The Waverly Women Series (3-Book Bundle)

by M C Beaton

  Mrs. Waverley was obviously enjoying herself. She was reading aloud an essay she had written, called “The Thraldom of Womankind.” Frederica stifled a yawn. Felicity’s trick of appearing to go into a decline had been wasted if this boring evening was the only result.

  At last, Mrs. Waverley rose to take her leave. Miss Pursey sent her little maid out to look for chairs. After some time, the maid returned to say there was not a chairman or a hack in sight.

  Mrs. Waverley unpinned the diamond brooch from her turban and told the girls to unfasten their jewelry and to put it in her reticule. They would walk. It was not so very far to Hanover Square.

  As they walked down Montague Street, Mrs. Waverley admonished them, “Keep your eyes firmly on the ground if we pass any gentlemen, girls!”

  They had just reached the corner of New Quebec and Upper Seymour streets when they were confronted with a party of drunken bloods. Mrs. Waverley put down her heavy head—rather in the manner of a charging bull—and hurried down the street.

  “I say, hold hard!” cried one of the men. He caught hold of Felicity’s arm and swung her round. There were five men, all reeking strongly of spirits. Their eyes gleamed feverishly in the dim light of the parish lamps.

  “Pray, let my sister go,” said Frederica in chilly accents. “I do not want to have to scream for the constable.”

  The man who was holding Felicity dropped her arm. Perhaps matters would have ended there, for the men were startled by the authority in Frederica’s voice. But Mrs. Waverley, who had rushed on, swung about, snatched a large hat pin like a rapier from her turban, and flew at the men. She stabbed the one who had caught Felicity in the hand with the pin.

  He cursed furiously and lashed out and struck Mrs. Waverley a mighty blow across the face so that she fell to the ground.

  Frederica’s brain was working very fast indeed. She knew now there was only one thing she could do: scream.

  She threw back her head and let out the most tremendous scream for help, which bounded off the buildings roundabout and resounded down the streets.

  That elegant creature, Lord Harry Danger, was strolling home toward St. James’s after a pleasant dinner. He heard that dreadful scream and started to run lightly in the direction from which it had come.

  He took in the scene at a glance—the heavy matron lying moaning on the ground, the two young girls facing up to a band of drunken men.

  “I say,” he said plaintively, “leave ’em alone do. Dear me. Did you actually strike that poor lady?”

  The leader of the men focused his bleary gaze on Lord Harry. He saw before him a tall Exquisite in evening dress, carrying only a cane in one hand and a scented handkerchief in the other.

  “Be on your way, milksop,” he growled. “We are going to teach these women a lesson.”

  “Well, I cannot let you do anything to them,” said Lord Harry. “You see, I have a mind to escort them home.”

  The leader made an impatient noise and swung his fist. Lord Harry neatly jumped aside with the dexterity of a ballet dancer. Another of the men seized Lord Harry from behind. It appeared to Frederica as if Lord Harry only gave a shrug of his elegant shoulders, but the next minute the man who had attacked him was sailing over Lord Harry’s head to land with a thud in the kennel.

  “Leave him to me.” He was a thickset fellow with great, long, muscular arms. He lunged at Lord Harry with his fist. Lord Harry ducked and then brought his own fist up hard against the man’s chin. There was a cracking sound and a howl, and then the leader stretched his length on the pavement. The others ran away.

  “What a punch, sir!” cried Frederica, while Felicity went to help Mrs. Waverley to her feet. “How did you do it?”

  Lord Harry looked ruefully at his split glove and then opened his hand. In his palm, he held a rouleau of guineas. “Great things, the coin of the realm,” he said. “Adds that certain something to a punch. Now, ladies, you had better give me your direction.”

  “I thank you very much,” said Mrs. Waverley. “Hanover Square, if you please. May we know the name of our rescuer?”

  “Lord Harry Danger, at your service, ma’am.”

  “I am Mrs. Waverley, my lord, and these are my daughters, Miss Frederica and Miss Felicity.”

  “We would have managed very well, Mrs. Waverley,” said Frederica severely, “if you had not chosen to drive a hat pin into that ugly man’s hand. It put up his temper no end.”

  “Women must learn to defend themselves,” said Mrs. Waverly huffily.

  “Then I suggest you enlarge our education,” said Frederica tartly. “Instead of wasting the hours on Latin and Greek, might not you be better employed in introducing us to the arts of pugilism? After all, are you not always saying that women are equal to men?”

  “Do you say that?” Lord Harry sounded amused. “Well, you’re wrong, you know.”

  “Of course, I would expect you to think so,” said Frederica, with a tinge of contempt in her voice. “In what way are we not equal?”

  “Simple,” said Lord Harry. “Men can’t have babies. Deuced clever thing, having babies!”

  Mrs. Waverley’s ample bosom swelled in outrage. “Ladies present,” she said. “How dare you mention such a subject to tender ears!”

  “My apologies, ma’am. You will find me lacking in polish. There are so many words one cannot mention in front of ladies these days—legs, breeches, babies. I declare, if this censorship goes on, we shall return to the Stone Age and converse in a series of grunts. I have heard of you, Mrs. Waverley. I met the Earl of Tredair and his new bride on my recent travels.”

  “How is Fanny?” asked Frederica breathlessly. “I mean, how goes the new countess?”

  “Blooming and happy,” he said, with a smile.

  “We do not talk of her.” Mrs. Waverley’s voice was full of suppressed rage.

  “Hey ho! It appears we do not talk about a lot of things,” said Lord Harry. “To return to the subject of babies, an educationalist like yourself must cry out against the ignorance of the average woman and do all in her power to rectify it. Now, my cousin had two of ’em before she actually realized what giving birth was. Didn’t know what was happening to her. That must be a frightening thing—ignorance, I mean.”

  “Women must be protected from the lusts of men,” said Mrs. Waverley, quickening her step, anxious to get home and get rid of this uncomfortable jackanapes.

  “And how would you have them do that?” he asked, with interest. “Not marry at all? The population would die out in no time at all.”

  “There will always be untutored primitives to keep the human race going,” said Frederica, beginning to be amused.

  “And what happens to old England when there are more of them than us? Invasion, ma’am! And who would be there to defend the shores? A lot of mopping and mowing, toothless old people. You could be damned as a traitor, ma’am, willing the decline of England by turning all the ladies into Lysistratas.”

  Mrs. Waverley reminded herself that this was the man who had rescued them. “You have obviously been away from London for some time,” she said charitably. “Many changes have taken place in society.”

  “You mean they’ve all become mealy mouthed?”

  “No. I mean that a delicacy and sensibility among womankind has been serving to refine the coarse natures of men.”

  “Very interesting. What has it done for women? They seem to be in a worse plight than ever. The working-class woman is a drudge, and the middle-class woman is empty headed, vain, and idle.”

  “You don’t know what you are talking about,” cried Mrs. Waverley angrily.

  “Why not? My observation is as keen as the next.”

  “You are a man,” said Mrs. Waverley, and walked on in silence.

  Lord Harry turned to Frederica. “I have made her cross,” he said. “Mrs. Waverley has the right of it. I do not know how to go on. I would have you teach me, Miss Frederica.”

  They passed under a parish lamp. His eyes
were mocking.

  “I do not think you are teachable,” said Frederica. “Poor Mrs. Waverley. She is feeling every bit as assaulted now as she was when that man attacked her. There was no need to strike her with words, my lord.”

  “But I thought she would relish a good argument.”

  Frederica cast a look at Mrs. Waverley’s back as that lady forged on ahead, as if anxious to put as much distance between herself and Lord Harry as possible. “I don’t think anyone relishes an argument,” she sighed. “Strong-minded people like to state their views and are not used to being crossed.” She lowered her voice. “Are you sure Lady Tredair was well and happy? Where did you see her?”

  “In Italy, in Naples. She was the talk of the town. So gay and pretty and so very much in love with her husband.”

  “Perhaps Fanny is as weak as the rest of the society ladies,” said Frederica. “Despite all her views, she was only looking for some man to cling to.”

  “You are hard. It struck me as a very equal partnership.”

  “There is no such thing.”

  “I must contradict you. If the man is as much in love with the woman as she is with him, then it is always an equal partnership.”

  “Oh, love,” mocked Frederica. “I do not believe in it. A marriage is lust on the one side and weak dependency on the other.”

  “Odd views coming from one so beautiful. You are beautiful, are you not? I cannot see you very well.”

  “I am not beautiful,” said Frederica. “Fanny and Felicity are beautiful, but not I.”

  “Here we are,” called Mrs. Waverley. “I thank you again for our rescue, my lord, and bid you good evening.”

  “May I not see you inside?” asked Lord Harry. “There may be murderers lurking in your hallway.”

  “Good night,” said Mrs. Waverley. “Come, girls!”

  And shepherding Frederica and Felicity inside, she slammed the door in Lord Harry’s face.

  Lord Harry walked thoughtfully up and down outside. He wished he had been able to see Frederica clearly. His gaze fell on the house next door. The knocker was off the door and the shutters were up. A slow smile curled his lips.

  “What an odd young man,” said Felicity when she and Frederica were alone. “We shall not be seeing him again. I have never known Mrs. Waverley be quite so angry with anyone before.”

  Frederica sat silently in a chair. She had found Lord Harry’s presence exhilarating. Now she felt flat. She had prayed for an adventure, she had had her adventure, and now life would slip back into that same boring old routine.

  “You know, Felicity,” said Frederica at last. “I sometimes have a longing to take all these jewels and sell them and go to America or somewhere equally far away.”

  They were in Felicity’s room. Felicity’s jewel box lay open on the toilet table, the gems winking and blazing in the candlelight.

  “Let us find out where we came from first,” said Felicity.

  “First? You mean you have thought of running away as well?”

  “Often. But I must unravel the mystery. Who are we? Who is Mrs. Waverley? Why does she seem ready to faint when she sees the Prince Regent? What has soured her against men? She is a good teacher, but all her arguments against men seem couched in emotion rather than logic. Who was Mr. Waverley?”

  “Too tired to think anymore,” yawned Frederica. “Lord Harry will no doubt call tomorrow to pay his respects… and he will be told firmly that we are not at home.”

  The next day, Lord Harry, anticipating a rebuff, decided not to call on the Waverleys. Instead he took himself to an apartment in Covent Garden to see Caroline James.

  Lord Harry was in his early thirties. As a young man, he had fancied himself in love with the famous actress, Caroline James. He had decided to make her his mistress, but when he had called at her lodgings he found her ill with consumption. Instead of offering her the joys of his bed, he took her on a long journey to Switzerland, found her a chalet high up in the mountains, and left her there to see if the clear mountain air would effect a cure.

  The grateful actress corresponded with him regularly, finally delighting him with the news that she was indeed cured.

  He knew she had returned to London, not to resume her career, but to prepare for marriage to James Bridie, a retired colonel who had met Caroline during his travels.

  Caroline received Lord Harry warmly. She had recovered much of her beauty, but her figure had become plump, and she looked more matronly than she had when she had delighted London audiences with her acting.

  “And so you are to be married,” said Lord Harry. “Where is the colonel?”

  “He has traveled to Shropshire to his estates. He will be returning to London shortly.”

  “And are you in love with him?”

  “What is love?” sighed Caroline. “He is a strong man who organizes my life and thoughts. It is so wonderful, you know, not to have to worry about the future. I did not tell him that I owe my life to you. He would not understand, and would assume I had been your mistress.”

  “You owe your life, dear lady, to your own strong constitution. As far as the colonel is concerned, I do not exist. There is a service, however, I wish you to perform for me.”

  Caroline looked at him, a mixture of sadness and disappointment in her eyes. “I suppose I should have expected this,” she murmured, “but I had come to think of you as a saint.”

  “No, not that kind of service,” said Lord Harry crossly. “The deuce! I seem to be plagued with women who think the worst of men. Have you heard of a certain Mrs. Waverley of Hanover Square?”

  “No, I am not au fait with the London gossip.”

  “She is a champion of the rights of women and lives in Hanover Square with her two daughters. One of the daughters is called Frederica. I wish to know her better. I met them by chance last night and became intrigued with the family.”

  “Then all you have to do is call on them!”

  “Aye, there’s the rub. Mrs. Waverley fears and detests men. I would not be granted admittance. I found this morning that the house next door to theirs is for rent and have gone about taking it for the Season.”

  “But how can I help you? I do not understand what it is you wish me to do,” said Caroline.

  “I wish you to masquerade as my sister, Lady Harriet. Harriet is actually in the country. She never comes to town. I wish you to become a disciple of Mrs. Waverley’s, get close to this Frederica, and plead my case.”

  “It seems simple enough,” said Caroline. “But my colonel returns next week and my movements will be limited.”

  “A week should be enough,” said Lord Harry cheerfully. “Now here is what I wish you to do…”

  Chapter Two

  Mrs. Ricketts, Mrs. Waverley’s housekeeper, who, because Mrs. Waverley would not employ menservants, acted as butler as well, was responsible for hiring the staff. Although she mostly enjoyed the responsibility, occasionally she found it a strain when the correct running of the household was put at risk by Mrs. Waverley’s principles.

  She had tried to get rid of a housemaid, Annie Souter, on two previous occasions, finding the girl lazy and insolent. She had told Mrs. Waverley of the need to dismiss the girl, but Mrs. Waverley had stepped in and pointed out that women had a hard time of it, and it was their duty to reform any female servants who appeared wayward, and then had comfortably forgotten about the whole affair.

  On finding two silver candlesticks missing, Mrs. Ricketts had searched under Annie’s mattress and had found them. Annie was dragged before Mrs. Waverley.

  The fact that the housemaid was extremely lucky not to be turned over to the authorities—-where she would no doubt have been tried, found guilty, hanged or, at best, transported—did not seem to fill Annie with any gratitude.

  “I am afraid I shall have to let you go, Annie,” said Mrs. Waverley severely. The housemaid had one of those fat faces and large mouths so beloved of the cartoonist, Rowlandson.

  “I’ll make you s
orry, mum,” said Annie.

  “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Waverley severely. “Your threats do not amuse me. Pack your belongings and leave. First, we shall pray for your redemption.”

  Annie tried to storm off, but was held where she was by the strong arms of the housekeeper. The other servants, Felicity, and Frederica were summoned and all got down on their knees while Mrs. Waverley prayed loudly and earnestly for the soul of Annie Souter.

  When she left Hanover Square, carrying her one bundle of belongings wrapped in a large handkerchief, Annie made her way to her home, or what passed as a home. Her mother, father, four brothers, two sisters, grandmother, and one uncle lived in a damp basement in Sommers Town.

  Not one of them was glad to see her back.

  Mr. Souter welcomed her by unstrapping his belt. “What did you muck up a good job fer?” he said.

  Annie backed away and then tossed her head defiantly. “They said I stole them two candlesticks, but it warn’t me. ’Twar that housekeeper, and she put the blame on me.”

  “Stole ’em yourself and got caught,” said Mrs. Souter heartlessly. “None o’ us ever gets caught.”

  “That’s because all you lot can steal are wipes,” sneered Annie, but keeping a weather eye on her father. “Handkerchiefs is all you got, and that’s why we live like pigs.”

  “You never was any good, Annie,” growled her father. “Seemed like the best thing to put you into service. If we hadn’t of stole them references for you, you’d never have got the job.”

  “Listen to me,” yelled Annie. “I kin tell you all how we can be rich.”

  “Garn!” said her father, but he sat down again.

  Annie edged into the crowded room. “Them Waverley women,” she said, “has got jewels just dripping off of them, jewels for the picking. She don’t employ menservants, and she and her daughters goes out walking sometimes with a king’s ransom on them.”

  “Too many police about,” said her father, trying to look unconcerned, but his eyes gleamed with interest.