The Bluestocking and the Rake

by Norma Darcy

  In that moment, when she had seen Lizzy swathed in the evening gown, she had been reminded of her own youthful folly. It was like uncovering an old wound, healed on the surface but still raw and deep underneath. The pain was still there, pain at the memory of the fool she had made of herself. The heat of the ballroom came back to her, the press of people, the perfume, flowers, and sculptures, the dresses and the dancing. Champagne flowed through her senses. His smile was dazzling and warm. She was pronounced a hit. The whole of London was at her feet.

  From that moment on, she and Aunt Thorpe had been inundated with invitations to balls, routs, and parties. Vouchers were given for Almack’s; a box was hired at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. The opera and the theater became her second home, and she dined out nearly every night of the week.

  She was no heiress and had little wealth to offer a gentleman, but it was the force of her personality, coupled with her youth and beauty, that made her the talk of the ton. She had no shortage of male attention, and she was widely anticipated to make a very good match. Such a promising beginning—the envy of other girls—all to be dashed in a moment of folly.

  “I thought you’d be out here,” said a voice behind her.

  Miss Blakelow’s head snapped up. It was Aunt Blakelow. The older woman sat on the seat beside her, pulling her shawl closer about her shoulders.

  “It’s very damp out here, Georgie. Not at all good for my bones, you know, and not good for you either. Heavens, look at the weeds under this tree. I shall have to see what can be done. Not that I am any good at gardening, mind you, but even I know how to rip up a bit of long grass.”

  In a move that would have astounded their lordly neighbor, Aunt Blakelow pulled a small flask from the hidden pocket in her skirts and handed it to her niece.

  “Brandy,” said Aunt Blakelow. “By far the best health product you can buy, in my view.”

  Miss Blakelow took a hearty mouthful and gratefully swallowed the fiery liquid. It warmed her belly and seemed to put steel back into her spine.

  “The girls told me what happened,” said her aunt gently.

  Miss Blakelow nodded lamely.

  “Dear Georgie, is it still so painful after all these years?”

  “Aunt, don’t, please,” said Miss Blakelow, struggling with her tears.

  “What’s done is done. There is no point repining.”

  “I know.”

  “You just have to make the best of it. You made your bed, as they say, and no one but you must lie on it.”

  “I know that too,” croaked Miss Blakelow.

  “Do you begrudge the girls their chance to be admired? They were only playing and dreaming as young girls do.”

  “Yes. And that’s only natural. But when I saw Lizzy standing there so sweet faced and innocent, I saw myself as I was at their age. And I was so fearful in that moment that they might end up like me.”

  Her aunt gripped her hand. “Is life here so very bad?”

  “Oh, no,” cried Miss Blakelow, kissing the back of her aunt’s hand. “How can you think such a thing? You have been my rock, Aunt. When all fell about me, only you stood firm. And I am as fond of you as I was of my own mother.”

  “Dear girl. I would not see you cry for all the world.”

  “I cannot help crying sometimes, Aunt. I love Thorncote, truly I do . . . but . . . but I sometimes wish . . . for more.”

  “Love.”

  “Yes,” whispered Miss Blakelow.

  “I thought you had vowed against men.”

  “Oh, I have,” replied Miss Blakelow, laughing. “Frequently.”

  “But you still hope.”

  “Yes . . . I cannot seem to help myself. Do you despise me for it?”

  “How could I when I still feel that way myself even at my age? You look shocked. I am still a woman, Georgie, and my heart still quickens when a handsome man enters the room. Of course you will continue to hope and that is natural. But you have a past, and there are not many men willing to live with that.”

  “No,” Miss Blakelow agreed, taking another swig of the brandy.

  “Don’t expect too much, my love. That way brings disappointment.”

  Miss Blakelow nodded, choked by tears. “I suddenly realized today after all these years just how vulnerable I was at that age. If you had been there, Aunt, things might have been different. I would at least have had someone to advise me. Aunt Thorpe was very adept at firing me off, as the phrase goes, but not so good at guiding me through the pitfalls of girlhood. I was young and silly and arrogant and vain. I thought I had the world in my hand. But in truth, I realize now that the world had me under its heel.”

  Aunt Blakelow reached for the flask and took a swig herself. “Has Marcham recognized you?”

  Despite herself, Miss Blakelow blushed. “He knows that we have met before, but he cannot place me.”

  “Good. Then let us hope that it stays that way. If he remembers, then we should all be in the suds. We should go in. The clouds are gathering. I think there’s going to be a downpour. Heavens, Laura has left the washing out on the line. We shall have a pantry full of soggy washing in five minutes—”

  “I was dreadfully rude to him, Aunt . . . earlier,” blurted Miss Blakelow. “He came here hardly ten minutes after the argument, and I . . . and I said some things that I bitterly regret.”

  “Water off a duck’s back, my dear. Ten to one a man with a skin as thick as his has forgotten it already—who is that? There is a carriage coming along the drive. Are we expecting visitors?”

  Miss Blakelow stood up, wiped her eyes, and looked across at the approaching coach with its smart navy panels and gold crest emblazoned on the sides. She groaned and a million contrary thoughts entered her head, the main one being panic.

  “Isn’t that one of Marcham’s carriages, Georgie?”

  “I think so . . . Dear Aunt, I cannot face them. Not now. Pray don’t ask me.”

  “You may have to—they have just seen us. Wave, my dear, wave. Let us go in, and leave the talking to me. Now, dry your eyes, put your glasses on, and wipe your face. You have mud on your nose. There. A few deep breaths. A smile. And you will be fit to be seen.”

  They walked briskly up the path as the coach swung around in a languorous curve before the front door. As two ladies were handed down from the carriage, Miss Blakelow and her aunt hastily entered the house through a side door. Miss Blakelow removed the apron she had been gardening in and cleaned away as much mud as was possible. She and her aunt entered the drawing room and were seated precisely ten seconds before Lady St. Michael and Lady Harriet Holkham were announced.

  “My dear ma’am,” said Lady St. Michael, stepping forward with a smile to greet Aunt Blakelow. “How do you do? I was so sorry to learn of your brother’s death. Please allow us to offer you our condolences.”

  Aunt Blakelow curtsied. “Thank you, my lady. Won’t you sit down?”

  Tea was ordered, pleasantries made, and the ladies all sat down. Miss Blakelow chose a chair as far away from Lady St. Michael as it was possible to be, away from the direct light from the tall window. She sat upright, dreading what was to come, feeling out of place in her own drawing room. She had studiously avoided this woman for ten years, and now here she was, sitting down to drink tea with her.

  “Well,” said Lady St. Michael, smiling brightly. “Isn’t it pleasant to see old friends again? Our brother is out this afternoon, so we thought we would come and pay you a visit, but really it was no trial because it is always pleasant to be at Thorncote.” She looked about her, keeping the rather fixed smile pinned to her face. “Is Marianne not with you today?”

  “She is otherwise engaged, my lady,” said Aunt Blakelow. “Girls in this day and age are always visiting with friends, and they walk into Loughton to visit the shops as regular as may be—”

  “Such a sweet girl. I haven’t seen her for an age. Did she have her London come out? I don’t remember hearing that she did.”

  “She was unfortu
nately in mourning, my lady.”

  “I see. Well. I’m sure she will find herself much sought after in Worcestershire. One does, you know, when one is young and pretty. And how much places change over the years when one would always hope that they stayed the same!” continued her ladyship. “It is the same at Holme Park. Robbie is forever bringing in some newfangled invention to improve this and that, when I had much rather keep it the way it was. But then I don’t live there. And I suppose if I did I might feel differently.” She spied a clock on the mantelpiece and went toward it. “My brothers and I were always straying onto your land when we were young. Is it very shameful of me to admit it? But you had much the best hill for sledging for miles around. What a pretty clock this is! I should think it quite an antique now.”

  “It is Georgiana’s, my lady. She inherited it from her mother,” said Aunt Blakelow.

  Miss Blakelow, who still hadn’t forgiven her ladyship for sending two men to value the contents of Thorncote house, was less than enthusiastic to be in the woman’s company again. Georgiana was highly conscious of her own appearance and her rough worked hands and wished that the old threadbare carpet would swallow her whole. She saw the beauty of her ladyship’s fine complexion, the curling blue plume that seemed to kiss her forehead, the navy spencer buttoned neatly at her wrists, and felt every inch the country bumpkin. She turned to look at the young Lady Harriet and was almost struck dumb by her likeness to her brother. Soft black curls framed an extremely pretty face with a small straight nose, the familiar gray eyes, and sweeping dark brows. The girl smiled at Georgiana, looking at her with frank curiosity, unconscious that her thoughts played out across her face.

  The tea was brought in and Miss Blakelow poured for their guests, peering over her spectacles so that she shouldn’t embarrass herself by spilling it.

  “Have you lived at Thorncote long, Miss Georgiana?” asked Lady Harriet as she accepted her cup of tea.

  “All my life,” she replied, saying the lie without thinking. “Well, very nearly all of it.”

  “That explains it then. I knew that I recognized your face from the moment I saw you. Isn’t it funny how one never forgets a face even after years and years apart? But I spent much of my childhood at Holme,” said Lady St. Michael as she nibbled on a biscuit, “and we must be of a similar age, you and I, so we must have met before. We probably sledged down Thorn Hill together.”

  Miss Blakelow smiled uncomfortably. “Yes. Probably.”

  “Robbie was always the maddest of us all,” her ladyship continued. “Always set off down the hill headfirst with little regard for his safety. Mama was driven to distraction by him. All those bumps and bruises. And Hal would always try to copy his big brother with disastrous results. Do you remember the time that Robbie broke his leg, and we had to drag him all the way back to Holme on the sledge?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Blakelow, who had no such recollection.

  “And up he would be the next minute, determined to join the fray again. Those boys were inseparable,” she said, becoming wistful. “They did everything together in those days. I, being only a mere girl, was more often than not considered the hanger-on. Oh, the innocent days of youth. Life was so much simpler then, was it not? What a pretty view you have from this window! And the formal gardens once the jewel of the county. The lake at Thorncote was always my favorite, you know. If you were to move that chair to the right, you may find your view improves . . . But how rude of me—you will of course have your furniture just as you wish it . . . How is your brother William? He must be quite grown-up now. I’m told that he is a very handsome fellow, but then he always was. I remember Marianne and William and little Kitty, but Lizzy was hardly even thought of then, a mere twinkle in her mother’s eye.” She paused, laughing. “William was too young to play with Hal and Robbie, of course. Ten years in age difference seems like a lifetime at that age, does it not? It is the strangest thing, Miss Blakelow—your face is so familiar to me and yet I cannot place you. I’m very sorry for it because it is excessively rude of me, but I cannot ever remember having seen you at Thorncote before.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “I have lived here seven years, ma’am,” replied Georgiana stiffly. “Before that I spent much time abroad.”

  As soon as the words had left her lips, Miss Blakelow knew that she had made a huge mistake. She’d already said she’d lived there most of her life, and now she was contradicting herself. She was distracted; the arguments of the day weighed heavily upon her mind, and she had spoken without thinking.

  Lady St. Michael raised a brow. “Abroad? How fascinating. Well that would explain it then. But how came you to be separated from the rest of your family? Was not your father always living at Thorncote? Forgive me, I am a little confused.”

  “Do have a sip of tea, Miss Blakelow,” said Lady Harriet. “You do not look at all the thing.”

  “Thank you, I will be better directly,” she replied, casting a pleading glance at Aunt Blakelow.

  “Did you say that you were staying in the district for long, Lady St. Michael?” asked the elderly Miss Blakelow, coming to her niece’s rescue. “I must confess myself glad to see the family back at Holme. It was empty for so many years while Lord Marcham was in London. And such a shame to see a house like that deserted. But now he is back, perhaps we will have a family settled there.”

  “Perhaps,” smiled Lady St. Michael politely.

  “And if Robbie marries, we will have lots of nephews and nieces,” said Lady Harriet.

  “Drink your tea, Harriet,” commanded her elder sister.

  “Well, I for one would like to be an aunt,” said Harriet. “It will be years before I have children of my own. And Robbie won’t be one of those stuffy fathers who are afraid of their children acquiring a little dirt. He is most likely to get down and play on the floor with them, earl or no earl.”

  “Harriet,” said Lady St. Michael sharply. “Please pass the biscuits.”

  “So,” said Harriet excitedly, almost shoving the plate of biscuits in her sister’s face. “Are you all going to come to my ball? You shall all be invited.”

  “My nieces have talked of nothing else, my lady,” said Aunt Blakelow.

  “Is it not exciting?” cried Lady Harriet, clapping her hands.

  Lady St. Michael gave a chilly smile. “Forgive my youngest sister; she is very excitable. My brother was not keen on the idea at first, but he has finally been persuaded. I am determined that you all should come—you too, Miss Georgiana, should you wish it, although I believe that you don’t often go out as a general rule.”

  Miss Blakelow smiled wanly but made no answer.

  “Well, if you should wish to come, I am sure we can find room for you. One more is no trouble.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Miss Blakelow.

  “Oh, you must come,” said Lady Harriet imploringly. “You will be missed if you do not.”

  Miss Blakelow opened her mouth to make a reply, but her aunt rescued her once again.

  “His lordship was keen to hear my recipe for chicken broth, which I told him about when he was good enough to call upon us the other day. It is of all things the best cure for an upset stomach. Or for a cold. I swear by it and so, I can assure you, does my maid. All my dear late brother’s children were brought up on chicken soup. There is a secret, you know, in the recipe. A certain extra something.”

  Lady St. Michael’s smile became fixed. “Indeed?”

  “I always say that one cannot do better than an old family recipe, my lady. All these new ideas come and go, but what is best in my book is good old-fashioned chicken soup. Good fresh ingredients straight from the farm and made fresh in the pot. My grandmama wouldn’t have it any other way. If you ever have a need of it, do not hesitate to ask. I am always happy to give up a family secret for the Holkhams.”

  Miss Blakelow choked on her tea.

  “Well,” said Lady St. Michael hastily. “We must be going. Thank you for a most entertain
ing afternoon. I hope that you will visit us at Holme very soon.”

  “We will, my lady, thank you,” said Aunt Blakelow.

  “No, don’t get up, Miss Blakelow; you look quite fagged to death. Good day to you.”

  Lady Harriet followed her sister out of the room but then ran back and produced a letter from her reticule and pressed it into Miss Blakelow’s hand. “This is from my brother, ma’am. He said I was to give it to you personally. Good-bye. I hope we may meet again.”

  The carriage rattled away, and Miss Blakelow collapsed with relief into her chair, shoving his lordship’s letter between the cushions out of sight.

  “Oh, Georgie!” said Aunt Blakelow, when she had seen the ladies to their carriage. “How came you to say you had lived abroad?”

  Miss Blakelow groaned and put her head in her hands. “I know, I know. I just didn’t think.”

  “She smells a rat. Always was a busybody that one and always will be. She knows we are hiding something . . . and it took a double dose of chicken soup to get rid of her.”

  Her niece smiled wanly. “She never did like me.”

  “Oh, nonsense. She doesn’t like anyone. Do you know, you can tell a lot about a person by how they react to chicken soup? I find it most instructive.”

  “And how many chicken soups did it take to get rid of Lord Marcham the other day?”

  “He wouldn’t go. Three chicken soups, and I threw in the mustard plaster as well just to be sure, but drat the man, he seemed determined on seeing you.”

  CHAPTER 16

  MISS BLAKELOW OPENED LORD Marcham’s letter in the privacy of her bedchamber. As she broke the seal and unfolded the wafer, several pieces of torn paper fluttered to the floor. Frowning, she picked them up and turned them over; they seemed to be bills for tailors and chandlers and wine merchants. Then she saw a thicker docket with her brother’s strong handwriting, declaring his intention to hand over Thorncote to Lord Marcham in lieu of gambling debts. The docket had been ripped in half.

  Dear Miss Blakelow,