Out of unworthy petulance, she admitted to herself, Simone waited until he had filled his spoon, then asked, “Have you been with the major long?”
He barely set the spoon down long enough to say “Long enough.” Then he went back to his dish.
“Will he be visiting soon?”
This time the spoon hit the edge of the bowl with a clatter. “Soon enough,” was his unhelpful reply.
She waited until the spoon was almost at his mouth. “Tomorrow?”
He decided to swallow first, his tongue licking the sweet stuff from his moustache. Simone was vaguely repulsed, wondering what other crumbs and spills left remnants there. Yet she found the gesture oddly boyish, too.
“The major is a busy man,” he said, after quickly spooning another mouthful down his throat.
She could be as rude as he was. “Are all men in this household close-mouthed and taciturn? Do you all speak in riddles?”
He stared at his bowl of congealing dessert with longing, she thought, although the dark spectacles hid a lot of his expression. The sigh he made did not. “Jeremy is an outgoing lad. He can tell you everything you wish to know about the horses.”
She did not want to know anything about Major Harrison’s stables, as he well knew. “But I wish to speak with him of our…agreement. He must have mentioned it to you.”
That got her his attention at last. He leaned closer, staring across the table at her. “Are you dissatisfied with your room? Your treatment here?”
“Oh no, everything is lovely. It’s just the uncertainty of the whole arrangement.” She shrugged. “I feel peculiar being a guest here without knowing where I will be tomorrow, or what is expected of me.”
He sighed again and pushed his bowl aside. “The major will make other plans for you if you are not content with these. I can make inquiries among my acquaintances to see if anyone is seeking a governess.”
“I have no references.”
“I have friends who can supply whatever you require.”
“Without meeting me? Wouldn’t that be dishonest?” And what kind of friends did the secretary have, anyway, who could supply references sight unseen?
“Are you a good governess?”
“I tried.”
“That would be good enough.” He went back to his syllabub, evidently considering the discussion over.
Simone relented and let him have a spoonful or two before saying, “I do not know if the major discussed my difficulties.”
“The major and I share everything.”
If green glasses could shoot sparks, she’d be on fire. As it was, his words made her blood run cold. She almost dropped the glass of wine she’d been toying with. “You share…everything?”
Now he did drop his spoon, which spattered the once-frothy confection on the tablecloth. “Great gods, Miss Ryland. No, we do not share women. Whatever gave you that idea?”
Lydia Burton, of course, but Simone did not say so. “I am not sure of the rules of this, ah, business. The major and I did not discuss terms and conditions.”
“I do not believe the rules, if there are any such, are written in stone. This is not like a legal contract, you know. Simply trust the major to see you are not subjected to any behavior you find offensive. He will take care of everything.”
“Of course. That is what Mrs. Burton said. I am sorry I doubted his intentions. Or yours.”
He grunted, then ignored her in favor of his dratted syllabub. Simone was reluctant to annoy him further, since the secretary was the one to make whatever arrangements the major decided upon. He must have become aware of her silence, or his lack of manners, for he asked, “Tell me, have you ever considered becoming an actress? Especially with your financial needs, the stage might pay more.”
“But it is not very respectable.”
“And prost—this path is?”
Simone took a spoonful of syllabub without thinking. No wonder the major liked it so well; the stuff must be half spirits. She had another spoonful while she considered that the former soldier—an officer, she assumed—disapproved of her, too. She wondered if the major would have hired a mistress at all, considering his staff’s attitude, if he did not wish to attend the house party.
“Will you be going to Lord Gorham’s gathering?”
Mr. Harris pushed his plate away again, considering his answer. A lie would ruin his dessert. The truth could jeopardize everything else. “I go where I am needed,” he said, the good secretary.
Simone wished he would go to the devil. The idea of this unsmiling man watching her fall from grace, judging her performance, was more unsettling than the alcohol sinking to her stomach. She had already suffered through the most awkward meal of her life. Any more of his favorite concoction and she would suffer through the rest of the night, too. She stood, forcing him to rise also. “If you are done?”
He was not, of course, but manners forced him to invite her to take tea in the parlor, or port if she preferred.
“I think not, thank you. I am too weary. This has been an eventful day.”
*
Eventful? She didn’t know the half of it. Harry served himself another bowl of Mrs. Judd’s finest cooking. He might as well have that treat, since he’d been denied anything else. Now he could not secretly admire the woman’s beauty from behind his spectacles, or watch her trying to act worldly, when she was shaking in her boots, or in those tiny silk slippers he’d noticed at Lydia’s. He noticed everything, how the candles caught bronze highlights in her red hair, making it more auburn. How her black eyes flashed with annoyance when he ignored her, how her honey-toned cheeks flushed when she realized she’d been forward. Damn, he had barely eaten his supper, for staring at the tops of her breasts, softly edging over her gown. Thank goodness for the tinted glass, or she’d have gone at him with the fireplace poker, too. And he would have deserved it, for every lustful, lascivious thought. Hell, he should not be thinking of a woman at all, only his plans. He had never let his urges interfere with his duty, and he would not start now, no matter how tempting he found Miss Ryland. Syllabub be damned.
Mrs. Judd was right, he had to be certain.
*
Sally arrived to help her out of the blue gown and into her flannel bedclothes that were so worn and faded they had no color at all.
“Did you enjoy dinner, miss?”
“Very much. Please tell your mother.”
“Jeremy says you hardly touched the syllabub. I told Mum she had a heavy hand with the brandy, for a lady’s taste.”
“Oh, no, I am sure it was perfect. I’ve never been partial to that dish for some reason. Mr. Harris appreciated it, I am certain.”
“Well, you won’t be seeing it again any time soon, my mum is that mad at him. She said he could eat digestive biscuits for all she cared.”
“I suppose he was rude to her?”
Sally laughed. “Rude? He’s never been rude in all my born days. No, Mum was all put out on account of he brought Miss White back with him.”
So the sanctimonious prig had a lady friend of his own. What hypocrisy, to make Simone feel unclean while he was bringing Miss White to his employer’s house. She wondered if Major Harrison knew, then decided he must. Why, poor Mrs. Judd must be thinking she was running a bordello, what with all the loose women about. And what a terrible example to set for Sally. Then Simone had a dreadful thought: “This isn’t her bedroom, is it?”
“Lands, no. Mum would never let the likes of her above stairs.”
Simone supposed only the master’s companion earned that right, along with her higher salary. The secretary’s woman was relegated to the servants’ quarters. She was so disturbed by the situation that she almost missed Sally’s next words, coming from the dressing room where she was hanging up the blue gown. “He took her in the same as he took us, so Mum can’t really complain, now can she?”
Nor could Simone, although she’d rather eat a bucket of syllabub instead of meeting Miss White at breakfast. She sat
quietly while Sally brushed out her hair and braided it for the night. Sally did not notice, prattling about the clothes Miss Ryland would need, the colors she ought to pick, and where they might shop for ribbons and gloves and stockings. And did miss prefer chocolate in the morning or tea?
She finally left, leaving Simone alone with her thoughts, which were not good company either. What was she doing, taking up a life no one respected, including herself? She’d face the contempt of all the Mrs. Olmsteads, all the Mr. Harrises, all the curates in all of England, for all the rest of her days, if not longer.
There in the dark, in a strange room in a peculiar household, she had second thoughts, or thirty-second. She simply did not know if she could go through with her plan.
It was one thing for a woman to fall in love, to give herself to man who loved her in return, with the promise of marriage, or so Simone believed. The church demanded the wedding come before the bedding, but Society looked the other way when so many infants were born months prematurely. No harm was done but a bit of embarrassment at the birth.
It was another thing to be so overcome with passion for a handsome, charming rogue that a woman lost her wits, and thus her virtue. Females in plays and poems and operas did that all the time, didn’t they? Simone had never experienced such overpowering passion, but she supposed it was possible. Reprehensible, but possible.
Her decision, though, selling herself to a man she barely knew, was outright wrong. Sinful. Shameful. Scandalous. No matter that her need was great and her alternatives were few, offering herself as a man’s plaything was against her every precept and her parents’ teachings. She could have done it this afternoon, acting on impulse born of desperation, but now, with a full stomach? Now she had too much time to think.
Where was Major Harrison anyway? He should be here to help her decide. Was he as kind as he seemed? Then he should understand her trepidations. Would he treat her like a lady, or like the harlot she was becoming?
He was generous; he’d already proved that. If he paid Auguste’s school fees, Simone could retire after her one venture into the demi-monde. She was getting cold feet, that was all. She pulled the blankets tighter around her, then felt too warm and tossed them aside.
The secretary was a cold man. She sat up again, wondering why she was suddenly thinking of Mr. Harris at all. He’d likely hand over her wages with a sneer, then go back to his own bed, his occupied bed. Now she clenched the covers in her hands.
Bother, she was never going to fall asleep at this rate. She decided to write a letter to Auguste at school, instead of twisting her nerves and the sheets into rumpled knots. She lit another candle and found paper and ink in the desk near the window. She sat there, barefoot, and composed a note filled with so many lies that the major would dismiss her on the spot. She told her brother all about her new, well-paying position. She was on trial, she explained in case nothing came of it, but she wrote that she had great hopes of succeeding with the pleasant, well-established family in Mayfair, in their beautiful house filled with friendly servants. The children were young enough, she told Auggie, that she could have a contented place with them for years, and he must not worry about her. She would send him the address when she was certain they were keeping her on. Wish me luck, she concluded, your loving sister. Of course the tear drops made her words run together, but Auggie would suppose her letter got wet in the rain. And if he could not read all of it, well, then she had a few less lies to atone for.
She sealed the letter but knew she’d have to ask Mr. Harris to post it in the morning, dash it. She had no desire to face the secretary again, with his smirk hidden behind his moustache and his scorn hidden by dark glasses. If he were more friendly she might have asked him if the house contained a library, then she could have had a new book to read tonight, instead of dwelling on her fears. She supposed she could read her bible. No, not tonight, not in this house, not with her intentions.
A scratching sound came at her door and Simone was almost glad that Sally had come back with her chatter. But Sally did not come in when she called out “Enter.” Neither did Major Harrison, thank goodness. Simone was not ready for him, not by a long shot.
The sound came again, so she went to the door and opened it to find a cat in the hall, a big white cat, the fattest, fluffiest cat Simone had ever seen, which explained why everyone was covered in white hairs, except that Major Harrison said he did not live here, and he’d also said he never lied.
The cat’s presence did explain Miss White. The feline’s ears twitched when Simone said the name out loud, and Simone had to laugh at her own false presumptions. Mr. Harris had brought a cat home, not his doxy, and Mrs. Judd disapproved. Simone could not blame the housekeeper, the way her own hand was quickly covered in cat fur, just from stroking the overgrown animal. She fetched her own hairbrush and comb and sewing scissors and started to brush tangles and mats and leaves out of the long white coat, her own anxieties soothed with the steady motion and the cat’s constant purring. “You and Sally seem to be the only friendly ones here,” she told Miss White, “but I don’t know who or what to believe any more. Not even my own decisions.”
The cat jumped down and left, only now she was sleek and half the size, and damp from Simone’s tears.
Chapter Seven
The cat might have looked better in the morning, but Simone’s prospects were as bleak as the old grey gown she put on by herself before Sally came with a breakfast tray. Hot chocolate, a sweet roll with jam, even a nosegay of violets threatened her resolve, but no. She was not so easily tempted by luxury and a life of leisure. She’d sell the blue gown—Major Harrison said it was hers to keep, no matter what happened—and put an advertisement in the papers. She could hope Mrs. Olmstead had not rented her room yet, and hope a position arose before week’s end. That was what she would do, and that’s what she would tell the major. She felt that was the least she owed the man, a personal confession that she was no high flyer after all. Her feet were planted too firmly on the well-trodden ground of virtue and respectability.
Instead of confronting Mr. Harris to ask for an appointment with Major Harrison, Simone decided to ask Sally to talk to the stuffy secretary for her. Sally, however, brought the message that Mr. Harris wanted to see her in the breakfast parlor, at her earliest convenience.
The former soldier looked well rested, Simone thought with a touch of rancor over her own sleepless night. He wore a corbeau-colored coat this morning, with a simple knot in his neckcloth that made him appear exactly what he was: a gentleman of dignity and means who happened to earn his own living instead of being an idle ornament of society. Too bad he was a churlish boor.
He did not speak when she entered the room, but he did rise, then stared through his spectacles at the drab governess gown she wore, the tight coil of braids at the back of her neck, the sturdy worn boots. Sally was near tears to send her charge downstairs looking like she’d come to sweep the parlor, but Simone had insisted.
Mr. Harris did not comment on her altered appearance, he merely gestured to the coffee pot on the table and told her to ring for Jeremy if she preferred tea or chocolate. Covered dishes were on the sideboard, with eggs, kippers, kidneys and bacon. He’d already eaten, he said as he resumed his seat, getting an early start to a day with much to accomplish.
What, did the officious oaf think she was lazy, besides a light-skirt? He did look busy, though, with books and newspapers and notepads stacked in front of him next to a plate of buttered toast.
Simone said that she’d had a tray in her room, and would not keep him from his important work. She only wished to request an appointment with his employer.
That was impossible, according to Mr. Harris. The major had a full schedule. So did Miss Ryland, he informed her. A modiste would arrive within the hour, a coiffeur soon after, then a boot-maker to measure her foot for riding boots and shoes.
He had been busy. And the meddlesome creature was not finished.
“You can make a list of
any other items you deem necessary and I’ll have them delivered. I will visit the jewelers myself. Do you have any preferences?”
“Jewels? I have no need for jewels.”
His lip curled under the moustache. “Every woman of fashion needs jewelry. Obviously you do not in your current mode. But Major Harrison’s companion does require gems, to give weight to his standing.”
“That is precisely what I wish to speak to the major about. I cannot go with him to the house party. We have not concluded the arrangement, you see. He told me to think on it, and I have. I must regretfully decline his employment.” She headed toward the door and her room, to pack her few belongings back into the trunk.
“You could not have found another protector since last night.”
Simone should have expected the insult, but it still hurt. She turned at the door to say, “I have decided to pursue a different line of work. I shall provide for myself, not in such rich style, of course, but with my head held high.”
If her chin rose any higher, she’d fall over backward. Mr. Harris pushed a notepad aside and stroked his chin, thinking. What he thought was that he did not want her to leave. He wanted to see her dressed in satin and lace, with jewels dripping from her arms and ears and neck. No, he wanted to see her wearing nothing but a single red ruby between her breasts, breasts which she might not have had, so loose was the sack she wore. He’d wrestled with his conscience all night and decided he could not ruin a respectable woman, not even to save his life or escape to a better one. But now that she had decided the same thing, that her honor was too precious to barter, he changed his mind. Now he had to change hers. Or else he could lock her in the room and tie her to a chair, like one of the spies he’d interrogated. That might work better.
“No,” he said. “You cannot leave yet. I believe you agreed to think about the position for a few days. The major cannot see you until then anyway.”
A few days? The longer Simone spent in this bachelor household, the more compromised she would be and the harder she’d find it to explain to a prospective employer where she had resided. She walked back to the table, and pounded her fist on it. “That is unacceptable.”
The Scandalous Life of a True Lady Page 6