They all scampered out of the kitchen, leaving her and Cook alone. Wiping her hands on a cloth before bending over the fancy new range Master Lucien had ordered installed, Cook said wryly, “Don’t want to tell you your job, Gertie, but giving them an extra day off ain’t much of a deterrent. More like incentive.”
Starting toward the doorway leading to the dining room, Mrs. Garner sniffed. “Can I help it if they flap their jaws? No. All I can tell ’em is what happens when ye do—ye don’t work Saturday, and her ladyship might end up reunited with her brother.” She returned Cook’s sly grin with a small one of her own. “The rest is up to them.”
~~*
Chapter Sixteen
“We are frequently referred to as the gentler sex. Foolish notion. Women are far more vicious than men. We are simply better at disguising it.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Countess of Berne after a particularly spiteful Thursday luncheon.
With its walls of pale canary silk, ornate settees and chairs upholstered in pink florals and burgundy stripes, and assorted portraits of female ancestors on every wall, Lady Wallingham’s parlor was an ode to femininity.
How appropriate, then, that it was currently occupied by no fewer than seven women, Victoria included, sipping tea from delicate china cups and chatting about the latest on-dits. Lady Wallingham sat near the fireplace, holding court. The regal tilt of her head as she listened to Lady Berne’s account of a recent musicale gave her the look of a swan surrounded by ducks.
Annabelle Huxley chimed in, describing the horrid orange dress one performer had worn. The other ladies tittered and joined in with their own observations. Baroness Colchester, a pinch-faced brunette with gray at her temples and wrinkles around her mouth, suggested the girl’s intent had been to distract from her lackluster skills at the pianoforte. Next to her, the tall, bony Viscountess Rumstoke—who rather eerily resembled a horse—huffed and wished aloud that such a distraction had been possible, as she had not experienced such agony since the Pennywhistle cousins debuted. A collective shudder ran through Lady Berne, Lady Wallingham, Lady Colchester, and Lady Rumstoke.
That must have been quite a debut, Victoria thought.
“Must have been some debut.”
The murmured comment from beside her did not immediately register, first because it had been barely above a whisper, and second because it closely echoed her own thoughts. When she glanced at the normally silent Jane Huxley, however, it was to discover a glint of humor quirking the young woman’s lips and dancing behind her spectacles.
Victoria cleared her throat and leaned closer to say quietly, “I was just thinking the same thing.”
Wide, dark eyes flew to her own, and flags of red bloomed on Jane’s round cheeks as though embarrassed to have been caught expressing a thought.
Victoria smiled at her mischievously and nodded in Lady Wallingham’s direction. “How long do you think she will wait to declare all musicales a torturous waste of time?”
From across the room, Lady Wallingham said archly, “Musicales are, at best, tedious and, at worst, abject misery. I shall never attend another.”
Jane and Victoria blinked at one another and stifled their laughter behind their hands. Tension left Jane’s shoulders, and she looked at Victoria curiously. “Do you know Lady Wallingham well, then?”
Victoria took a sip of tea and shook her head. “I have only seen her on three occasions. Four, including today.”
Jane tilted her head as she examined the dowager marchioness. “I have often wondered whether she was born with such boldness or if life has made her so,” she said, her tone almost wistful.
“Likely some combination of the two, I would imagine.”
The plump young woman sighed, nodded, and sipped her tea, wrinkling her short, rounded nose at the flavor.
“The tea is excellent, is it not?” Victoria said, more to keep a conversation going than because of any special fondness for it.
“Oh! Yes, I suppose so. Um, what I mean—I am … Oh, bother!”
Victoria smiled encouragingly. “Not to your taste?”
“I—I prefer coffee, actually. I take it with cream and a bit of sugar. It is my favorite thing. Well, except for chocolate. And books, of course.” The last bit came out breathless, as though Jane had been holding the confession inside through force of will.
“What is your favorite book?”
One of Jane’s dark eyebrows lifted. “Rather like choosing a favorite shade of blue, my lady. Each is beautiful in its own way.”
Victoria nodded. “As a painter, that sounds perfectly sensible to me. But you still haven’t said what your favorite is.”
Gleaming with fierce intelligence, Jane’s eyes reflected her quick cataloging and discarding of titles as she considered her answer. “Understand you are forcing an artificial construct upon that which cannot possibly be measured.”
Victoria smiled. “Of course.”
“Pride and Prejudice.” The young woman whispered it, a slight flush lighting her cheeks.
“I have heard of it, but have not read it yet. Is it wonderful, then?”
Victoria was surprised at how Jane came alive in that moment, animatedly describing the romance of Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy. Jane was positively rapturous over the surly Mr. Darcy in particular, explaining that he was woefully misunderstood.
“You see, pride in his position within society was in many ways to be expected, but he shows admirable strength of character in setting aside those presumptions and following the dictates of his heart—devotion to his Elizabeth.”
“You describe it so beautifully, Lady Jane. I shall purchase the book myself as soon as I can arrange it.” Victoria wrinkled her nose. “I would do so after the luncheon today, but I must return home directly, as we are to attend the theatre this evening.”
Her companion glanced right and left, then stared hard at Lady Wallingham, who was harrumphing over the “abominable” refreshments offered at Almack’s. Jane then reached surreptitiously behind her and withdrew a slim, brown book. It was creased and careworn, the leather lighter at the edges from being handled and read frequently.
She slipped it to Victoria, placing it on the cushion between them. “Take mine,” she whispered.
Victoria immediately shook her head. “I couldn’t possibly …”
“I have several other copies stashed about the house. Besides, it is only the first volume of three. Take it. Please. If you like it, I can lend you the rest.”
Tucking the book beneath the fold of her skirt, Victoria clasped Jane’s hand in her own, squeezing warmly. “Thank you, Lady Jane.”
She squeezed in return. “Just Jane will do. And you are most welcome. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have, though I am not sure it is possible.”
Victoria chuckled at the young woman’s wry tone. “And you must call me Victoria.”
“With pleasure. Victoria.”
They chatted amiably for several minutes before Lady Colchester interrupted with a shrill, “Lady Atherbourne must certainly know.”
The room fell silent as Victoria focused on the woman. “I beg your pardon, Lady Colchester. What must I know?”
“Why, whether dampening one’s skirts is common practice among the demimonde,” she sneered.
Victoria should have been prepared for the insulting comment. She had walked into the Wallingham parlor expecting just such an attack on her moral character. However, coming amidst her pleasant conversation with Jane, the verbal slap momentarily stunned her. As she reeled from the impact, the silence stretched and sagged under its own weight.
Finally, although her heart pounded and a cold flush of discomfort washed through her, she managed to reply calmly, “I am sure I do not know, for I do not associate with anyone in the demimonde.”
A haughty lift of the woman’s brows signaled she would not be so easily put off. “That is surprising, as I have heard Lord Atherbourne favors such women. Most recently, a certain Mrs. Knightl
ey, if I am not mistaken.”
The gasps upon hearing the name Knightley spoken in polite company suggested the woman must be quite notorious, even if Victoria had never heard of her.
“And, of course, there are the circumstances surrounding your … marriage. Forgive me if I have drawn a conclusion that, while obvious to those with higher standards of conduct, is perhaps too presumptuous.” Disdain fairly drizzled from Lady Colchester’s thin, downturned lips like the blood of prey on the muzzle of a wolf.
Anger tightening the muscles around her spine, Victoria sat straighter and raised her chin as the daughter of a duke was wont to do. “I daresay you know very little about Lord Atherbourne and nothing at all about my marriage, Lady Colchester.”
“I know what occurred at the Gattingford ball, as I heard it from Lady Gattingford herself. Such an incident has a way of illuminating one’s character quite well, wouldn’t you say?”
Victoria had long hated the viciousness of the nobility, the sharp knives one must either avoid or parry at every turn. Until Lucien, her defenses had consisted of an impeccable reputation and avoidance of cruel harpies like Lady Colchester. But, as she was now learning, when the enemy changed tactics, one must consider alternative weaponry.
Shaking her head and clicking her tongue against her teeth, she said, “’Tis a shame true love is such a rarity in most society marriages. Particularly of the, shall we say, older generation.”
Both Lady Colchester and Lady Rumstoke stiffened at the dig. “True love?” Lady Rumstoke scoffed, looking down her alarmingly long nose at Victoria. “Is that what you call it?”
Victoria’s smile was deliberately secretive and knowing. “Indeed. Oh, I suppose Lord Atherbourne and I could have chosen differently. We could, even now, be trapped in unions with no real affection, and certainly no passion.” She met Lady Rumstoke’s eyes directly. “Dry. Cold. Lifeless.” She shifted to Lady Colchester. “Barren marriages.”
The woman flinched, her nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing ominously.
“Thankfully, we have found happiness in one another that is, well …” She dropped her eyes modestly, picturing Lucien as he’d been the night of the Berne dinner. Inside the carriage. Between her legs. “… astonishing.” This last word she uttered breathlessly, with a blush.
Their reaction was everything she could have hoped. Both women sputtered wordlessly, swallowed hard, and looked nothing short of bitterly envious.
Before either could continue her attack, Lady Wallingford stepped in. “True love is delightful when it results in so fine a match as yours, Lady Atherbourne. While I cannot recommend high-flown sentiment for every young miss, I must say it has proven its worth in this instance. Besides, Lady Gattingford is prone to exaggeration. Why, if she were to spy a kitten on her doorstep, she would declare it a lion simply to weave a spectacular tale.”
Lady Berne, watching the exchange with wide eyes, blinked as though suddenly realizing she was to participate. “Yes! Did she not several seasons ago insist she had grown not only lemons but also pineapple in her orangery? To be sure, she could not even grow oranges there, as the glass was to be replaced that year.”
As the four matrons continued their discussion of Lady Gattingford’s rather flexible definition of truth and moved on to decry Lord Gattingford’s appalling taste in waistcoats, Jane nudged Victoria and leaned closer to murmur, “You handled them superbly. I am in awe.”
Victoria gave her a brittle smile, still shaking inside from the confrontation. “Thank you for saying so. I hated every minute of it, but it was necessary.” She dropped her gaze to her hands where they twisted in her lap. “How I wish it were not.”
Jane was quiet for a moment, then said, “Strange fits of passion I have known …”
Victoria turned a startled look upon the young woman’s serene countenance. Had she missed something? A sudden turn in the conversation? Victoria freely admitted she tended to get lost in her own thoughts at times.
“And I will dare to tell, but in the lover’s ear alone, what once to me befell.” Jane noticed Victoria’s confused frown and clarified, “Wordsworth.”
Victoria simply looked at her blankly.
“No? Well, no matter. Suffice it to say you cannot explain love or passion to those who are bereft of both and, consequently, more sour than Lady Gattingford’s lemons.”
Shaking her head and chuckling, Victoria whispered, “That sour, eh?”
Jane grinned mischievously, revealing a pair of dimples. “Seems to defy the laws of nature, but yes. Have you tasted her lemonade?”
Victoria rolled her eyes and puckered her lips in a dramatic representation of a “sour” face. This set both of them to giggling. When the laughter trailed off, she turned to the spectacled young woman beside her and gave her a grateful smile. “I do believe we could become great friends, Jane.”
Jane grinned back, her eyes sparkling prettily in her plain face. “I do believe you are right, Victoria.”
~~*
Chapter Seventeen
“Heavens, boy, who attends the theater to watch a play? The real entertainment is not found on the stage. Everyone knows that.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, upon his inquiry about a recently attended production of King Lear.
While the luncheon had gone much according to plan, later that evening, Victoria’s spirits were troubled once more. All because of Lucien.
Quite simply, the man confounded her. For the last several days, he had been all she could have hoped for in a husband—amusing, solicitous, protective. She kept him company in his study while he finished correspondence with his solicitor. He made her laugh with his tales of boyhood pranks and a furious maid wielding a large laundry paddle. They dined together, strolled in the park together, conversed quietly together—it was the kind of comfortable companionship she’d sorely missed since being cut off from Harrison. Of course, her feelings toward Lucien were the furthest thing from sisterly, but still, the last few days had been surprisingly … nice.
Then, he spoiled it.
Seated beside him in a box at the Drury Lane Theatre Royal, Victoria studiously ignored her husband and focused on the riveting performance of Edmund Kean as Richard the Third. The famed actor was brilliant, pacing the stage with vigor and delivering Shakespeare’s words with a subtlety few had ever achieved.
But she scarcely noticed. All she could think of was Lucien’s irritating, intractable, overbearing, unreasonable behavior.
“Are you going to be vexed with me all night?” he inquired, his tone nonchalant.
The lummox. He would do well not to speak at all.
Without looking his way, she held her palm up to signal her desire for silence.
He sighed loudly. “I can see you are determined to be unreasonable.”
Immediately, her hackles were reignited into a veritable blaze. Wide, furious eyes met his. “I am unreasonable. I am unreasonable?”
With a half-grin and an arrogant nod, he replied, “It is good you understand.”
“If anyone is unreasonable, my lord, it is you,” she spat in a fierce whisper, glancing around to be sure their argument was not overheard.
Across the theater, Harrison sat in a box with Lord Dunston and Dunston’s sister, Mary. She could not tell whether he had spied her with Lucien yet, as he had not looked their way. A lump formed in the middle of her chest, sadness surrounded by a hard shell of anger. It was one thing to avoid her brother sight unseen, another to see him in person and be prevented from speaking with him.
“It is entirely expected that I would wish to visit Harrison’s box—”
“Equally so that I would not,” he said grimly.
She shook her head in exasperation. “Then, why should I not go alone?”
His eyes glittered, his face hard and unsmiling. “You know the answer to that. Besides, even if, by some magical spell, you convinced me to change my mind, I would not allow my wife to wander about a darkened theater without e
scort.”
“Then escort me, for the love of heaven. Why must you be so difficult?”
He stared at her for a long time in the dim light. For a moment, she thought perhaps he was reconsidering, but he said nothing more, instead turning back to watch the play. She released a hiss of frustration and shifted angrily in her chair.
Their argument—a repeat of one they’d had upon arriving—ended with silence, thick and suffocating, which only fueled her anger and drained whatever drops of enjoyment she might have had from the outing.
The night had begun with such promise, too. She’d surprised Lucien with her new evening gown of sea-green silk, designed with a low, square neckline and elbow-length sleeves. Knowing how it brought out the green hue in her eyes and hugged the swells of her breasts, she had fought helplessly against shivers of anticipation as she had imagined his reaction. And he had loved it, his dark eyes flashing and flaring as he watched her descend the stairs. Unable to look away from her bodice for a long while, his jaw had flexed visibly before he finally offered his arm.
Fortunately, he had not pressed his advantage on the way to the theater, behaving with perfect propriety, and their journey had been most pleasant. But, upon arriving and seeing her oldest brother sitting opposite them, an aching sense of homesickness had overwhelmed her. So strong was the emotion, in fact, that she made up her mind to approach Harrison, whether Lucien liked it or not. And their argument had ensued. Now, she battled tears of both indignation and heartache. She missed Harrison. Until her marriage, he had been her guardian, her friend, the one who loved her without question.
Love Regency Style Page 71