A Lady Never Tells

by Candace Camp

  At first Mary and her sisters wandered through the store, almost stunned by the wealth of fabrics—elegant silks and satins, plain flannels and wools, linens, velvets, brocades, dimities, muslins—but Charlotte soon called them back and they settled down to the task at hand. Soon they were choosing cloth after cloth from a dizzying array.

  When, after a time, Mary glanced over at the stack of fabrics that had been measured and cut and set aside for them, she was astonished at its size. “Oh my, we have purchased too much, surely.”

  “Nonsense,” Charlotte assured her. “We have just begun. There are four of you, after all, and you need … well, everything.”

  “The earl has been most generous to us. But … are you sure he will not mind?”

  Vivian, on the other side of Charlotte, let out a little hoot of laughter. “Stewkesbury? He’ll scarcely notice it’s gone. He inherited a fortune from Lord Reginald, and everyone knows he’s done nothing but increase it. He doesn’t gamble; he doesn’t throw it away on horses and carriages and clothes; he rarely even sets up expensive chères-amies —” She stopped abruptly and cast a guilty look at Lily and Camellia, who were regarding her with great interest. “That is to say, the man lives a remarkably plain life for one in his position.”

  “Are you talking about mistresses?” Camellia asked, looking astonished.

  “I’m sorry,” Vivian said quickly. “I spoke out of turn. I had forgotten, you see, that you are only girls—oh dear.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought of him having a mistress,” Camellia went on. “I can hardly imagine him taking off his neckcloth.”

  Her words surprised a giggle out of Charlotte, who clapped a hand to her mouth, and Vivian began to laugh. “I feared I had been too blunt.”

  “Camellia …” Rose gave her sister an admonitory look. “That’s exactly why he’s making us have a chaperone who’s also a governess.”

  “No, really?” Vivian asked.

  Mary sighed. “Yes. He says we aren’t ready for polite society. I fear he’s right.”

  “I find you perfectly delightful,” Vivian responded. “However, ’tis probably true that you need to curb your tongues around many of the ton. Still, a governess—I’m not sure that is exactly the sort of chaperone you need.” She shrugged. “Of course, if Oliver’s made up his mind, there’s no changing it. He always was an excessively stubborn man, even back when I used to visit Charlotte at Willowmere.”

  “You and Cousin Charlotte have been friends a long time?” Rose asked.

  “Longer than either of us care to recall, I imagine.” Lady Vivian cast a droll look at her friend. “Lord Humphrey—my father’s younger brother—lives at Halstead House, not far from Willowmere, and I used to visit him and my aunt in the summers when I was a girl. My mother died when I was born, and I had only brothers, so Papa thought it good for me to have my aunt’s influence. I loved Halstead House. And since Charlotte and her mother were often at Willowmere after the Season ended, I had a bosom friend there as well, which was even more wonderful.” She smiled at the Bascombes. “You have no idea what it’s like, growing up with all brothers. I envy you; I always wanted a sister so.”

  Mary could not imagine growing up without her sisters—and without a mother as well. “I’m very sorry,” she said impulsively, reaching out to lay a hand upon the other woman’s arm. “It must have been very hard for you.”

  Surprise tinged Vivian’s face. Then she smiled dazzlingly. “How kind of you.” She squeezed Mary’s hand, then turned toward her friend. “You know, Charlotte, I believe I shall visit my uncle again now that the Season is winding down. Perhaps you and I could drive up there, say, after Lady Cudlington’s ball? It would give us all a chance to visit—and to discuss our plans for next Season.”

  Charlotte agreed, smiling. Later, when Lady Vivian had wandered off to examine a bolt of dark maroon brocade, Charlotte told the girls, “You have won Lady Vivian over.”

  “She is very nice,” Rose said. “’Tis easy to like her.”

  “Yes, but it’s hard for most to see past the fact that she is a duke’s daughter. There are a few whom she has known for years and years to whom she is close. But most people are interested in her more for her position or wealth than for Vivian herself. It’s a pleasant surprise to her not to be treated like a Carlyle. It’s even rarer for someone to understand that her life has not been perfect.”

  “I wasn’t trying to win her over,” Mary protested.

  “I know. So does Vivian. That’s why she likes you. Now, let’s choose between these two sprig muslins, Lily, and we must leave. There’s a great deal left to be done.”

  They soon discovered that Charlotte was not exaggerating. When it came to shopping, their affable cousin was all business, and she ushered them from store to store, buying a mind-boggling array of products. They visited a glover, a shoemaker, a hosier, a plumassier (a diversion made for Lady Vivian, who wished to find a certain feather for retrimming one of her bonnets), and a milliner. They bought fans; they bought reticules; they bought buttons, handkerchiefs, lace, and ribbons. Having always worn stockings they knitted themselves, the Bascombes were elated to find ones made entirely by machine. Mary bought several pairs of cotton stockings, and she could not resist a pair or two of silk hose with cotton feet. But she could not bring herself to go so far as Lily and purchase a pair of silk stockings with embroidery at the ankles, meant to be worn with an evening gown. Rose bought a beautifully knitted shawl and derived almost as much pleasure from paying for it herself as she did from possessing it. And Lily, when they passed Hatchard’s, had to go in and get a book. Mary, watching as Lily found not one but two novels she could not live without, reflected that Lily’s money was perhaps not destined to last an entire month.

  Still, Charlotte informed them, their labors were not done. Their last visit was to be to a mantua maker. When Camellia protested that they had just bought a wealth of fabrics for the seamstress to make up into dresses, Charlotte simply shook her head.

  “Those were but day dresses. You must have an evening gown or two. Even in the country, one dresses for dinner.”

  There was some discussion between Vivian and Charlotte as to which modiste to see, for Vivian, it seemed, relied entirely on the skills of Madame Arceneaux, but Charlotte, who frequented several mantua makers, held that Mademoiselle Ruelle, while not as exquisite in her taste perhaps, turned out a dress in a shorter time.

  In the end it was Vivian who won the day, saying flatly, “Trust me, Charlotte, Madame Arceneaux will have the dresses done on time. The prospect of making eight evening gowns, with the bills to be paid by someone as punctual as Lord Stewkesbury, would make her finish them in half the days.”

  So they went to Madame Arceneaux’s shop, a small but elegant establishment on Oxford Street. Madame herself came sweeping out of the rear of the shop to greet Lady Vivian, and when she heard what was required of her, she set her assistants hopping with a few snaps of her fingers. The girls were whisked away to once again be poked, prodded, and measured, but any weariness or annoyance was swept away when they sat down with Charlotte, Vivian, and the modiste herself to look through books of drawings of possible dresses. It was, the Bascombes agreed, annoying that they could not choose anything but white, for all were drawn to the sea greens and pale yellows favored by Charlotte or the more vivid emeralds and royal blues that Vivian fancied. However, they were soon immersed in discussions of fabrics, overskirts, necklines, fichus, lace trim, and the like, and the sameness of color was quite forgotten.

  By the time they were through, each girl had managed to choose two new evening gowns, and Madame Arceneaux was positively beaming with delight—not least because Lady Vivian, while waiting, had discovered that she could not live without a gold-and-white—striped gossamer evening dress with a stomacher front and a blue jaconet muslin morning dress ornamented by long sleeves en bouffants, while Charlotte had become equally enamored of a pelisse in brown levantine silk. All returned to Stewke
sbury House well pleased with their day.

  Unfortunately, the Bascombes had no sooner bid good-bye to their new friends and gone inside than their spirits were lowered by the earl, who stepped out into the hall and said, “Ah, there you are. Glad you’ve returned. Come in and meet your new companion.”

  The girls exchanged a look, but followed him obediently into the drawing room. “Allow me to introduce you to Miss Dalrymple,” the earl went on with what Mary thought was far too much satisfaction. “She has agreed to accompany you to Willowmere and instruct you for the next few weeks.”

  He turned toward the woman sitting on the sofa. She was square and dour, with dark brown hair pulled into a severe knot atop her head and thick dark eyebrows that ran straight across her forehead, almost meeting in the middle and giving her the look of a perpetual frown.

  After spending a half hour in the woman’s company, Mary decided that perhaps the look was less a result of Miss Dalrymple’s unfortunate brow than of her cheerless personality. During that same period of time, Miss Dalrymple corrected the posture of each of the sisters at least once, reproved Camellia for her unrefined language, and held forth on the superiority of the British female to that of any other country. By the time she departed, Mary was wondering how she would keep her sisters from rebelling. Indeed, she thought that she might be inclined to lead the revolution.

  After the governess left, the earl put the final cap on their misery by saying, “Fortunately, Miss Dalrymple is available to work right away, so the day after tomorrow you will be able to leave for Willowmere.”

  Mary’s heart sank. As she and her sisters trooped dejectedly up to their rooms, Lily expressed what all of them were thinking: “I don’t want to go to Willowmere with that awful woman!”

  “She’s horrid.” Even Rose, usually the most easygoing of creatures, agreed. “It will be nothing but ‘do this, don’t do that.’”

  “And no friends. I was looking forward to seeing Cousin Charlotte and Lady Vivian again,” Lily said.

  “I was looking forward to going to Astley’s Amphitheater.” Camellia scowled. “Cousin Fitz said he would take us. He said they have the most amazing spectacles, where they stage replicas of famous battles.”

  “And the Tower. Sir Royce said he would show us the Tower.” Lily gave a shiver of delight. “Where Anne Boleyn was beheaded, and the little princes were murdered. And Traitor’s Gate.”

  “I’d rather see the horse riding,” Camellia said flatly. After a moment’s consideration, she added, “But the Tower sounds very exciting, too.”

  “Anything would be more exciting than being stuck way out in the country with Miss Dalrymple.” Mary was as disgruntled as any of them. What she would not have admitted to anyone—what, indeed, she wished were not true—was that she was filled with disappointment not for any of her sisters’ reasons but because she would no longer see Sir Royce every day or, indeed, at all.

  It was the height of foolishness, she knew. Even if she had thawed toward him a great deal yesterday, it did not mean that they were friends. Certainly they were not, could not be, anything more. Yet when she thought of not seeing his eyes light up or his lips curve into a smile or his eyebrow rise in that cynical, amused way for weeks, even months to come, her life at Willowmere seemed unbearably dull and dark. And the fact that she felt that way left her decidedly irritated.

  That evening at dinner, however, all the sisters were somewhat reconciled to their imminent departure when Royce and Fitz, upon learning of the haste with which the Bascombes would be leaving London, suggested that they spend the next day pursuing one of the adventures the two of them had promised. Camellia and Fitz preferred the horses and spectacle of Astley’s to the history and romance of the Tower, but they were outvoted.

  Accordingly, the next morning the six of them set out from Stewkesbury House, armed with a guidebook and looking, according to Fitz, like proper gawkers. However, it did not take long for both Fitz and Camellia to be caught up in their visit to the Tower, listening with the others to the Yeoman Warder’s grisly tales of the presumed murders of Edward IV’s two young sons by their uncle Richard of Gloucester or the terror of the young Princess Elizabeth when she was taken into the Tower through Traitor’s Gate and fell to the stairs, weeping, refusing to budge, afraid that she would enter the Tower and never leave, like her ill-fated mother, Anne Boleyn.

  “I don’t think I would have wanted to be a princess,” Rose said. “It sounds more frightening than romantic.”

  “I have to say it seems easier to elect a president than to go about killing one’s relatives in order to be king,” Mary agreed.

  “It’s not so much the way we do things anymore,” Royce said mildly.

  Lily rolled her eyes. “Honestly, sometimes I wonder if I’m really related to the rest of you. How can you be so prosaic? Doesn’t your heart just squeeze in your chest when you think of that poor Lady Jane Grey—younger than I am, made queen and then in a week or so, all of that is lost, and she’s sent to her death?” She paused dramatically, her hands clasped together at her heart.

  A snort from Camellia followed her speech. “Come on, Sarah Siddons. I want to go down and see the lions.”

  “Oooh, I want to see that, too. But we mustn’t forget the jewels.” Lily followed her sister down the stairs, happily chattering.

  Mary was the last in line as they descended the winding staircase. As they emerged into the courtyard, she glanced across the yard. And there, at the base of one of the towers, stood Cosmo Glass.

  Chapter 12

  Mary stopped and stared. How could her stepfather be here?

  As suddenly as she had seen him, the man turned and walked away, melting into a knot of people. Mary broke from her frozen state and hurried toward him, but when she reached the place where he had been standing, she could see him nowhere. Cosmo was a short man and difficult to see in a crowd. But there—just turning the corner of the building—surely that was his sandy-colored hair, thin and worn too long.

  Grabbing her skirts in one hand, she trotted across the yard and slipped around the corner. A long green path of grass stretched before her, running between a wall and the side of the castle, with a tall iron gate at the end of it. There was no one in sight, and Mary hesitated. Had he come this way? And could it really have been Cosmo?

  She started across the grass, moving quietly. There was a recess in the building ahead. Mary slowed as she reached the corner. Placing one hand on the stone wall, she leaned forward.

  “Mary!”

  She jumped and whirled around. Sir Royce hurried toward her, scowling.

  “Where the devil did you go?” He came up beside her and took her arm. “I turned around, and you were gone.”

  Blast! Well, if that had been Cosmo, no doubt he was long gone. Mary jerked her arm away. “I was not aware that I had to report my movements to you.”

  He grimaced. “I’m responsible for you. You can’t expect me to let you go running loose wherever you want.”

  “It may surprise you to learn that I managed to take care of myself for twenty-five years without your guidance.”

  “And I’m beginning to think that it’s a wonder you survived.”

  The two of them glared at each other. Then Sir Royce heaved a sigh. “Devil take it.” He opened his arms, palms up in an exculpatory gesture. “I’m sorry. I am not usually so …”

  “Overbearing?” Mary suggested sweetly.

  His mouth twitched. “Yes. Overbearing. I just—I’m not accustomed to having to keep an eye out for anyone. It frightened me when I couldn’t find you. London can be a dangerous place—much more so than you realize, I fear. The area around the Tower is not exactly Mayfair. You could get into far worse trouble than you did the other day—through no fault of your own,” he added hastily.

  Mary had to laugh. “That was very diplomatic of you.”

  He grinned. “I’m learning. I may be slow, but …” He shrugged. Stepping back, he glanced around. “What are
you doing here anyway?”

  “I, um, thought I saw one of the ravens,” Mary offered, referring to another of the Tower’s legends. “I wanted a closer look, but I must have frightened it off.”

  “They’re nothing special, really, just ravens.”

  “They sound special to me if the monarchy will crumble if they disappear.”

  “Not likely; I believe they clip their wings to make sure they stay around.” He moved forward. “Did it go around here?”

  “I thought so,” Mary said, quickly following him. It suddenly occurred to her that if Cosmo had ducked around the corner of the building, he might still be there; there might not be an exit. And she had no desire for Sir Royce to come face to face with her stepfather.

  She was relieved to find that she and Royce were all alone in a sort of alcove. Mary glanced around. “Well, I must have been mistaken.” She turned back to Royce. “No doubt we should rejoin the others.”

  “No doubt.” He was looking down into her face, and there was a certain light in his eyes that made Mary suddenly feel warm and a little fidgety.

  She turned away. It was ridiculous to feel this way—uncomfortable in Royce’s presence, yet at the same time wanting quite fiercely to remain there. “I … um … I should thank you for coming to look for me. I am not entirely naïve; I know there are dangers in a huge city like this. I should not have snapped at you.”