I’m stunned. I have never seen such behavior from our headmistress before. I hardly know what to think. Is this artifice of some sort? No, Miss Stranje seems genuinely overjoyed. As are our three guests, who surround her in a tight circle.
“My deeeear girl!” the second lady exclaims, and even though she slowly draws out all her vowels in a most pretentious way she is nearly in tears. “Dearest Emma. It has beean faaar tooo looong.” She blots her eyes with a silk handkerchief.
I recognize her instantly, of course. Anyone would. This paragon is the incomparable Lady Jersey, epitome of elegance and fashion. Tall, statuesque, and strikingly beautiful, the lady wears a jaunty velvet hat topped with the longest, most luxurious white ostrich feather I have ever seen. It’s so long it curls and drapes down over one shoulder of her ermine-collared coat.
On Emma’s other side, standing at graceful attention, is a woman tastefully gowned, but in comparison to her companions reserved in dress and manner. This dark-haired woman is none other than the legendary Lady de Lieven, a Baltic Princess in her own right, and married to a count in line for the Russian throne. Her husband has served for many years as ambassador to Britain.
Rumor has it that this lady is friend and confidante to so many heads of state, that Tsar Alexander considers her a diplomat in skirts and often entrusts her with messages for foreign dignitaries. I can see why. She has the gentle bearing of someone in whom men might confide their secrets.
I wouldn’t—and not merely because I don’t trust anyone, mind you. I sense a craftiness hidden beneath her pretty innocence. She may look soft on the outside, but inside I suspect this woman is sharper and more honed than a corsair’s blade. I might not trust her, but I do respect her.
In the presence of these distinguished guests, I struggle to remember to breathe normally.
Lady Jersey turns on her heel, her tears suddenly dry. “Geeantlemen.” She holds out her hand to them. “Captain Grey, a pleasure as always. Aoond Loord Wyatt, I daresay, you grow more dashing every time I see you. The young ladies shall be faalling ooover themselves.” She gives him a particularly shrewd smile. “What must we doo to persuade you to attend one of oour little evenings at Almack’s?”
“Not much, my lady.” Lord Wyatt bows politely over her hand. “A loaded musket at my back ought to do the trick.”
“Rascal.” She laughs gaily and raps him on the shoulder with her fan. “Very well. I shall have Lord Jersey load one for me next Wednesday.”
She moves on to scrutinize Mr. Sinclair, who, as luck would have it, is dressed somewhat better than he normally is, and yet his hair is a tousled mess and not in the artificial windblown style that is so popular with dandies. No, his actually is windblown. As Lady Jersey scrutinizes him, he presents her with a broad forthright grin.
She responds with a lift of one brow. “I take it this young man is our American inventor, Fulton’s nephew?”
“The very same.” He bows. “Pleased to make your acquaintance…”
Merciful heavens!
He is supposed to wait for an introduction, and I know, I just know, he is going to complete that sentence by calling her ma’am. Then he will stick out his big paw so he can vigorously pump her hand up and down the way he always does. Inwardly I am cringing and holding my breath, sending silent pleas to the angels above.
Mr. Sinclair’s glance flits from Lady Jersey to me, and back to her again. “My lady.”
In a ragged gasp, I exhale. Captain Grey performs formal introductions and Lady Jersey studies Mr. Sinclair for a moment. At last, she chuckles and extends her hand. “Judging by that audacious grin, I’ll wager you’re a proper young rogue, aren’t you?”
He bends over her hand with an even more mischievous expression. “Begging to differ, my lady. I’ve been told there’s nothing proper about me.”
“La.” She bestows upon him the same anointing fan rap she delivered to Lord Wyatt. “You’ll dooo, young maan, even if you are an American. You’ll do.”
Lady Jersey bears down upon us wearing a deadly serious expression. Apparently, her examination of us requires a quizzing glass, which she produces and raises to her eye as if we are not clearly visible, even though we stand not more than three feet away from her. “Aoond these must be ooour young ladies.”
Our young ladies? Why should these ladies, these pillars of society, lay claim to us? We, who have never belonged to anyone? How can this be, when even our families are loath to acknowledge us?
Lady de Lieven and Lady Castlereagh leave off reminiscing with Miss Stranje, and cast sharpish gazes in our direction. Advancing upon us like thieves on a mark, they close ranks beside Lady Jersey.
I stand in the center of our line, holding our ground, knocking shoulders with Georgie so she won’t back up. I wish I could silently shout a command to my sisters, show them no fear. Tess understands. She stands on the end, tall and straight, shoulders squared, not budging an inch. I have never been prouder of her.
Lady Castlereagh elbows Lady Jersey. “Are they not exactly as I described? I wish you’d met them that dreadful night when Lord Wyatt was nearly lost to us. Speaking of which—” She spins abruptly toward Captain Grey, and the skirt of her ornate pelisse splashes against the furniture. “Gentlemen, would you be so good as to excuse yourselves? We’ve much to discuss with the young ladies. Private matters. I’m sure you understand.”
“As you wish.” Captain Grey inclines his head to Miss Stranje. “If it is acceptable to you, we shall return this evening for Mr. Sinclair’s lessons.”
She agrees and the gentlemen promptly bow in farewell. Who dares argue with the Patronesses? Heavens, the gossip columns claim Lady Castlereagh has even turned the famed Lord Wellington, commander of the British army, away from Almack’s, and all because he arrived three minutes after the closing of the doors.
Nothing more is said while the gentlemen collect their hats and coats. Not a word. Introductions are not even performed. We stand in grave silence. From the hallway, Mr. Sinclair hangs back and gives me a jaunty salute as the men take their leave. I do so wish I could escape with him.
In the ominous silence, we five girls edge closer together. Georgie reaches anxiously for my hand. I hope she doesn’t notice my fingers are trembling, too. “It will be all right,” I mouth, not at all certain that it will be.
“Close the door.” Lady Castlereagh flicks her wrist as if her hand is a wand that makes things magically happen. “I’ll not have the servants peeping in while we do this.”
Madame Cho closes the door with a deafening click and stands in front of it, grim as a Roman sentry.
What, exactly, are they planning to do?
I swallow nervously.
Thirteen
THE TEST
It is rumored Lady Castlereagh keeps a small menagerie at her estate. She has an Australian kangaroo, a flying squirrel, and even an African tiger. The Patronesses scrutinize us so intently that I know exactly how Lady Castlereagh’s caged animals must feel.
Finally, Miss Stranje attempts introductions. “Allow me to present—”
“No, no, my dear, it will be far more fun if we guess.” Lady Jersey waves her off, drops her quizzing glass, which dangles from a chain around her neck. “You’ve written so much about them I feel as though I know them.”
“Yes! Let’s make a game of it.” Lady Castlereagh claps. “Go on, then.” She tugs Lady de Lieven along. “The two of you must try to guess. Only think how vexed Lady Cowper and Lady Sefton will be at having missed meeting Miss Stranje’s notorious young ladies.” She puckers for a moment. “We shall simply contrive another private meeting when they return to town.”
Some sort of conspiracy is at work here.
Lady Jersey stares at Georgie. “You must be our clever little barn-burning chemist. Miss Fitzwilliam, isn’t it?”
Georgie winces and blushes all at the same time.
Lady Jersey laughs to her friends. “Lady Sefton will adore her. Look at those eyes. So live
ly. So alert.” She chucks Georgie under the chin, and elongates her vowels even more than normal. “Don’t loook so forlorn, my deaar. Your ink is helping oour effoorts considorably. You’re to be coommended.”
Lady Castlereagh extends her fingers in greeting to Georgie. “We met at my diplomatic ball, Miss Fitzwilliam. I’m sure you remember. Not an evening any of us will soon forget.”
“Indeed.” Georgie holds Lady Castlereagh’s fingers and performs a deep curtsy. “Yes, my lady. Thank you for your forbearance that night.”
Well done, Georgie. I cannot hide my pleased smile.
Lady Castlereagh’s shoulders bunch up in what looks to be a combination of delight and a carefree shrug. “Nonsense. ’Twas the least I could do.”
“It is we who wish to thank you, Miss Fitzwilliam.” Lady de Lieven inclines her head. “Your ink is pure genius. I have relied upon it a number of times.”
“As have I, and my husband. The dear man is in high alt over it.” Lady Castlereagh fans herself with a handkerchief and turns to Miss Stranje. “Speaking of that terrible night. You’ve heard, of course, Lady Daneska arrived and she is ensconced at Carlton House.”
Miss Stranje stiffens, gone is her girlish relaxed posture. “Yes, Captain Grey told me.”
“Daneska is no lady. She does not deserve the title.” Lady Jersey purses her lips and her haughty accent disappears. “That spiteful little cat had better not try to assassinate our prince.”
Miss Stranje tilts her head acknowledging the sentiment. “We intend to do everything within our power to prevent such a calamity.”
“What of Ghost?” Lady de Lieven asks quietly. “Do we know his whereabouts?”
Miss Stranje shakes her head. “Captain Grey’s men haven’t spotted him yet. He may have stayed aboard rather than risk being seen. Or he may have adopted a disguise. He was seen boarding the ship in France. Which means he’s on our side of the Channel, but we’ve no clue as to where he is, or his intentions.”
“Whatever his intentions are, it cannot be good for England,” Lady Castlereagh says somberly.
Lady de Lieven places an arm around our headmistress’s shoulders. “This is a difficult task set before you, Miss Stranje. You have our full support. If we can be of assistance, you need only send word.”
“Frankly, I don’t see how it can be done at all.” Lady Castlereagh fusses from side to side, much the way a hen does after laying an egg. “We’ve warned Prince George about the rackety crowd he surrounds himself with at Carlton. I swear, Lady Daneska could strangle him in broad daylight and there wouldn’t be a sober head in the bunch to stop her.”
“You mustn’t say such things.” Lady Jersey clucks her tongue.
“Well, it’s true and you know it.” Lady Castlereagh sniffs with annoyance, but swiftly regains her jovial countenance and pats Miss Stranje’s arm. “After your letter arrived, Lord Castlereagh requested an increase in the Prince’s guards and added some, er, less obvious protection. But I ask you, what defense does a man have against the wiles of a cunning young woman like your Lady Daneska?”
Miss Stranje tightens up and sucks in a loud breath. “Lady Daneska is not my anything—student or otherwise. She never truly was.”
“Hmm, I suppose that’s true enough.” Lady Castlereagh waves her hand, sweeping away Miss Stranje’s objections and paces down the line, studying the rest of us. “But these young ladies are a different matter.”
The formidable Patronesses of Almack’s inspect the five of us as if we are recruits for the King’s army and they are generals. Lady Jersey stops squarely in front of Maya. “Ah! And here is Lord Barrington’s half-English daughter.”
Maya’s eyes widen.
“Don’t be rude, Sally.” Lady de Lieven nudges Lady Jersey aside, and focuses in on Maya. “I’ve heard about you. You’re Indian nobility as well. Your mother was a maharaja’s daughter, was she not?”
“Yes, my lady, she was.” Maya presses her lips together, but does not meet Lady de Lieven’s gaze. I’ve never seen her this disconcerted.
“Faaascinating.” Lady Jersey prods Lady de Lieven aside and resumes her position interrogating Maya. “Tell us about your childhood. What was it like growing up in the wilds of India? Were you educated here or in India?” I sense she contrived this list of questions with some ulterior purpose in mind. All three women stare intently, awaiting Maya’s response.
Maya’s eyes close briefly. I know what she is doing. She’s pretending they’re not standing so close. Her tranquility returns, and no princess has ever had as much grace as our Maya. She takes a cooling breath and her calm seems to fall upon all of us, too.
She begins. “My earliest memories are of living with my mother and father in the governor’s house in Calcutta…” We cannot keep from leaning in to listen. Even Madame Cho takes a small step forward from where she is guarding the door.
It is impossible to describe Maya’s voice adequately. It begins as a soft low hum, a vibration from somewhere deep inside her, and flows out as a velvety river of sound, wafting gently against our ears, plucking at our emotions as if our hearts are her harp strings. Hers is unlike any other voice I’ve ever heard.
Spellbound, we listen as Maya weaves the story of her youth. “One summer, a terrible sickness came to Calcutta…”
We all draw back. Not because of her words alone. Something in her tone arouses a sense of foreboding that circles round us like wailing wraiths from the underworld sent to drag us down to their dark realm.
“Many died.” Maya shakes her head warding off the dismal spirits suffocating us. “My mother, too, contracted the fever. They would not let me near her. Two days later she died.”
She draws in a deep breath. “It may have been cholera, I am not certain. Father will not speak of it. He fell ill, you see, of the same plague that ravaged her. His attaché sent me to stay with my mother’s family, far away from the spreading sickness. I lived in a farming village with my grandmother, and my aunts and cousins. Those were happy days with naanii, my grandmother. She and the women of the village trained me in the ways of my people.”
Maya’s lips rest for a moment in the gentlest of smiles, honoring those women of her former life.
We all feel it. Even me. With fondness I remember my governess, to whom I owe my education, but I cannot help but think of my mother, too. Of spooning broth into her mouth during her final days, of hearing her mumbled regrets, and the expression in her eyes as she lay dying. Not until then had I realized I mattered to her. My mother felt something for me, after all. That fragile ember of her affection still flickers in a place deep inside me, locked away, where it can never be extinguished. Not even by me.
I press my lips tight, struggling to put aside these thoughts. When I glance up, I see a similar melancholy mirrored on Tess’s face, and on Miss Stranje’s, and on …
All of us.
Even the Patronesses are not immune. It is more than Maya’s magic wringing out our hearts.
Can it be that all mothers possess the power to both break and mend the souls of their children?
I swallow hard against the tightness rising in my throat.
Maya plucks another note, this one higher, less mournful, more strident. Instantly, we are back with her in India. “War broke out a few years later. Father did not send for me, not yet. Perhaps he felt it was safer for me with my mother’s people. I remained in our village, until his governorship in India ended, eight years later.”
Here, she pauses and I see pain bite into Maya’s features. “All those years we had not seen each other. When he returned to England, he brought me with him.” She doesn’t have to tell us that he ripped her away from the warmth of her homeland and carried her away to a cold damp land, to live among unwelcoming strangers. Her cadence says it all for her. “I had no formal education in your English ways until he sent me to live at Stranje House.”
She stops, this is all she will tell us, even though we would have listened the rest of the day an
d long into the night. It takes us a moment to break free of her mesmerizing spell.
Lady Jersey turns to Miss Stranje. “Your letters did not do her justice. She is divine—and that voice.” She whirls back to Maya. “You sing, don’t you? Yes, of course you do. That’s it! Prinny has asked me to serve as his hostess for a soirée at Carlton House tomorrow night. I have devised a musical to entertain his guests after supper. Miss Barrington, you shall be our surprise performance.”
Maya shakes her head vigorously. “I have never sung in public, my lady. I have played the flute and the hand harp for my village, but this is…” She shakes her head. “I am a foreigner, they are an English audience, and singing … singing is a different matter entirely—”
Lady Jersey takes no notice. “Nonsense. I have ears. Your tongue is so melodic you’re practically singing now. Aside from that, this is a perfectly splendid way to introduce you into society. Think of it, child. If I have invited you to sing for the Prince Regent, the beau monde will have no choice but to accept you into the fold.”
“Ah, yes, that will work.” Lady de Lieven nods her approval. “Make her stand out, instead of trying to slip her in unnoticed. A brilliant strategy, my lady.”
“There, you see?” Lady Jersey sweeps her palms wide, her gloved fingers sparkling with rubies and diamonds. “I’m certain your headmistress agrees with me, too. Don’t you, Emma, dear?”
Maya turns to Miss Stranje hoping for a reprieve. But Miss Stranje inclines her head to Lady Jersey. “Yes, of course. Thank you, my lady. Miss Barrington will be delighted to sing for our prince if you can secure invitations for us in time for his gathering.”
“Secure them?” Lady Jersey chuckles. “Why of course, my dear, he put me in charge of the guest list. Consider it done.”
Maya practically dissolves into the Turkish carpet.
Lady Castlereagh pats Maya’s arm. “It will be all right, Miss Barrington. You’ll do quite well, I’m sure of it.” She leans closer. “By the by, I met that stepmother of yours. Didn’t care for the woman at all. Not one little bit. You may be interested to know, we denied her entry to Almack’s.”
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