In deference to Cleome’s wealth and new position, Lady Easton tried not to show her utter frustration, but the only thing upon which they reached a ready agreement was where to have Cleome’s coming-out ball. It was set for late January, and since Houghton Hall would not be ready in time, Drake had graciously offered Stoneham House. To Cleome’s surprise, Lady Easton thought it a splendid idea. It would be the first formal event hosted there after the opening. London society was already rife with gossip about the honorable (and comely) Miss Parker, who would someday be a baroness; and when word got out that she would be formally introduced to them, a great clamor for invitations ensued.
Though she did not consider herself a beauty as the others, especially Edwina, proclaimed, Cleome was too innately honest to lie to herself. In one of her new dresses, with her hair done up, standing before her dressing room mirror, she saw that her appearance could indeed give her a certain advantage, especially when immense wealth was part of the package. If learning to manage the Houghton estate meant she had to capitalize on her assets, then so be it. And if she had to be instructed in her new role, not only by Oliver but by the Eastons and their exclusive circle as well, she would have to go along with that, too. Whatever their purpose was, she had her own; for now that she could have anything she wanted, she had to face the fact that what she desired most was the one thing she could not buy.
She wanted Drake Stoneham; and her incredible good fortune had decreed that if she could not have him for a husband, perhaps she could take him for her lover. What others thought of her was supposed to be important, she knew; but she had no real place in the society of others—and never had. Besides figuring out a way to make Drake fall in love with her, Cleome’s only aspiration was to pursue some course of study. She meant to avail herself of the many opportunities London offered, and to expand her mind while she figured out how to run her businesses and seduce the owner of Stoneham House.
Although he was occupied with the final embellishments on the club, she was not surprised to see him occasionally at some of the soirees she attended with the Eastons. In those privileged settings, he could procure customers, but there was small likelihood of that at the informal literary dinners Oliver hosted. Drake carefully kept an appropriate distance from Cleome when encountering her at the Easton’s or a function hosted by any of their associates. At Oliver’s informal get-togethers, he was more likely to seek her out. But even then, he made no mention of exploring their obvious attraction to each other, as he’d promised, before Oliver had arrived with the news that turned her life in this new direction. Cleome was impatient to introduce the subject again and had it not been for the jolly distractions Edwina and Garnett offered her, she thought she’d go mad.
To Edwina’s delight, Garnett instituted the tradition of taking her and Cleome on carriage rides around London as often as the weather would allow. On a bright November morning when the temperature permitted the use of the open phaeton, the Intrepid Trio (as Edwina had christened them) set out for an early ride. Bundled in a heavy velvet cloak with a hood trimmed in rich ermine and a woolen throw across her lap, Cleome was enjoying the cold, invigorating air when she spied Drake’s carriage coming towards them in the opposite lane. The welcoming smile that lit her face faded abruptly when she saw the dark, pretty woman who was dressed as elegantly and expensively as she was herself, sitting next to him, her hand resting lightly on his arm.
Cleome tried to disappear into the folds of her hood but it was too late—Drake had seen her. He tipped his hat and nodded politely to her and her party while his companion stared at them curiously.
“Oh, my!” Edwina quipped. “Who was that with Mr. Stoneham, do you think?”
“Don’t you know?” Garnett asked, happy to gossip. “He has imported her from Paris to work in his club. Her name is Mignon and he allows no other man to get near her, except his clerk, Mr. Collins, who’s harmless enough. And that, my dear girl, is all I can divulge to one of your innocent years.”
“Not so innocent as you might think, sir,” Edwina shot back. “I know all about the mysterious woman from Paris. Do you think that was she?”
“What do you mean, Eddy?” Cleome asked, using the pet name she had devised for her friend. “Have you heard something?”
“Not myself, directly,” Edwina replied. “But Mamma has it on good account that she was hired to be one of the ‘ladies upstairs’ and to supervise some of the other ‘ladies upstairs’ at Stoneham House.”
“Believing that takes no stretch of the imagination,” Garnett returned. “She certainly looks sophisticated enough to—hold on there, little one,” he warned, using his own pet name for the lovely sprite. “Do you know what the ‘ladies upstairs’ are employed to do?”
“Yes,” Edwina declared. “And I maintain that it’s more honorable than an arranged and loveless marriage which takes place for the mutual profit of two families.”
“She’s incorrigible,” Garnett said to Cleome. “Can you do nothing to restrain her?”
“No. I wouldn’t wish to limit so fine a mind,” Cleome responded easily. “But I suppose all gaming houses have such women in their employ, do they not?”
“Of course,” Garnett assured her.
“Well, while I certainly do not think it suitable employment, I must admit Edwina has a valid point.”
“Thank you, my dear Cleo,” said Edwina. “Mamma also heard that Mr. Stoneham found his mystery woman working in one of the lowest brothels in all of France, rescued her and made her his lover. Don’t you think that’s romantic?”
“No, I think it’s ridiculous,” Cleome responded, carefully controlling the rising emotion in her voice. “And I doubt that it’s true. We haven’t seen her with him at any parties.”
“But there’s something between them,” Garnett put in. “He seems very concerned for her welfare, and she looks at him with nothing less than adoration.”
“He is a kind man,” Cleome stated simply.
“Still, he is a man,” Garnett rejoined. “And just so you worldly women are properly informed, I must tell you that there are ladies a gentleman brings to a party and ladies he prefers to keep at home. Mignon is in the latter group.”
“Now who’s behaving incorrigibly?” Cleome asked. And although they all burst into laughter, Cleome’s heart was heavy and she was far from amused.
**
There was a new chancellor at Cambridge, and after Lord Easton met with him, Garnett was readmitted to university; and in mid November, he returned to school a more serious student. He had tried many times to establish himself as more than her friend, but Cleome remained steadfast in her determination not to allow him any romantic illusions. Still, at many of the gatherings—the teas, the dances, the dinner parties—they were invariably paired. She could see that everyone, especially Garnett, took it for granted that eventually he and Cleome would wed. She discouraged him at every turn but he remained devoted. Strangely enough, he was the only new friend she had, besides Edwina, of whose sincerity she could be absolutely certain; for he had declared his concern for her long before he had any idea she was an heiress.
Together, Oliver Landshire and Elizabeth Easton hired servants to help Cleome maintain her townhouse. Higgins, the butler, was a disconcerting snob who always put her ill at ease; but Oliver explained that his regal bearing would make it easy for him to control the large staff she would require at Houghton Hall. Until Cleome moved into the imposing structure she needed only Jacqueline to help in the townhouse, but Oliver insisted she also have a downstairs maid, a scullery maid and a cook. Lady Easton remarked that it wouldn’t do to have a house full of unprotected women—although what protection the tall but spindly Mr. Higgins would be, Cleome failed to understand. She remarked to Edwina’s delight that he hardly looked forceful enough to do battle with a codfish much less a criminal.
Everyone Cleome met seemed to accept Lady Easton’s story of her previous situation, but she had understandable misgivings about the e
ntire endeavor. She had no wish to embarrass Garnett and his parents or Oliver, who was fast proving himself another dear friend upon whom she could count; and she constantly feared she would say the wrong thing or use the wrong fork or do something to embarrass them all. Edwina and her uncle acted, sometimes together and sometimes by turn, as escort or chaperone when Cleome went to the theatre or museums, or strolling through the lovely parks in Pall Mall.
Cleome and Edwina delighted in each other’s company and because the younger girl had no knowledge of the charms she possessed, it only served to make her more attractive. Their budding friendship blossomed into something deep and lasting and it was this simple affection that saved Cleome from absolute boredom when the sparkle of new sights, sounds and smells began to fade and her life became routine with the waiting . . . waiting for Stoneham House to open at last.
Cleome never grew tired of listening to Edwina play the piano, and Edwina never grew tired of having philosophical discussions, far into the night, with Cleome. Educated entirely by her Uncle Oliver, Edwina was quite precocious in her pursuit of knowledge. She lived with Oliver much of the time as her overbearing mamma was always traveling, she explained to Cleome one day as they were shopping in Burlington Gate.
“She is seeking a proper match for me,” Edwina said. “We have a small sum to live on, thanks to my late father, who was Uncle Oliver’s brother. But Mamma is determined to find me a rich husband before I am eighteen and before our money is used up. If only I were a man, Cleome! I’d not marry at all, but travel the world writing music and giving concerts.”
It didn’t take long for Cleome to grow weary of shopping and going to teas and parties, all of which Garnett’s mother thought were a lady’s primary calling; and when Oliver invited Cleome to use his expansive library whenever she wanted, Cleome thought she had landed in heaven. She also indulged herself in the purchase of any book that caught her fancy, adding rapidly to the shelves at her little townhouse; but Mr. Landshire had volumes she never would have thought to seek out, books so radical she would be surprised to find them in the library at Houghton Hall, among books that looked little read.
Dear Oliver! What she would have done without him these past few weeks, she could not imagine. London didn’t appeal to her as Garnett had hoped it would, and she was anxious to get back to her mother. Edwina was wonderful company, as was Oliver; but it wasn’t home. She had hoped to spend more time with Drake and that hope alone was enough to keep her in the city. But without Edwina, Oliver and the beloved books, her boredom would have given way to depression and loneliness.
“This one is rather odd,” Cleome avowed one rainy afternoon when she and Edwina were sprawled on the rug, reading before Oliver’s blazing fire. With the corner of her new lace handkerchief, Cleome wiped the dust away from the title on the worn, dog-eared pamphlet and held it out to Edwina.
“Oh, that’s the one I’ve been telling you about. I agree with most of it,” Edwina said. “Although Mamma is horrified, I assure you.”
“The Vindication of the Rights of Women,” Cleome read the title aloud and opened the booklet. As Edwina watched, Cleome devoured Mrs. Godwin’s words. When she had finished, the course of her life was firmly decided.
“Do you not think it terribly unfair,” she asked Edwina at last, “that when a woman marries, she loses all her property and all her rights to her husband?”
“It’s utterly despicable. Work is the only way we can be free from the whims of men and we are not, at least ladies of position are not, permitted that noble endeavor. And poor women are too enslaved by poverty to worry about anything but staying alive.” Edwina sighed, troubled. “I suppose one day, my mother will find a suitable husband for me, one who is rich enough to satisfy her. Until then, I am fortunate to have my uncle, who encourages me to learn everything I can about the music I love and the world in which I live, unjust though it may be.”
“Well spoken, my darling girl!” Oliver’s voice thundered behind them. The library door stood open and the solicitor now entered with another gentleman in tow. Both young women got quickly to their feet and Edwina ran to put her arm through Oliver’s, with Cleome following closely.
“I see you are popular with the ladies,” Oliver’s guest offered approvingly. It was impossible to detect his age, for his overall corpulence extended to his ruddy facial features, smoothing any would-be wrinkles into puffs of jocularity that bobbled mischievously upon his cheeks as he flashed them a ready smile.
“This is my good friend, William Cobbett,” said Oliver. “We must commandeer the study as I need to explain in detail the theories contained in an article I have written for Mr. Cobbett’s newspaper. But first, pray explain this radical, libertine dogma my niece has been sharing with you.”
Oliver’s eyes twinkled with amusement, and Cleome knew he was jesting; but her feelings on the subject were too deep to allow her to parry with him as had become their amiable habit.
“It is not libertine, my dear Oliver,” she said. “And if your sex had the common sense they so pride themselves in, it would not be considered radical. Am I not correct, Mr. Cobbett?” She knew who the newspaper publisher was and she was familiar with the causes he championed in his Political Register, which some called subversive.
“A fact I dare not dispute, milady,” replied Mr. Cobbett. Oliver laughed, delighted; and then he escorted Cleome and Edwina out of the library with a promise that, as soon as the manuscript was edited to Mr. Cobbett’s satisfaction, the gentlemen would be pleased to take their tea with the young ladies. How different were the small gatherings at Oliver’s home from the grand ones at the Eastons. In the former, Cleome was exposed to some of the greatest minds in London and so began to appreciate the worth of her own. In the latter, more often than not, she was subjected to the affected posturing and trite clichés of a world that had, all her life, placed itself above her.
Mr. Landshire’s brilliant, learned and witty friends were infinitely more interesting than Garnett’s fashionably bored ones. Cleome loved using Oliver’s library, for he often stopped in with any of a dozen fascinating intellectuals. She read prodigiously, sometimes taking notes, and sometimes recording in a diary her thoughts and reactions to the conversations she was privileged not only to hear, but to participate in as well. Frequent visitors to Oliver’s home were the Rosettis and their infant son, Dante. A professor at King’s College, the Italian-born Gabriel Rosetti was in political exile and he enjoyed sparring mentally with Oliver, who knew many wonderful, talented people. Wordsworth himself had graced the barrister’s table more than once, along with Robert Owen, Anna Wheeler and Elizabeth Fry, a humble Quaker woman who worked tirelessly for prison reform. In Mrs. Fry’s gentle company, Cleome and Edwina visited some women in prison; and they were horrified at the conditions the poor had to suffer for so harmless a crime as stealing a bit of bread or meat.
On many evenings, Robert Browning, a high-spirited young man who was attending the University of London in this, its first year, was there to challenge Edwina to what he laughingly called piano duels. Using Oliver’s old upright, one would finish playing any composition the other began. Mr. Browning, who was the same age as Cleome, also enjoyed reading poetry to the young ladies and Cleome had to wonder if Oliver included him in their gatherings as a possible match for herself or Edwina. Oliver wanted his niece to wed an artistic man who would understand and encourage her pursuit of music but Cleome doubted one rich enough to satisfy Edwina’s mamma could be found.
As a golden autumn gave way to the silver frost of winter, Cleome grew in spirit, knowledge and boldness, cheerfully facing each new day as she discovered the myriad possibilities before her. Drake, Oliver and Elizabeth were right. Wealth and position opened many doors and allowed a woman to make her own rules . . . as long as she did not marry.
It became increasingly more difficult for Cleome to be seen, and not heard, like some overgrown child, when there were gentlemen present at the social functions she had to end
ure, especially when the talk turned to politics. At one such dinner party the Eastons were hosting, someone despaired of the results of the Reform Bill, if it were indeed passed.
“Is there reason to believe it will not be?” Cleome asked, alarmed. Garnett cleared his throat and Lady Easton raised her eyebrows in warning but Cleome gave no heed. From the opposite end of the table, Drake watched, intrigued, as she continued, “Political enfranchisement and proper representation are the only means by which the working class can extricate themselves from poverty and appalling working conditions.”
“The poor are always with us, my dear,” Lord Easton said. “Naturally, we must do what we can to relieve their suffering. That’s why we have charities and generous ladies like yourself to look after them.”
“Charities help, but they are not the solution,” Oliver interjected.
“True enough,” agreed a rotund university chaplain. “There’s never enough to go around, and most poor men find it difficult to accept charity. They would rather work, and ’tis debatable whether all this infernal machinery coming in has been a blessing or a curse. It impairs the hearing, spews filth and makes young men old.”
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