by Brooke, Meg
“That would be much appreciated,” the earl replied. Clarissa sucked in an agitated breath. Now she would have to find another evening gown. How had she gotten herself into such a mess?
Headfirst, my girl, said the voice in her head. You dove in headfirst.
She heard the earl calling out that he was going for a swim. With a sigh of relief she turned and went back to her notes.
***
“You see, Clarissa,” her father said. They were sitting on the bank of the river in Oxford, looking out over the water, “everything in nature has a purpose, an order. Everything is made just as it ought to be—free. And so are we. We are all free. Just because you are a woman, you do not have to live as other women do.”
“I know, Papa.” She was wearing the pale pink gown she had had on at the theatre, even though she was sitting in the grass. “I’m dreaming,” she said.
“Yes, you are,” he said.
The sunlight danced over the water. “We used to swim here,” she said.
“And this is where you and I first read David Hume.”
“‘Beauty in things exists in the mind which contemplates them’,” he quoted.
“What am I contemplating?”
“Only you can say that,” he said. “But I think you are feeling that you are letting me down. I taught you to be more than a pretty ornament on a man’s arm, and that is what you are afraid of becoming.”
She said nothing.
“But I also taught you not to be afraid.”
“You did.”
He stood up. “You must choose. More than anything, I taught you that you were free to choose.” Then he walked straight into the river and disappeared beneath the water, leaving Clarissa sitting in her silly gown on the grass.
***
Clarissa woke from her dream to a cold Sunday morning. She sat up against the bolster, trying to clear her head. She had not dreamed of her father at all in the year since his death. Why now?
There were too many other things to consider today to spend time contemplating her dream for long. Lord Stowe was coming to take her driving this afternoon. Her fingers shook as she arranged her hair before heading off to church. But as she neared, a familiar figure pulled away from the wall to meet her.
“Miss Martin!” Mr. Whibley called, grinning broadly as he strode toward her.
“Good morning,” she said breathlessly, remembering that she had agreed to let him walk her home again. “Have you passed a pleasant week?”
“Very,” he said, holding out his arm. She took it. As they walked into the church he asked, “How have you been?”
“Busy,” she admitted. “I...I ran into a few old friends in town who have kept me much occupied.” It was a flat-out lie, and she knew she should be sorry, but she couldn’t tell Mr. Whibley what she had really been doing all week. For one thing, he would think it absurd. For another, it might hurt his feelings, and he really was a sweet man.
They hardly spoke at all during church, but Mr. Whibley stood a little closer to her than he had the week before. At one moment his shoulder brushed her sleeve, and he whispered an apology. Rather than feel excited by his proximity, however, she was reminded of the way the earl had played with the fabric of her gown the other night at the theatre.
Afterwards, they walked slowly through Knightsbridge towards Trevor Street. He talked absently of his work and of the visit to his mother he planned soon. But when they reached her corner, she said, “Mr. Whibley, I think it only right to tell you that there is...that is, I have—”
“You have another suitor,” he said, his smile thinning. “I thought you might. Don’t worry, Miss Martin, my spirit is not crushed.”
“I am glad to hear that, Mr. Whibley. I have dreaded saying it to you the whole morning for fear of hurting your feelings.”
“Never fear, Miss Martin,” he said, and he took her hand in his. “I have enjoyed our Sunday walks, and your company. Perhaps you will permit me to look up your brother at Westminster and continue our acquaintance through him?”
She could not very well say no. She would be forced to explain her refusal. “Of course, Mr. Whibley. Thank you for understanding.”
He bowed over her hand and strode briskly away. Self-consciously, she glanced around, wondering if anyone had witnessed their exchange, but there were few people about. She turned down the alley and went into her flat, anxiously counting out the hours until Lord Stowe arrived.
Unbeknownst to Clarissa, Lord Stowe had arrived already. Unable to get anything done, he had decided to take a walk, and with his mind otherwise occupied, his steps had led him to Trevor Street. He had just been about to turn around and walk back towards Belgrave Square when he had spotted a familiar pink dress on the corner. It was Miss Martin, and she was standing rather close to a young man. He had an earnest look on his face as he spoke to her. When he took her hand to say goodbye, Anders thought he saw regret in the man’s features. Then he was gone, and Miss Martin was disappearing into her building.
How very odd, Anders thought. Miss Martin had told him herself that she had few friends. Who was this man? He had looked vaguely familiar, and Anders searched his memory, wondering where he had seen the fellow before. But try as he might, he could not dredge it up, and when he pulled up in the new curricle he had rather rashly purchased near the same spot where he had been standing hours later, the man’s face was still fixed in his mind.
Miss Martin seemed quite happy to see him, however, and her pleasing company quickly drove all thought of the strange man from his mind.
“Did you receive my letter?” he asked as they drove past the Serpentine.
“I did,” she said, coloring prettily. “I was...most flattered by your sentiments.”
“I hope they are welcome,” he ventured nervously. When he had told Leo he was not quite sure how to proceed, he had not been lying.
“My Lord, if I may ask, are you worried about courting a woman with no family?”
He laughed at that. “Why, yes, Miss Martin, I am. I’m glad you said it rather than I.”
“It’s a valid concern,” she said, looking down at her hands. “I really am not sure what the rules are in my situation. But Mr. Ford led me to believe that you had some...misgivings.”
“That’s an excellent word. But I would not wish you to doubt my enthusiasm,” he added, cursing his foolishness. He did not want her to think he was apprehensive about her social status.
“No, I think you’ve made your enthusiasm quite apparent, and it is very agreeable. But with no family, I suppose it falls to me to ask you your intentions.”
He pulled the curricle to a halt at the edge of the park. Still holding the reins with one hand, he turned to face her, his dark brows knitting together in what was almost a frown, but not quite. “My intention, Miss Martin, is to show you how much I care for you and, when we are both ready, to ask you to be my wife. Is that clear enough?”
She blinked a few times. “Yes, I suppose it is,” she said at last.
“Good,” he said, and he tapped the reins, feeling rather put out at having tipped his hand so easily.
“But I wonder if you have considered the consequences of marrying a woman with no family. I am not truly of the ton, you know.”
“It is one of your most redeeming qualities.”
“Do you truly dislike them so much?”
“Dislike them?” he repeated. “No. But I do find them rather...tedious. Lovely as you are, it is not your beauty I find so alluring. There are plenty of beautiful women in the world. Your mind, however, is a rare treasure.”
She was looking at her hands again. “No one has ever called me beautiful before,” she said quietly.
“Well, you’d better get used to it,” he said.
They were drawing near the most crowded part of the park. It was the fashionable hour, and the lanes were swarming with carriages. Much to Anders’s chagrin, the first carriage they met contained the Marquis of Bainbridge. The gentleman and la
dy with him nodded politely to Anders and looked down their noses at Miss Martin, but Bain greeted her warmly enough.
“So you must be the Miss Martin of whom we have all been hearing so much,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine, My Lord,” Miss Martin said, blushing again. Then the traffic began to move once more. As they drove, Anders greeted everyone he knew--which was everyone they passed. He introduced Miss Martin and was pleased to see that almost everyone gave her a warm reception.
“I apologize,” he said when they were once again free of the crush. “I had forgotten how crowded the park could become at this hour.”
“It was thrilling,” she said, and it seemed that she was being honest. “I have missed out on many of the pleasures of society. Before my father died, Cynthia and I would go to teas and things like that, but I was never asked to drive in the park. This has been a treat.”
As they drove back towards Trevor Street he said, “I almost forgot. I have a gift for you.” He took the book, now tied up in a pretty blue ribbon, from the seat beside him and handed it to her. She held it for a few moments before untying the ribbon, and then she studied the Greek lettering.
“Iphigenia in Tauris,” she translated. “Oh, how lovely, My Lord.”
“Do you think I might call you Clarissa?”
“But that would put me at a disadvantage, as I do not know your given name.”
“Anders,” he said. “It’s a Danish name.”
“It’s lovely,” she said as the curricle pulled to a stop. “I mean, very masculine.”
He laughed. “You needn’t butter me up. I’m already bringing you gifts.”
“And very thoughtful ones, too,” she said. “Thank you for the book...Anders.”
He got out and handed her down. “When may I see you again?”
“I’ve been invited to attend the Middlebury’s ball with Lady Eleanor on Thursday.”
“I hope you will save me a dance?”
“Of course, My--Anders.”
“Then I will look forward to Thursday, Clarissa,” he said, and he kissed her hand.
ELEVEN
February 11, 1833
Clarissa couldn’t swallow a morsel of the huge breakfast Mrs. Butterford laid before her the next morning, but she did make herself drink the coffee. She had stayed up late into the night reading Iphigenia in Tauris, and had then had trouble falling asleep. This morning she felt as though every part of her body was trembling separately. She had barely managed to tie a respectable knot in her cravat.
“Are you feeling quite well, dearie?” Mrs. Butterford asked, laying a hand to her brow. “You haven’t touched your breakfast.”
“I’m quite all right, Mrs. Butterford,” she promised. She picked up a piece of toast and nibbled on it.
“Something’s eating you, that’s for sure,” the cook said.
Clarissa sighed and pushed away from the table. Anders was waiting for her upstairs.
Lord Stowe, she reminded herself. Clarence Ford could not very well call his employer by his given name, and she must try to think of him in her mind as Lord Stowe and not as Anders, though she had been whispering the name to herself for the last twelve hours.
“Good morning, Lord Stowe,” she said as she entered the study. She put some papers before him. “I’ve made those notes on the Mayo disturbances for you.”
He looked up. “Good morning, Ford.” he picked up her notes and glanced at them. “What is your opinion of the whole thing?”
She sat down in her customary chair. “It’s a bad business, My Lord. According the Marquis of Sligo, there are not enough police to control the crowds. People have died already, and more are like to if something isn’t done. Some of the members say the police are only doing what they must, but it seems rather excessive to me.”
“And yet the peace must be maintained.”
“It must,” she agreed. “But at what cost?”
He sighed and dropped the papers onto the table. “Everything has a cost.”
“That is very true, My Lord.”
“The cost of this trouble in Ireland is more grumbling and glowering from Lord Brougham, I’m afraid. With things the way they are, I doubt we’ll be able to debate the abolition measures until the end of the month, at least,” he said.
Clarissa’s heart sank. “So late, My Lord?”
“This Irish business will keep us occupied for weeks, you see if it doesn’t.”
She tried to hide her disappointment. In between reading the Euripides he had given her and murmuring his name, she had come to a decision the night before. If he planned to propose to her--and she hoped he did--there could be no deceptions between them. She had decided that she would tell him the truth after the Middlebury’s ball. But she had hoped that there would at least be some movement on the abolition bill before she had to leave his employ. She had so wanted to be involved in seeing her father’s dream brought to reality.
They worked in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Then Lord Stowe stood. “I’m going for a swim,” he announced. “Will you have the notes on that infernal Lunatic Regulation thing for me before I go to Westminster?”
“Yes, My Lord,” she said, trying not to show her distaste for the bill that was to be debated that afternoon.
“Don’t pretend you like it any better than I do,” he said. “It’s disgusting, what they want to do to people who can’t care for themselves.”
She looked up, letting his words sink in. “I agree, My Lord,” she said.
When he had gone, she leaned back in her chair. When he had said that, about the poor insane who could not afford a comfortable asylum, she had fallen a little bit more in love with him. Yes, a little bit more, she admitted to herself, for she had already fallen most of the way in love when he had given her the book. Perhaps that was why she had dreamed of her father the other night. At his knee she had learned that romance was something society had made up to keep women dependent and caged.
She leaned her head in her hand. “Whatever am I going to do?” she asked the empty room. For a good long while she allowed herself to simply sit there and feel sorry for herself. It was rather prophetic, she thought, that he had taken her to see a play about a young lady disguised as a man falling in love with her employer. She had always thought Viola rather foolish for not revealing herself to Orsino the moment she began to feel something for him, but now she understood. As Viola had dug herself deeper and deeper into the hole she had made, she had begun pulling other people down with her. Clarissa was in exactly the same sort of mess, and she was not sure yet whether it would be wise to call out for help.
With a moan of self-pity, she sat up and bent back over the papers that awaited her.
Then there was a knock at the front door.
Clarissa sat up, wondering who it could be at such an odd hour. Lord Sidney usually called in the mornings, and Lord Stowe never had afternoon visitors. But it was nearly one.
The knock came again. Where was Phelps?
Clarissa went out into the hall. She walked slowly down the stairs. The knocking sounded a third time. “Oh, very well,” she sighed, and she opened the door. An elegant woman of about fifty stood on the stoop, looking rather irritated. “Yes?” Clarissa asked.
“Where is Phelps?” the woman demanded. She had a slight accent that Clarissa could not quite place, but her fine clothes marked her out as a gentlewoman.
“I...I don’t know,” Clarissa stammered.
“Who are you?”
“Mr. Ford, His Lordship’s secretary,” she answered.
“Didn’t he have a different one last time I was here?” the woman asked. When Clarissa gave no immediate answer, the woman shrugged and swept past her into the house. “Well, no matter. Will you inform my son that his mother is waiting?”
Clarissa nearly jumped out of her shoes. “Of course, Lady Landridge,” she said.
“It’s Mrs. Coleridge now,
dear boy. I’ll wait in the parlor, shall I?”
“Yes, of course, madam,” Clarissa said. As Lord Stowe’s mother disappeared into the parlor, she looked about again. There was still no sign of Phelps.
She knew her way down the stairs to the pool room. She had promised herself she would never go there again, not after seeing him so...well, so naked there. But now it seemed there was no choice. Slowly she descended into the cellar, willing herself to take each step, hoping against hope that someone would come along and offer to fetch the earl for her. She was shaking like a leaf. As she approached the door to the pool, she heard him splashing about. She almost turned and ran. But she swallowed her fear, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.
“My Lord,” she called as she entered.
“Ford,” he said, brushing the water out of his eyes. The water lapped at his waist. She did not look down. “What is it?”
She came to stand at the edge of the pool, trying to prove to herself that she was not afraid. “Mrs. Coleridge is in the parlor, My Lord,” she said.
“My mother? What does she want?”
“I...I didn’t think it my place to ask, My Lord.”
“Oh, all right. Tell her I’ll come directly.”
“Of course,” Clarissa said, and she turned, breathing a sigh of relief.
Then he pulled the towel that had been lying beside the pool out from under her foot.
With a shriek, Clarissa tipped backwards, her shoes sliding on the wet tile. Her arms flailed helplessly in the air, and then she hit the water with a splash.
She came up sputtering for air. Lord Stowe gripped her arm.
“I say, Ford, are you quite—”
She wiped the water from her eyes. He was staring at her. She put her hand up and felt her fingers brush a few loose pins. A few more were floating on the surface of the water.
And so was her wig.
“What in God’s name is going on?” Anders asked.
The person standing in his pool reached up and pulled off her moustache.
