The Lies of Lord John

by Fiona Monroe

  "Yes, Charity. I believe he did."

  "Oh!" She clapped her hands together, then worry stole over her countenance once more. "Oh, dearest cousin, will you do what you promised and go to your uncle to make sure that there is no objection? I dare not speak to him, myself, and I dare not speak to my mother, in case she is—why, were you not pleased with Mr. Eliphaz Carluke?"

  "Not at all pleased, no."

  "Oh. That is unfortunate, for I believe my mother was very much in favour of him. She will make it difficult for you to refuse him. Why did you dislike him? He is short, but he seemed gentlemanly."

  "I do not care about his height. I did not, in fact, find him gentlemanly at all, in conversation."

  "His brother is tall," said Charity happily. "I am tall, and I have always been a little worried that I should not find a husband of sufficient stature. Will you talk to your uncle?"

  Having already undertaken to do so, although with the intention of arguing the opposite point, Margaret could think of no way of refusing this. She looked unhappily around the bedroom, and suddenly, her eye was caught by a flash of white and red in the corner of the room where her evening gown was lying in a discarded heap. It was the letter from Emmeline, which she had tucked into her bosom and then forgotten all about during the course of the evening. She was suddenly desperate to read it, as desperate as she was to hear Emmeline's voice and throw herself upon her old friend's sympathy and advice. Mrs. Douglas might have put herself beyond all respectable company, and Margaret was still angry with her and knew that she could never openly associate with her again, but she could not help, nonetheless long, for the comfort of her friend.

  She was also alarmed that Charity might spot the letter, unlikely though that was. Charity seemed preoccupied, wrapped up in the affairs of her own heart.

  "I will talk to him," she said, keeping her voice steady, "but on reflection, Charity, I think that the morning would be a better time. My uncle is always in an excellent temper after breakfast, and it will give a better impression if it seems that you have spent the night reflecting on everything. You do not wish to appear impetuous."

  Charity chewed her lip, appeared to consider this, and then nodded. "You are right, dear cousin. Oh, thank you! I am so glad we are becoming friends!"

  Margaret did not argue with this, mostly to get rid of her. She breathed a sigh of relief, once the door closed behind her, and snatched the letter from amidst her discarded gown.

  She looked for a long moment at her own name, written on the front in Emmeline's elegant flowing hand. Emmeline had been educated at the best girls' school in Edinburgh, before her father, who had been a merchant, had lost all his money and died in penury from a broken heart. She had certainly been supplied with all the accomplishments to make a good match, save for the fortune which disappeared along with her father's business, and she had been guilty of nothing more than youthful giddiness in marrying the handsome, winning, spendthrift and impecunious Mr. Douglas. How sadly her life had spiralled downward from that one misjudgement. How precarious was a woman's reputation?

  She broke the seal.

  My dearest Margaret,

  I could not leave things forever as we left them last night, with words spoken in bitterness and anger. I have no excuses for my conduct, beyond the simple explanation I offered you; I have no real regrets, beyond the fact that I have separated myself from you forever. But, you know, we were separated anyway. Your honoured uncle's new wife would never have approved our continuing friendship, were I to have lived chaste as a nun.

  I am writing in the hope that you might forgive me so far as to permit an occasional, necessarily clandestine correspondence, and also, to offer the advice I was in the end unable to give you last night. I am in possession of some further knowledge, in addition to this, that I think ought to be of interest to you.

  In the hopes that you have read this far without tossing the paper into the fire, then, dearest Margaret—closer and dearer to me than any sister—it is my earnest advice to you, that you ought to marry as soon as you possibly can, in order to escape the restrictions of your present home.

  I can see you shake your head even as I write this, and I know we debated the matter many times over the years. I was in full agreement with your decision to turn down Mr. McAllister and that medical student whose name I confess I have forgotten. Neither could tempt you with a home to equal the one you would have left, and in neither case, were your feelings much involved. But consider, my dear, how much things have changed for you. Last night was a case in point. Your aunt will not allow you to go to a simple, respectable literary soiree three streets away from your own home, even to meet a poet whose work you admire. You are confined to the day to day company of the dullest girl in Edinburgh.

  You may be sure that it will not be long before your new aunt schemes to get you off her hands, by marrying you to some dreadful acquaintance of her own. Again, my sweet girl, I see you shake your head, but I predict that it will be so, sooner rather than later! You will not find it as easy as you think, to dismiss a suitor presented with her authority, particularly if your uncle accedes to her, as he is likely to. Remember, Margaret, I lived seven years in your family, and I know its ways. I saw all of this. I warned you of every outcome, the first day your uncle began to talk of Mrs. Rankine. You told me none of it would come to pass, and were my predictions not accurate in every respect? So, believe me, Mrs. Cochrane will find you what she considers to be a suitable match and press you into agreeing, and you may find it difficult to refuse her.

  Before things reach this crisis, I have a proposition which I urge you to consider quite seriously. As you know, I made the acquaintance at the soiree both of Sir Duncan Buccleuch and Lord John Dunwoodie. Sir Duncan has long been known to me by reputation; he had a name about town as a libertine and not the worst of the set belonging to the notorious Viscount Daventry. However, Sir Duncan has recently married, and I understand that he is very fond of his wife, who is a highly respectable woman, and he has distanced himself from his old disgraceful companions. Enamoured therefore of the delights of matrimony, or so I imagine, he is seeking a wife for his friend, Lord John.

  So active is Sir Duncan in his friend's interests, that he paid me a call this morning to ask me all about you. He saw that Lord John took notice of you; he could see with his own eyes that you are a lovely girl, and he wanted to hear from a knowledgeable person that you had a fortune of your own.

  Sir Duncan was charmingly frank. He said that Lord John could not bring much in the way of fortune to a marriage, because he is a younger son of a large family, and he gives his profession as poet, which cannot be vastly remunerative. Nonetheless, I find it hard to believe that there is not something there, for the Dunwoodie estate is a very wealthy one. A Sir Duncan or a Lord John's idea of poverty is not quite mine or even yours! Sir Duncan was eloquent as to his friend's many advantages, money notwithstanding. He is a handsome young man, he has published at least one volume of poetry, he has travelled extensively in Italy and other such places and must have many diverting tales to tell. He has been, by Sir Duncan's report, shockingly treated by his family. I believe his sister-in-law, who is the Duke of Westmorland's daughter, had him turned out of his own home in a fit of maniacal rage, when his own brother, the late Marquess, had died not twenty-four hours before. Sir Duncan says he is kind and warm-hearted, and the last person to deserve such cruel usage.

  He painted such a pretty picture, in short, that if I had any money, I would be half-tempted to wed him, myself! For a third time, I can see you shaking your head. But consider, Margaret. If you marry Lord John, you will be entirely freed from the restraints of your uncle's house and Mrs. Cochrane's tyranny. You will not be in danger of any alternative matrimonial schemes that Mrs. Cochrane might propose. You would have the use of your own money and be an independent, married woman. The interest on your twenty thousand would easily be enough for you to set up home in a modest but respectable way in New Town; and in
the future, when the dowager Marchioness dies or is committed to an asylum or some such, it is very likely that you will live for at least part the year at Dunwoodie House in Aberdeenshire, which is the finest place of its kind in the north of Scotland. Lord John may not be rich at present, but if you marry him, you will always be near relation to a Marquess. That is more than twenty thousand may often purchase!

  My paper reminds me to conclude. Dearest Margaret, I urge you to give the suggestion at least some consideration. I promised Sir Duncan that I would write to you and make the proposal, and he is to speak to Lord John in his turn. If neither of you find the idea completely unacceptable, then perhaps we could, between us, arrange a meeting for you to discuss the matter further. Do at least think about it, my dear sweet Margaret. I am very worried for you at present.

  I remain, etc.

  Emmeline Douglas

  Chapter 10

  A night's sleep had not decided Margaret on the matter, save for one thing. She would not by any means even consider the prospect until she had received a direct proposal from the man, himself. She would not be wed by hearsay. She was half-inclined to believe that it was all a fabrication of Emmeline's, anyway. Emmeline had always been prone to flights of fancy, which she believed herself.

  She knew, however, from a certain strange stirring in her breast that the idea was not totally repugnant to her. As she lay in the darkness of her room, she conjured up what she could remember of Lord John's handsome, regular features as she had seen them under the street lamp, but it was his hands that really came back to her imagination—long, bony, delicate, and supple.

  Breakfast was a strange, strained meal that morning. Charity looked restless and agitated, which was more animation than she ever normally betrayed. Margaret found herself liking her much the better for displaying emotion, and she resolved that she would keep her word and advocate as strongly as she could in favour of her cousin's match with Mr. Obidiah Carluke. She did not anticipate much resistance on her uncle's part—she thought Charity's apprehensions unfounded—but it would give her a good opportunity to state her own position with regards to Mr. Eliphaz Carluke.

  Both Mr. and Mrs. Cochrane seemed more subdued than usual. Mr. Cochrane rarely looked out from behind The Scotsman, and Mrs. Cochrane ate buttered potato cakes in a silence that was broken only when she snapped at her daughter for clattering her tea-cup.

  Halfway through breakfast, the housemaid brought in a note on a silver platter for Mr. Cochrane. He put down his paper, opened it, and made a kind of surprised growling noise.

  "What is it, Uncle?" Margaret asked. She had already decided not to interrupt the peculiar atmosphere, in preparation for her attack on her uncle once breakfast was over.

  Her uncle balanced his pince-nez on the end of his nose and read the note through again before replying. "It is a note from a Lord John Dunwoodie, enclosing his card…" He held the latter object up between finger and thumb, in his wife's direction. "…begging the favour of being allowed to call upon us this morning, to enquire after the health of Miss Bell after her adventure of Tuesday night. Lord John Dunwoodie?"

  Mrs. Cochrane snatched the card and examined it with a disgusted expression. "He is the gentleman who escorted Margaret home on the night of her escapade. Adventure, indeed."

  "Is he known to you, my dear?"

  A quick, bright dart of surprise had lodged under Margaret's bosom. She really had, she knew, thought the whole thing to be one of Emmeline's imaginative follies. "Yes, Uncle. At least, I was introduced to him at the Hamiltons', the other night. A very slight acquaintance, sir, that is all."

  "And how comes he to be a lord?"

  "I believe he is a younger son of the Marquess of Crieff."

  "Ah! The Marquess of Crieff. I did not recognise the surname, but the Crieffs—yes, that is a very ancient and respectable noble family, from the north, I think?"

  "Ancient and respectable the family might be," said Mrs. Cochrane, with such a sudden hiss of fury in her voice that it sounded as if she were in the middle of an argument, "but that does not mean that the gentleman, himself, is any such thing. He is, as the common phrase goes, a black sheep. We do not want his sort visiting here."

  Mr. Cochrane looked at her over the top of his lenses. "He writes a very civil note, my dear. It would be common courtesy, no more, to receive him."

  She puffed out a breath. "This, sir, is my house. I believe that is still the case? Or am I mistaken?"

  After another long moment of contemplation, Mr. Cochrane sighed deeply, put aside the note, and spread out his paper once more. "No, my dear. You are by no means mistaken."

  "I am glad to hear it. If this… Lord John calls, we will not be at home."

  The rest of breakfast was eaten in undisturbed silence.

  Directly after breakfast, Margaret ran up to her bedroom. It was the principal room on the second floor, and it commanded an excellent view over the street.

  Almost immediately, she was accosted by Charity, who had followed her. "Cousin! You promised you would speak to your uncle after breakfast!"

  "And so I shall, Charity. There is no hurry. It is best to give him a little time to get settled with his books." She knelt on the window-seat and peered down into Charlotte Square.

  "Mamma is in a terrible temper," Charity said unhappily. "I think that she and your uncle have had a disagreement. I hope it was not about the Mr. Carlukes."

  This cheering thought had not occurred to Margaret during breakfast, but as soon as her cousin suggested it, she decided that it must be so.

  "You see how readily your uncle agrees to whatever my mother suggests," Charity went on. "The matter of the titled gentleman who wanted to visit! My mother has always disapproved of aristocratic families. She thinks them dissolute, but they cannot all be bad, can they? What are you looking at, is there something interesting happening in the street?"

  "No! I am being idle. I thought I saw a sweep, and that is lucky, you know. I have correspondence I must deal with."

  Charity made to go but turned back and said anxiously, "You will talk to your uncle?"

  "I promised I would!"

  At last, Charity left her, and Margaret was able to turn her full attention back to her survey of the street below. While she waited and watched, she fastened the buttons of her walking boots, which she had secretly brought upstairs concealed in the folds of her skirts.

  She spotted the tall, elegant figure of Lord John Dunwoodie as soon as he turned the corner from Charlotte Street. Though he was too far away for her to distinguish anything save his excellent top hat, his bearing was distinctive and distinguished. His limbs were long, but unlike the unfortunate Mr. Obidiah Carluke, they were not out of proportion or gangling. He was slender, but not thin. He walked with assurance, with grace, swinging a smart silver-topped cane that flashed in the sunlight.

  Margaret seized her parasol and reticule and flew down the stairs.

  Margaret managed to be halfway along the distance between her uncle's house and the corner with Charlotte Street before she drew level with Lord John.

  He smiled most gratifyingly when he spotted her, stopped, and bowed. "Miss Bell! A very good day to you. I was on my way to call on your uncle." He indicated the direction of number eighteen with his cane.

  "Ah! I am afraid my uncle is not at home. Nor is my aunt at home. My cousin, Miss Rankine, is at home; you may call on her if you wish."

  "Alas, I have not the honour of your cousin, Miss Rankine's, acquaintance. My whole morning is a ruin, it seems."

  "Not so much, sir, if you were to do me the service of accompanying me to Mrs. Johnson's haberdashery shop. I set out in urgent need of some ribbons to finish a hat, but my maid was taken ill just as we were leaving the house. I thought that since the shop is just in the next street, and I do very much want to finish the bonnet, that I may as well go on alone. But it is not pleasant to walk abroad alone."

  "With very great pleasure, madam." He bowed again, turned in her di
rection, and offered her his arm.

  With much greater willingness than she had two nights ago, Margaret hooked her hand into the crook of his elbow. For almost the first time in her life, she had the happy experience of leaning into a man's body and gaining a sense of security and comfort from his strength.

  Those they passed, she reflected, must think them a well-looking couple.

  "It seems to be my destiny to rescue you from the perils of these streets," he said.

  "Indeed, sir, Charlotte Square is a dangerous place!"

  He laughed briefly and then said, "But in truth, Miss Bell, I had come today to enquire after you—your health and even your spirits, after what happened on Tuesday night."

  "I am quite well, sir, as you see."

  He seemed to glance aside at her but said nothing in reply.

  Margaret felt her heart pounding in her chest as they walked on, and the silence grew between them. She had taken a desperate gamble. It was not conceivable that her absence from the house would long be undetected, and she knew very well that her aunt, at least, would take a very dim view of her walking the streets arm-in-arm unchaperoned with any gentleman acquaintance, far less one whom she had already declared to be a black sheep.

  There was only one circumstance under which she dared to return home, and that was beginning to seem like a fantasy of Emmeline's, after all.