Price of Privilege

by Jessica Dotta

  Jameson cleared his throat.

  “How am I supposed to use my time, then? There’s so little I can do. At the very least I can be knowledgeable.”

  His eyes took on a far-off look as he glanced out the window. Sorrow encased his features. “I feel remorse for resisting the Auburn housekeeper’s arguments about the lack of women’s rights. The footmen used to jest behind her back that she was angry because no man wanted her. And I did not censure them as I ought have. Secretly I found her offensive too. I always believed that if everyone kept their roles perfectly, kept their proper ranks, obeyed the person set above them, everything would always run smoothly.” He gave a slight chuckle. “And then you came along. I don’t know how you do it, Mrs. Auburn! On the one hand, you are a perfect example of why no woman should have any say over her own affairs, for you made a perfect mess of them. Yet on the other hand, you’re solid proof that women need equal rights. For you exemplify how precarious a woman’s—”

  The sound of my father and Isaac’s arrival cut his speech short.

  My cheeks burned, for Jameson’s speech was probably the most radical view ever spoken aloud in London House, and I felt guilty just hearing it. It was impossible to even lift my head in greeting.

  “Jameson,” my father said gruffly. “Begin breakfast.”

  Glad my father hadn’t overheard a word of Jameson’s views, I spread my napkin over my lap and pondered how I would fill the weeks before the trial. Jameson was right. It would bedevil me, trying to keep up with everything that everyone was saying. Yet if I didn’t read the papers, what earthly use was I?

  As was his new custom, my father placed the papers in the center of the table, allowing free access. When he and Isaac selected their favorites, Jameson looked over his shoulder, curious to see if I’d take his advice. Thankfully my father hadn’t noticed the Times. I longed to remove it from the pile and hide it beneath the table. But there was no hiding my shame for the world. It was open for all to see.

  I studied the pattern on the china dishes, wondering if I should start my own campaign of exposing Macy through the newspapers. The notion was quickly rejected. It did not suit my personality. It was my father and Macy’s chosen mode of battle—public opinion. I glanced at Isaac’s horrified expression as he scanned pages. I was forced to look away. Surely, I thought, he deeply regretted his decision to join this fray by aligning his reputation with mine.

  I cupped my chin, wondering what Edward would have done. I suspected he’d have made it his daily habit to stand on the steps of London House and preach to the crowds. But my shame was so great, I could scarcely manage to frame words to Nancy, much less angrily censure the spectators.

  There was no safe place or outlet for me to take all the emotion building inside me, I realized. Had Edward or Elizabeth been there, I would have poured out my soul to them. But even that, I knew, wouldn’t ease how frantic I felt. For did I not have Jameson and Nancy to talk to? I sank against the back of my chair, wondering if anyone had ever felt as trapped as I did. Frowning, I envisioned the Israelites standing next to the Red Sea with Egyptian chariots rumbling toward them. Moses had instructed them to stand still and not fear. To wait and watch for the Lord’s salvation.

  Mr. Whitney’s words rose to mind. “You know that you’re asking me to deliver a miracle, don’t you?”

  I nodded at Jameson, finally finding my own way of dealing with these circumstances. Since matters were outside my hands regardless, I’d seek equanimity by turning toward the Red Sea and awaiting the Lord’s mighty hand.

  As it turned out, there was little else I could have done.

  Those who have never had their reality shattered scarcely can imagine the toll it exacts. Over the following weeks, I found it necessary to spend the majority of my time alone. Amidst the growing slander and defamation, I spent hours being tended by God. While the newspapers berated me, God told me I was the apple of his eye. While my father glared at me in stormy silence, I experienced what it meant to be enwrapped in unfailing love.

  Yet this was not a spiritual experience I would wish on anyone.

  More than once, panic would stab me and I’d suddenly desire to reject everything. It was as if all at once the girl I had been a year prior awoke in my body and couldn’t assemble this new life into its proper proportions. I’d cover my face, uncertain this wasn’t some strange and awful nightmare. Surely, I’d reason, it made more sense to declare this reality false. What were the chances that I was truly Lord Pierson’s daughter? And that not only had Edward married me, but so had London’s crime lord, who was really a gypsy from Austria? And that Lord Isaac Dalry, too, had sought to win my hand?

  None of this was sensible, I’d realize. I wasn’t even pretty, kind, generous, or any of the other qualities that attracted others. This was all wrong, I’d think. It had to be a madman’s fantasy. Maybe I ought to testify that I was deranged in court, because there was no court! It was all an illusion, and I would just be babbling nonsense into the air at an asylum, where the workers should have known better than to leave newspapers lying about for the inmates to create delusions with.

  I’d sit, crying out to God not to let go, because I was falling and I was no longer certain of anything. Strangely, I never questioned God, which should have been the most ludicrous part of my story. For the idea that there was a God—One who cradled me during those hours, One whose presence I could feel—is perhaps the most incoherent thought, for why would he have?

  The walls of Isaac’s snuggery testified that there was nothing about me worthy of loving.

  It made no earthly sense that God would look down and choose to reveal himself to me when I wreaked havoc and pain on others.

  Yet that slender, invisible thread of knowing him was all that kept me sound.

  THOUGH I’D STOPPED reading the newspapers, they still held power over me, for I continued to join breakfast.

  The morning the papers carried the news that Mr. Macy requested that he be arrested in my stead if I were going to be charged, a record number of copies were sold. I watched my father read the headlines, grab the stack of papers, and hustle to the library. He remained in meetings all day.

  The next morning, I was further unsettled when my father passed his newspaper to Isaac. Even Isaac registered shock as he read it.

  I did not ask as I stood and quietly left the breakfast table. I did not want to know.

  The following day, Mr. Whitney arrived a half hour before breakfast. I stiffened, wondering what more could possibly happen, as the thin clang of the bell reached my bedchamber. Nancy’s eyes caught mine in the mirror as she secured the plait she worked on. For the last several mornings, she’d experimented on various hairstyles for my upcoming court appearance. What exactly she hoped to achieve, I never asked, for I felt too frail for speech.

  That particular morning, Nancy had divided my hair into tiny plaits which she planned to gather at the crown of my head in an elaborate bun. The scent of her almond oil pomade filled the air as she kicked the curling papers scattered about her feet.

  When the bell rang again, I twisted my fingers about Mama’s locket and shut my eyes.

  “Likely nobbut a deliveryman,” she assured me.

  I nodded, though we both knew deliveries were made at the servants’ entrance. Then, finding it humorous that we both pretended to believe the other, I opened my eyes and found her observing me. It brought to mind how often we’d looked at each other in the mirror at Eastbourne. Thus I found myself asking, “Nancy, if I am forced back to Mr. Macy, will you go with me?”

  Her eyes flicked in the direction of the mirror as her mouth twisted. “Aye. I’ll ga. And charge thee double, and all.”

  I released a pent-up breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. We are not created to dwell in more than one reality at a time. Such pressure can fracture us. Thus until that day, I’d only allowed myself to handle the fact that I’d been riven from Edward again. That was unbalancing enough. But now my faith h
ad grown, as I had chosen to anchor myself in God instead of Edward. With that first step achieved, I allowed another step, to picture what might happen if I were forced to return to Eastbourne.

  Would it be possible, I wondered, to build a life there? If I were breaking apart under the strain of a court case, how on earth would I manage to live at Eastbourne, when I knew Macy was a crime lord, and still thrive? It wasn’t as if I could go back to being unaware he’d orchestrated Mama’s death.

  How I now hated every moment at Eastbourne. What a schoolgirl I’d been to tell Macy his past was of no concern to me. Outside of Mr. Whitney, who added clauses like: “unless you’ve murdered my family.” I shuddered and pressed my hands against my temples. How differently I now saw our time together. That first night, it was so clear he’d purposefully waited until I’d ingested enough brandy to be pliable and then probed me for my knowledge, so he could adapt his story.

  No wonder Lady Foxmore had scoffed. All along she’d known he was playacting. Feeling ill, I recalled how Mr. Macy challenged her ladyship by asking what it was to her if he wished to find succor from his past at my feet. No wonder she’d coughed and spat wine over the table. He was no more reformed than she was; likely he was ten times the reprobate. And no wonder Mr. Greenham had watched us so miserably. He’d murdered Mama for Macy and then personally delivered me on a silver platter to be seduced.

  My stomach twisted as I realized that all along Macy had been blending half-truths. Had he not said from the very beginning never to look too closely at him, for my own happiness? Had he not coached me from the very beginning to come to him alone for explanations? He’d known I would eventually find out he was a blackguard.

  Someone rapped on my door, causing us both to start.

  Nancy rolled her eyes, then wiped her hands over her skirt and plodded toward the door.

  “I beg your pardon,” James said in a perfect lilt from the hall, “but Mr. Whitney has arrived and requested an audience with Mrs. Auburn.”

  Since she was playing a mute, Nancy made some sort of gesture with her hands.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking them from view. Now that I allowed myself to see the truth about the past, I tried again to map out a potential future. Surely Macy would sense that I no longer believed his lies. So what now?

  Cold seeped through me as I recalled the day he caught me reading his mail and snatched up my wrist. His words hurtled back:

  “You can either be a token wife, and after securing an heir, I’ll see that your needs will be provided and leave you to your tea circles and dinner parties. Or you can stop asking questions and accept me as I am.”

  I stilled, truly hearing him for the first time. Either I would believe the lies he spun without questioning him, or he’d secure an heir and then abandon the guise of relationship.

  I suddenly understood what my life would look like.

  Whether or not I hated him or screamed or kicked and resisted, he wanted a son. Not just any son—one who was the rightful heir to Eastbourne. That had always been his objective. Of course he tried the path of least resistance first—seduction. And like a fool, an utter fool, I’d tangled myself in his web and in less than a week committed myself into his keeping.

  “Mrs. Auburn?” James asked.

  Angry tears shimmered in my eyes as I faced him and rose. “Yes, yes! Mr. Whitney. Where is he?”

  “In the foyer, ma’am.”

  Crossing my arms, I started toward the door, keeping my chin tucked in, feeling fractured. Nancy thwacked James’s shoulder, then pointed at my hair. Giving her an evil eye, James tugged at his waistcoat. “If I may make bold, Mrs. Auburn, your hair. I’m sure your barrister can wait until your style is finished.”

  I spun and consulted the large looking glass across the chamber. Under other circumstances, I might have found my appearance comical. The wild way in which the braids spread out over my head, when combined with my contorted expression, put me in mind of a Gorgon. But it was impossible to sit down and allow Nancy to do my hair while the truth about Macy thundered over me.

  “What does it matter?” I cried, stalking from the chamber, feeling the swish of my heavy skirts against my legs. In the hall I turned and screamed, “What does any of this matter!”

  Isaac and Mr. Whitney were in conversation at the bottom of the steps when I emerged shouting. They both glanced upwards as I descended, wiping tears from my eyes. Whatever Isaac saw alarmed him, for he dashed up the stairs, reaching me before I set foot on the second vestibule.

  He took my arm and instructed in a whisper, “Your father is in the library with Goodbody. Please comport yourself.”

  I shook him off, avoiding looking at him, as I lifted my skirts and started toward Mr. Whitney.

  “Plead insanity,” was my desperate greeting. I’m sure at that moment, my appearance and tone made it sound like a reasonable request. “Plead it. I don’t care. I’m not going back to him. I’m not.”

  Mr. Whitney’s eyes narrowed with confusion as he looked at Isaac.

  “Why are you looking at him?” I protested. “I want to plead insanity. I’m the one who has to live with Macy, not him!”

  Frowning, Mr. Whitney darted a glance at the library before switching his satchel between hands. “Right. Let’s take this to the snuggery.” To me, “Can you manage yourself until then?”

  Cupping my elbows to hug myself, I nodded.

  Isaac attempted to take my arm, but feeling ready to break apart, I threw him off.

  Guilt assailed me as we trekked down the passage, for I could see that I’d hurt Isaac. Yet as much as I wished to apologize, I deemed it unwise to speak. Allowing myself to acknowledge the truth about Macy and my future had left me brittle, like a broken vase whose glue had not yet hardened.

  Once in the snuggery, Whitney wasted no time shedding any unnecessary layers and loosening his cravat.

  “I’ll go ask Jameson to gather the servants and sit guard,” Isaac said wearily, but at the door he turned and faced me. “Or would you rather I fetch Jameson to come speak personally with you?”

  I rubbed my eyes, wanting to laugh and cry. What good was Jameson if I was about to be given into the legal custody of Macy? What could Jameson possibly say to make any of this better? And yet, even as I thought this, another part of my mind twinged with curiosity. Would he, like Nancy, also come to Eastbourne? If Edward were sent to jail, he’d have to choose between my father and Macy. “Ask him,” I said with bitterness, “if he’d follow a faerie into caves of lunacy or, if she were sent there, through the very gates of hell itself.”

  Mr. Whitney cast Isaac a look of panicked concern.

  Isaac looked torn between staying and leaving. “Just leave her alone until I get back,” he commanded. Then, not trusting that Mr. Whitney understood, he added, “Say nothing.”

  I placed my eyes in my hands, recalling the night Macy had held me before he brutally murdered Forrester’s manservant. Then I recalled the manner in which Macy had lovingly tended the burns on my hands, even as he planned out Eramus’s murder in his mind. I shook my head, knowing I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t.

  As Isaac’s soft tread crossed the threshold, I looked at him.

  His expression was one of perplexity. With a frown he said, “Jameson said to tell you no, but he’d be happy to bake you banana cake for the journey so you won’t arrive famished.”

  I laughed, well able to imagine the tone in which he’d said that.

  “And,” Isaac added, “he said when you laughed, to tell you to stop ignoring your herd. That’s what Mr. Whitney and I are here for. To help with the lions.”

  I nodded repeatedly, feeling the panic leave. Then I laughed twice, thinking how ridiculous this must sound to them.

  As if in unison with my thoughts, Mr. Whitney’s brows scrunched before he looked over his shoulder at our timeline. “Remind me again,” he said slowly, “who this Jameson is?”

  “Oh, the fetching butler, of course,” I said moodily
, knowing it would give Jameson a chuckle later.

  The expression that crossed Mr. Whitney’s face is one I’ve encountered at least once each day since then. He stared at me as if all the facts he knew about me were incongruent with my actions, making it difficult to know how to proceed. As often happened in my earlier years, Mr. Whitney decided to parley with the person next to me instead. “Is she recovered, then?”

  Isaac’s blue eyes met mine as he tugged on the legs of his trousers and took a seat. He nodded.

  “Enough to share what I was going to say?”

  Isaac covered his mouth for a long moment in thought. When he spoke, it was to me. “What happened?”

  I gave a silent chuckle, imagining how absurd it would sound to say, I realized Macy was evil. I clasped my hands, knowing I couldn’t speak. Honor runs deep, and if I told them what I predicted, they’d feel obligated to do something rash. One shouldn’t run back to the herd if it kills the herd.

  “It was nothing,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  Isaac’s eyes sharpened.

  “I want to use my father’s defense.” I turned toward Mr. Whitney.

  He removed his spectacles and, using a handkerchief, wiped off the ash he’d acquired en route to London House. “I take it you haven’t been reading the papers, then?”

  “The papers?” I repeated dully.

  “We’ve publicly countered Macy’s claim that your father is maliciously destroying your marriage with lies. We’ve called Macy a sensationalist with the argument that you’re not imbued with fear about your husband, but that you’re calmly stating the marriage is neither legal nor consummated. And we’re claiming there’s far more to the story, which will come out during the trial.”

  My stomach was in a ferment. “Which is what, exactly?”

  Isaac and Mr. Whitney exchanged glances again.

  I felt a headache start. “We’re bluffing? That’s our defense?”

  “We’re not bluffing,” Mr. Whitney said. “We’re challenging every legal aspect of the marriage—and there are major holes, starting with the marriage license being burned and the lack of your signature in the registry. Macy, by the by, entered it, acting as your proxy.”