“But that’s not fair!” Her face scrunched up in something close to a pout. “Geoffrey isn’t being forced to have a chaperone.”
“I don’t want you to come either, Lucy,” Geoffrey broke in. “You’ll just ruin things. Probably the doctor would refuse to show us Napoleon’s doodle with a silly girl in tow.”
“No one would have to know I’m a girl,” Lucy retorted, her fists balling up.
At this, Daniel chuckled. “Miss Westmore, I regret to be the one to inform you of this, but anyone with an ounce of sense and two functioning eyes can see you are a girl. A very lovely girl, no matter what manner of men’s clothing you put on or how many trees you tumble from.”
She went still. “They can?”
“My advice to you, should you care to take it, is to just be yourself.” At her resulting sour face, he plowed on. “You do not have to pretend to be someone you aren’t, be it a boy or a young woman of high fashion.”
“Don’t I?” she protested. “Next year I am expected to be presented at court, whether I want to or not.” She rolled her eyes, then added vehemently, “Judging by Clare’s experience, I will turn into someone I scarcely recognize. I don’t want to change. I’d rather be a spinster.”
Daniel hid a smile. “But can’t you see? You are changing yourself, in reaction to fear. Do you have some specific objection to women’s clothing, or is it only that you reject it to make a point?” He could tell he’d hit close to the truth when she glared at her shoes and kicked out at a pebble on the cobblestone street. “Surely there is some middle ground,” he said, more easily now, “where you can be comfortable in your skin and pursue your own dreams.”
“And save all the cart horses in London,” her brother added unhelpfully.
“Stuff it, Geoffrey,” Lucy mumbled, but she seemed less belligerent about it.
Daniel lifted an eye from the simmering family squabble to the sky, hoping to get a sense of time, but the sun was quite obliterated by low-hanging clouds. There was only one way he could see out of this, though it was going to land him in a good deal of trouble with their sister.
“Flectere si nequeo superos, acheronta movebo,” he muttered.
Lucy glared at him. “I don’t understand what that means.”
“If I cannot move heaven, I will raise hell.” Daniel gritted his teeth. “Listen, both of you. I am under a tight schedule today, and don’t have time to argue further. Lucy, what if I promise to take you on an adventure as well, once Clare’s ankle is healed and she can come with us for propriety’s sake. Would that help get you back in the house, in some form or fashion?”
Her nose wrinkled in consideration. “It might.”
“I give you my word,” he said solemnly, placing a hand across his heart. “When Clare can walk again, we shall go on an outing. I shall even give you the choice of venue.”
After a moment she huffed, “Fine.” She turned and shoved her hands in her pockets, head bent down in rejection. Two steps had her calling back over her shoulder. “But if my adventure doesn’t include Napoleon’s privates, it had better at least involve an omnibus!”
May 9, 1848
Dearest Diary,
I used to think Sophie and Rose had a remarkably sharp wit, but listening to them today, it was hard to remember why I once found them amusing.
Or perhaps it is only that their banter seems increasingly at my own expense?
If there was one good thing to come of today’s visit, it was that Sophie wore pink, and her dress cast a ridiculous iced-cake shadow across her face. A better friend would tactfully steer her toward deeper hues, given the way she suffers in it.
No matter her claim of innocence, I am not completely inclined toward civility where Sophie and Mr. Alban are concerned. If she has my best interests at heart, time will tell. And if she doesn’t, surely there is no shame in permitting an opponent to disarm herself with an injudicious bit of color.
When they left, there was no recourse but the marzipan. If the box was truly intended for medicinal purposes, I should soon be feeling much better, because I ate the entire thing in one sitting. I only hope Daniel doesn’t bring more when he comes to visit next Tuesday, or I shall be the size of one of Lucy’s omnibus horses by the end of this. And if I cannot attend the gallery opening this Friday, I must pray that Sophie chooses to wear pink there.
I should like Mr. Alban to see her in that.
Chapter 11
A lady was expected to greet her day with a graceful smile and good humor, but Clare had to imagine such sentiments applied to the healthy and marginally sane.
By the second Tuesday of her convalescence, she was regrettably neither.
Her ankle was improving but was still not quite sound. Every day, the pain became a little less severe. She could hobble from her bed to the water closet without limping now, and had even dared take a lap or two around the drawing room that had become her prison, but the dire threat of reinjury kept her exertions to a minimum. Her mending basket boasted a half-dozen false starts on embroidery projects that served no purpose beyond inciting homicidal levels of boredom. Like an exiled political scholar, she read the Times every day, studying the news for glimpses of the life she was missing. Cousin Bette proved a welcome diversion, but it was scarcely an intellectual tome and she finished it in only two days.
And through it all, the clock on the mantel ticked on.
She thought of her new doctor more than was sensible. And not only in irritation, which would have been understandable, given the circumstances. No, she had to think of him in ways that made her cheeks flush and her heart race and her eyes drift distractedly toward the picture window. She would have liked to place him firmly out of mind, but how could she, when Geoffrey could speak of no one else? The boy had developed a serious case of hero worship, chattering on as much about his eye-opening visit to the hospital charity ward as Napoleon’s privates. Lucy was little better, expressing her excitement to see the doctor again on an almost hourly basis. So when ten o’clock Tuesday morning came and went with no sign or word from Daniel, a gnawing irritation settled in her stomach.
It was his fault she was sitting here, drat the man.
The least he could do was put in a promised appearance.
“Where is he?” Lucy groaned sometime after luncheon, flopping into a chair with a dramatic sigh. “I asked Wilson to send him straight in. I expected we’d see Dr. Merial hours ago.”
Clare looked up over the top of her wooden embroidery frame. “He’s a physician with a busy schedule. I am sure he has other patients to see,” she admonished, though her own thoughts tripped in much the same direction as her sister’s.
Lucy lifted a hand to smooth back the wisps of blond hair that fluttered about her temple. “It’s a shame Geoffrey will have to miss Dr. Merial now because of his afternoon studies. You must admit, last week’s outing has proved remarkable in tempering his behavior. He’s been close to pleasant all week, tolerating his books and quoting Latin at the oddest moments.” She laughed, but it was unexpectedly a ladylike sound. “Who would have ever expected a shriveled organ to accomplish so much?”
Clare hid a smile. She suspected the changes they were seeing in Geoffrey had more to do with the miraculous Dr. Merial himself than the condition of Napoleon’s manly parts. Indeed, it seemed the doctor’s presence had affected more than just her brother’s behavior this week. Lucy had unconsciously adopted a softer and surprising new vein of maturity as well.
Today she was wearing a dress.
A clean dress.
She had even brushed her hair and permitted her beleaguered ladies’ maid to put it up in a loose topknot. Clare didn’t know whether to laugh at her sister’s antics or have a miniature made to commemorate the occasion.
“You know as well as I that Geoffrey’s studies must come first,” Clare stated, though privately she thought Daniel stood a better chance of improving her brother’s character than the boy’s sour-faced instructor who came every day after luncheon. “A
fternoons are to be spent with his tutor until Father can arrange for another school to take him.”
“I still can’t believe he needs another school, when I’ve never even been permitted to attend one.” Lucy scowled. “He’s only thirteen. What did he do that was terrible, anyway?”
“I do not know.” Clare pushed her reluctant needle through the linen. “He won’t speak of the details, and neither will Father.”
“Have you asked Mother?”
“You know as well as I that Mother is either always sleeping or shopping.” Clare stabbed at her embroidery in frustration. “And truly, I don’t think she knows, either.”
Lucy tapped a finger against her lips. “Perhaps Dr. Merial can get it out of him. Geoffrey clearly talks to him.” She eyed Clare’s propped ankle. “You’ll have to feign injury a bit longer, though, so Dr. Merial has a reason to keep coming back.”
Clare glared at her sister. “I am not feigning my injury.”
But Lucy’s words reminded her that these visits were finite. Someday soon, possibly even today, she would be declared fully healed. Daniel would return to his usual patients, and her family would return to Dr. Bashings’s dubious care.
And the anticipation she felt over seeing him again would cease to be a problem.
Footsteps echoed in the outside hallway. Clare tossed aside her needlework and straightened her skirts as a curious jolt of energy thumped in her chest.
But it was Wilson who appeared, stiff and formal, holding a silver tray bearing a card. “You’ve a visitor, Lady Clare.”
That was odd. Daniel had a tendency to just emerge in the door frame, like a dream or a nightmare, depending on your perspective. To her knowledge he’d never once left a card.
Lucy leaped to her feet as Clare reached out a hand. She felt oddly deflated when she saw the name was not that of the deliciously dark doctor who haunted her spare thoughts.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
What was Mr. Alban doing here?
Lucy sauntered closer and stared down at the card, her eyes widening with what could have been either excitement or mischief. “Oh, good,” she said, one side of her mouth quirking up. “It looks as though I will finally get to meet your future duke.” She gestured to her dress. “After all, I’m scarcely dressed for climbing trees.”
Clare sighed. There was no way around it she could see. Geoffrey was upstairs at his books, thank goodness, and Mother was surely shopping on Bond Street by now, but it was far too late to properly dispose of Lucy, especially now that she had seen the name on the card.
“Please show him in, Wilson.” As the butler turned, Clare risked another glance at her little sister. Astonishingly, Lucy was settling herself primly in her chair again, and had even picked up an embroidery frame.
Perhaps it would be all right. Lucy had been showing signs of improvement lately. To someone who didn’t know her, she might even appear—gasp—ladylike, sitting placidly with her embroidery in her lap.
But looking presentable and acting presentable were not nearly the same thing.
“Wilson,” she called out, remembering nearly too late her intent to keep Mr. Alban’s visits a secret from her mother. Her words halted the butler’s retreat. “Do you remember our agreement regarding Lady Cardwell?” Her father and Lucy might be necessary co-conspirators in this plot, but she was still convinced of the need to keep her mother out of it, at least until Alban was more firmly on the hook.
The servant inclined his head. “Yes, miss. It shall be as you wish.”
Clare sighed in relief as the butler left, vowing to speak to her father about increasing the poor man’s wages. All this subterfuge might force Wilson to an early retirement.
And then who would help keep her secrets?
All too soon Mr. Alban was standing before her. She drew a steadying breath and prayed for her sister’s best behavior. “I cannot tell you what a lovely surprise this is.” She gestured to Lucy. “May I present my sister, Miss Lucy Westmore.”
Lucy lifted her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Alban,” she said, affecting the droll tone of voice she often employed when teasing Geoffrey.
Worry rippled down Clare’s spine as Alban bent over Lucy’s hand. She clearly hadn’t thought this through. Lucy’s face might be clean, but were her hands? Good Lord, what if Mr. Alban saw the dirt that so often lay beneath her sister’s ragged nails?
But she couldn’t very well order Lucy from the room now.
She was left with no recourse but to cast up a silent prayer to whichever God presided over family squabbles that her sister would stay on her best behavior.
Alban settled onto the sofa beside her. “It’s a pleasure to spend time in the company of two lovely ladies.” He smiled. “But I must say, I wasn’t aware you had a sister, Miss Westmore. Hiding her at home, are we?”
Clare’s stomach clenched. How to craft an appropriate explanation for why Lucy had no interest in social outings beyond things involving Napoleon’s mummified appendage? “She . . . ah . . . isn’t out yet. She’ll be presented next year.”
“Perhaps.” Lucy waved a vague hand. “The details are still being sorted out.”
Clare suppressed a groan. Please, please not now, Lucy. Not now. Not here.
Not him.
She would have made a deal with the very devil in that moment, had Satan cared to make an appearance and promised to silence her sister.
Mr. Alban’s careful gaze moved from Lucy, to Clare, back to Lucy again, causing the fine hairs on Clare’s arms to prick to attention. Was his unwavering focus that of a besotted gentleman, wanting to make a good impression, or that of a man assessing her family’s attributes and finding them lacking? His curious expression made her feel breathless, but it was not the same sort of breathlessness she was coming to associate with the exasperating Dr. Merial.
The current emotion felt more worrisome than not.
“It’s really rather remarkable,” he finally said, his gaze returning to meet hers. “You and your sister share little physical resemblance.”
Clare blinked. She would have thought—would have liked—to hear him say how attractive she looked today. After all, she had dressed with care this morning, knowing she would see Daniel. Her day dress was a bright primrose, and the color had been carefully chosen because she knew it brought out the natural flush in her skin. Moreover, she’d instructed her maid to arrange her hair in a flattering style, with soft curls left loose to frame her cheeks.
Although, perhaps Alban was simply remarking on the lack of family resemblance, as one would the weather. It was a difficult point to refute, after all.
“I take after Father,” Lucy broke in helpfully. “Clare was fortunate to escape such a sentence. But don’t worry. I’ve quite resigned myself to being the plain Westmore sister, Mr. Alban.”
Clare cringed. How could Lucy consider herself plain? Awkward, yes. Stubborn—almost certainly. But with her blue eyes and blond hair, there was a waiting prettiness to her that even her staunchest attempts to hide couldn’t quite squelch.
Particularly today, when she was actually wearing a dress and sitting up straight.
“Lucy likes to tease,” Clare said quickly. “We have every faith she will be brilliant next Season.” She glanced sideways at the gentleman sitting next to her. She was struck again by his hesitancy, the sense that an all-important question hovered, just out of reach.
Perhaps she should just ask him to marry her.
That had been the way of Queen Victoria’s betrothal, after all. Surely she could be forgiven for such brazenness, if it meant she could secure a future duke in hand.
But with Lucy watching, her nerve quite failed her, and so—though inside she was screaming for Mr. Alban to get on with things—she smiled placidly instead. “Speaking of Seasons, I confess my injury has made me rather starved for news. Pray tell, did the Queen attend the opening of the Royal Gallery this year?”
Though of course, Clare already knew the Queen had
n’t. According to the Times, the Royal Family was away at Osborne house, retreating from the civil unrest that was permeating the city. But confessing her knowledge of such events would prove she read more than gossip sheets, and so she guarded her tongue.
Alban settled himself back against the sofa, his eyes drifting again across her face in a way that made Clare’s stomach tighten. She’d never been comfortable with close scrutiny, and she was coming to realize Alban had a way of indulging in it that made her fidget.
What did he see in her face this moment? A pretty, empty-headed girl? Possibly he was fixated on her crooked tooth, or the flush she could feel stealing over her cheeks.
“No,” he finally answered, shaking his head gently. “The Queen did not put in an appearance this year. Nearly everyone else was there, though. It was a shame you were forced to miss it. I had hoped to see you there.”
“Oh?” Clare breathed stupidly. It was hard to think of anything more gracious to say when Lucy was watching them, her gaze bouncing between them like a tossed ball.
“Lady Sophie attended the opening, and she implied you had recently suffered a grievous injury that removed you from the Season. I came to offer you my wishes for a speedy recovery.” Alban leaned in. “But clearly, she must have been mistaken about the nature of this mythical injury, because I must say, you appear close to perfect, Miss Westmore.”
A giggle escaped Lucy, but Clare refused to look in her sister’s direction.
“Oh.” She buried her clammy palms in the safety of her primrose skirts and peeked up at Alban through half-lowered lashes. His light brown hair had been freshly combed and his hair pomade reflected the room’s gentle sunlight, just the way she’d once imagined it looking across the breakfast table. She willed her stomach to flip over in interest instead of dread.
Perhaps it didn’t matter what Sophie was plotting.
Alban was here, in her drawing room, saying she was close to perfect.
And if only Lucy would play along for the next quarter hour and she could convince her heart to agree with her head, this man could be her future.
Diary of an Accidental Wallflower Page 11
