirred his senses. Her lemongrass scent, a slight whiff, reached him. Her head tipped in that subtle way when she listened intently, and a new, smoldering current radiated between them.
But beside him, his mother bristled as she turned the soup dish around for cursory inspection.
“That’s all well and good. But I fail to see how dishware saves anyone,” his mother said with stinging sharpness. “Your preoccupation with science, your scientific friends…it dwarfs even your father’s past preoccupation. And this”—his mother clutched the bowl with both hands, as if she would use it as a battering ram—“this dish is a paltry thing compared to the matter of the Greenwich family line. Why are we wasting time here?”
Eyes locked with Miss Montgomery, Edward rubbed his scarred jaw, and his gaze traced her green eyes and dropped to her full mouth. He hadn’t tested those lips yet. Why not? He was so close outside the gallery. The way one of her thick brows shot up, she knew the lay of thoughts. Was he that transparent? The brown shawl was adjusted across his quarry’s shoulders, a subtle statement that that avenue was shut for the moment, and he’d better finish his point.
“Because, I expect these dishes, and many more like them, to keep you living in the manner to which you are accustomed.” He broke eye contact with Miss Montgomery, and facing the countess, he picked up a plate. “The sale of this plate and many others like it will pay for lots of fancy carriages, maintain both your luxurious households, and keep you in those shoes you insist on buying at prices that boggle the mind.”
His mother’s red lips clamped in a tight line, but she replaced the bowl carefully to its spot on the desk.
“Edward. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that if you want to continue to receive your exorbitant annual allowance, we need commoners, and we need commerce. This hard-paste porcelain”—he tipped the flat of the plate toward his mother then returned it to the desk—“sturdy and inexpensive, will enable us to continue living well.”
Miss Montgomery studied the creamer, turning it over in her hands.
“What you see here,” Edward said while waving his arm over the desk, “will lead to the fruits of commerce, however vulgar that may be to your delicate ears. Truth is, after Jon’s death, Sanford Shipping fell into disarray. Between that and Father’s illness, the family coffers dwindled. The Greenwich entailment yields middling rents, and Father’s investments of years ago went dry long before he died.”
“Then make up for it with an advantageous marriage,” the countess said, tipping her nose high.
“And repeat that debacle with the Blackwoods?” His mouth stretched into a wide, unfriendly smile. “No thank you.”
“There are others,” his mother huffed.
“I’d rather handle fiscal matters the only way I know how: science.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Cookworthy approached me about a partnership last year. His chemistry was sound, and Sanford Shipping, thanks to Jonas, had a good year. So, I invested. Now he’s perfected what the Chinese have mastered for years, a hard-paste porcelain. As we speak, our solicitor attends the patent of our joint partnership with Cookworthy Dish Manufacturer. The success of which I am confident will buy as many ostentatio
us carriages as you could ever imagine owning.”
“Oh, Edward.” Lines bracketed his mother’s mouth, but this startling knowledge stymied her for the moment.
“You tolerated Jon’s foray into shipping because it provided a distraction—”
The countess’s head snapped to attention, and his words that flowed so easily froze. A mosaic of emotions etched fine lines around his mother’s eyes. Edward softened his voice, treading with care in that most painful of places.
“But Sanford Shipping proved to be a boon. Needful commerce, if you will.”
Dull aches, like an awful healing bruise, pressed him everywhere as he recalled the agonies of the past. Despite their distance, he was still his mother’s son; he needed to tread with care. For no matter what barbs they exchanged, from testy words to harsh rancor, when the countess hurt, so did he. Edward never forgot the day Jon died. His mother cried bitter tears, wailing eviscerating self-recriminations for supporting the first ship that turned into a sizable venture, the venture that swallowed the life of her firstborn son.
After Jon’s death, she was so fragile. To bring that history to the fore hurt them both.
She hated all things to do with ships, which made what loomed on his horizon all the more thorny. His mother lightly brushed a dish and turned shrewd eyes on him: she didn’t rise from daughter of a borderland baronet to elevated noblewoman without the skill to hone in on the unsaid.
“Very well, I understand the dishes, but why the rush to marry a woman so far beneath your station?” His mother reached out to touch his sleeve, the first true show of tenderness since she arrived. “You’re a young man in your prime, still rather handsome, despite your scars and…” Her voice trailed softly as she searched the smooth and scarred planes of his face. “In time, we’ll find the right woman for you.”
