“I do remember that you were trying to marry one of the Wilde girls a few years ago,” Lady Bumtrinket said, without pausing for breath. “Would have been a good choice, but the youngest is still in the nursery, isn’t she?” Her eyes roved the table and stopped on Joan. “Still unmarried?” she demanded.
“Yes, I am,” Joan replied. She turned to Greywick. “Isn’t it extraordinary how manners are changing? The ducal governess taught me never to inquire about marital status.”
“Your governess knew you had to adhere to the highest standards in order to marry anyone above a grocer,” Lady Bumtrinket declared. “That is not true for those of us born to the ermine. Speaking of which, I saw your father the other day,” she said to Greywick. “Draped in an ermine robe in this weather. Extraordinary, even for him.”
Joan was starting to feel distinctly sorry for the viscount. No matter how much she disliked him, he didn’t deserve a browbeating.
But the man had no need for her support. “My father is a duke of the realm,” he stated. “If he wishes to clothe himself from head to foot in the fur of small, spotted animals, he has the means to do it.”
Something about his face gave Lady Bumtrinket pause; she pursed her lips and then raised a finger. A footman sprang forward. “Three more coddled eggs,” she said. “More well-browned toast. One would think that Lindow Castle was lacking in funds, given the meagerness of the dish. I’ll have some of those dinner rolls as well, and just a soupçon of creamed spinach. Digestion requires vegetable matter, as I understand it.”
She turned back to Greywick. “What are you doing here, given that the duke hasn’t any unmarried daughters of age?”
Joan succumbed to a mischievous impulse and gave her a sunny smile. “Ah, but I am unmarried—as we established earlier, Lady Bumtrinket.”
The lady narrowed her eyes, and then said to Thaddeus, apparently under the misapprehension that a hoarse whisper couldn’t be heard across the table, “You mustn’t even think of making Lady Joan—do note that I gave her the honorific—your wife.”
Greywick’s jaw was very tight. “I see absolutely no reason why Lady Joan should not be my duchess.”
A surprising response, to Joan’s mind. But then he was not a man who would welcome marital advice.
“I do,” she put in cheerfully. “I hope you won’t mind my comment, since you are discussing my marital fate so openly. Lord Greywick and I would not suit.”
“We would suit,” he replied, showing an unusual obstinacy. Of course, Lady Bumtrinket could inspire that in even the mildest of men. Joan’s own father found her intolerable, and he wasn’t easily enraged.
“Her golden hair isn’t going anywhere,” Lady Bumtrinket said with the vulgarity that only the utterly confident could wield. “Greywick, you’re going to be a duke, sooner rather than later, to my mind. Something’s wrong with your father. He resembled a famished rat, though I didn’t say that to him, of course.”
“I fail to see what my father’s girth has to do with Lady Joan’s hair,” Thaddeus said rigidly.
“He’s throwing down the gauntlet,” Otis muttered in Joan’s ear.
“It’s nothing to do with me; Greywick is the sort of man who can’t tolerate interference,” Joan whispered back.
“I know,” Otis replied, with a sigh. “But Bumtrinket is right that Greywick couldn’t—wouldn’t—marry you. I scarcely know him, but he’s obviously as prudish as a Quaker.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Joan pointed out. “I would never take him.”
As luck would have it, her sentence fell directly into the silence that often followed one of Lady Bumtrinket’s emphatic statements, while listeners sorted out whether they were offended or merely affronted.
Her eyes flew to the viscount, and to her surprise, she found a faintly speculative look in his eyes.
“I assume that the ‘he’ refers to Greywick,” Lady Bumtrinket said. “Hardly relevant, is it, since the man won’t offer for you.” She fixed Otis with a shortsighted glare. “Who are you?”
“Mr. Otis Murgatroyd,” Otis said.
“We both know that,” she snapped. “No, I mean, who are you? I haven’t got the gentry memorized.”
“My father is Sir Reginald Murgatroyd,” Otis told her.
“Second son? Third? Fifth?”
“Second,” Otis said.
She squinted. “I thought he shunted the second into the church.”
“I was not suited to the profession,” Otis said.
Thaddeus cleared his throat.
Lady Bumtrinket whipped her head around with the intensity of a falcon on the hunt. “Are you ill?”
“No.”
“Then don’t cough like that. Gentlemen make their opinions known in words, not guttural utterances.” She raised her finger, and a footman bounded to her side. “I would fancy one of those little squabs that I see on the sideboard. And a fresh glass of milk. This one has cooled. No, I’ll have a glass of wine. And a kidney pudding, if there’s one to be had.”
The footman bowed. The door opened and closed behind him; at the other end of the table, the duke looked up in mild surprise. Generally, Prism’s meals were precisely regimented to avoid footmen to-ing and fro-ing, as the butler described it.
“I suppose it’s an acceptable match,” Lady Bumtrinket said, her eyes resting on Joan and Otis. “Lady Joan’s dowry must have been padded by the duke to make up for obvious . . . deficiencies.”
“Precisely the same as my sisters’ dowries,” Joan clarified.
“Your comment is insolent and ill-bred,” Lord Greywick stated, at the same moment.
“Nonsense,” Lady Bumtrinket said to Greywick, with withering emphasis. “Another example of your insufficient knowledge of your status. Dukes are not namby-pamby about matters surrounding marriage, dowries, and jointures. I shall have to congratulate Lindow. A well-matched pair. A failed churchman and a . . .” Her vocabulary seemed to fail her.
“A lady,” Greywick supplied, his voice hard, his expression stony.
“You’re not a very cheerful type, are you?” the lady said, fishing in her pocket, pulling out a lorgnette with a long diamond-encrusted handle, and peering at him through the glass. “I suppose one might become morose, under the circumstances. That is, your father and the ‘family of his heart’ create a great deal of entertainment for my kitchen maids, but one would rather not find such depravity in one’s family.”
She paused, struck by a thought. “I gather that’s why you made no progress with the two older Wilde girls, Greywick. I do hear that Lindow is an attentive father. One of the girls married a duke, but the other settled for a lord, and I heard he’s a bedbug.”
A moment of stunned silence followed this observation.
“None of my brothers-in-law could be described as a bedbug,” Joan stated, feeling called upon to defend the family.
“Don’t be hotheaded,” Lady Bumtrinket said, pointing her lorgnette across the table. “You know what I mean.”
“No, I do not.”
“Crazy as a bedbug,” Lady Bumtrinket clarified.
“No one in this family is crazy as a bedbug or any other creature.” Joan was rather proud of her tone; in fact, she should probably use it when Hamlet first insists that his father was murdered and no one believes him.
“A good moment to reiterate that I’m not marrying you, Joan,” Otis murmured.
“You’re breaking my heart! You don’t want to join a family of bedbugs?” Joan whispered back.
“Just as you say,” Lady Bumtrinket stated, paying about as much attention to Joan’s protest as Hamlet’s mother had done. “My point is that the Duke of Lindow likely didn’t want your older sisters tied to Greywick for good reason. Madness is hereditary. Do you know what your father said to me?” she asked Greywick.
If anything, his expression grew stonier.
“The Duke of Eversley sang—sang—‘Love Divine, All Loves Excelling,’” Lady Bumtrinket exclaimed. “A mewlin
g hymn when directed at the heavens, and even worse when the singer seems to think that I will sympathize with the idea that his mistress is divine. Imagine that, if you please. Unsurprisingly, the composer of that nauseating drivel was a Methodist!”
Joan felt another pang of sympathy for the tight-lipped viscount. But what could she say? Everyone knew about the Duke of Eversley’s obsession with his mistress, though most didn’t bring it up at the dinner table.
“Hated that hymn when I was a vicar, and I hate it now,” Otis murmured. “Never thought of it being used to excuse adultery, though.”
“The Wilde girls would have done,” Lady Bumtrinket mused, pursuing her own train of thought. “The future Duchess of Eversley will need gravitas, powerful relatives, certainly an unsullied reputation, given the blemishes to the family name.”
She turned to Greywick. “You’ll have to wait for such a woman, or your dukedom will be forever besmirched. You might want to smile more, so that fathers don’t shy away. Love divine indeed!” She snorted loudly.
Joan couldn’t stay silent any longer. “Either of my sisters, Betsy or Viola, would have been happy to marry Lord Greywick,” she said firmly. “My father, the Duke of Lindow, would have celebrated either match, as would fathers throughout society should His Lordship choose to ask for their daughters’ hands. Rather, daughter, not daughters, as he’ll only have to offer once because the first whom he asks will accept him, with her father’s blessings.”
Greywick’s raised eyebrow seemed to find some amusement in her tangled speech, but she ignored him, concentrating on Lady Bumtrinket’s beady eyes. Joan’s acting ability came in handy, as it so often did; her voice rang with truth. “Accepting Lord Greywick’s hand in marriage would make any young woman happy and her father positively ecstatic.”
“Not the other way around?” Greywick murmured.
“What happened when he wooed your sisters?” Lady Bumtrinket demanded, clearly taken aback. “Everyone in society knew the viscount was courting them, one after another, not at the same time. He’s so tall, for one thing. You could see him towering over the other dancers.”
“As opposed to me,” Otis said cheerfully. “Thank goodness, my lack of height will allow me to woo in a clandestine fashion.”
“You’d have to ask Lord Greywick,” Joan said to Lady Bumtrinket, turning to give His Lordship a beaming smile. “He lost interest in Viola and Betsy, as I understand it.”
“Hard to believe,” the lady said, squinting at the viscount. “Very hard to believe.”
“Viola was too shy for him, and Betsy too . . . too impudent!” Joan added, since Greywick didn’t seem inclined to support her story, which was entirely untrue. Betsy had fallen in love, and Viola had married quickly, after she was caught kissing a duke in plain sight.
“You’ll have to lower your standards,” Lady Bumtrinket advised the still silent Lord Greywick. “You should think about status, not personality. It doesn’t matter if your wife is shy, as long as she’s got the proper ancestral bloodlines.”
“Thank you for the advice,” the viscount replied. His tone was even, polite.
Joan didn’t like him much, but she had to admit that he had admirable composure.
“I can see that you need guidance,” Lady Bumtrinket said, warming up to the task. “Lady Joan is off the market, since she’s promised to Mr. Murgatroyd—”
“No, she’s not,” Otis hissed.
“But let’s take her as an example,” Lady Bumtrinket said.
“Let’s not,” Greywick intervened.
“Marriage to a woman like Lady Joan would be a disaster for your children,” Lady Bumtrinket said. “Her hair, the Prussian nose . . . such marked traits will carry in the bloodline. If you’ll excuse my plain speaking, Lady Joan,” she added, somewhat belatedly.
Joan felt oddly fascinated. Comments about her dubious parentage were made behind her back, or hissed at her in anger or disgust, but they were rarely stated in public. At her father’s dining table, no less.
Otis intervened. “I believe we should change the subject. Did everyone hear that the first mail coach ran successfully between Bristol and London?”
“I would not care to correspond with any person residing in Bristol,” Lady Bumtrinket said with a sniff.
“I would be honored to marry Lady Joan,” Greywick said, flatly contradicting the old woman in a ringing voice.
“No, you wouldn’t,” Joan retorted.
But she smiled, because it was a kind gesture. He probably thought she was mortified to hear the truth about her scandalous birth spoken out loud. He had no idea how little such comments mattered to her.
“Lady Joan is marrying Murgatroyd,” Lady Bumtrinket said. She was obviously unused to being challenged. Her cheeks turned a nice shade of puce, and her voice rose to something near a bellow. “Your comment indicates how little you understand the world of polite society. You cannot marry Lady Joan, or anyone like her.”
“I shall marry whomever I choose,” Greywick said softly but with menace.
The expression in his eyes would have made Joan think twice, but Lady Bumtrinket glared back. “I am an upright pillar of the very society with whom your children will be eager to mingle, but they won’t be—”
“If you’ll forgive my plain speaking,” he retorted, cutting her off, “my children will mingle with whomever they choose, even more so if they grow up to be half as beautiful as Lady Joan.”
Lady Bumtrinket opened her mouth to squawk a reply, but whatever she meant to say was broken off by a scraping noise. All heads turned to the head of the table.
The Duchess of Lindow was on her feet. “Great-Aunt Daphne, I understand that someone of your years needs to retire at an early hour. I shall escort you to your bedchamber.”
Joan didn’t allow herself to smile. Her stepmother was not imposing—yet she was a duchess, every inch of her. And now, as Her Grace walked from the other table and stood beside Lady Bumtrinket’s chair, the lady rose with only a muttered grumble.
“Do excuse us,” the duchess said, giving Otis, Joan, and Greywick a smile. “My aunt unfortunately must leave us early in the morning to continue her journey; we shall miss her company.”
The lady opened her mouth but shut it hastily after a glance from her great-niece. The duke escorted both ladies out the door.
“The woman is a fiend,” Greywick said. “I consider that a factual statement rather than an insult.”
“You mustn’t pay too much attention to Lady Bumtrinket’s advice,” Joan said, feeling awkward. Obviously, he had no interest in marrying her, so the example was irrelevant, but her great-aunt wasn’t very compassionate.
“I would not term it ‘advice,’” he said. “Insolence, better tolerated from an irritated coachman than a dinner companion.” Greywick wore his most aristocratic expression, but this time Joan sympathized.
“I find it difficult to imagine Lady Bumtrinket as a coachman—or would that be coachwoman?” Otis commented.
“In a better world, ladies would be coachwomen,” Joan said, eager to change the subject.
“Unlikely,” Greywick said. He still had a forbidding look about him.
She gave him a frown. “Not unlikely but inevitable, I’d say. The world is changing, and Lady Bumtrinket clings to an antiquated past.”
“You think that ladies will become coachwomen?” Otis asked. “Will want to drive a coach?”
“I think that ladies will become whatever they wish,” Joan said. “My aunt Knowe would be a far better doctor than any who has attended the castle. Half the time she instructs them, and she won’t even allow them in the room any longer during a birth.” She turned to Greywick. “That is why my sister Viola is here for the last month of her confinement, so that Aunt Knowe can act as her midwife.”
“The Wildes are all quite robust,” Otis said. “I doubt my sister could drive a mail coach, let alone deliver a baby.”
Joan patted him on the shoulder. “No need to butter
me up. I won’t hold you to our betrothal.”
“If only I was so lucky!” Otis said. But he added briskly, raising his voice, “Just so everyone within earshot knows, I adore Joan, but my betrothal to her was of short duration.”
Joan’s father was walking toward his table after returning from escorting his wife and her aunt upstairs. He paused. “I wasn’t aware that such an arrangement existed, even if briefly.”
“To put it in context,” Otis replied, “a Thoroughbred in the Newmarket Races rounds the track three times, but we didn’t make it out of the gate.”
Joan held up her glass. “My very first betrothal was over before I finished a glass of wine!” she laughed. “Do you suppose that’s a bad sign for the future?” She caught Lord Greywick’s eye.
“No,” he stated.
Chapter Four
Thaddeus enjoyed the meal a great deal more once Lady Bumtrinket had been removed by her niece. He spent most of the time listening to Joan and Otis banter with each other while planning the best way to convince Joan to give up the madness of performing a play in male attire.
Whether she wished to admit it or not, someone in this castle would sell a sketch to a printer, and within a fortnight, all of England would be able to buy an image of her shapely legs, likely sold from the front window of every stationer in London.
When the Duchess of Lindow rose, signaling the conclusion of the meal, he caught Joan’s arm before she could walk away with Otis.
She looked up at him, her eyes concerned. “Have you recovered from Lady Bumtrinket’s objectionable behavior, Lord Greywick? I assure you that we have all found ourselves in the mouth of the lion now and then.”
“The lady is an aggressive interrogator,” Thaddeus said. “The Bow Street Runners would benefit from her skills in that distant future you mentioned, when a lady can choose to work for a magistrate, if she wishes.”
Joan smiled at him faintly. “I would suspect you are ironic, Lord Greywick, but you show no outward sign.”
Wilde Child EPB Page 3