And deceiving yourself, whispered a small voice.
She ought to come clean.
But, the duchess was smiling again, telling her about the gifts she’d purchased for her staff, asking if Cornelia would help in wrapping them, and looking so very pleased that she was there.
She couldn’t spoil this. She didn’t want to.
Mr. Ethan Burnell was never going to be hers; was never going to be any woman’s. But, perhaps, Rosamund might become Cornelia’s friend.
And then the dogs were tail-wagging, barking and bounding across the room again, because Aunt Blanche and Aunt Eustacia had made it down at last—and all other thoughts were put aside during the happy reunion.
Chapter 6
A few hours later…
Everyone was gathered in the drawing room prior to luncheon, to partake of an apéritif.
Blanche and Eustacia, having shared an enjoyable catch-up with Lady Studborne, were in high spirits (helped along by having ogled young Carruthers as he secured the festive festoons).
Cornelia, meanwhile, was feeling overwhelmed. Her hair was refusing to remain neatly pinned, Minnie’s claw had snagged a thread near the hem of her gown, and a spot was attempting to erupt just above her left ear.
She felt the penetrating, and highly curious, scrutiny of her fellow guests who were, no doubt, speculating on why she and her aunts had been invited.
So far, Burnell was noticeably absent though, Cornelia supposed, he would surely make the effort to join them, if for no other purpose than the alleviation of hunger.
“Oh look!” Blanche nudged Eustacia. “I’d recognize that nose anywhere. It’s Myrtle Mivvetsump, as married the Marquess of Pippsbury the same year we made our curtsey to the Queen.”
Eustacia drew out her spectacles. “So it is! She always was fond of peach taffeta, and those must be her daughters; one doesn’t see eyebrows like those in the general way of things. Everyone said Pippsbury only married her for the sake of her father’s sardine empire, but twelve children are rarely begotten through duty alone. Although, with the first eleven being girls, I suppose they had to keep going until an heir made an appearance.”
“I hear she went into five years of full mourning after his passing. Rather hard on her youngest girls. What with one thing and another, they’re getting a bit long in the tooth for husband-hunting.”
Cornelia fought to arrange her face in an attitude of composure. “Be quiet, both of you! Someone will hear.”
Blanche merely helped herself to a glass of madeira from a passing salver, and passed another to Eustacia. “Nonsense, darling. They’re far too engrossed in saying similar things about us—if not far worse.”
Cornelia could hardly argue. It was what she found most discomforting—the knowledge of being whispered about, of being pitied and, inevitably, judged. For this reason, she’d spent years avoiding the theatre, the opera and all such public entertainments. She hadn’t attended a house party since…well, since Oswald’s death—and she recalled nothing about that occasion with fondness.
“Myrtle used to be a good sort but Pippsbury’s title made her far too hoity-toity,” Eustacia sipped at her drink. “If she’s here to bag our American friend for one of her offspring then the rumours of the marquess gambling away most of their fortune must be true. Of course, young Ethan has other things to recommend him besides money. As sister-in-law to the duke, his wife will be assured connection to the most illustrious circles.”
“Which would certainly help those other poor Pippsbury girls.” Blanche drained her glass and looked wistfully into its bottom.
Lady Pippsbury chose that moment to cast her eyes their way. With the bearing of a steamship launching majestic upon the seas, she glided towards them.
“My dear Miss Everlys, what a surprise.” The marchioness’s eyes flicked briefly to Cornelia. ”And your niece.” She smiled with mock sweetness. ”Looking fetching in brown.”
She drew her daughters forward. “May I introduce, Penelope, Portia, Persephone and Paulina—just returned from Paris.” Lady Pippsbury fluttered her fingers airily. “We always order our spring wardrobe from Atelier Pointilleux; nothing in London can compare.”
The young women, dressed in various shades of a rather dazzling green, dipped respectful curtsies to the elderly Miss Everlys.
“I must say I admire your fortillitude, Mrs. Mortmain.” Lady Pippsbury turned to Cornelia again. “To have endured so much. The passing of time cannot ameliorate such mortifillication, cannot wash clean the putridifying stain of scandal. The only blessing is that your mother and husband died before enroasting themselves in further degradation. We must be thankful for small mercies.”
Cornelia stood quite frozen, her stomach clenching. Though her father had found Mortmain quickly enough to save her from the worst sort of cutting behaviour, she’d endured enough such condescension to last a lifetime.
“Now, now, Myrtle. Children cannot be blamed for the misdeeds of their parents. Nor can we berate our sex for the ignominies visited on us by wayward husbands.” Eustacia spoke in her usual jaunty manner but Cornelia could see her eyes flashing with barely concealed ire.
Lady Pippsbury sighed. “To err is human, to forgive divine, as they say. For myself, I would never dream of blaming your niece for her mother’s wicked ways, nor for her husband’s lack of decorum, but her story provides a valuable lesson to all young women of virtue.”
She linked her arm through Penelope’s. “A woman must exert her magnetissimo not just to entice a man but to keep him by her side, while remaining steadfast in her wifely loyalty.”
Penelope made a study of her slipper.
“Perhaps we should ask Mrs. Bongorge’s advice in the matter, since her charms have won not one but four husbands—of conveniently elderly age and financial surety.” Blanche inclined her head towards the door.
“Estela Bongorge?” The marchioness’s head swivelled.
The woman entering the room was indisputably elegant and fashionably attired. Her expanse of creamy bosom, encased precariously in black guipure lace, would have stopped a regiment in its tracks.
Cornelia had known her by quite another name the year of her first season. At the time, the beguiling Estela had been newly married to her third husband, a soap-millionaire. Nevertheless, her wedded state had done nothing to dampen her popularity among the bachelors.
“That hussy can sniff out an eligibobble man from the next county.” Lady Pippsbury’s grip tightened on poor Penelope’s arm.
“Probably true,” mused Eustacia. “But one can hardly fault her ‘magnetissimo’ as you put it Myrtle, dear.”
“Sex appeal,” mouthed Blanche.
“And isn’t that little Esther behind her?” Eustacia squinted.
Lady Pippsbury’s lips pressed in disapproval. “The vixen must be touting her about, though the girl is barely of age.”
“Now, Myrtle, such vulgarisms are beneath you,” chided Eustacia. “If Mrs. Bongorge has bothered to travel this far, it’s more likely she’s looking for herself. Although her husband isn’t quite ready to drop off the perch, I hear it won’t be long.”
Cornelia’s stomach lurched again. The whole business was distasteful, and she’d no desire to hear more. Clearly, the various young ladies gathered were there for Mr. Burnell’s benefit, just as he’d foreseen.
She was about to make some excuse and drift away when the gong sounded and Lady Studborne invited everyone to walk through.
“Jolly good.” Eustacia guided Cornelia to fall in line. “I hear the duchess’s cook is exceptional, particularly when it comes to pastry. Her game pie is praised far and wide.”
Cornelia smiled weakly. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat anything at all, and there was still no sign of Mr. Burnell.
“Blanche and I are seated on either side of Colonel Faversham.”
Cornelia believed he was the one wearing the rather awful toupée.
“You’re placed between the vicar’s wife
and Baron Billingsworth,” her aunt went on. “He looks harmless, but watch out for his hands. I know his sort. No female posterior is safe.”
“He’s a reasonable catch.” Blanche added. “Though a dreadful one for the drink, so he’ll probably die soon. At least you wouldn’t have to put up with him too long if things didn’t work out. Still capable of fathering children, though rather quick to the finish line, I’ve heard.”
Eustacia elbowed Blanche in the ribs. “Ignore her, Cornelia. He’s far too long in the tooth. You can do markedly better.”
As in the drawing room, the walls were papered in pink silk, the rose hue echoed in velvet curtains swagged at windows sufficiently tall to balance the height of the ceiling. Quite in contrast to the darkly ornate decoration of the entrance hall, the connecting rooms had a lightness which spoke of a feminine hand.
Above, the stucco ceiling was most prettily finished, its cherubs carrying garlands of roses between them, surrounding a central chandelier of magnificent proportions.
The window panes were patterned with frost and the snow was falling harder than ever, piling deep against the French doors leading to the terrace. The grand vista over open parkland was blanketed white, the lake iced beyond.
Nancy had been right. In this sort of weather, no further guests would be arriving; nor would any be leaving.
Taking her seat, Cornelia realized that not only was Mr. Burnell absent but Lord Studborne also.
The duchess rang a little bell to summon everyone’s attention and, looking to each in turn, gave her welcome. “It gives me great pleasure to have gathered so many dear friends to our home. Be assured we have much fun planned and, despite the not-far-off-arrival of another Studborne—” Here, she rested her hand upon the swell before her, “I intend to join in the festivities.”
There were a few titters and a murmur of approval about the table.
“Please accept my apologies on His Grace’s behalf.” She indicated the empty seat at the far end. “He asks us not to delay. Despite the inclement weather, his Grace took my brother on a tour of the estate and they came across some sheep in trouble in the lower meadow. Not wishing to be bested by a snow drift, the two set about hauling out the livestock by hand. They returned a few minutes ago, and should be with us shortly.”
Another wave of respectful mutterings greeted the announcement, alongside a cry of ‘Hoorah for his Grace, Saviour of Sheep’, which met with subdued chuckles.
“Thank you Lord Fairlea.” The duchess smiled benignly. “I’ve been wondering what to embroider upon his Grace’s handkerchiefs; now, I have my answer.”
The laughter came freely at Lady Studborne’s joke and, at her nod, the footmen stepped forward to serve the soup.
“Oh, courgette and pea, my favourite.” The matron next to Cornelia inhaled appreciatively. “It was a rather tricky walk up the lane from the rectory but I’m so glad we came. The duke and duchess are wonderful hosts. Have you known them long?”
Cornelia observed Mrs. Nossle taking note of her name card, balanced within a holly sprig at the head of her place-setting. Nothing in her demeanour indicated that the name Mortmain was familiar, and Cornelia couldn’t help but feel relief.
“Some small acquaintance when I was a child, though my aunts have a long-standing correspondence with the duchess. I haven’t met the duke as yet.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll like him very well. Everyone does.” Mrs. Nossle lowered her voice, so that Cornelia was obliged to lean a little closer. “A vast improvement on his father. One doesn’t like to speak ill of the dead but something wasn’t right there. For a time, Reverend Nossle helped place some girls from Weymouth orphanage in the old duke’s employ but none of them stayed long. Always a sign, don’t you think, that all isn’t well in a house.”
“I really couldn’t say…” Cornelia gave an inward sigh.
Mrs. Nossle was clearly as great a gossip as the rest. When she heard of Cornelia’s past, no doubt, she’d be whispering about that instead.
“My husband, the Reverend, sees it as his duty to discover all he can about the history of the parish.” Mrs Nossle went on, between mouthfuls of soup. “The abbey is built on the foundations of the old monastery, with only a small portion of the original remaining. It was founded by a Franciscan monk who travelled to Mexico, they say: one Friar Vasco de Benevente. During the Reformation, it all passed to private hands, like many of the holy buildings in these parts. It was then that King Henry VIII created the title of Duke of Studborne.”
Mrs. Nossle broke her bread roll and heaped a generous slather of butter upon the morsel. “The Reverend was eager to write a whole history of the abbey but the duke and duchess weren’t keen.”
She popped the bread into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Can’t blame them for wanting a mite of privacy I suppose. When people read those sorts of books it only makes them more desirous of visiting, and there are crowds enough already on the abbey’s summer opening days.”
“There’s a lot to be said for a quieter life.” Cornelia agreed. “To be so much in the public eye must be wearing.”
Mrs. Nossle looked somewhat plaintive. “I suppose you’re right, but one can live too quietly. I wouldn’t mind a spell up in London—to take in the shows and observe the bustle of all that’s new.”
“There are amusements but one tires of them quickly. Since my husband’s passing, I’ve chosen a modest existence. I’ve no desire to ‘see and be seen’.” As the second course found its way to the table, Cornelia wondered how she might guide the conversation in some other direction.
“Oh, to be sure!” declared Mrs. Nossle. “A widow may not need chaperoning in the same way as a maidenly young woman but she must guard her reputation, nonetheless. People do love to talk, don’t they? You’re very sensible, Mrs. Mortmain, I’m sure, to keep away from the fleshpots and such.”
“Fleshpots!” The man on Cornelia’s other side perked up and gave a roguish grin, revealing teeth stained with blackcurrant jus. “Lead the way, I say. Life’s too short and all that! Though too much hedonism does play havoc with the innards. I’m a slave to the gout, but not done for yet!” Baron Billingsworth addressed Cornelia over a fork of roasted venison.
“Pretty young things oughtn’t to be without a husband. Don’t deny it! I know the urges of youth; too much temptation to fall into wicked ways.” He threw himself into energetic mastication.
“The Reverend will agree, won’t you Nossle?” The baron’s voice carried across the table at an alarmingly loud volume. “Attractive women shouldn’t be allowed to prowl Society too freely, setting the men aflame. Disruptive to the general peace and all that; widows are the worst of the lot…or the best, I should say.”
Turning a disturbing shade of purple, the Reverend dabbed at his face with a napkin but refrained from a reply.
While others turned away, clearly unwilling to engage in such inappropriate discourse, Cornelia caught Lady Pippsbury’s eye and was certain she witnessed smirking.
The baron gave a lascivious wink and, under the table, rubbed his knee against hers. Cornelia’s knife slipped from her grasp, clattering against her plate. With shaking hands, she retrieved it, wondering if it was sharp enough to stab the baron’s straying thigh.
The odious man had just begun recounting a treatment he’d heard of for the relief of stiffened limbs, and his belief that a woman’s hands were best suited for the technique, when all heads turned towards the drawing room.
Looking up, Cornelia saw two tall figures silhouetted in the connecting entranceway.
“Please do carry on, everyone.” The duke pressed his lips lightly to Lady Studborne’s hand before walking to his place at the opposite end of the table.
Burnell, meanwhile, was bearing down on Cornelia’s side. Though he was formally dressed, there was no mistaking that he’d recently been outside. His cheeks bore the sort of ruddiness that came only from exposure to the elements, and his bearing spoke of having undertaken physical
exertion.
He came to a halt behind Baron Billingsworth’s chair and, for a moment, Cornelia thought he might hoist him from his seat in much the same way as she imagined he’d dragged out the errant sheep.
He bent to the baron’s ear. “I don’t want to hear that kind of talk about widows, or women of any persuasion.”
The baron’s moustache worked furiously above gnashing teeth but he refrained from answering, instead raising another forkful.
Standing tall, Burnell clapped a hand vigorously upon the baron’s shoulder, causing him to half-choke on his mouthful of cabbage.
With that, he strode round to the vacant seat between Mrs. Bongorge and Lady Pippsbury.
“Why, Mr. Burnell,” the marchioness simpered. “How gilligallant you are—like a knight of old defending a woman’s honourables.”
“Here, here,” added Mrs. Bongorge, leaning towards him. “What a pleasure it is to meet a man who understands our worth.”
Cornelia noticed that Burnell’s eyes were still trained on the baron, and looking none too friendly. “I did what any self-respecting man would.”
His gaze then moved to her. “Mrs. Mortmain and her aunts are old friends of my sister and I; they deserve to be accorded every civility.”
“But, of course,” cooed the marchioness. “And I do so hope that we may become friends, too, Mr. Burnell. My daughters and I have followed your exploititudes with avid interest. Such tales you must have! The days shall fly by, hearing tell of your adventures. You may be certain of a rapacious audience. We shall want every detail.”
Burnell inclined his head in recognition of the compliment but his answer was firm. “A man can hear too much of his own voice, Lady Pippsbury. I haven’t the inclination to relive every aspect of my past; some of it, to be sure, isn’t fit for a lady’s ears, anyhow.”
“Oh, but those are the details we shall most relish.” Mrs. Bongorge rested her hand upon his arm, smiling conspiratorially. “You needn’t fear shocking me, Mr. Burnell. My body may be that of a soft and fragile woman, but my spirit is made for adventure. I can only begin to imagine how you might make me gasp.”
The Lady's Guide to Scandal Page 7