The Fictitious Marquis

by Alina Adams

  She accepted his scolding, admitting, "All my life, if I wanted something, God help anyone who stood in my way. I rarely stopped to think how my actions affected other people."

  "So why now, Julia?" If she heard his impertinent use of her Christian name, she didn't react to it. "What was so different about today, that it made you respond in such a manner?"

  She looked away, using one finger to slowly trace the outline of her carriage window, pretending to be engrossed in the moving countryside. Finally, Julia confessed, "You. It was you."

  "Me, Miss Highsmith?"

  "I've never put a person in mortal danger before. At least I hope I never have. Add double-space before next line: By the time they reached Picadilly."

  By the time they reached Picadilly, Julia had apparently either made peace with her guilt, or decided to simply ignore it. Jamie sensed the improvement in her mood the moment Julia's power of speech returned with a vengeance.

  It were her idea that they stop at Monsieur Andre's, a tailor her late father had been particularly fond of, to order Jamie's fashionable new clothes.

  Sweeping into the shop with Jamie and Salome running to catch up, Julia barely waited for the proprietor, Monsieur Andre himself, to kiss her hand and exclaim over what a beautiful young lady Julia had grown into, before she launched into the tale of her houseguest, Mr. Jamie Lowell, who had arrived in England for a visit. Unfortunately, the paperskull coachman, minding his stage, foolishly piled all of Mr. Lowell's baggage in the rear boots, forgetting to cover the lot when it began to rain, and allowing every stitch of clothing Mr. Lowell owned to be soaked and ruined.

  Did Monsieur Andre think he might be able to help them? They needed an entire wardrobe of men's clothes as soon as possible. And did Julia mention that money were no object?

  She was about to launch into a list of items they would need, when Jamie, voice level but unmistakably authoritarian, gently rested his hand upon Julia's arm. "Do forgive me, Miss Highsmith, but I have been dressing myself for quite a few years now."

  Julia blushed, realizing the impertinence of her actions, and the manner in which such impertinence could be interpreted. Gritting her teeth, she attempted to apologize, furious both at herself for making such an error, and at Jamie for the terribly polite way he'd chastised her. Now she would not even have the satisfaction of thinking him arrogant or condescending.

  Seeing Julia's thinly veiled fury, Jamie allowed himself only the briefest of smiles, before telling Monsieur Andre, "Although, of course, on the other hand, whom do I dress for, if not the lovely ladies of London? Perhaps it would be wise, after all, for me to consult Miss Highsmith."

  Julia stared at Jamie in surprise, unsure of whether or not he were teasing her.

  Jamie continued, "Australian fashion, I am afraid, is quite behind the styles of England. I would not wish to offend anyone by making an incorrect choice of garment."

  They spent the rest of the afternoon picking out material, arguing the merits of silk and wool berege versus Circassian cloth, and the aesthetic advantages of grenadine versus lutestring. While Jamie and Monsieur Andre retired to the back room for measuring, Julia and Salome made a list of garments to order. He would need a variety of coats, of course, in varying lengths and colors to suit the occasion. Pantaloons, hats, gloves, shirts, boots. And all had to be in the first state of elegance.

  As the four of them labored over making Jamie Lowell a Corinthian in prime twig, either Julia or Salome would occasionally be interrupted by friends and acquaintances who spotted them through the shop window and popped in to say hello.

  To each of them, the women introduced Jamie as the marquis of Martyn's nephew, exclaiming with delight that he had "finally arrived." They spoke as if Jamie's visit had been common knowledge among the ton for weeks, trapping their audience in the unenviable position of either claiming ignorance and thus admitting to a seat outside the know, or of going along with the fabrication. Predictably, everyone whom Julia and Salome introduced Jamie to chose the latter.

  As they left Monsieur Andre's, both footmen loaded down with packages and instructions to return next week for the rest, Jamie complimented Julia and Salome on their deviousness.

  Niece and aunt exchanged looks. "You are not the only one practiced in the art of living a deception, Mr. Lowell."

  That evening at tea, Jamie waited until Salome had excused herself to check up on supper preparations, before asking Julia, "Is there a particular reason that your aunt seems to so despise me, or is she just practicing in anticipation of a future evil?"

  Julia thoughtfully stirred her tea, tapping her spoon against the cup's rim and shaking off the final drops of brown liquid before resting it upon the blue and white patterned saucer. "I do not think that Aunt Salome hates you, Jamie. It is the idea of you that she does not like. You remind her of things that she would, all the same, rather forget."

  "What things?" He crossed his legs, balancing the saucer and cup on one knee, and leaning back in his chair.

  Realizing that she had already confessed more than she ever intended to, Julia attempted to pull back, waving the question away with one hand, and proceeded to lead the conversation towards a less probing topic. Julia said, "Did you see the faces of those ladies we met this afternoon at Monsieur Andre's? They were quite taken with you, Jamie. Quite taken. Why, this entire masquerade might prove to be easier than we thought."

  She looked to Jamie, hoping for a word of confirmation on her prediction. But no agreement proved forthcoming. Instead, he remained as he was, sitting across from her, arms crossed against his chest, watching Julia with an intensity that seemed to bore right through her. He wasn't smiling, and in response she felt her own smile fade. His eyes fastened on hers, making it impossible to look away or hide. For a moment, Julia actually believed Jamie capable of seeing through the facade she'd worked so hard to erect around her true thoughts and feelings, and into her very soul.

  She knew that she should be offended by his brazen invasion, but, strangely, the only sensation Julia seemed capable of summoning was a most unfamiliar consciousness of relief. How long had Julia been waiting for someone, anyone, to cut through all her lies and defenses and finally discover the true Julia Highsmith? How long had she been praying for the day when, at long last, Julia could stop pretending and just be?

  The romantic in her wanted to believe that such a moment had at long last arrived. But the pragmatist knew better.

  Drawing on all her strength, Julia ripped her gaze away from Jamie's, reminding herself that she was probably reading much too much into the entire exchange. No one, not even Jamie Lowell, could ever know a person simply by looking at them.

  But, for the rest of the evening, just to be safe, Julia conscientiously avoided meeting Jamie's eyes.

  With a few days to pass while they waited for the finer items in Jamie's new wardrobe to be completed, Salome told Julia, "My dear, you had best begin thinking of how exactly you intend to spring Mr. Lowell upon your uncle. Remember, the gentleman-to-be is allowed only one chance to make a first impression, and, for all our sakes, it should be no less than spectacular."

  "Why, Aunt Salome," Julia teased. "And to think that you once judged my entire scheme a thoroughly horrid idea."

  Salome refused to crack a smile or admit to a change in opinion. Stiffly, she said, "I still insist that it is most horrid. Unfortunately, as long as you appear so set on going through with it, my task is to insure that, at least, it is the best-executed horrid idea in London."

  Julia beamed, impulsively kissing her aunt on the cheek. She felt as if a load the weight of a small pony were being lifted off her shoulders. At least she no longer had to face the upcoming trials alone. At least there would be someone to support her and warn Julia that she were getting too far out of line. Not that Miss Highsmith had any intention of listening to the latter.

  She answered Salome's earlier question with a shrug and, "I suppose I shall merely arrive at my Uncle Collin's door, Jamie in tow
, and hope for the best."

  "No," Salome said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "No. Julia, you simply cannot thrust a potential husband upon a man with standards as stringent as your uncle's, without first laying a bit of groundwork towards his acceptance."

  "But I intend to introduce him as the marquis of Martyn's nephew and heir. Won't my telling him of Jamie's potential wealth, and of the lands his father owns in Australia, won't that do enough to impress Uncle Collin?"

  Salome smiled. She patted Julia upon the hand as if her niece were still a child, and solemnly educated, "My darling, Julia, if I have told you once, I have told you a dozen times, never complete any task yourself when you can get the ton to do it for you."

  Reasoning that any biographical information the duke of Alamain heard about Jamie Lowell would carry much more weight coming from seemingly impartial sources, Julia and Salome set about the task of innocently disseminating information.

  While visiting the Princess Esterhazy for tea, Salome waited until their hostess concluded a most delicious story regarding Beau Brummell referring to their prince regent as the second baron of Alvanley's "fat friend," before she happened to mention her houseguest, the marquis of Martyn's nephew, and proceeded to launch into a detailed description of his fictitious Australian holdings.

  At the opera, in between a heated discussion that carried to their adjoining boxes, regarding whether the Philharmonic Society had acted generous or foolish in offering Ludwig van Beethoven three hundred guineas to come to London and bring with him two new compositions, Julia and Salome made certain to also discuss, equally loudly, that recently arrived nonpareil, Jamie Lowell, and his instant fascination with Julia.

  As Salome said, if, by the end of the evening, the entire hall did not have its curiosity whetted, it were not for niece and aunt's lack of trying.

  By next afternoon, a half-dozen women came calling. Julia held her breath, watching every moment of Jamie's initial introduction to society with the intensity most reserved for rabid animals and particularly intense cricket matches. Every time Jamie opened his mouth, she expected him to blurt out something inappropriate. At one point, when talk turned to the Spa Fields riots, Julia felt certain that, any moment, Jamie might utter some phrase that would brand him on the side of the poor who'd rioted instead of with those who condemned the entire uprising.

  But he never so much as wavered.

  Instead, Jamie chatted with the ladies about his uncle, the marquis, that delightful character Hitch, and Australia, painting verbal pictures of a land that, if it did not in actuality exist, certainly should have, from the beauty of Jamie's description.

  He discussed Byron's leaving England, and the illicit rumors surrounding his departure, as if such were the most common of topics for him, nodding politely when the Viscountess Lark expounded her opinions on both Anabella Milbanke and Augusta Leigh.

  He agreed wholeheartedly when the duchess of Westlake praised the House of Lords recent abolition of income tax on land owners, and Jamie responded with, "Do not you also find that a twenty-one-pound tax on those owning four-wheeled carriages, coupled with the nine-pound tax on possessing three horses to be terribly steep? After all, how ever are those attempting to subsist on a mere fifty thousand pounds or so supposed to bear it?"

  The ladies left still singing Jamie's praises, and issuing more invitations to social events than there were hours in the day. He thanked each one graciously, promised to try and attend, and kissed their hands in a manner that made even the oldest among them, fifty-two-year-old Lady Langly, blush and titter.

  Following their departure, and still flying from the success, Julia eagerly asked Salome, "What shall we do next? What now?"

  "Now, my lovely Julia, we sit back and we wait for word of your delightful Mr. Lowell to reach the duke of Alamain. And then we wait for him to issue the both of you an invitation to visit."

  The last instance Jamie remembered his appearance being so fussed over, his mum was spitting on her handkerchief and wiping his face clean for church.

  Before they set out for the visit with her uncle, Julia must have ordered Jamie to change garments six times, until she finally settled on the picture she wanted him to present, circling Jamie no less than a dozen times, smoothing down the fit of his coat in the shoulders, wiping away imaginary dust specks, and tugging on the folds of his shirt to make them lay down right. Her hand brushed his waist, fleetingly at first, then returning to actually dig her fingers into the fabric.

  Accusingly, she asked Jamie, "Why aren't you wearing the Cumberland corset Monsieur Andre sent over?"

  Jamie stepped back, so that Julia might receive a better view of his figure. "I'm afraid that I have no use for one, m'lady. Everything, I am happy to report, stands straight by itself."

  It took a beat for the full meaning behind his words to sink in. Julia ordered herself not to blush or comment.

  Her resolve on the former managed to last a good few seconds, after which she ducked her head, hiding both scarlet cheeks from Jamie's gaze, and proceeded to spend one half hour arranging his cravat, folding and unfolding and discarding, until Jamie's neck felt raw from all the ministering.

  "If I did not know any better, I might begin to suspect all this attention to be of a more personal nature," Jamie said.

  "You flatter yourself, Mr. Lowell."

  "No." He turned Julia about so that both faced the full-length mirror. He slipped one hand around her waist, and placed the other on Julia's shoulder. Their reflection glimmered back to present a most handsome young couple. "On the contrary, Miss Highsmith. It is you whom I flatter."

  She could feel the heat of his hand through the thin cotton sleeves covering her shoulder, and the sensations seemed to travel down the length of her body. Even through the mirror, the magnetic pull of Jamie's eyes that had so captivated Julia a few days earlier tugged as hard as ever, filling her with a warmth the pleasure of which far outweighed the unfamiliarity. It was as hypnotizing as staring at a fire, and, somehow, equally as dangerous to approach.

  "Well?" Jamie whispered. "What do you think, Miss Highsmith?"

  Think? He wanted her to think?

  Julia licked her lips, forcing moisture into her mouth in the hope that, once she were once again capable of speaking, her muddled brain might actually conceive of something for her to say.

  "What?" Julia asked. "Think about what?"

  Hardly a particularly brilliant utterance, but certainly an improvement over staring blankly into the mirror.

  "Us." Jamie stretched himself to full height, as if both of them were posing for a formal portrait.

  "Us." Julia repeated, simultaneously thinking that, judging from the Caliber of this conversation, the celebrated wits of London could certainly sleep soundly at night, secure in the knowledge that Miss Julia Highsmith would never be a threat to their positions. "What do you mean, us, Jamie?"

  "I mean," he smoothed down an imaginary wrinkle in his coat. "What do you think of how the pair of us look, Miss Highsmith? Why, what in the world might you have thought I meant?"

  If it weren't for the incident at the marquis's home, the most nervous Jamie ever spied Julia would have been in the moments before the door to her uncle's drawing room opened, and the duke of Alamain stepped out to greet his niece. She had to link her fingers to keep from biting her nails, and Julia's feet refused to stay in one place, forcing her to dance a very small mazurka, constantly shifting her weight from leg to leg. She wore a pale yellow dress, with matching bonnet and parasol. The pastel color brought out the rich blackness of both her eyes and her hair.

  "My precious Julia!" The duke raised both arms to embrace his brother's daughter, a task made difficult by the fact Collin Highsmith was a man so rotund that, by the time his arms outstretched his midsection, there was little room left for Julia. "And who might this be?" The duke turned his attention to Jamie, the smile beneath his mustache twisting into a potential frown.

  "This is Je
remy Lowell, Uncle. The marquis of Martyn's nephew. From Australia. I wrote you of him. In reply to your invitation to visit."

  Jamie tried to stand taller and look simultaneously wealthy, titled, and Australian. He said, "I have come, Your Grace, to ask for your niece's hand in marriage."

  "Hrmph."

  Jamie wondered whether to interpret it as a grunt of approval or disdain.

  "Australia, did you say?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Sydney?"

  "No."

  "Melbourne?"

  "No."

  "Surely you did not reside among the kangaroos, Mr. Lowell."

  "No, sir. I did not."

  Geographically, Jamie's plan was simple. He had no intention of revealing his alleged birthplace until his inquisitor had finished calling off every township and city he was familiar with. That way, once he eliminated the treacherous, Jamie could proclaim himself a native of some obscure area no one had ever heard of.

  "Well, then?" the duke demanded. "Whereabouts in Australia?"

  "Queen's Rock, sir." Jamie had no idea whether such a place even existed. But it certainly sounded like a good name for a town in a British commonwealth country that, as far as he knew, was covered in desert and stone.

  "Queen's Rock?" Now the potential frown was, without a doubt, sliding towards the real thing. "Never heard of it."

  "It is quite small, sir. My father ran a sheep and cattle station. Up north. Very, very, up north."

  The duke rested his hands on his belly, the fingers barely touching, and sighed. Finally, he turned to Julia, "I wish to have a talk with your young man. In private."

  "But, Uncle." Julia all but blocked the door to the drawing room with her body. "I have already told you everything you need to know about Mr. Lowell."

  "Cannot the gentleman speak for himself?"

  "Certainly," Jamie donned his most confident face, and stepped forward toward where the duke was beckoning.