by Laura London
When Mr. Monroe Downpatrick, a wealthy, childless widower, had appeared to claim the lady’s hand, the earl brought himself to overlook Mr. Downpatrick’s lack of noble birth and handed his daughter over with a sigh of relief.
What Papa, the earl, hadn’t known was that his daughter had earlier made her own attempt at husband-hunting. A survey of the personable, well-born young men of the beau monde had shown Lady Eleanor one young gentleman she felt worthy to be taken as a husband. Lord Melbrooke was the lucky man she chose. She found nothing to deter her in the fact that he was already one of the most sought-after young men in the ton. Her confidence was so complete that she thought she had only to give him a genteel hint of her preference to seal the match between them. Lord Melbrooke had been impervious to genteel hints. Lady Eleanor, a good deal more than half in love with him, lowered herself to beguile him with an open flirtation. He politely avoided her. Finally, she so far forgot herself as to pursue him in a manner as immodest as it was unsuccessful. She had been kindly, but firmly, rejected. It was the greatest humiliation of her life, and when Mr. Downpatrick presented himself, she, too, had heaved a sigh of relief.
When Lady Eleanor came to the door of her best guest chamber to discover that her ill-behaved and uncomfortably pretty stepniece had been apparently more successful than she with the love-of-her-life, who had so shamed her years before, her first and by far most intense emotion was a fiercely burning jealousy, followed quickly by a white-hot desire for revenge on both parties. During the time that Peg clung weeping to her knees, Lady Eleanor engaged in a series of rapid mental calculations. “We might find this a little difficult to explain,” Lord Melbrooke had said; and Lady Eleanor answered him, tittering angrily: “Not at all, dear Justin. Every allowance must be made for a betrothed couple. Peg, stand up at once! You forget yourself!”
The gossipy Lady Marchpane gave a breathy cry, her inquisitiveness soon to be gratified. Surprise banishing her tears, Peg leaped to her feet to stare at Lynden, who jumped from the bed, looking suspicious and confused. Only Lord Melbrooke remained as he was, his emotions cloaked beneath the disciplined impassivity of his features. Lynden brushed past Peg to confront her aunt, meeting look for look Lady Eleanor’s maliciously glittering eyes.
“Lord Melbrooke and I are not a betrothed couple!” shouted Lynden. To her dismay, Lady Marchpane’s hand flew to her mouth, barely stifling a horrified gasp of scandalized surprise. Peg burst into tears again.
“Dear little Lynden,” purred Lady Eleanor. “Even though your engagement hasn’t been formally announced, surely there’s no harm in letting such a close friend as Lady Marchpane know, especially under the circumstances. We wouldn’t want her to have doubts of your virtue, would we?”
Lynden was growing frightened and turned nervously to Lord Melbrooke for support. “There aren’t any circumstances, are there, Lord Melbrooke? Tell Aunt that it isn’t so!”
Melbrooke glanced quickly at Lynden and then looked at Lady Eleanor. “I’m sure, Eleanor, you’ll agree that there is no need for Miss Downpatrick to be distressed. For now, could I prevail upon your good nature long enough to dress?”
“How remiss of me,” Eleanor replied, smiling nastily. “Won’t you join Monroe and me in the library before dinner for a companionable chat?”
Melbrooke gave a cool, assenting bow.
Taking her stepniece’s arm, Lady Eleanor led Lady Marchpane and Peg out the door, closing it behind her. Once in the hall, Eleanor turned to poor, tear-streaked Peg and snapped, “Send another housemaid up to clean the mess you’ve made and then retire to your chamber. You’re clearly in no state to carry on with your duties this evening.” Lady Eleanor then smiled graciously at Lady Marchpane and excused herself, saying she must escort her niece to her room, with a murmured disclaimer that dear Lynden was “so highly strung.”
Lynden felt her aunt’s fashionably long fingernail dig into the soft flesh of her upper arm. Lynden’s bedroom was down a long corridor, around a corner, and up to a half landing. Lorraine was standing outside the room, and ran forward a few steps when she saw her sister and aunt coming up the stairs.
“Lynnie?” Lorraine said questioningly.
Lynden yanked her arm from Lady Eleanor’s grasp. “Aunt Eleanor says that I’m engaged to Lord Melbrooke and I’m not!”
“You were not, but you are now, my little she-fox!” stated Lady Eleanor, her face set in a cold grimace. “Don’t think that you can press yourself against a man without paying the piper!”
Lorraine gasped in horror.
“I wasn’t pressing myself against him,” said Lynden, white-faced. “I was only in his room because I had a fall from the old pine when I was climbing to get our kite.”
“Ho,” laughed Lady Eleanor. “Is that the marvelous explanation that’s going to save your virtue? Don’t forget, My Lady Marchpane observed you lying wantonly on Melbrooke’s bed; we both know she’s the biggest gossip in the British Isles and will spread that tidbit far and wide! You’d better think of a likelier tale than that, my girl!”
“It’s not a tale, it’s the truth,” said Lynden hotly. “If you go back to his bedroom, you’ll see the kite lying on the floor. I forgot to take it when we left. I had to get it out of the tree because I used your zephyr scarves as a tail for it and…”
She got no further as Lady Eleanor soundly boxed her ears. Lorraine thrust herself protectively in front of her twin and received a cuff for her pains. Eleanor threw open Lynden’s bedroom door, sending it cracking against the wall.
“Horrid children! Get in there!” she shrieked, pointing to the room. She stormed in after them and grabbed Lynden by her shoulders, shaking her. “Wild, insolent little gypsy! I’ll teach you to whore with the house-guests behind my back!”
Lynden swallowed. “I didn’t do anything, Aunt Eleanor,” she said, frightened by her aunt’s rage. “Ask Lord Melbrooke, he’ll tell you!”
“Don’t depend on Justin to get you out of this. Seducing a young lady of quality in her guardian’s own home will cause a scandal that even the Bard of the Lakeland will have trouble laughing off. And believe me, my dear, Justin’s family hates scandal and he’ll go to some length to avoid embarrassing them. He’ll soon be convinced that it is easier for him to marry you than face the muck I could toss on him!” Eleanor sneered, pinching Lynden’s ear with unpleasant strength. “Justin’s family has been after him to marry and breed an heir for years, although I certainly won’t pretend that they’ll be pleased when he brings home an untidy little nobody like you. But he will contrive; it will be a small problem for him to stick you in one of his many houses and forget you while he goes about his rakings.”
Lynden felt as though she was lost in a trackless swamp. She was beginning to realize that what had begun as a mildly exciting adventure was fast becoming the most serious scrape of her youthful career. Her aunt’s spiteful reaction was anger, yes, but there was something more that Lynden, with her limited experience, could not quite comprehend. The atmosphere was charged with threatening nuances. She knew only that Lady Eleanor seemed serious in her plan to force her to marry Lord Melbrooke. Lynden was used to hearing that she brought trouble upon herself by her own rash behavior. She decided hopefully, naively, that the converse must be true. If she got into trouble by behaving impulsively, then she must be able to get out of that trouble by remaining calm. Trying to still the panic that was beginning to burn fitfully at the edges of her poise, Lynden summoned her strength, squared her shoulders, and faced her aunt.
“I haven’t done anything wrong. At least, not if you discount taking your zephyr scarves. If you’ll listen to me, I’ll tell you everything that happened from the moment I entered Lord Melbrooke’s bedroom and then you will see that there is no reason for him and me to marry.” Lynden’s voice was a bit unsteady, and she paused for a breath.
Lady Eleanor gave a short laugh. “I don’t know if you are going to treat me with more of your convenient lies or regale me with the sordi
d details of your premarital adventure! I won’t listen to either! You’ll stay in here by yourself until you’re summoned, Miss!” Lady Eleanor opened the door and beckoned imperiously to Lorraine. “Come along, Lorraine.”
Lorraine stood still and said quietly, “I prefer to stay with Lynden.”
Lady Eleanor raised her eyebrows derisively. “Then you shall.” She turned and left, closing the door softly behind her, and the girls heard the lock turning.
The twins talked intensely and at length over the events just past, their voices rising and falling. It grew dark, and they had been left without a lamp, so they moved to the silver square of moonlight which fell through the window to lie in the center of the floor.
Peg came later bearing a snack of fruit purloined from the larder and a tinderbox to light the bedroom candles. She was subdued, apologetic, and quite as frightened as the twins.
“I followed Her Ladyship when she marched up to the school room with you,” Peg told the twins. “I heard what you said to Lady Eleanor about you being innocent of wrong doin’. When Her Ladyship came into the hall again, I explains to her that it could be that I was mistaken in what I saw, because I’ll tell you, Lynden, that I never heard you tell a lie, not in all my born days! But no sooner were th’ words out of me mouth but that ol’ witch starts to yell at me, saying that she knew I’d be full o’ lies for you an’ I’d better not repeat th’ story again or I’d be outta a job!”
It was bad, the girls agreed. But Peg had worse tidings yet.
“Mademoiselle Ambrose says that Lady Eleanor is so vexed because her’s fair sick with jealousy thinkin’ Lord Melbrooke might prefer you to her. Loonier than a defeathered gander, is that aunt o’ yours. She’s out to get you, and him, Miss Lyn, and no mistake! There be some kind of argumentation goin’ on right there in Mr. Downpatrick’s library with your Mama in there, too, and her havin’ spasms fit to beat the French. Oh, Miss Lynden, you ain’t never gonna know how sorry I am for the trouble I’ve caused you!”
Lynden gave Peg a bracing pat on the shoulder and announced in an unconvincing voice that she was not afraid of Aunt Eleanor. It was another hour before an underfootman came to announce in a sympathetic voice that Mr. Downpatrick requested that Miss Lynden join him in the library.
Lynden had no pleasant memories of the library. It was the Bad Room, the Bogie Place of her childhood, where Uncle Monroe would lie in wait like a big brown spider in a web to lecture her on what he felt were the many faults of her character. It was a place where every minor sin was amplified, where every childish mischief was a crime, and where she and Lorraine suffered from discipline conducted without love. Lorraine’s hopeful counsel had been to “tell the truth and everything will be all right,” but as Lynden neared the library, Lorraine’s words became as elusive as silver-white milkweed puffs on a windy day. The library door was carved in Gothic bas-relief—a nightmare of distorted faces with bulging eyes, pointed and forked tongues, pendulous lips, and clawed feet. Uncle Monroe had purchased the door at auction in hopes that it would someday be “worth some money.” Apprehensively, Lynden twisted the ball-and-claw door handle and entered the library.
Monroe Downpatrick was seated in his favorite leather armchair. His thick black eyebrows knitted under his creased bald pate, and his neat little mustache twitched. His pasty hands were crossed, resting on the barley-beer belly which even the most expensive tailor on Bond Street could not conceal.
Dressed for evening in a blue jacket, buff-colored waistcoat, and stiff white cravat, Lord Melbrooke had been seated near the fire but stood at Lynden’s entrance. His demeanor was distant, his gray eyes cold and piercing like the blade of a newly hammered knife, the healthy, unlined skin drawn tightly over the high, sculptured cheekbones. His disciplined features revealed only a subtly weary distaste.
Lynden’s mother, Mrs. Downpatrick, was curled in a chaise lounge in front of the fire, swathed, as was her habit, in a mound of draperies. The fringe of a lace cap peeked out beneath a wool bonnet, and a shawl covered both. Despite the warm wrapped brick that Peg had placed at her feet and the black nunlike robes she wore, Mrs. Downpatrick shivered irritably when Lynden’s entrance caused a tiny draft to dart into the room.
In her forties, she was a pretty woman still, but with the melancholy self-absorption of a medieval madonna. There would be no help from that quarter—and Lynden did not even think of it. Her mother had never mothered her daughters. There was no room for parenthood in the sucking self-pity of her world. Directly after their birth, the twin’s mother had thrust the girls into the care of a nurse and ejected her husband from her bedroom, vowing never again to allow herself to be subjected to the discomforts of pregnancy and the horrors of childbirth. For much of their young lives, Lynden and Lorraine had made attendance on her twice a week, on Monday and Friday mornings, for fifteen-minute periods during which they sang duets of “Before Jehovah’s Aweful Throne,” read Old Testament passages, and listened to a list of the many ways in which their births had ruined their mother’s health. When the visit was over, the twins would leave, feeling like escaping prisoners.
Lady Eleanor wore a mauve silk evening gown. Mademoiselle Ambrose had braided her graying brown hair into a tight coronet circled tiara-like on the crown of her head, emphasizing her sharp classic features. She left her place behind Mr. Downpatrick and, with an air of smug triumph, led Lynden to Melbrooke.
“Lord Melbrooke has something to say to you, my dear,” said Lady Eleanor.
Lord Melbrooke’s demeanor was arctic. All trace of the drolly formal warmth that had charmed Lynden earlier had vanished; the gray eyes were chilly and unapproachable. He looked at her with what appeared to be dislike. Lynden’s breath tightened miserably in her throat.
Simply and without preamble, Lord Melbrooke said, “May I have the honor of your hand in marriage?”
Lynden stared at him. I want to be sick, she thought. Then the sick feeling was doused by a cool rippling rage which seemed to tremble out from her to the corners of the room.
“No!” she said, her attempted shout stifled into a gasp. “I won’t be intimidated into marriage with a stranger!” She stood on tiptoe and leaned her head back to look Melbrooke squarely in the eye. “You ought to have had more resolution!” she said furiously, “than to let them compel you into making me an offer.”
Her mother spoke in a reedy but curiously potent voice. “Lynden! My nerves will not bear your uncontrolled tone! Such mannishness! I do not know what you can be thinking of in your precipitant refusal. Surely you know that you must marry the man you have sinned with.”
“Sinned!” said Lynden, her eyes big with disbelief. “I don’t know much about sin, but if what I was doing with Lord Melbrooke was sinning, then let me tell you that sin has been shockingly overrated by the poets!”
“Hold your tongue, Miss!” snapped Mr. Downpatrick. He had never liked either of the twins. Lynden was unpredictable and impertinent, and her sister, Lorraine, though more biddable in temperament, was bookish and more intelligent than he thought proper in a woman. They were a difficult pair and he would be glad to be rid of at least one of them. There would also be the convenience of not having to arrange a London season for Lynden. If she were married to Melbrooke, he would only have to pay for Lorraine’s season. He glanced at his widowed sister-in-law. Damn her, how like her to abdicate responsibility for her daughter’s behavior and leave him to put the chit in her place. Downpatrick transferred his gaze to Lord Melbrooke. He was not deceived by Melbrooke’s noncommittal features. He knew the man was furious and probably thought them all a group of vulgar slyboots. He wondered if the chit’s aberrant behavior would cause Melbrooke to cry off from the wedding. He almost wished that it would, thinking nervously that it would do no good to incur the enmity of a man of Lord Melbrooke’s wealth and social importance. Downpatrick would have let the matter drop in a minute but for his eagerness to get rid of the girl and the likelihood that Eleanor would slice him to shreds if he fa
iled to support her in the plan.
“Instead of screaming at us, Lynden,” began Downpatrick, “you should be dropping to your knees and thanking Good Fortune that a man of Lord Melbrooke’s station would condescend to marry so insignificant a chit as yourself. He is a far better man than you could otherwise have dreamed of…”
Melbrooke interrupted him mid-sentence. “Enough,” he ordered frigidly, and turned to address Lynden. “Miss Downpatrick, I think you ought to know that your aunt has confided earlier in Lady Marchpane that you and I have an unannounced engagement of six months’ standing, and that it has been her policy to allow us a liberal degree of privacy during that period. Do you understand what that means?”
“Yes,” cried Lynden, scandalized by the deceit. “It means that Aunt is a cheat. And a liar!”
“Insolence!” Mr. Downpatrick broke in. “Your aunt was acting in your best interests. She was trying to smooth over an embarrassing situation. Ungrateful girl! Need I remind you of the obedience you owe me as your guardian?”
“I’m not going to obey a command that’s wrong!” Lynden declared passionately. “I don’t care what Aunt told Lady Marchpane! If people are so unjust and unimaginative as to believe that I did wrong with Lord Melbrooke, then it’s no concern of mine.”
