“Oh, she’ll believe me. I’ll make her believe me. And she’ll thank me for it too. You’re quite correct, she probably would forgive Hampton. But she’d never forgive you. And what would everyone else say or do once word of this started trickling out? They’d excuse him—he’s a man, we expect them to wander off the path now and again. But it’s quite different for ladies, isn’t it? What would Cecilia say, if she knew her best friend was a homewrecker? What would your aunt say?”
She had me there. I could call her bluff—how many people would believe the proof, even if they had it right in front of them?—but I’d only be provoking her to give it a try. And it would only take one or two people to believe it for the damage to be done, especially if one of those people was Belinda. And that would be it: no more invitations. A harlot, they’d whisper. No shame, no shame at all. Lord knows what she’d do to get ahead. There was no escaping that kind of reputation. And Aunt El would be apoplectic. I was already in her bad books.
“What do you want, Millicent?” I spat, not wanting to appear defeated.
But she grinned, realizing she’d won this battle. “I want you to go back to swimming in your own pond. Lord Dunreaven is not for the likes of you.”
“This has the stench of desperation about it, ” I scoffed. “If you want Dunreaven, have him. I’m not in this game; I’m merely a spectator.”
Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. “You are a devious woman,” she declared.
“Me? You’re the one resorting to blackmail!”
“Are you two fighting nicely?” Joyce asked, strolling over. Cee hovered in the background, looking anxious. “I hate to interrupt, but Astra has terribly interesting things to do today. Millicent, that dress you had on earlier was perfectly hideous. I do hope you bought it. Come on, Astra.” She slipped her arm through mine and led me away.
* * *
The encounter with Millicent put such a dampener on the day that I couldn’t even face an afternoon of shopping. I begged off and instead spent the time smoking and wandering the streets, turning things over in my mind and marveling at how my life had become such a bewildering mess in such a short period of time.
Had Hampton really sent me a love note? I found it hard to believe. He and I were friendly, but I’d never detected anything greater than mild warmth from him. And he’d hardly spoken two words to me that weekend at Gryden, so enamored of Belinda was he.
But then, some young men do panic when faced with matrimony, and look to sow some wild oats. And what was it Aunt El had said? He was so solicitous at your parents’ funeral. I’m sure you could make some inroads if you just tried.
Perhaps Millicent had it wrong, and someone else had sent the note. But who? It could have been anyone. Even Millicent herself, trying to trap me.
Not that it mattered. All that was necessary was for a few people to believe I was carrying on with him, and I was done for. Flung out into the frigid night just as surely as I would have been if they found out about my financial status. And Millicent knew that, of course. She could dangle this over my head for years.
I sat down on a bench next to the Seine for a little while, watching the water flow by. A soothing moment, it put me in mind of childhood excursions I had taken with my grandfather in his little sailboat. My frantic mind began to settle.
There was a young artist nearby, sketching away with some pastels. Watching him work made me think of Mother, with her paints and easel, out in the garden on a fine day. And then I thought of Raymond, taking to his art as enthusiastically as she had. What would become of him if I were disgraced? There would be little hope of me being able to promote Vandemark Rubber if no one would speak with me. I would have to sell Hensley or keep tenants in the house to maintain the income I needed to pay Rosedale’s fees. It was either that or consign Raymond to the terrors and upheaval of removing him from the only home he’d ever known. That was unthinkable.
So, galling as it was, I’d have to do what Millicent wanted. For now.
Arranged around the artist were his other drawings, and I impulsively bought one—a field of wildflowers—to send to my brother.
The light was deepening, and the artist began packing up his things. Time to go back and dress for dinner. As I reached the hotel, I met Beckworth coming out just as I was about to go in.
“Oh, Miss Davies! Nearly missed you!” he greeted me.
“Hello, Ducky. When did you arrive?”
“In Paris? Just two hours ago. I came to France to see my mother and …” He ducked his head and blushed. “Sorry to impose, but you aren’t busy just now, are you?”
“No, not at all.”
We strolled toward the Tuileries in silence for a while. It was a blustery evening. The wind whipped and plucked the skirts and overcoats of passers-by as they scurried toward the warm embrace of family and lovers. I watched them come and go, wondering about their lives while Beckworth bit his lip and fumbled his walking stick. He finally blurted out: “You must think I’m a terrible bounder.”
“Why on earth should I think that?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.
“It’s just.” He stopped and sighed. “I-I have to confess, I came to France to see someone besides my mother.”
I smiled warmly. “Yes, I know.”
He looked startled. “Did you? I—it’s just that I know your aunt had thought that you and I … That is, certain people thought that, well, that you and I might …” He took a deep breath and looked everywhere but at me.
I reached out and patted his arm. “Certain people thought we would get on and should be acquainted, and they were quite right,” I said. “I hope I can always count on you as a friend, Ducky.”
He looked up at me and visibly sagged with relief. The concerned furrow vanished from his forehead, and he grinned instead, a genuinely happy expression free from any anxiety. I could see now why Cee found him so handsome.
“Of course you can, Miss Davies, of course!” he said. “You know you—you’re really cracking! A really good egg!”
“What a sweet thing to say! You’re quite eggy yourself, Ducky.”
He laughed.
“May I offer you a bit of advice?” I asked.
He nodded vigorously.
“Lady Cecilia is a true old-fashioned romantic, and I happen to know that she would absolutely puddle if she received gifts from a secret admirer. It doesn’t have to be anything grand: a bouquet of flowers with a nice note would probably do the trick. Maybe pop a bit of poetry onto the note. Shakespeare’s sonnets, something like that.”
He nodded again, already mulling it over. “Right. Right! I’ll go do that now. Thank you!”
* * *
Our last evening in Paris—had the fortnight really gone so quickly? Rushing past in a glorious blur of beautiful things and food and friends and Paris. Even Millicent had failed to spoil things. But then, she seemed to be too busy cultivating Belinda to pay us much mind after that day at Schiaparelli’s. We’d seen them together again and again, at fashionable shops and ateliers, where Millicent kept insisting that Belinda try on one unsuitable creation after another because:
“They’re all the rage this season. Everyone will be wearing one!”
When she didn’t have Belinda, the girls and I did, taking her to much better shops and charming cafés. I showed her Versailles, relating all the detailed history my father had once imparted to me as she soaked in its opulence, wide-eyed.
We’d arranged for a last-night dinner at Maxim’s, but at tea Cecilia confessed that she’d invited Beckworth to come along. Not surprising at all, really. He’d come through beautifully after my suggestion, dispatching a daily bouquet of pink roses and baby’s breath, accompanied by a note with a few lines of poetry, signed with a sweet pencil drawing of a duck. Cecilia absolutely melted every time they arrived. Of course I wasn’t going to tag along to their dinner. So, at half past seven she found me in bed, lights dimmed, an icebag on my head.
“Darling, what’s the matter?” Cecilia cried, gazing a
t me from the doorway.
I groaned theatrically. “Terrible headache. So sorry, Cee. You go on without me.”
She hesitated, shifting her weight back and forth from one foot to the other. “I don’t feel like I should leave you alone,” she finally said.
“I have Reilly if I need anything. Go on and have a lovely time.”
“All right,” said Cecilia, clearly out of arguments. Or, perhaps, not all that eager to press the issue. “If you’re sure. Feel better, dearest.”
“I will. Have fun!”
As soon as I heard the suite door close behind her, I sprang up, threw the icebag aside, and turned on the lights. I’d have to order up some dinner—I was famished. As I reached for the telephone, however, the suite door opened, and Joyce poked her head in.
She raised an eyebrow. “Headache?” She slipped into the room, dressed to lounge in silk pajamas, her hair in a net.
“Yes. Really awful, but it went away just like that.” I snapped my fingers. “What was your excuse?”
“Exhaustion. Ordering dinner? Don’t bother—I already did. Hope you don’t mind. We’ll have a nice picnic up here and save Maxim’s for next time.” She settled down on a sofa and lit a cigarette, offering me one. I accepted. “So,” she mused, “Cee and Beckworth, eh? Well, I suppose she could do worse. He’s not as bad as I thought.”
I joined her on the sofa. “They’ll be good for each other. And if he’s taken, my aunt will have to stop trying to throw us together. A win all around.”
Joyce laughed. “I suppose that leaves you free to focus your energies elsewhere?” She sent a frank look over the trailing smoke of the cigarette.
“You’re not starting in about Dunreaven again, are you?” I asked wearily. “We’re friends. We get on. But there’s nothing more to it.”
“Friends?” She looked skeptical.
“Can a man and a woman not be friends?”
“Of course they can, but you and Dunreaven aren’t friends. You’re more like … friends.” She leaned forward on the last word, eyes lidded, and exhaled it as if she were Mae West. “Honestly, I don’t know why you’re so resistant.”
“I don’t know why you’re so insistent.”
“Is it so wrong to want a project? I’ve got a husband, Cee seems on her way, the house is coming along. What am I to do with myself?” she wondered.
“Have a baby,” I joked, finishing my cigarette and going for another.
Joyce responded with a short, mirthless laugh. “That is the natural progression, isn’t it? No sooner have you taken off the veil and the orange blossom than people start staring at your middle.” She stubbed out her cigarette, leaned back, and contemplated the ceiling. “Perhaps you’re wise to be cautious. Men come out of the woodwork for an heiress. We’re quite the prize, a quick ticket to fame and fortune. The matrimonial summit of Everest.”
I exhaled smoke. “Something to be climbed and conquered? A mound for a man to stick a flag in?”
Joyce laughed. “Something like that.”
“You do make marriage sound appealing, Joyce.”
“Oh, it has its benefits. I can assure you, the act of love is everything it’s made out to be, and more. And it’s nice to have someone to warm your feet in bed in the wintertime. But honestly, Astra, I worry about you a bit. You seem so … unsettled.”
“Of course I’m unsettled, look at the year I’ve had.”
“Yes, yes, of course, but you know what I mean. Living with your aunt, refusing to treat yourself on this trip, holding Jeremy at arm’s length—even though you clearly like him. And your behavior with my father …” She looked at me sharpish. “Is that it? Is that why you’re only ‘friends’ with Jeremy?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” I asked her, completely baffled.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” she asked. “I saw how you were with him at Gryden. So very charming. And he felt it too—he talked about you the whole way home. ‘Oh, that nice Miss Davies, we really should have her to stay sometime soon, don’t you think, Joyce?’ ‘Oh, Joyce, what sort of music does Miss Davies like? Make sure the band plays it at the party!’” She rolled her eyes.
“I certainly didn’t mean for him to take it quite … like that,” I explained, suddenly feeling a little desperate. “I was trying to be nice to him since I know you were worried about Millicent upsetting him.”
“Well, you were very nice indeed.” She was silent for a little while, then sighed, “If you want him, I suppose it’s all right. Better you than some little nitwit who’ll give him a son and cut me out of the inheritance completely.”
“That would never happen, Joyce. And thank you for the invitation, but I’m not interested in being your stepmother.”
“Thank God for that! But you must admit, Astra, you are a bit odd nowadays. You just seem … I don’t know—stuck, right when you should really be getting out there and living.” She gestured expansively with her hands, as if she were scooping up the suite and all of Paris with it.
“Can one be both stuck and unsettled?” I wondered.
She waggled a finger. “I won’t be distracted by your quibbling, young lady. I only wonder if you haven’t gone off on your own because you need someone to attach to and provide some stability. If that’s the case, I want you attached to the proper person.”
“Like a climbing ivy,” I observed. “And you think Dunreaven’s a good trellis?”
“Why not? He’s practically the perfect man.”
“Indeed, almost too good to be true.” I stubbed out the cigarette. “Joyce, I need a quiet and simple life just now, and there’s nothing quiet about a romance with one of the Season’s most eligible bachelors. And the last thing I need is Millicent shifting to all-out war. The occasional skirmish is bad enough.”
Joyce frowned. “Why are you so worried about her? If you married Jeremy, what possible threat could she pose to you?”
I had to admit, she had me there. I’d been so concerned with the here and now I hadn’t considered that. But of course, Millicent wasn’t the only thing coming between Dunreaven and me.
Joyce suddenly took my hand. “Astra, is there anything you want to tell me?”
Oh, if only I could. But what would she say if I spilled my secrets? How would she react to my poverty? To Raymond? Impossible to tell. The risk was too great.
I smiled brightly. “No, Joyce. I’m fine.”
Joyce looked skeptically at me as she went for another cigarette. “All empty.” She sighed and stood. “I’ll go get some more. If the food comes, don’t start without me.”
She was only gone a few moments before someone knocked quietly. Reilly emerged from my bedroom to answer, but it wasn’t the expected waiter. It was a man from Schiaparelli’s with my dress.
“Just in time! Merci,” I said as Reilly held out her arms for the gown.
The man, however, wouldn’t hand it over to her. Keeping a pleasant smile firmly anchored, he said: “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, but I must ask for payment first.”
Taken aback, I said, “It’s supposed to be on Lady Cecilia Tyburn’s account.”
The man looked slightly uncomfortable, despite the smile. “I’m sorry, but the dress was taken off the account, and we were told not to put it back on,” he explained.
“By Lady Millicent?” I guessed. How could I have not anticipated this? Was I too distracted by everything else to realize that of course she’d force me to pay for a £250 evening gown I didn’t need? Dear God, Edgry had been right: I’d just spent it all on clothes, and it was only March. My pretend headache suddenly became very real. My entire body felt like it had been dunked in ice water.
The man’s smile strained further. “My hands are tied. I’m sorry.”
“Will you take a check?” I asked miserably. I couldn’t refuse to take the gown, because it was customized now.
“Of course, Mademoiselle,” he said. “And,” he added hesitantly, “please don’t forget the fees for rushing t
he job.”
“Of course not!” Was there no end to this? I hastily wrote the check out and handed it over, trying not to burst into tears. He relinquished the dress to Reilly, who gave me a quick, meaningful look before disappearing with it.
Joyce returned a few minutes later. “Have I missed anything?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I answered as someone else knocked on the door. Reilly returned to open it, handing me the icebag and an aspirin as she passed. This time it was the waiter. He wheeled a cart stacked with silver-domed plates over to the table.
“Excellent,” Joyce said, rubbing her hands in anticipation. “Come on, Astra. Don’t let Millicent’s bad humor ruin some perfectly good coquilles.”
Chapter Nine
I returned to England a great deal poorer and thoroughly dejected, though I put on a brave face for the journey home. I didn’t tell Cecilia what Millicent had done: I didn’t want to spoil Cee’s jubilant mood after her dinner with Beckworth.
At home, I found Toby in the drawing room, stretched out on the sofa and smoking, of course. He looked up, grinned, and greeted me with: “Bonjour, ma cherie! How was Paris? Did you bring me pastries?”
“Drink, Toby, drink!”
Realizing the situation was serious, he leapt up and fetched me a whisky, neat. I sank onto the sofa with it. Dandy, the little dog Joyce had given me, trotted over and whimpered, pawing at my leg.
“Poor darling,” I murmured, reaching down to pet him.
“Poor you, apparently,” said Toby, settling down to my left. “What’s happened? You didn’t accidentally get married or something while you were over there, did you? It’s all right if you did—Paris, you know! We can probably get it annulled if we hop to it.”
“Don’t joke!” I blazed before gulping down the drink. “Millicent, she—she forced me to spend three hundred pounds on a dress!”
Toby goggled. “What? How?”
I gave him the highlights and he slowly exhaled into the sofa, shaking his head. “I’m not going to lecture you,” he reassured me after a few moments’ silence. “I’m sure you’ve already kicked yourself up and down a few hallways. But really, darling.”
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