“I can’t.” As soft and fragile as Lydia looked, her voice was stern. “I will not lie about this. I owe this family far too much.”
“I would give you the money if you needed it,” Lucy pointed out, stung by her sister’s quick refusal. And she would, too, if only she had money to give. She was nothing if not charitable, apparently to the point of idiocy.
“You have less at stake than I do,” Lydia said quietly.
On that point, Lucy found she had no argument. Father had been unfailingly generous to Lydia, going so far as to publicly acknowledge her as his daughter. Lydia might not have a grand Season in her immediate future, but she’d been given a respectable dowry that might eventually tempt a third son or prosperous tradesman to overlook the circumstances of her birth. If she’d been in Lydia’s shoes, with the same domestic-minded hopes and dreams, she supposed her loyalties would be very similarly aligned.
But Lucy’s dreams weren’t of the domestic-mind variety. At least, she couldn’t imagine having such dreams while shackled to a man who only wanted her dowry. No, she dreamed of adventures, not titled husbands. She wanted a life full of grand causes and charities that needed her, not a husband who had need only of her money.
And the thought of abandoning her hopes and dreams just because she was female made her want to smash something.
“I suppose I can understand your loyalty to Father,” Lucy muttered. “And I should not have asked you. It was not fair of me.”
“It isn’t only about Father,” Lydia sighed, picking up her embroidery again. “If you do this now, with the Season nearly upon you, it will break your mother’s heart.” She lowered her head. “I cannot be a party to that.”
“Surely you don’t owe my mother such loyalty,” Lucy protested.
“Don’t I?” Lydia looked up, her expression sad but firm. “She welcomed me into this house four years ago, when she had little reason to. When my very existence posed a threat to her own children’s reputations. She may not be my true mother, but in a way, I owe her more than any of you.” She shook her head again. “So, no. As much as I love you—as much as I usually admire your fierce sense of independence—I won’t betray their trust. If you are determined to go to Cornwall, you must find a way to do it on your own.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?” Lucy replied bitterly. “Father has refused to give me any pin money this week.”
Lydia lowered her embroidery again. “Honestly, Lucy, for all your grand causes, have you ever stopped to think how the world outside your door really lives? Are you really this naive? Do it the same way the world outside Mayfair does, every single day. Earn it, the way my mother and I did. We took in mending each week.”
“But . . . you know I can’t sew worth a shite,” Lucy countered weakly, imagining how many stitches she’d need to manage to even afford train fare. Why . . . it must be thousands.
Her fingers twitched, making their objections known.
“Well then.” Lydia’s smile turned grim. “I suggest you find something to sell.”
From the Diary of Edith Lucille Westmore
January 25, 1813
A woman in search of freedom is a woman in need of funds.
It hurt to sell my jewelry, especially the pearls that had belonged to my grandmother, but once I had the money in hand there was no turning back. I went as far as I could. The northern coast of Cornwall, to be exact. The townsfolk of this small coastal village looked at me queerly when I arrived. No doubt they are unused to fashionably dressed young ladies arriving in Lizard Bay and purchasing vacant properties without a husband or parent in tow.
But if I am going to be a spinster, I vow I shall be a spectacular one.
A lady doesn’t require pearls for that.
Chapter 5
Lucy walked home, head down, hurrying the length of Oxford Street.
It wasn’t exactly a fine day for a walk. The overhead clouds were threatening rain and the temperature seemed closer to early March than half-past April. A wind from the west buffeted her trouser-clad legs and found the gaps between the seams of her borrowed felt jacket. She might have liked to hail a cab or wait at the corner for the Bow and Stratford omnibus.
But for the first time in her pampered life, every penny counted.
And today a public conveyance was an extravagance she could no longer afford.
Seeking solace from the cold wind, she shoved her hands in her pockets, jingling the few coins that waited there. Despite the weather, and despite the fact that her pockets were far lighter than she needed, it still felt strangely good to be walking about the streets of London with only her own thoughts for company. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt such freedom. People might stop and stare in horror at a young women traipsing these streets unchaperoned, but no one gave a young “man” a second glance.
But despite the pleasure to be found in such subterfuge, she still felt a faint queasiness echoing through her belly. Probably on account of what she had done, rather than what she wore, but it was far too late to second-guess her decision now.
She was determined to reach Cornwall and inspect the property her aunt had left her. She knew it was disobedient and possible even reckless, but she felt—she knew—that if she didn’t at least see the cottage her father was insisting be sold, she would regret it for the rest of her life. But to reach Cornwall she needed money, and there were only so many ways a young woman could do that—and still hold her head up—in London.
In the end, it had been Aunt E’s diary and Lydia’s sage advice that had given Lucy the vital clues as to how to go on. She didn’t have any jewelry to speak of, an unintended consequence, she supposed, of being the sort of girl who had never wanted or appreciated such things. But she didn’t need enough money to buy Heathmore, simply to travel to see it.
And she’d had at least one thing of value to sell.
As she rounded the last corner toward home, she lifted a hand to try to tuck her chin-length hair back beneath the slouched felt cap. She sighed as the strands refused to stay put, recognizing the telltale signs of what she knew was her deepest flaw: the propensity to charge headfirst into an idea without first thinking it through.
Take those seedlings for the St. James Orphanage, for example. She’d gotten the bright idea to start the project after seeing bowls of pea soup sitting on the long communal table where the children took their meals. Only later, after she’d started the project, did she realize the poor orphans were served pea soup nearly every day . . . and, as a result, dearly hated peas. Now she’d gone and sold her hair to the wig makers, only to end up with hair too short to pull back and pockets still not full enough to carry her to Cornwall.
Stupid, stupid.
As the long shadow of Cardwell House reached toward her, Lucy realized with a start of dismay that hiding the evidence of her new short hair was no longer her greatest worry. She was returning to Grosvenor Square later than she’d intended, thanks to the long, punishing walk. An unfamiliar coach waited outside, and a finely dressed matron was being helped into it by a young man. Bugger it all. She’d missed calling hours.
Again.
Head down, she slipped past the coach, trying not to attract undue notice as she aimed for the servant’s entrance. All she needed was to be recognized by one of her mother’s so-called friends. But she stopped dead in her tracks as she heard the light patter of laughter coming from inside the coach. “Didn’t I tell you she’d be nice, dear?” she heard the woman say over the creak of springs in the seat. “And she’s old enough to probably be desperate.”
“Nice and wealthy.” The young man chuckled, making Lucy’s cheeks heat in indignation. “And really, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
“She’s pretty enough,” came the woman’s voice again.
“I suppose.” The young man laughed again. “Of course, it won’t matter. I don’t intend to spend any more time with her than necessary to get an heir.”
Lucy’s hands
tightened to fists. Who on earth were they talking about? If they were talking about Lydia—dear, sweet, deserving Lydia, who dreamed of a husband and children and happiness—she was going to need to warn her sister against this bloody fop and his mother. But the pieces didn’t fit. Lydia wasn’t usually invited to calling hours, on account of her illegitimacy.
But Lucy couldn’t take the time needed to puzzle it through. If today’s visitors were leaving, that meant her mother was inside, spitting mad.
And that meant she needed to get inside and change as soon as possible.
Lucy dashed away from the coach and slipped inside through the scullery entrance, dodging the curious stares of the kitchen staff, who were already busy preparing for the evening meal. She lifted a finger to her lips, begging their silence. Then she plowed down the first floor hallway, hoping to make it upstairs and change before Wilson or her mother were any the wiser. Just when she thought she might actually succeed, a hand snaked out of the drawing room doorway and closed tight about her wrist.
“Lucy Westmore!” Lydia hissed, dragging her inside. “Where have you been all afternoon?”
“Shhhh.” Lucy twisted away from her sister’s grip. After a furtive look down either side of the hallway to make sure she hadn’t been seen, she shut the door firmly.
Lydia put her hands on her hips. “You missed calling hours again.”
“A fact I cannot bring myself to regret.” Lucy grinned as she unbuttoned her jacket. “I saw our visitors as I was coming in. They seemed awful. And why are you so upset? It isn’t as though this is the first time I’ve missed them.”
Lydia’s face flushed red. “No, but it is the first time your mother has made me pretend to be you during calling hours!”
Lucy’s fingers stilled over the buttons. “You pretended to be me? On purpose?”
“I didn’t have a choice, thanks to you.” Lydia’s eyes flashed a warning. “The Baroness Whittle stopped by today, and even though the Season hasn’t started yet, she brought her odious son with her. He specifically asked to meet you.”
Lucy frowned, thinking back to the coach she had just seen, and all she had heard there. Oh God. She didn’t need to warn Lydia to be careful.
She needed to warn herself.
Not that much warning was needed. She’d always suspected her Season would go a particular way, that gentlemen would only be interested in her money, rather than her thoughts. How could they be interested in anything else, as disastrous as she was with a hairbrush? But to have this uncensored confirmation of it made her stomach pitch in distress.
“But . . . why?” she asked. “Why pretend to be me? Why not just meet him yourself?”
“He doesn’t want an illegitimate daughter for his wife, you ninny. He’s going to be a baron. Your mother was nearly desperate to make a good impression, and when she couldn’t find you, I suppose she felt I was better than nothing. We look enough alike that they never guessed.”
Lucy swallowed. She wasn’t even out yet, and already the thought of meeting a gentleman like that across the battle lines of a drawing room made her skin crawl. Was this how it was going to be? She was about to be presented as publicly available and looking to make a match, thank you very much. And to the eyes of countless greedy gentlemen, she was a walking, talking ten thousand pound dowry.
No wonder the baroness had brought her idiot son.
He probably wanted an early peek at the circus.
“Are you listening to me?” Lydia demanded. “Your Season is scarcely a week away, and you don’t seem to care at all. And don’t tell me you’ve been in the greenhouse, because Wilson already checked there.” Her gaze scooted lower, and that was when her eyes finally widened. “Why are you wearing Geoffrey’s old hat and jacket?” Her voice inched louder. “What on earth is going on?”
Lucy shrugged out of the borrowed garment, wishing she could shrug off her simmering anger as easily. The damned fop had actually admitted he was only interested in her money. She couldn’t imagine a life shackled to someone so shallow. “I went . . . out.”
Lydia gaped at her. “Do you mean you went outside? Dressed like that?”
“You’ve seen me in trousers before.”
“Yes. Trousers to work in the greenhouse, which is scandalous enough,” Lydia choked out. “But to go out, where someone could see you . . . You look like a—”
“Boy?” Lucy finished. She removed the hat, and several pieces of her newly cut hair swung forward to just barely graze her chin. “ ’Tis rather the point. Better to be thought a boy, I think, when one traipses unchaperoned through the streets of London.” She smiled cheekily. “I need to guard my reputation, you know.”
Lydia turned pale as new milk. She reached out a trembling finger to touch Lucy’s hair. “Oh, Lucy . . . what terrible, awful thing have you done now?”
Lucy shook her head, testing the feel of it against her neck. Her hair didn’t feel terrible. Neither did it feel awful. “I’ve sold it.” She blew several insistent wisps of hair from her eyes, wondering how to contain them. Now that she’d removed her cap, the shortened strands seemed a bit . . . excited by their newfound freedom. “In fact, it was your idea.”
“How, exactly, was this my idea?” Lydia sounded close to hysterical.
“You encouraged me to find a way to earn the money to reach Cornwall on my own. You told me to find something to sell, so I visited the wig makers. Did you know they pay more for blond hair?”
Though . . . not much more. She had a total of fifteen shillings in her pocket. By her calculations, if the sum was added to the loose change from her desk drawer, she had enough to get her to Cornwall. Now she just needed to find enough to either keep her there or get her back.
“I didn’t mean you should sell your hair,” Lydia cried. “I meant you should sell the silver buttons off your old cloak. Or perhaps your pen and ink set.”
“Don’t be silly. I need my pen set.”
“You need your hair. too!” Lydia retorted, her voice incredulous. “What about your Season? Your mother will be devastated. What were you thinking?”
Lucy’s lungs tightened, as though someone had yanked a rope tight about her chest. For heaven’s sake, this wasn’t about Mother, or the Season, or Lydia either.
It was her choice. Her life. Her bloody hair.
“No one will notice when it’s pinned up,” she protested, though a niggling doubt argued the counterpoint. She’d known from the moment the wig maker had made his first snip with the shears that hiding this was going to be a potential problem, but by then it was too late to change her mind. She’d hoped that with a few hairpins no one would notice. But judging by the way the ends refused to stay in even a simple queue at the back of her neck, the wig maker must have cut it even shorter than she’d thought.
Lydia sank down onto the sofa. “You are ruined,” she whispered. “If you go out in public now, you’ll never recover.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Lucy rolled her eyes. “I’m not ruined.” Surely being ruined would involve more than a trip to the wig makers.
And be a bit more fun in the making.
Take Aunt E, for example. According to the first volume of her aunt’s diary, she’d taken herself to Cornwall without her parents’ permission and lived for more than four decades as a scandalous spinster. To Lucy, that sounded like the right kind of ruin, one that was earned outright, rather than merely presumed. But judging by the tears welling in Lydia’s eyes, her sister’s definition of ruin was rather different.
“You mustn’t tell anyone,” Lucy warned, suddenly realizing that between her hair and Lydia’s knowledge of her plans, a good deal of havoc could be wrought. “I still need to find a bit more money if I am to do this properly, and that means I need to hide this from Mother, at least for the near future.” She looked pleadingly at her sister. “Do you promise not to say anything?”
“You are really going to Cornwall, then?” Lydia choked out.
“Not yet. Soon
, though. When I can earn a bit more money. And I won’t be gone forever.” Lucy sat down beside her sister and placed a hand over hers. “I only want to have a look at my property, to make the decision for myself. In fact, I predict I will be back before the Season has even properly started.”
But Lydia pulled her hand away. “And what good would coming back do, with your hair shorn and your reputation in tatters?” she asked bitterly. “Did you even think this through before you charged into it?”
Lucy bit her lip, the question hitting a little too close for comfort. No, she hadn’t thought it through. She’d simply read Aunt E’s diary entry last night, and woken up this morning determined to find something to sell. As per usual, she’d set her sights on a grand goal and ignored the smaller difficulties, such as how to explain—or hide—the evidence of what she had done. She might be impulsive, but she at least had enough self-awareness to look back now and recognize her usual pattern of impetuousness.
“I probably should have done a bit of research into how much I might earn first,” she admitted. “And I should have waited to visit the wig makers until I had enough money to leave immediately after I had done it.”
Lydia’s face turned red. “That is what you see as the lesson learned here? For heaven’s sake, Lucy, how can you be so . . . so . . . blind? I would give anything to be in your position, you know. To have a chance to find a proper husband, and to find real happiness.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “And yet you are throwing it all away for a rat-infested cottage?”
Lucy felt a spark of irritation. Why couldn’t Lydia see her side of it? For as long as she could remember, this threatened Season had hovered above her head like a guillotine. And now, with the encounter with the visiting coach, it was clear her fears were well-founded. She had only ever consented to suffer through the drama of this Season to silence her parents’ expectations. It wasn’t as though she had any intention of procuring a husband anyway—especially not one who only wanted to give her a ring in exchange for ten thousand pounds. She might be a female, but she wasn’t an idiot, and she knew an unfair bargain when she saw one.
The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior Page 5
