by Merry Farmer
“There,” Bianca Marlowe sighed, holding up the disc of plaster onto which she’d glued dozens of porcelain bits. “Don’t ask me what it is or what it’s good for. I’ve fulfilled my social obligations.” She plunked her creation carelessly on the table and turned to her mother. “Now may I go to the library to read?”
Lady Stanhope arched one of her dark, razor-sharp brows at her eldest daughter. “My dear, you have a great deal more to learn about manners before I turn you loose on the world.”
Lavinia would have spontaneously combusted and ended up as a pile of ash if Lady Stanhope were her mother and had looked at her with such censure, but Bianca merely huffed again and flopped against the back of the sofa where she sat beside her mother and sister.
Natalia, Lady Stanhope’s younger daughter, held up the plaster square she was working on and, in a sickeningly sweet voice said, “Look at mine, Mama. I know how to participate politely.” Although the fact that she stuck her tongue out at her sister didn’t help her argument.
Lady Stanhope rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Pray that you only have boys,” she said to Mariah, who sat across the table from Lady Stanhope, flanked by Marigold and Lavinia. “Girls are far too difficult when they reach that delicate age.” She turned her narrowed eyes on Bianca.
“I’m nearly eighteen,” Bianca said, tilting her chin up. “I’m not delicate at all.”
“You said it,” Natalia muttered.
Bianca glared at her sister with a look that made her appear strikingly like her mother. She reached for the pot of paste she’d been using, grabbing the brush and flicking it in Natalia’s direction. Natalia shrieked loud enough to distract everyone in the room as thick, white goo covered her face and bodice. “Mama,” she shouted, then growled at Bianca, “I’ll murder you.”
“Stop it this instant,” Lady Stanhope shouted, grabbing each of her daughters by their wrists as they rose, looking like they would come to blows. “Honestly,” she hissed. “Don’t make me regret inflicting the two of you on Mrs. Croydon and her party.”
To their credit, both Marlowe girls looked instantly contrite. “Sorry, Mama,” they muttered, almost in unison.
Lady Stanhope pursed her lips as she glanced between the two of them. She turned to Bianca and said, “Take your sister up to your room and help her clean up.”
“Yes, Mama,” Bianca said. She jerked her head toward the door, gesturing for Natalia to follow her.
As soon as the two young women had left the room, Lady Stanhope groaned and rubbed her temples. “If Robert hadn’t already been in his grave for fifteen years, I’d murder him for inflicting those two on me.”
“She doesn’t mean that,” Mariah said, her lips twitching with amusement.
“I don’t mean it,” Lady Stanhope agreed, dropping her hands to her lap. Her eyes narrowed. “Except when I do.” She shook her head again. “I can’t decide if it’s worse when they’re at each other’s throats or when they’re up to no good, plotting against the world as though they were the Furies.”
“You’re in luck, then,” Marigold said. “There were three Furies, not two.”
Lady Stanhope made a strangled sound as she reached for the basket of porcelain shards. “It’s terrifying to think, though, that when I was Bianca’s age, I was on the verge of marrying Robert.”
Lavinia’s spirits sank all over again at the mention of the “M” word.
“I can’t imagine entering a marriage at that age,” Marigold said, gluing a final bit onto her mosaic, then sitting back. “You can’t have wanted to marry that young.”
Lady Stanhope shrugged. “I had no choice in the matter. My parents arranged everything.” She gave up searching through the basket with an irritated huff. “It didn’t help matters that I was with child before my nineteenth birthday.”
Lavinia let out a lamenting squeak before she could stop herself. She’d barely let herself think of babies, even though she’d told Dr. Pearson she’d give him children if he wanted them. But she could be a mother by the same time next year.
“There, there.” Lady Stanhope rose from her sofa and shifted to sit beside Lavinia on hers. “Everything turned out right in the end for me, more or less, and it will for you as well.”
Lavinia turned mournful, doubting eyes to Lady Stanhope. “Everything is ruined.”
Marigold and Mariah exchanged knowing looks before Marigold said, “What is ruined, dearest?”
Lavinia felt like an ungrateful child who had been handed a luxurious, marzipan tart when all she wanted was a common sweet bun. She owed it to her friends to explain, even though they were likely to laugh at her. “I wanted to be a modern, independent woman. Instead, I’m about to marry a man nearly twice my age whom I barely know.”
“You’re about to marry an exceptionally kind viscount who I would trust with my life,” Marigold corrected her, putting down her mosaic. “I have trusted him with my life.”
Lavinia felt more like a heel than ever. But the bitterness had entered her soul and wouldn’t be so easily rooted out, so she said, “You sound like my mother.”
“Dear, no one sounds like your mother but your mother,” Lady Stanhope said with an arch of her brow. “At least now you’ll be free of her.”
“Yes,” Mariah added. “And wasn’t that the point of this entire house party?”
“I thought the point of the house party was so that your husbands could plot and mold the incoming government,” Lavinia said, refusing to be comforted.
“It is,” Lady Stanhope said. “And soon you can say your husband has a hand in the new order of things too.”
Lavinia fixed Lady Stanhope with a flat look. She wasn’t amused by the comment, and yet as morose as her soul felt over the whole thing, a spark of excitement flared at the idea that she would be included in the innermost circle.
“If independence is your aim,” Mariah went on, the only one of them still working on her mosaic as she spoke, “then you’re far more likely to achieve true independence as the wife of an influential man.”
“She speaks the truth,” Marigold agreed, pulling the basket of broken pieces toward her. “Single women are like children in the eyes of society.”
“And besides,” Lady Stanhope said, rubbing Lavinia’s back. “Armand has been studying medicine and anatomy for years, including female anatomy. I’m quite certain that he knows enough of the workings of things to have you crying out in ecstasy for divine intervention once he beds you.”
Mortified by the suggestion, Lavinia buried her hot face in her hands and groaned.
“Oh, come now. You’re too old to be cowed by such things,” Lady Stanhope went on. She paused, then said, “But come to me for advice on your wedding night instead of going to your mother. She’ll have you terrified. I’ll share a few tricks that will have Armand cursing himself for not dropping to one knee and proposing the first time he met you.”
“Is it the thing with the…you know?” Marigold asked. Lavinia peeked through her fingers in time to see Marigold make a swirling motion with her fingers.
“Sweeting, that technique is amateur compared to what I have in mind,” Lady Stanhope answered.
“Ooh! Do tell.” Mariah put down her mosaic at last and scooted closer to Lady Stanhope, her eyes alight with mischief and excitement.
“Well,” Lady Stanhope leaned in, eyes sparkling with wickedness. “If you reach back—” she made a cupping gesture with one hand “—and grab hold right when he’s—”
“Stop.” Lavinia stood abruptly, covering her ears. “I can’t hear this right now.”
Lady Stanhope straightened, grinning. “Believe me, if you’re open to experimentation, your married life will benefit.”
“I never asked for a married life at all,” Lavinia insisted. “I’m not prepared for this, and you’re giving me advice on how to please a man I hardly know in intimate ways?”
“Dearest, I know it seems difficult now, but I can assure you that you will appreciate Ka
tya’s advice on these things,” Marigold insisted, reaching for Lavinia’s hand. “Intimacy of every sort is vital to a marriage.”
“I. Don’t. Know. Him,” Lavinia snapped out each word. In a funny way, it was easier to feel angry about the situation than it was to nurture the sharp fear that had lived in her gut during the three days since the debacle in the maze.
“She does have a point,” Mariah said, coming to Lavinia’s defense in a way that made her want to weep with relief. “We all know Armand well, but to Lavinia, he’s a complete unknown.”
“But he is a good man,” Marigold insisted. “I honestly believe you’re in the best of hands. Otherwise, I would have fought against this union tooth and nail.”
“And I’m only teasing you about bedsport because it galls me more than anything to see young ladies going into marriage with an ingrained fear of it,” Lady Stanhope assured her. “It aggravates me to no end that sexuality in women is all but erased these days instead of embraced. Why, if we educated young girls as we should, they would be comfortable with—”
“I’m sorry, Lady Stanhope, but I don’t want to hear this right now,” Lavinia said, breaking away from the attempted comfort of her friends. “I know that this is something you care deeply about, and perhaps some other time you can educate me until your heart’s content. But not now.”
She marched away from her friends, feeling miserable for being rude to them, sick because of everything that was happening to her, and lost because she had no control over it. Her friends were probably right about everything—about Dr. Pearson’s character, about the independence marriage could bring, and about the pleasures of the marriage bed. But Lavinia hadn’t asked for any of it. It didn’t matter how beautiful or pleasurable the cage was, it was still a cage.
If it hadn’t been raining, she would have fled outdoors, losing herself in the garden or the woods that stood on the far edge of Winterberry Park. As it was, she was forced to stomp through the halls to work off the excess energy of her anger and heartache. She didn’t know the house well, but at least it was large enough for her to stretch her legs and feel the thump of her heart against her ribs as she pushed on and on.
She walked to the far end of the house and was about to turn and march back to the other when the sound of male voices stopped her.
“There’s just so much to do,” Mr. Croydon seemed to be in the middle of lamenting. “The world is changing so quickly, and if Gladstone wants us to keep pace with that, he’ll have to agree to the course laid out in our letter.”
“But we won’t know what he thinks of it until we receive a reply,” Lord Dunsford said.
“We should have had a reply by now,” Lord Malcolm seemed to cut in to whatever else Lord Dunsford was about to say. “Two days was plenty of time for Phillips to take the train into London, deliver the letter, receive a reply, and get back here.”
“He has to obtain a special license as well,” Dr. Pearson added in a low grumble, sending tingles through Lavinia’s limbs that made her hands and feet go numb. He didn’t sound any happier about their union than she felt.
“I haven’t heard anything from Phillips,” Mr. Croydon said. “Which is unusual. He generally telegraphs if there’s any sort of trouble.”
“He hasn’t telegraphed, so we have to assume the delay is on Gladstone’s end,” Lord Dunsford went on. “So while we wait, we need to be sure we have all our soldiers in order.”
“You and your military metaphors,” Lord Malcolm said, though he sounded amused.
“We’re waging war,” Lord Dunsford went on. “War against outdated ideas, war to make the world a better place for the women we love.”
“And like any good war, the tactics we use and the strategies we employ are key,” Mr. Croydon said.
“Which is why we have to take out Shayles first and foremost,” Lord Malcolm said.
The others made various noises of agreement and impatience. Lavinia inched closer to the door, wondering what expressions they wore or why Lord Shayles was so important.
“While I agree that Shayles has got to go,” Mr. Croydon began, “Gladstone will tell us how far we—”
He stopped, and Lavinia realized a fraction of a second too late that it was because she’d stepped too close to the doorway. She could see all of the men now. The room was some sort of masculine sitting room and smoke filled the air from the pipes Lord Dunsford and Lord Malcolm were smoking. Mr. Croydon appeared to be pacing in the middle of the room, while Dr. Pearson leaned against the frame of a window at the opposite end of the room, glancing sullenly out at the pouring rain. Of course, if she could see all of them, they could all see her.
“Lady Lavinia, is there something we can help you with?” Mr. Croydon addressed her.
Caught without a clue about what to say or do to explain herself, all Lavinia could do was step into the room, twisting her hands together in front of her. “I…I was just passing by, and I thought your conversation was interesting,” she said, feeling small.
Dr. Pearson pushed away from the window and marched toward her. “We’re just discussing politics,” he said. “I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested.”
“On the contrary,” Lavinia said, taking another bold step into the room. “I have been following the work Mr. Croydon has been doing in the House of Commons closely these last few years. Although, I agree that you will have an uphill climb to pass the reforms to the rights of women that you wish to pass.”
All four of the men blinked at her. Lavinia only cared about the surprise in Dr. Pearson’s eyes. He watched her as though he had no idea who she was, which wouldn’t have bothered her, except that he was her fiancé. Lady Stanhope’s hints and gestures and mischievous smile came back to her. Good lord, she would have to go to bed with this man. She would have to spend the rest of her life with him.
Her nerves bristled, and before any of the men could speak, she blundered on with, “You’ll probably have to extend the franchise before you grant more rights to women. And deal with Irish Home Rule. But if you give more working men the right to vote, chances are you will secure Liberal control of Parliament for years to come, which will enable you to concentrate on less popular but equally necessary reforms.” She blinked, noticing that the men were even more astonished now than when she’d opened her stupid mouth. She clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles went white and lowered her head. “Or…not.”
A thick silence filled the air along with the smoke from Lord Dunsford and Lord Malcolm’s pipes. Lavinia began to tremble. She was afraid to look at Dr. Pearson, afraid to see what her soon-to-be, stranger of a husband must think of her impertinence.
“You know, she has a point,” Lord Dunsford said at last.
Lavinia glanced up as the other men turned to Lord Dunsford. At least Dr. Pearson didn’t seem angry with her.
“Extending the franchise is a far easier goal than securing the rights of women,” Lord Dunsford went on. He shrugged and gestured with his pipe. “Not that I’m suggesting we scale down our efforts to pass the women’s right’s bill in the least, but perhaps a two-pronged attack of progressive legislation will leave Disraeli and his lot, including Shayles, fighting a battle on too many fronts to mount an effective defense.”
“I’m not giving up my efforts to see Shayles hung, drawn, and quartered,” Lord Malcolm said.
“You won’t have to.” Mr. Croydon resumed his pacing. “In fact, there may be a way to come at him specifically from more than one angle.”
Lavinia slowly let out a breath as the shock of her entry subsided. She would have expected the gentlemen to see her as far more of an unwelcome intrusion, but they continued on as if she weren’t there. No, that wasn’t it. Rather, they continued as if she were a part of the group.
“Gladstone wants the Irish question sorted,” Mr. Croydon went on, “but it has the potential to consume everything else if brought to the fore.”
Dr. Pearson continued his journey across the room to Lavini
a as though he didn’t care at all about Irish Home Rule. “Is there something you need?” he asked in a quiet voice, coming so close to her that Lavinia swore she could feel his heat, as the others continued their debate.
Lavinia shook her head tightly. “I had to get up and move around.”
He hummed, arching a brow. “I know the feeling.” His mouth pulled into a wry smile. That mouth would have every right to kiss hers whenever he wanted soon.
Lavinia’s knees wobbled, and her insides felt odd. She couldn’t think of a thing to say in reply. But as it happened, she didn’t have to. A brief commotion in the hall was followed by the study’s door flying fully open as Mr. Phillips and her mother burst in on them.
“This is fortuitous,” her mother said, clapping her hands together. “The two of you, here together.” She smiled from Lavinia to Dr. Pearson and back again. “Mr. Phillips has returned from London.”
Lavinia’s throat constricted and her heart raced. “Mr. Phillips?”
Mr. Croydon’s man of business marched straight past her, handing Dr. Pearson an envelope before moving on to Mr. Croydon. “Did you receive my telegram, sir?” he asked, looking as grave as if someone had died. “Only, I was surprised when you didn’t answer immediately.”
Mr. Croydon and the others were instantly on the alert. “No. We received nothing. Has something happened? Do you have a reply from Gladstone?”
