But of course Miss Lockhart didn’t react like a normal lady, with flutterings and gratitude. No, she looked like a Gorgon, one of those Greek females with snakes for hair, who had just viewed herself in the mirror and turned to stone. He was surprised she could even move her lips to refuse him. “Lord Kerrich, such a suggestion is unacceptable.”
He didn’t know what made him do it. Maybe just pure incorrigibility. Probably it was that frigid expression of abhorrence that curled her lips. Certainly he was exorcising that abomination of the dream. But he leaned back in his chair and looked her over carefully. “A plainer style, just as I suggested for Beth, would lessen the impact of your impressive torso.” Actually, under closer scrutiny, the shape of her body beneath the ill-fitting gown appeared to be genuine, not the result of corset trickery, and almost Gothic in its arches and buttresses.
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me, my lord. It would not be appropriate for me to accept a gown from you.”
“A nice pale blue, I think, would be less contrast to your extraordinarily pale skin.” Good God, that looked like a trace of rice powder in the crease of her neck. She wasn’t actually putting on powder to make herself paler!
Beth caroled from the door, “Look. Look what I have to wear!”
Before he turned to view the child, he stared carefully at Miss Lockhart. It was true. She did wear rice powder, and red rouge unless he missed his guess—and he never missed. Good God, he’d seen many a woman who powdered and painted to ill effect, but never had he seen a woman so obliterated beneath the laminate of cosmetics.
“Lord Kerrich, Beth and Madame Beauchard wish you to decide on this newest selection.” Miss Lockhart sounded calm under his scrutiny, but again her nervous hands betrayed her agitation, and she withdrew a man’s silver watch on a chain from her jacket pocket and opened it as if her schedule had been quite demolished. Probably it had, and probably she blamed him.
Beth wore the same pale blue he envisioned for Miss Lockhart, in batiste, with full skirts, long sleeves and white lace at the collar and cuffs. Her eyes were shining, and she touched the skirt with reverent fingers. “I haven’t worn an ironed dress since my mother died, and today all the dresses have been ironed.”
Miss Lockhart tucked her watch away and cleared her throat as if to clear away a lump of emotion. “From now on, we’ll make sure all your gowns are ironed.”
“Yes. Oh, please.” Beth twirled on her toes again. “At Lord Kerrich’s, even the scullery maids wear ironed aprons!”
“Even the scullery maids take baths once a week.”
Miss Lockhart’s excursion into sentimentality hadn’t lasted long, Kerrich noted.
Beth grimaced, then shrugged. “Oh, as you say. As long as I can wear these fine togs.”
The child knew how to strike a deal. Kerrich admired that.
“Not togs,” Miss Lockhart said. “Call them clothes, or garments, or apparel.”
The woman knew how to pick her battles. He admired that, too.
He also knew how to pick his battles, and battling with Miss Lockhart over whether she would accept a gown was futile. For the moment, he would capitulate—and if Miss Lockhart understood him at all, she would recognize the danger in his yielding.
Fortunately, Miss Lockhart understood him not at all.
They sat in silence while Beth changed again. Once more, Miss Lockhart brought forth her knitting, and this time he wondered if she worked not from the rigid belief that idleness bred corruption, but to hide her impetuosity.
“What are you making, Miss Lockhart?”
“A wrap, Lord Kerrich.”
Flat. Easy. Interesting…Knitting was the work of peasants, and he would wager Miss Lockhart had little experience with it. “How long have you been knitting, Miss Lockhart?”
Her hesitation betrayed her. “Years.”
“You must have many pieces of work to display.”
“No, my lord.”
Ha! He had her. “Why not, Miss Lockhart?”
“I give them to charity.”
She sounded like the same old censorious Miss Lockhart, but as he watched her fingers moved awkwardly, the needles fought each other, and she tangled the black yarn into a knot.
He smiled. How pleasant to know he had the ability to hamper the composure of so formidable a woman.
Then Beth came dancing out in a white, ruffled gown with a blue velvet sash.
Twirling his finger, he indicated the child should turn, and when she had, he said, “Yes, I suppose she must have something like this for afternoon parties, but let’s keep it to one, shall we? At her age, the furbelows are too much and detract from her handsome face. Simplicity is the key.”
“Oui, my lord.” Madame Beauchard smiled with ever-great and greedy delight. “You are correct as always. From now on, we will eschew the ruffles.”
“But I get to keep this one?” Beth stood on the toes of one foot, then on the toes of another, like a ballerina impatient to dance.
“Yes, that one,” Kerrich said.
Beth curtsied and grinned, went to the mirror and pirouetted, then reentered the dressing area.
“Damn, now I suppose I will have to take her to the ballet.” Kerrich sighed heavily. “I detest the ballet. All those girls dancing around on their toes. As Grandpapa says, if they wanted taller girls, why didn’t they hire taller girls?”
Miss Lockhart asked, “Is that supposed to be a jest, my lord?”
“My grandfather thinks so.”
“Then I will laugh when he tells me.”
Why did she treat him as she did? With everyone else, she seemed an amiable woman. Indeed, in the brief time she’d been in the stables, she’d charmed the stableboys. But she didn’t like him, and he was such a genial man. Kind. Thoughtful.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Handsome. Dashing. She couldn’t hold that against him, could she? She couldn’t assume on such a thin basis that he was cut from the same mold as her father?
He resolved to ask, but when he turned to look earnestly into her eyes he met only his own reflection on the tint of her glasses. He wanted to take them away from her, and in irritation he said, “I find it difficult to talk to those spectacles.”
“Talk to me, then, if you must.”
Her knitting had smoothed out; apparently sniping at him soothed her.
“Why do you wear them?”
“I must,” she answered.
“You can’t see without them, then.” He reached for the metal frames. “How bad is your vision?”
She flinched backward and warded off his hand with her arm. “I can see. But the light hurts my eyes.”
“Surely sunlight, only.”
“All light.”
Behind the tinted glasses, he saw her eyes guiltily shift to the side. The jade was lying to him! He couldn’t imagine why, and he didn’t need this kind of nuisance. A child, a governess, a counterfeiting ring, the queen with her ugly threats…
He was trying to accomplish something here. Miss Lockhart didn’t appreciate it. So…
“That last dress the child wore was handsome.”
“Very handsome.”
“So she shall wear it when we shall give a party to introduce Beth to the other children.”
“That is an excellent idea, my lord.” Miss Lockhart beamed as she approved of him—momentarily. “In about a month—”
“A week.”
“I can’t prepare her in a week!”
“And I don’t have a month.”
“My lord, this is not a game.”
“I begin to suspect you are the one unaware of that fact, Miss Lockhart. One week, or you and she are of no use to me, and you both shall be out on the street!”
Chapter 11
Pamela woke and sat up with a sense of panic. Someone was frightened. Suffering from a nightmare. Screaming. Beth.
Pamela blinked in the dim light of the night candle flickering in the sconce on the wall.
The nursery. Kerrich’s house.
Beth.
Swiftly she rose, wrapped her robe around her, took the candle and hurried into the bedchamber beside hers. There she found the child. Beth was awake now, sitting straight up, hands clasping the blankets up to her chin. She stared forward, fighting the night phantoms with a trembling discipline that told of a frequent need for such strength.
“Beth.” Sticking the candle on the holder, Pamela seated herself on the mattress beside the girl, moving slowly so as not to startle her. “It’s Miss Lockhart.”
Beth’s gaze moved toward her, eyes open so wide the whites showed around each iris. She nodded, a jerky motion, to indicate she recognized her governess, but her teeth were clenched. She couldn’t speak.
With a tender touch, Pamela smoothed the child’s hair off her forehead. “You’re awake now. Whatever you dreamed about is gone.”
Beth fought for words, squeaking fearfully until she managed to say, “I know. I dreamed about my mother.”
She wasn’t the kind of child to cast herself on Pamela’s bosom and howl, but a lone tear trickled from the corner of her eye and down her cheek. Pamela wiped it away, her heart squeezing with sympathy pains.
“I miss her so much.” Beth curled her knees toward her chest.
“She was your mother. Of course you miss her.”
“It’s been a year.” She held the blankets in bunches close to her mouth. “I should be over it by now.”
Such a thought could have never come from the child. That was some adult speaking. “Who told you that?” Pamela asked.
Beth swallowed. “Mrs. Fallowfield. She hated it when one of us started crying because…then we all did.”
Pamela didn’t know what made her admit it. Perhaps she felt an adult responsibility to comfort the child. More likely it was hearing her own tale told by one who cried out her pain rather than holding it within. Or perhaps it was Lord Kerrich’s threat echoing in her mind, and the knowledge that if the party tomorrow was a failure, she and Beth would be alone together, and out on the street. But no matter why, Pamela said, “Many years ago, my mother died. Sometimes I still dream.”
Beth stared at her. “Do you cry?”
“Always. She was very ill before she died and I…I tried to help her get better.” Pamela swallowed over the familiar lump in her throat. “I couldn’t.”
“Oh, me too!” Beth dropped the blankets and scrambled out of her cocoon. “I mean, nothing I did helped. And Papa. He was sick, too. He used to take me places while Ma cooked, and he taught me about the horses. I miss him so much. And Ma…she was always there, she hugged me and made me feel better, and now when I dream about her she’s always sick, and I have to hold her, only she doesn’t feel better. She dies.”
“That’s the worst part,” Pamela whispered. “All my good memories are overshadowed by the great anger and the crushing sadness.”
“If I could just dream about her hugging me, just once…”
Pamela couldn’t resist that appeal, and she gathered Beth to her and rocked her.
Pamela loved children. Incorrigible or sweet, boisterous or shy, she always found a way to wrap them around her little finger, and that way was love. She talked to them, listened to them, teased them, played with them, taught them, and they responded, returning her love twelve-fold. Yet as a governess, she had always been careful to protect her heart, never forgetting that the children she taught were not her own, for always she would have to leave them.
Yet with Beth Pamela found a common ground.
Beth snuggled closer, no longer crying but giving and sharing now.
In the twelve years since Pamela’s father had deserted her and her mother, she had never told anyone about her nightmares. Nobody else would have understood. Beth did.
Beth needed love. Beth needed a place. Beth needed everything that Pamela had had in her youth and that had been torn from her by her father’s abandonment. Kerrich could give her that. Pamela couldn’t. Pamela couldn’t even stay with Beth because of this wretched disguise she’d donned, but she could do one thing.
She would finagle and encourage and coax Kerrich into keeping Beth as his own. And if that didn’t work—she’d blackmail him.
Beth’s sleepy little voice broke into Pamela’s musings. “Miss Lockhart, you look so different at night.”
Pamela caught back a gasp. In her own robe without the wretchedly tight hairstyle and the dreadful powder, she would look different. She glanced down at Beth’s upturned face. The girl was staring at her as if enchanted, and Pamela slid her fingers over Beth’s lids to shut them. “Your eyes are tired.”
“No, they’re not.” Beth sighed and snuggled closer. “I like you, Miss Lockhart. No matter what, promise me we’re going to be together.”
Pamela caught her breath.
“Promise…” And Beth slid into sleep.
Beth really, really wanted to smack little Billy, Lord Chiswick, right under his fat chin as he grabbed the last piece of cake off the gaily decorated sideboard and stuffed it in his mouth. She longed to watch the blue sugar frosting go up his nose and hear the other children jeer at the stinky, squabby, ten-year-old viscount. But she knew Miss Lockhart would disapprove. No, dear, she would say, it doesn’t matter that he called you an insolent beggar who doesn’t know her place. You still can’t put your knee in his chest and force-feed him mushrooms until he turns into a bloated toad. And even more than Beth wished to teach Bully-Boy a lesson, she wished to make Miss Lockhart happy.
Beth stopped glaring at Bully-Boy and glanced through the columnar portals into the large, beautifully furnished sitting chamber. There the adults sat on shiny, polished chairs and brocade-upholstered sofas to listen as Miss Fotherby accompanied herself on the harp and sang. There Miss Lockhart sat in the back row, looking very ugly and very strict, and frequently observing the children’s activities in the antechamber. And there, behind and to the side, stood Lord Kerrich leaning against the wall, staring at Miss Lockhart’s profile.
During the week of frenetic preparation just past, he’d been staring at her a lot. Sometimes he looked annoyed, sometimes he looked puzzled, but he always looked, and that gave Beth hope. Because Beth had seen through Miss Lockhart’s disguise. Beth didn’t know why Miss Lockhart wore all that stuff on her face or dressed with such daft dowdiness, but Beth had made her plans. Lord Kerrich was rich. Miss Lockhart was poor. Lord Kerrich was selfish. Miss Lockhart told him so. Lord Kerrich was handsome…and so was Miss Lockhart. So all Beth had to do was get them together, talking and fighting, and show Lord Kerrich Miss Lockhart’s real appearance. They’d get sweet on each other for sure.
“Hey.” Bully-Boy pinched her arm. “I want more cake.”
Beth ignored him. In the orphanage, she’d had a lot of experience ignoring knuckle-draggers—and some experience fighting them. What interested her now was how Lord Reynard watched his grandson and Miss Lockhart, just like Beth was. The old man was a shark, no doubt about it.
Mr. Athersmith was there, and he only watched Miss Fotherby with a long expression and this earnest, cow-faced devotion. He lived here and worked every day with Lord Kerrich, which should have made him important, but he wasn’t. He was nothing more than a hoddy-noddy, the kind of man who slipped around and acted modest and humble when he really thought he was better than everyone else.
Lord Kerrich’s family party was a success. The sun was shining, a breeze had whisked away the coal dust in the air, the windows were open, and everyone was happy today.
Bully-Boy pinched her again, hard. “I want cake. Go get it.”
Everyone was happy except this brat, and nothing could make him happy.
But Beth would try one last time. Miss Lockhart would have approved of Beth’s manners when she said, “I’m so sorry. We’re out of cake. Perhaps you’d prefer a pastry or an ice.”
“No.” He thrust his round, ugly face right into hers. “I want cake.”
Two of the visiting governesses leaned against the entrance to the corridor and gossiped
. Beth’s other guests, about a dozen children ranging in age from six to nine, sat lined up against the wall, plates balanced on their knees, forks suspended in the air, watching Beth with hopeful expressions.
“I said”—Bully-Boy gave her a push—“I want more cake. My mother says you’re just a servant, anyway. So go to the kitchen, servant, and get me more cake.”
She glanced toward the adults again, sitting sideways to her and intent on the singing.
Quick as a wink, she hooked her foot behind Bully-Boy’s knee and pulled his leg out from under him, then in one swift, continuous motion she stepped toward the wall and found a seat.
Bully-Boy staggered sideways into the sideboard decorated with silver, lace and marzipan. With a clatter that stopped the music, he grabbed the tablecloth and brought the food and dishes down on himself. Breaking the shocked silence, he gave a screech so high only dogs could hear it.
His mother rushed in immediately, thus proving she was a dog.
Miss Lockhart was right on her heels, and nursery maids and governesses arrived from all over the house.
Pink ices, yellow lemonade and brown macaroons formed a colorful paste all over Bully-Boy’s black whey-face suit with its short jacket and sissy breeches, and his mouth was a round, bawling ring in the circle of his pallid face. Beth wanted to laugh. Instead she managed an expression of horror and amazement that closely matched the ones worn by the adults. At least she hoped it did. She hoped she didn’t look like the other children. Those dunces clapped their hands over their mouths or giggled as Bully-Boy kicked and squealed like the piggy he was.
His mother was on her knees beside him, the nursery maids were wiping at him and he was screaming, “She did it. She pushed me!”
His mother looked right at Beth. “I knew it.” Her voice carried over the tumult. “That child is a vulgarian, a commoner, and not fit to associate with the finer people.”
In an innocent little voice, Beth said, “But I didn’t push him.” She elbowed the girl next to her, a smart-looking tyke for all she wore more ruffles than a bedcurtain. “Did you see me push him?”
Rules of Engagement Page 10