by M C Beaton
Felicity and Miss Joust sized each other up like two stray cats. Felicity decided quickly that Miss Joust would do. She appeared to be a silly, nervous woman, but not a bully. Miss Joust was taken aback initially by Felicity’s beauty, but she quickly recovered. It was just like the gallant marquess to offer to help Miss Waverley, but he would soon discover she came from very low origins indeed. One had only to look at her! No lady was ever so obviously beautiful. One had only to look at Emma Hamilton. Low origins meant Miss Waverley would remain unmarriageable. Miss Joust had not yet learned the happy fate of the other two Waverley girls.
There was, moreover, nothing of the lover in the marquess’s demeanor. Miss Joust, her main worry laid to rest, was able to appreciate her comfortable surroundings, the finely appointed bedchamber allotted to her, and the excellence of the cuisine. Her head was full of dreams. They were to set out for Meldon in two days’ time to confront Mrs. Waverley. Miss Joust could see it now: Mrs. Waverley would produce papers proving Felicity’s father had been a low felon. The marquess would fall very silent and then he would seek her out. “You cannot stay in such a household,” he would say. Miss Joust, wearing her best lilac sarcenet with her hair loose, would exclaim, “Alas, what is to become of me?” He would then gaze at her with a smoldering look and reply, “Fear not. I have found you another position.” “Where?” demanded Miss Joust. “What as?” “As my wife,” he cried, seizing her in his arms. And that was such a lovely dream that Miss Joust smiled dreamily all through dinner and paid little attention to Felicity, who wondered whether to be cross or amused.
Miss Joust decided to pay attention to her surroundings by the time the pudding was brought in. That way, she could save a little of the splendid dream for bedtime. “How do you pass your days in London, Miss Waverley?” she asked.
“Really, Miss Joust, I have just been telling you how I pass my days. Are you usually so inattentive?”
“Oh, no, Miss Waverley. I am just so glad to be away from that dreadful woman. So fatiguing. She quite addled my poor wits. Do tell me again.”
“Firstly, you may call me Felicity, and I shall call you Agnes. I do not have much in the way of a social life. I read a great deal. Do you read much, Agnes?”
“Yes, though I have not had the leisure to indulge my tastes of late. Mrs. Deves-Pereneux would have me read to her quite shocking and unsuitable books, you know. The Love Match was the last book. Quite dreadful. As if any woman of society would be so loose in her morals.”
“I thought it was an excellent book,” said Felicity crossly. “Why should people read books about rakes and philanderers with complacency yet shudder at the idea of a woman doing the same thing?”
“Ah, you are young, Felicity. Ladies have a natural modesty that curbs their actions. We all know we are put on this earth to be the support of some gentleman, as the ivy wraps itself around the strong oak.”
“Well put,” said Felicity acidly. “Ivy is a parasite and will soon destroy the strong oak with its clinging dependency.”
“La! How fierce you are. Simon told me you were a bluestocking.”
“Simon?”
“The Marquess of Darkwater.”
“Forgive my ignorance, Agnes. I am not on such terms of familiarity with his lordship as to call him by his Christian name, or even to know of it.”
“It is different in my case,” said Agnes Joust, her nose turning pink. Her nose turned red when angry and pink when she was lying. “Us being related, you know.”
“With relatives as rich as Darkwater in your family, I am surprised you have to earn your living,” commented Felicity.
“Well, one does not want to be a burden and …” Agnes was about to add that she was just one of many indigent relatives but thought better of it. “Would you like me to read to you, Felicity?”
“No, thank you. I am perfectly capable of reading to myself.”
“Perhaps you would like me to demonstrate an interesting new stitch?”
“Do not be so worried about earning your keep,” said Felicity with quick sympathy. “Your main job will be to chaperon me on our travels. In the meantime, you may rest as much as you like.”
Agnes felt a sudden rush of gratitude for Felicity. Such a pity she wasn’t a lady.
Felicity was glad to retire to the privacy of her room as soon as possible. She looked wearily at the few pages of manuscript on her desk. Would she ever write another book?
Chapter Five
The next day, Felicity checked over the inventory of the Waverley jewels, the huge box that now held them open on her bedroom floor. She was wondering where she could put them for safekeeping. She had removed the items she meant to sell that day. As she was kneeling on the floor, bending over the box, there came a faint scratching on the door and Agnes walked in. She stopped short at the sight of the jewels, blazing like a pirate’s treasure.
“I do not like to be disturbed before noon,” said Felicity shortly.
“Oh, what wondrous gems!” cried Agnes. She walked slowly forward, her eyes shining. “Oh, how I would love to be able to wear jewels like that!”
“I am wondering where to put them for safekeeping,” said Felicity, half-irritated, half-amused by her companion’s raptures. “You may choose something to wear today, if it would please you.”
Agnes fell to her knees beside Felicity and began to lift piece after piece out of the box, holding the jewels up to the light. “Do not take all day,” snapped Felicity. “Select something and be off with you.”
Agnes seized an emerald necklace and bracelet from one of the many trays and darted from the room.
“It is not at all the thing, you know,” said Felicity later when Agnes joined her in the drawing room, “to wear such gaudy baubles with a morning gown.”
“Oh, I know,” breathed Agnes, “but just for this little while. I feel like a queen.”
“Mr. Bernard Anderson has called,” said the housekeeper from the door of the drawing room.
Felicity hesitated and then said, “Send him up, Ricketts.”
Bernard entered at a half run. He fell to his knees in front of the startled Felicity and cried, “Oh, I am in love, and I am so very happy!”
Agnes let out a squawk and darted from the room and shut the door. She went halfway down the stairs, her hand to her breast, her heart beating hard. How wonderful. That very personable young man was obviously proposing to Felicity, and Felicity would accept him, and she, Agnes Joust, would be maid of honor, and the marquess would squeeze her hand tenderly and whisper in her ear, “This wedding has given me the idea of marriage, Miss Joust … or may I call you … beloved?”
Inside, Bernard was pouring out a tirade of gratitude that Felicity had introduced him to the most wonderful woman in the world, Caroline James.
“I am glad you are happy, Mr. Anderson,” said Felicity. “But please do rise and take a seat and tell me calmly what has happened. Are you engaged?”
“I have not dared ask her,” said Bernard. “I have taken a job in the theater, you know.”
“No, of course I do not know. And what has Mrs. Anderson to say to that?”
“She is furious, but there is nothing she can do,” said Bernard simply. “Do you think there is hope for me with Miss James?”
“Mr. Anderson, I really do not know. I have not seen Miss James since that day you met her. I am afraid you will need to ask her yourself.”
“I stayed the whole night with her,” said Bernard. He saw Felicity’s raised eyebrows and blushed. “I mean, I stayed all night and talked and talked. It was so wonderful.”
Outside on the staircase, the Marquess of Darkwater was finding to his irritation that his way was being barred by Agnes.
“Hush!” she said. “They must not be disturbed.”
“What on earth are you babbling on about, you widgeon?” snapped the marquess. Agnes blushed painfully. His words and tone were like a bucket of cold water being thrown over her. The fantasy marquess of her dreams had
a much better script.
“A Mr. Anderson is proposing marriage to Felicity.”
“And did Miss Waverley order you from the room?”
“N-no, but you see …”
“He may prove to be another charlatan. You should not have left her.”
He mounted the stairs and opened the drawing room door. Bernard was now seated respectably in a chair with Felicity in a chair opposite. Felicity rose and curtsied and made the introductions.
The marquess looked from Bernard’s glowing face to Felicity’s amused one and said sharply, “Well? Am I to congratulate you?”
“Why?” asked Felicity bluntly.
“I gather from Miss Joust you have just received a proposal of marriage.”
Agnes let out a faint bleating sound.
“If Miss Joust had stayed in the room,” said Felicity, “she would have learned that Mr. Anderson is indeed on the point of proposing to someone … but not to me.”
The marquess found he was feeling relieved but put it down to the fact that he was looking forward to the unraveling of the mystery about Felicity and did not want anyone else on the scene.
“I will bid you good day, Miss Waverley,” said Bernard. “I pray you will come to my wedding.”
“Gladly,” said Felicity. “Good luck!”
After he had left, the marquess asked curiously, “What was all that about?”
“Mr. Anderson is enamored of the actress Caroline James. He hopes to marry her.”
“A boy like that!”
“Miss James is very beautiful.”
“Granted. But there is a great difference in their ages.”
“Quite. Miss James is, I should guess, about your age, and Bernard, near to mine. Women marry older men every day. I do not see what is so wrong in that.”
“Women do not wear so well.”
“Only because they are worn out with childbirth,” said Felicity sharply.
“My dear Felicity!” cried Agnes. “You must not say such things.”
The marquess turned and looked at his relative and then his eyes sharpened. “I gather those are not your jewels, Miss Joust.”
“No, dear Felicity was kind enough to lend them to me.”
He turned back to Felicity. “As for the Waverley jewels, do not trouble to sell any of them at the moment. I will pay all expenses, and we can settle our accounts later. I suggest we take them to my bank for safekeeping, and that includes those you have on, Miss Joust.”
Agnes’s hand fluttered protectively to the necklace at her neck. “Oh, but surely dear Felicity will need some for the journey.”
“I am grateful to you, my lord,” said Felicity. “Those jewels have brought me nothing but trouble. But please do render me an exact account of all expenses when this adventure is over.”
“I have my carriage. I think we should take them to the bank now. If you do not mind, I shall send an item of news to the Morning Post to say the jewels are lodged in the bank. You do not want your servants to be imperiled.”
Felicity called Mrs. Ricketts and two of the maids to help her carry the jewels downstairs. Her mind was working busily. She did not know what she thought of the marquess now, only that it was a relief to have some of her worries taken off her hands.
Agnes came with them to the bank and watched sulkily as all the jewels including the emerald necklace and bracelet were locked away in the vaults and Felicity tucked the receipt from the bank in her reticule. But soon a dream arose to console her. Felicity had been proved to be of low birth. The marquess came to rescue Agnes from her post as he had rescued her from Mrs. Deves-Pereneux. As they drove away from Hanover Square, he handed her a flat morocco leather box, and when she opened it, there were the emeralds. “I bought them for you, my beloved,” said the dream marquess. “Poor Miss Waverley was only too glad to get the money for them. Of course, she cannot live in London anymore now that the scandal of her birth is out. But we can, my darling, as man and wife.”
This was such a good dream, Agnes spent the rest of the day adding to it and embroidering it.
Felicity was already beginning to find this companion tiresome. She retired to her room early to prepare for the journey on the morrow. The marquess had proved not to be a villain. His only interest in her was as a provider of a mystery to amuse him. He had pointed out they were both heart-free. Felicity had often dreamed of having the company of some man as a friend. Now it seemed she had it. So why did she feel so low?
After some thought, she put it down to her dread at meeting Mrs. Waverley again. She could never think of her as Baroness Meldon.
***
It was a blustery sunny morning when they set out for Meldon. The marquess’s traveling carriage was comfortable and well-sprung. Felicity was tired after a night during which she had had little sleep and soon dozed off.
Agnes gazed hungrily at the marquess. She was sure he was longing for an opportunity to say something intimate to her. He was shy, of course. That was it. Since his wife’s death, it was rumored he had shunned the company of the ladies. Perhaps he needed a little encouragement.
She smiled at him fondly and said, “It is a fine day, is it not, Simon?”
The marquess looked at her coldly, and she blushed under his gaze. All at once, her use of his first name seemed like the impertinence it undoubtedly was. He took out a book and began to read.
Agnes could not bear the silence. After a little while, she gave a genteel cough and said tentatively, “What are you reading, my lord?”
“The Use of Phosphates in Increasing the Yield of Wheat,” he said without raising his eyes.
“How interesting!” cried Agnes. “I dote on phosphates.”
He raised his eyes. “So you know about phosphates?”
“Yes, my lord. They are those pretty blue flowers, are they not?”
“Phosphates are salts that enrich the earth, like fertilizer,” he said. He lifted his book higher this time, as if to barricade himself from further questions.
“Silly me,” said Agnes with a tinkling laugh.
She did not feel at all stupid. A woman’s role in life was to make a man feel superior on all occasions.
Felicity awoke and yawned and stretched. She blinked and looked around. Agnes put a playful finger to her lips. “Shhh,” she admonished. “Our gallant companion is deep in literature.”
“What are you reading?” Felicity asked curiously.
With an edge of irritation in his voice, the marquess told her.
“Oh,” said Felicity in surprise. “Is that Hulm on phosphates, or Jardine?”
He looked at her in amazement. “Jardine, Miss Felicity. Never say you have read it.”
“Yes, indeed. Mrs. Waverley considered a knowledge of the latest innovations in agriculture an essential part of my education.”
“You poor thing!” exclaimed Agnes.
“On the contrary, I found it fascinating. Is this to improve your plantations, my lord?”
“No, I own a small estate in Surrey that is not in good heart.”
The pair plunged into a long discussion on crops, phosphates, and drainage.
Agnes was just wondering whether it was possible to go into a decline through sheer boredom when a dream came to save her. The marquess was standing in the middle of a plowed field, hatless, shirt open at the neck, in leather breeches and thick shoes. She herself was wearing a simple peasant dress—lilac muslin, perhaps?—with one of those leather bodices. “This land is all ours, my sweeting,” said the marquess, gathering her to his side with one hand and pointing across the field with the other. A warm wind blew Agnes’s hair across her cheek, and he tenderly brushed it aside. She frowned in irritation. With his third hand? This dream needed more work. She resolutely closed her eyes. In no time at all, she was fast asleep.
***
The former Mrs. Waverley, now Baroness Meldon, and her husband were dozing in front of the fire in the parlor after a hearty meal. The sound of carriage wheels crunchin
g on the drive outside made both sit up.
“Callers,” said the baroness bitterly. In London, it was easy. If one did not want to be disturbed, then one’s servant simply said one was not at home, but in the country, everyone for miles around seemed to know exactly when one was at home or out. “I hope it is not the vicar,” she added. “A most stupid and encroaching fellow.”
A footman came in carrying a card on a silver tray, which he presented to the baroness. The servants had quickly learned which one of the pair held the purse strings and managed the household.
The baroness fumbled for her quizzing glass and held it up scrutinizing the card. “The Marquess of Darkwater,” she read. “Don’t know the man. What does he want, do you think?”
“Perhaps a friend of the Prince Regent,” said the baron importantly, brushing grains of snuff from his coat and straightening his wig.
“Show his lordship in,” said the baroness, getting to her feet.
The baron had turned away from the door and was arranging his crumpled cravat in the glass when he heard his wife’s exclamation of dismay. He swung around. His eyes went straight past the marquess to where Felicity Waverley stood, and he turned a slightly muddy color.
Felicity had told the marquess she did not think their visit would be welcomed, but he had not expected them to be greeted with such shock and dismay.
The baroness wanted to forget all about the three girls she had adopted from the orphanage. The baron alone knew he had received his title from the Prince Regent on the understanding that he married Mrs. Waverley and took her away from London. Why the Prince Regent should go to these lengths, the baron did not know, nor did he care. He had a title and a rich wife. Now, as he looked at Felicity, he dreaded that the prince would somehow learn of her visit and be displeased.