Now she fully understood the need for a fast-wielded chamber pot and the satisfaction to be had from it. But as for romance, she wondered why any woman would ever put herself through it more than once.
Meg felt much older and wiser. She was disappointed in herself for being weak with the Captain. Two years before, she would never have allowed Jasper Wallop even a kiss— she had more self-respect. Yet the Captain had slickly removed her petticoats and made her pulse dance like a drunk around a maypole, just with a few words of unexpected flattery.
"Every girl of eighteen or nineteen is a powder keg waiting for a spark," her mistress told her. "And he was your first."
"Well, the next time a spark falls near my keg, madam, I shall douse it with sand and water."
Kitty laughed. "But without a spark what use is gunpowder? It sits there doing nothing until it feels that heat."
"I'm sure I don't care if my gunpowder never gets used again. It can stay in its barrel in a dark, damp place for all I care."
"Oh, but what of the fireworks, my dear? Think of them."
"A few minutes of sputtering color against the night's sky is hardly compensation for the let-down that comes after, when the firework is all spent."
Her mistress shook her head and muttered wryly, "Perhaps the nefarious Captain was not such a great spark after all then, if he only lasted a few minutes."
* * * *
At the Black Horse in Norwich, Kitty Waddenhoe's performance packed the house every night with amorous admirers. She might have taken her pick from among the wealthy gallants who paid extra to sit upon the stage itself, just to be close to her, but it was not at the theatre where the infamous lady made her next greatest impression.
Apprehended for the "alleged" theft of a pocket watch, she was brought before the local magistrate, Sir Buckley Appleyard, where she gave, quite possibly, the best performance of her career. Claiming a rival actress was responsible for the accusation, she then caused an uproar by climbing out of the dock to beg the magistrate for mercy, and elegantly swooning into his arms.
She returned to the theatre that evening, cleared of the charge and with some surprising news for her companion.
"Persephone, I am going away with Sir Buckley, to shoot grouse. We leave immediately."
"To shoot grouse, my lady? But what of the play?" There were still six weeks until the end of the run and a contract had been signed with the theatre management.
"You know all the lines, and they're not important in any case. Make them up and this crowd would hardly notice. You'll stand in for me. Just tuck a little padding in the bodice."
Kitty had thus made another of her instant decisions and when she wanted something she didn't stand for any argument.
"But my lady," Persey felt the panic churning in her stomach. "I am no actress. I can't perform in front of folk."
"Nonsense. Of course you can. It is just like telling a story, and I've seen you tell those most effectively."
"But I tell them in the dark, with just one candle lit."
"Then close your eyes while you're on stage." Kitty chuckled. "Nobody will notice, I assure you."
"Madam, I really cannot! I'm just the maid—"
"For pity's sake, they don't know who you are, do they? Unless you tell them." The lady tweaked her chin and laughed gaily. "Have I not shown you that with the right bearing a woman can be anything she wants to be? We all come into this world the same way and we all go into the ground when our time is done. It doesn't matter what we call ourselves in the time between, we all consist of the same bones and flesh, and it's up to us to seize every chance. And you need only take my place for a few weeks. Once the theatre is dark for the season I shall send for you to join me in the country."
Yes, she thought, by then her mistress would need somebody to drag out the slumbering body, for it was doubtful that the red-faced, gouty Sir Buckley Appleyard would keep Kitty's interest for long. Not once his pockets were emptied.
In some stories this might have been the moment when the maid becomes the leading lady and outshines her mistress, while the world showers her with flowers, compliments and sonnets. But it didn't work quite that way.
"Persephone" managed well enough in the play. She did not embarrass herself by forgetting her lines, losing her wig, or setting fire to her enormous panniers on the candles surrounding the stage. Perhaps, had she done any of those things, the audience might have loved her more. Instead they found her capable and merely adequate, but no substitute for Kitty.
"The fault lies in your gestures," the theatre manager complained. "They're too ordinary. Not...grand enough. Your expressions aren't...big enough." His advice to her was that she should, "Do more" with her hands. "Smile and wink more at the audience."
"But is it not a tragedy?" she replied. "My character is ill-used by several gentlemen and then lays dying. I do not think she would be so merry. The moral of the story is—"
"Moral? Who cares about the bloody moral? My audience don't come to the theatre for a lecture. They go to church for that. Here they come for the bubbies. It's not a good play without a splendid pair of bubbies." He looked her up and down. "Add some more padding to the corset. You think too much, you do. That's your trouble."
It was a relief for all concerned when the play's run drew to a close, finally puttering out like a sad candle that had wavered valiantly in the draft since Lady Kitty, with her saucy, comedic asides to the audience, her extravagant gestures, and her magnificent, unabashed bosom, had left.
One good thing came out of the experience for Persephone, however.
Lord Thomas Pye, a gentleman of kindness and generosity, but not much in the way of looks or intelligence, attended her every performance, clapping enthusiastically at the end of her speeches— sometimes even before they were quite finished. He, it seemed, appreciated her unfashionably muted acting style, even if nobody else did. She suspected he might be a heavy drinker, which would explain why he sometimes fell out of his chair while clapping, but knowing he would be there to cheer her on each evening was often the only thing that got her out on stage, particularly toward the end of her six weeks in the play.
At first she refused to return his smiles or answer his notes, or accept his flowers. But he was patient and surprisingly humble, just awkward and clumsy enough to win her sympathy. Indeed, his character was so opposite to that of her wretched Captain, that she eventually decided to let down her shield and reward him with a smile, for which he showed such genuine gratitude that he received another soon after.
Thomas Pye was the younger son of a duke and something of a black sheep in his family, for he could do no right in his father's eyes. In the beginning he was meant for the church, but he was send down from university after less than one year, because he failed to attend most of his lectures and those he did attend were interrupted by his loud snores when he fell asleep and nobody could wake him. Even his father could not get him ordained without a degree, but Thomas showed no inclination to resume his education or give up his brandy. He then attempted military service and trotted off to fight, but accidentally shot himself in the knee on his first day, before he had even seen battle, thus making his service perhaps the shortest of any man in any conflict. He had been engaged twice— once to a young lady who left him at the altar, and on another occasion to a lady who was discovered, in the nick of time, to be a man. He was arrested once for stealing a Bishop's mitre, although he claimed he merely mistook it for his own hat, and he had twice been gaoled for singing in the market square, in the dead of night, long after curfew was called.
Eventually his family had given up hoping for better and as long as he stayed away from the estate in Warwickshire, they paid him a generous monthly allowance. With this he gambled a great deal and rarely was he lucky. But he remained cheerful and viewed life with few expectations, simply getting through one day at a time— delighted when he woke to find the sun was out, pragmatic when it was raining. Unlike many who drank too much, he was
never belligerent when in his cups, but more likely apologetic and overly generous. The way he limped along on his bad knee in such an amiably easy, almost naive manner appealed to Meg.
When her accident prone "Pye"—as she came to call him with great affection— contracted a cold, she prepared a herbal cure and nursed him back to health. When he suffered sore heads she did the same for him as she had done for her mistress. Even the pains of his knee, which were worse than ever on cold, damp days, were helped by one of her potions.
"Persephone," he said to her one day, "I cannot offer you much, but I wondered if you would be so good as to accept my feeble hand in marriage. We will rub along well enough, I think. The little I have you are welcome to it, if you can put up with me."
And so she did. He needed her and she could, finally, do good for somebody.
She wrote a letter to Lady Kitty and received in reply a hat box with a brief note of despair at losing her companionship. "I shall try to manage without you, but do not be surprised if you should hear of my tragic demise shortly hereafter. Who will take out the bodies for me? Do not blame yourself, dear Persephone, for callously tossing me aside. It is my fault entirely for depending upon you so dreadfully. I forgive you for whatever happens to me in your absence..."
The box held a parting gift— a straw hat with a wide brim and a band of red silk.
"I am sending you my lucky hat in which to be married. It has seen me through twenty years. You will need it as I do not think you have anything so pretty for your wedding day."
Pye's father was not informed of the marriage until after it was done and then he met Persephone only once, coming to his son's lodgings to look her over.
"You're sure this one is a female, at least?" he demanded. "Yes, I can see she is. That's something I suppose. A curate's daughter from Norfolk, you say?"
"Yes, sir, Persephone's parents are both deceased and she has no other family, but she is indeed a genteel lady, well mannered, can read and write—"
"If she thinks she can keep you out of trouble, she must be either a fool or a saint."
Fortunately, Persey had saved some coin from her years as Kitty Waddenhoe's accomplice, enough to provide a small dowry for herself, passing it off as money left to her by her "curate" father. She carefully spun a tale of her mother being faded gentility from a distant branch of ancient Scottish nobility. Far enough away for nobody to bother confirming. Indeed, to most people, Scotland was a foreign land as distant as Africa.
Pye's family had expected so little from him by then that his sudden marriage barely caused a ripple. The Duke had other children upon whom he heaped his adoration and his hopes. Pye's acquisition of a polite, capable wife who did not appear to be an embarrassment, and might actually help improve his worst habits, was merely a bonus.
As a belated wedding gift, the Duke provided them with a small, rented town house in an almost-fashionable part of London, where they enjoyed five merry years with good and lively society.
Her first husband taught her patience— not just the card game. He also taught her how to feel affection again; that not all men were gropers whose first instinct was to cause hurt. In return she nursed him through his ailments and stopped him from becoming a figure of fun whose pockets were always emptied by the end of an evening. She never felt a desire to crack him over the skull with any furnishings, perhaps because she went into it with her eyes open and no great expectations. Their marriage was a practical arrangement with fondness and acceptance on both sides.
Lady Thomas Pye came to be respected and admired as a young woman of generosity and wit. Folk saw how she stood by her husband and managed him— when nobody else had ever been able to do so— with a loving hand. And they saw how Pye adored her.
On sunny days she was often observed about town wearing her straw hat with the red ribbon. It was one of Pye's favorites for he said it made her look like a country maid on her way to market with her milk churns. He never asked anything about her past, but that was simply the way he was; Lord Thomas Pye never judged anybody and he lived for the moment, for as he liked to say, one could never expect that there would be another day after that one.
And eventually, of course, for him there was not.
Chapter Nine
Holbrooke Estate
1780
Lady Honoria Foyle was a most persistent shadow, following Joss about and finding him wherever he happened to be working that day. A man who preferred to get on without chit-chat, he finally enquired, as civilly as possible, whether she ought to be in his company so often, to which she replied that she would rather be outdoors than in, especially when the indoor society existed only of her brother and sister-in-law.
"As mama says, a person can only listen to so much of Minty's haranguing, before one's will to live is severely tested."
Whenever "Minty"— which he came to understand was their name for the marchioness— ventured out to cast her eye over the progress, Lady Honoria made a hasty exit, taking flight like a sparrow from a hungry cat. His workmen were no less eager to vanish then too, abandoning Joss to that woman's terse appraisal.
She always walked under the shelter of a large, fringed parasol and with no fewer than two servants in attendance. But on cold days, or those considered too hot, she and her entourage stayed away. The temperature had to be just right, the ground sufficiently dry, the wind mild, and insects in scant supply for the current marchioness to make her appearance.
As for the deadly dowager, at first Joss thought she obeyed her stepson and kept out of his way. Surprisingly.
He should have known better.
Quite by chance one day, as he and his men were clearing dead trees, he spied a gleam of something shiny behind a large rhododendron bush. It was no more than a flash in the corner of his eye, but he saw it again a few seconds later and shortly after noticed the unlikely trembling of leaves on a windless day when a bee flew into the bush.
"Lady Honoria," he said loudly to the young lady perched on a log nearby, "how is your stepmama? I have not seen her about, but I hope her health has not deteriorated. She did appear rather hysterical when I saw her. Is she prone to fits? I wondered if she had, perhaps, taken to her bed. I know how the elderly and infirm can decline so quickly."
A muffled squeak of outrage from behind the bush confirmed his suspicion.
"Oh, mama is very well and always busy. I doubt you will see her much. She has no great opinion of garden designers and did not want one about the place."
"Really?" He arched an eyebrow. "I would not have guessed. She hid her opinions so well when we met."
"But as my brother says, she has other things to keep her occupied so she will not be in your way. Mama enjoys good society at the dower house— or the lodge, as we call it. Many friends visit. She seldom has a minute to herself."
He heard the same story from the marchioness, though it differed in the tone of telling. "My husband's stepmother," she said stiffly, "entertains altogether too much. Most respectable widows withdraw from society, but not she. Her licentious, wild spirits do not befit the stately grounds of Holbrooke. I hope you will pay her no heed, Master Radcliffe. Indeed, I have reason to believe she will not stay here much longer."
"Is that so?"
"I expect her to find another husband soon. She keeps a parade of gentlemen at her beck and call, and she'll have to narrow it down to one eventually."
"A parade?" He swung his axe harder. Well, she had told him she had many sweethearts. About that much she was honest, it seemed.
Of course, he had not been entirely honest himself, but he had a better reason, so he decided, than she did. She'd made him feel a fool, and he still did not know whether he could forgive her.
"Indeed. I echo your tone of disgust, sir. At her age and after seeing two husbands into their graves, she ought to be more discreet. For now we are burdened with her presence, but it will not be forever."
For a woman so concerned about respectability, the marchioness did a gr
eat deal of complaining to him about her mother-in-law's conduct, forcing Joss to become the ear into which she unleashed her side of every bitter argument. As if nobody else ever listened to her and she was desperate for a captive audience. Most of the time all he need do was nod and grunt; that seemed to satisfy the lady.
Not quite a servant and yet still hired by her husband, Joss probably didn't quite fit into any box known to the marchioness, which might explain the ease with which she confided in him. But he had noticed before that women often sought him out to unload their problems. It didn't matter how disinterested he tried to appear, there seemed to be something about him that encouraged ladies to unburden themselves in his presence with as much haste and ease as they tried discarding their corsets. Frequently he found himself battling to keep women dressed and dignified, because he had no idea what he did to make them abandon all virtue and decorum. It certainly was not deliberate. He was no prude, but he would much rather chase a woman he wanted, than have them pursue him. Some men didn't care— any female, to them, was a conquest— but Josias Radcliffe waited for the right woman, not just any.
The truth was, although he had no shortage of offers from lusty ladies of all ages since he turned fourteen, he remained a novice when it came to women. In fact, that flirtation with the dowager marchioness in the labyrinth was an anomaly in his life. He'd always been ambitious, focused on his work, and spared no time for wooing.
That was his problem, he thought glumly— he'd left it too long and now he was physically a pot ready to boil over. And then he'd touched her.
He lacked experience; no doubt about that. Never worried about it before, but now he did.
Joss had caught himself reliving that kiss several times since, thinking of how clumsy and stupid he must have seemed to her. She had probably laughed at his kiss and at him. The scheming woman knew what she was doing, while he acted completely on instinct.
The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg Page 10
