Ivy nodded, feeling a sense of relief that he would be able to handle himself during a meal. She wondered if there were other tasks on her list she could cross off, things that he already knew how to do. Short of hiring an elocution tutor, she wasn’t certain how to soften his rough accent. His choice of words was always appropriate—intelligent, even—but his delivery was still, at times, very ungentlemanly.
The rest of the meal continued pleasantly enough, with Jack answering her questions in an annoyingly polite manner that Ivy strongly suspected was wholly sarcastic. By the time they finished eating and made their way to the front hall to go out and meet Jack’s mother and Sophia at the milliner’s, Ivy was relieved to find the pretense at an end. Jack Elliot as a blandly polite gentleman was . . . bland.
But wasn’t that her goal? To transform him into a blandly polite gentleman? She chewed on her lip for a moment as Watkins retrieved her pelisse and reticule. With deft hands, Jack took the pelisse and swung it about her shoulders. He gestured to the front door, indicating that she should precede him.
Ivy narrowed her eyes. “Why are you suddenly so solicitous about bonnet shopping?”
“It will do me some good to get outside.” The look on his face was affable.
She didn’t trust it for a moment, but she exited the house and moved to the waiting carriage. Whatever he had brewing in his head would hopefully be nothing she should worry about. Or nothing she couldn’t fix after the fact.
Jack smiled at all the right times and voiced the correct compliments to Madame Fitzgibbons, conscious of the fact that the sooner he mastered all of Lady Ivy’s skills, the sooner he would be finished with the whole thing. He had convinced her that his table manners were passable, and she had stopped trying to instruct him. He didn’t know why it had taken him so long to realize that if he cooperated, they would be done much more quickly and he could work at finding his way back to the sea.
A lump formed in his throat as he watched his mother and Sophia navigate the shop under the ever-vigilant and helpful eye of Lady Ivy Carlisle. He had to admit a certain amount of gratitude for the young woman. He would never have been able to ease Mary’s and Sophia’s entrance into Society without the help, and the more he observed, the more he became convinced that Ivy—for all her insistence upon rules and regulations—was very tender at heart.
And she was clever. That she had managed to build a level of trust with Sophia was nothing short of a miracle. Sophia had even confided in him earlier that if anyone other than Lady Ivy had attempted to tell Sophia what she could and could not do, she would have done that person bodily harm and then run for the hills. “She ought to make me very angry,” Sophia had told him, “yet she does not.”
He did agree with that much. Well, for the most part. He had found himself angry with her on occasion, but there was something about her demeanor that made it impossible to remain that way for long.
The woman in question walked toward him as his mother and Sophia continued perusing bonnets and ribbons with Madame Fitzgibbons. “I think we will have them nicely outfitted within a week or two,” Ivy told him when she reached his side, “and they do have enough things for the immediate future. You will all wear black, of course, for some time longer.”
“In mourning for that—that—” He wanted to curse a blue streak, but instead rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “I had forgotten, and I thank you not at all for reminding me.”
“It will go quickly, Jack, and be over before you know it.”
“I’ve noticed you address me as ‘Jack’ only when you are attempting to placate me or convince me to do something.”
The corner of her mouth twitched in a smile. “And it has worked thus far, has it not?”
“I shall have to be on guard, I suppose, against your devious feminine wiles.”
“Pooh.” She waved her hand. “I am utterly transparent and simple.”
He laughed then, unable to help himself. He noticed his mother and sister looking at him in some surprise and he wondered if they’d ever seen him laugh. It had probably been a very long time.
He cleared his throat, feeling suddenly rather embarrassed and sheepish. It was sobering to realize his expressions of joy were so few and far between. If nothing else, it served to solidify his determination to see the charade through. For their sake, as Ivy was always suggesting. He would find his own way back to sea when things were settled for Mary and Sophia. And Ivy would look after them when he eventually left. He felt certain of that.
“I do believe they’re finished,” Ivy said. “And we thank you most heartily for joining us on our shopping adventure. You would now be perfectly within your rights to visit White’s for the afternoon.”
Jack rolled his eyes as Mary and Sophia gathered wrapped parcels from the shopkeeper’s assistant. “I really do not care to visit a gentlemen’s club. I have no use for forming associations with people who do nothing but live lives of leisure and spend their time betting on horse racing.”
“You might find yourself surprised—White’s and Brooks both see their fair share of war veterans. Real men.” She winked at him as he opened the door for the three women to exit before him.
“I am doing my utmost to convince your brother to visit White’s,” Ivy told Sophia, who looked at him with a grin.
“You must, Jack. It is quite the place to see and be seen,” Sophia said as Jack moved to the street and opened the carriage door. The footman scrambled down and gathered the women’s packages, placing them in the hold at the back of the carriage.
“Really, Soph, I’d rather thought you would be on my side.”
“Are we not all on the same side now?” Sophia said as he handed first their mother, then Sophia into the carriage. “The arrogant, wastrel side? No offense to you, Lady Ivy.”
Ivy smiled at her. “None taken. And furthermore,” she added, turning her attention to Jack as she placed her gloved hand in his, “you must darken the door if for no other reason than to place a few wagers in the betting book. You are a peer now, so you must do your duty and bet on something utterly ridiculous.”
“Such as?” He helped her up into the carriage behind Sophia.
“Well, last month Alvanley and a friend made a wager of three thousand pounds over two raindrops on the window—which one would reach the bottom of the windowpane first.”
Jack stared at her, slack jawed, and finally managed to close his mouth.
“Get in then, my lord, and we will drop you by White’s. You can meet up with us later at home for dinner.”
“I do not need to go to White’s,” Jack muttered as he climbed into the carriage.
“You cannot live the life of a recluse, my lord. There are certain places where it would behoove you to be seen.”
“Really, Jack,” Sophia added, “one would think you were afraid.”
Jack looked sharply at his sister, who widened her eyes in what was most certainly mock innocence.
Mary leaned forward and clasped Jack’s hand. “You do not need to do anything against your wishes,” she said. “We shall be just fine—Lady Ivy is helping us make a very good impression.”
Jack clenched his teeth together and rapped on the carriage roof. When the driver slowed, Jack stuck his head out the window and instructed him to swing by White’s.
Chapter 13
A beautiful work of art is like a window to the soul
of the artist and should be respected as such.
Mistress Manners’ Tips for Every-day Etiquette
Ivy held back a smirk as Jack climbed down from the carriage in front of White’s Gentlemen’s Club. She almost felt sorry for him as the driver pulled away—she looked out the back window to see Jack standing on the pavement in front of the establishment, his expression an odd combination of anger and confusion.
“Oh, dear,” Mary said.
“He will do just fine,” Ivy told her. “He must make some acquaintances among the men.”
Sophia also l
ooked out the back window, a dubious expression crossing her face. “I’m not certain,” the young woman said. “He looks a bit lost.”
“He must do this on his own. For one thing, I am not allowed to enter White’s and introduce him, and for another, he needs to learn to introduce himself. He will be laughed out of town if I am the one continually paving the path for him.”
Sophia looked at Ivy, doubt still clear on her features. “He’s rather large and has spent the bulk of his life at sea. I don’t believe he would be bullied much, even if you were to do all the introductions for him.”
“Bullied, no. Cut? Dismissed? Ignored as one of no consequence? Yes. None of which are good for the two of you.”
“Would you join us for tea?” Mary blurted out and looked rather surprised at herself.
Ivy smiled. “I would love to, Mrs. Elliot.”
The ride to the women’s home was uneventful, and the pitter-patter of rain that now fell from the sky was soothing. Upon their arrival, the footman carried the women’s parcels to the house, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Hendersen, ushered them all inside and out of the weather.
Ivy waited for Mary to instruct the staff, and when she seemed at a bit of a loss, Ivy glanced at Sophia.
“We will take tea in the parlor,” Sophia told the housekeeper as she, Mary, and Ivy removed their outerwear.
“Very good, Miss,” Mrs. Hendersen said and took their wet things with her.
Ivy glanced at Mary as she followed the women into the parlor. The poor lady had absolutely no confidence in herself. A lifetime of hard living had taken its toll; Ivy figured hardships made a person either strong and slightly angry, like Sophia, or withdrawn and afraid, like Mary. Mary would fare well as long as she had a housekeeper who wouldn’t take advantage of the fact that her mistress was disinclined to give orders, but should Mrs. Hendersen ever leave her post, Mary might not be so lucky with someone else.
Ivy wondered if Sophia’s mind was on similar matters as they took seats in the parlor. Mary gathered some embroidery in her lap, and Sophia stared at her mother pensively. “You are the mistress of the house now, Mama.” Sophia’s tone was soft. “It is yours to control.”
Mary glanced up with a flush and then looked down at her embroidery again. “I do not know how,” she murmured.
Ivy pursed her lips and studied the woman, thinking. There had to be a way of teaching her how to be the lady of the house. How odd it was to see that someone struggled with the very thing Ivy had been raised to do. Ivy’s own mother ran a tight household, and Ivy had always taken it for granted that someday she would as well.
She would have to find a way to build Mary’s confidence, but, in the meantime, perhaps the woman could merely play the part. “Mrs. Elliot,” Ivy said, “did you ever play pretend as a child?”
Mary looked at her, brows drawn in confusion. “Yes, I suppose I did. There wasn’t much time to play, but when we did, my sister and I pretended we were princesses in a castle.”
“Perfect.” Ivy nodded. “What we are going to do this week is play pretend. You are the lady of the house, and, as such, are in control of the servants, the house, and everything in it. You are going to act as if this is the most natural thing in the world to you. You will play the part of mistress of the home, and you will feel infinitely better.”
Mary nodded slightly. “I suppose, it’s just . . .” Mary cleared her throat, and Ivy felt her own clog up a bit. “I do not know how, Lady Ivy. I am a fraud in this place.”
Ivy leaned toward Mary. “You are not a fraud. You should have been living this role from the moment you married your husband. You were temporarily displaced, and now the fates have intervened to make things right. You must allow yourself to believe this, and if you find that you cannot, simply pretend you do. Before you know it, you will no longer be pretending.”
Mary tilted her head to the side and observed Ivy with what she could only define as hope. Ivy nodded at the woman. “You can do this, Mrs. Elliot.”
Ivy glanced at Sophia, who studied her carefully. Sophia finally gave her a slight nod, and Ivy felt absurdly pleased at the young woman’s approval.
Turning back to Mary, Ivy looked at the embroidery piece Mary held in her hands. “That is a work of art,” Ivy told her. “You are amazingly talented.”
“She also paints,” Sophia said.
“Sophia, really.” Mary ducked her head again.
“I brought them from the closet at our other house. Here’s one, in fact, that I’m going to put over the mantle.” Sophia stood and retrieved a canvas that had been stashed behind a small desk against the wall.
Sophia turned the painting around, and Ivy sucked in a breath. The work was done in oils and depicted a mother and child seated in a garden. “Oh, Mrs. Elliot,” Ivy said, collecting her wits, “this is exquisite!”
Mary blushed but offered the ghost of a smile. “It’s just something I’ve always dabbled in. Sophia, I cannot believe you brought them with us.”
Sophia looked at Mary, her expression hard. “Painting is the one thing that keeps you sane, Mama. And Lady Ivy is right—it is exquisite.”
Ivy stood and made her way to the mantle. Without first asking permission, she removed the rather bland painting of fruit in a bowl and motioned to Sophia. Taking one side of the canvas, with Sophia holding the other, they placed Mary’s piece on the wall.
Ivy felt her eyes sting as she and Sophia moved back to examine the art. “We must find a suitable frame. And I must see the others, Sophia. Nana hosts an art show each year, and this one, at least, must go on display.”
“I could never!” Mary’s voice was the most firm Ivy had ever heard it.
“Yes, you can,” Sophia shot back. Taking a deep breath, Sophia softened her features and regarded her mother. “Mama. Finally, a place for others to see what you create.”
“You wouldn’t have to attend the showing if you’d rather not,” Ivy told her, glancing at the older woman’s tense face. “There are plenty of artists who would rather remain anonymous. But please do say you’ll give me permission to put your work on display. Such talent should not be hidden under a bushel.”
“And Mama,” Sophia said, her eyes alight as though an idea had only just occurred to her, “now that you have time at your disposal, you can paint all you’d like! We’ll transform one of the rooms upstairs into a studio for you.”
Mary looked from Ivy to Sophia and back again. “It would be rather lovely,” Mary admitted. “I never even considered the possibility. It’s as though I am still wandering through a dream.”
“You will never again have to return to your former life,” Ivy told the woman. She looked at the piece on the wall and placed a hand lightly to her chest. “Absolutely stunning,” she murmured.
“Quite,” Sophia agreed.
Jack sat in a comfortable armchair at White’s and looked around. The famed Beau Brummell held court by the front window, looking polished and pressed as ever. Jack had heard of the dandy; Brummell was the Prince Regent’s bosom friend, and the others who currently flocked to his side looked at the man as though the sun rose and set in his face.
Obsequious, the lot of them. There was no hope for it; Jack would never find himself comfortable in a gentlemen’s club—little Miss Carlisle was going to have to find another way for him to represent his family well. He doubted very much he would be able to stomach more than an hour in the company of the social elite.
Another man whose boredom seemed to rival Jack’s made his way to an empty chair in the seating area Jack had claimed and motioned to it with a brow raised in question.
“Be my guest,” Jack said.
The other man offered his hand. “Anthony Blake,” he said. “And you would be the new Earl of Stansworth? Your name is all over the betting book.”
Mr. Blake sprawled comfortably in the chair.
“Jack Elliot,” Jack said with a nod.
“My condolences on the earldom,” Anthony said. “I’m the seco
nd son—comfortably the spare until my brother up and died.”
Jack raised a brow at the man, who was easily as broad through the shoulders as Jack. He had black hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin, as though he had recently spent time in the tropics. “You were called home, then?”
Anthony Blake nodded, studying Jack. “Very astute observation. Had a commission in the military,” he said. “Would much rather have stayed in Spain than return home to the drizzle.”
Jack nodded. “I was set to command my own ship.”
“Again, my condolences.”
“I hope to return to sea before long.”
Anthony raised a brow. “You are an optimistic one, aren’t you. Trust me, good man, once you’re sucked into the peerage, there’s no getting out.”
Jack ran a hand through his hair. “Well, this is unacceptable. I am not going to waste my time in this place, day after day. I’ll be a candidate for bedlam.”
“Agreed. But it’s either this or joining the neighbors for afternoon tea.”
Jack felt stifled. It was as though the room was closing in on him, the walls moving ever closer, threatening to crush him as he sat in a chair, living a life of luxury. “There must be more to it,” he muttered.
He finally looked over at his companion, who was watching him intently.
“You have country estates,” Anthony said. “If it’s anything like my family’s land, there is work to be done. I won’t be able to do anything on mine until my father joins my brother in the afterlife.”
“I’m not interested in building a bigger estate,” Jack said.
“I’m not talking about the manor house. I mean the land. The tenants.”
Jack frowned. “What’s wrong with the tenants?”
Anthony smiled, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “Their homes are falling apart; the money they earn from the estate isn’t enough to support their families. And my good father refuses to put a penny into the cause. As your grandfather was my father’s mentor, I can only assume your land is in a similar state of disrepair.”
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