“What’s come over our little Lucy?” asked Lena, the laundress. “I swear she’s been avoiding us. Too good for us now, is she?”
“Oh, no, no,” Bessie told her. “She’s just growing up. Wanting to stand on her own two feet, you know. She’ll be back soon enough.”
But Lucinda wasn’t back. She avoided the kitchen and tried harder than ever to fit in upstairs.
On the day after the ball, she had woken up with a fever and sore throat.
“Tsk, tsk,” Mrs. Limpid fussed. “All that traipsing about outside will be the death of you yet, I warrant.”
She heaped an extra featherbed on top of Lucinda’s blankets.
“But Mrs. Limpid, I’m so hot…” complained the patient.
“Mind those covers stay put, young lady, do you hear? Do you want Doctor Garth to come with his leeches?” said Mrs. Limpid spitefully. “Ah, I didn’t think so. We’ll sweat that fever right out of you.”
She closed the heavy drapes of the nursery, shutting out the sunlight, and called for the maid to stoke the fire with more wood. Mrs. Limpid, an enthusiastic advocate of preventive medicine (the dreaded elixir and weekly wormings), prided herself on having lost only two of her charges to illness in her sixteen years of service at Belweather Manor.
“Could I…do you know if Sarah enjoyed the ball last night? I should so much like to hear all about it,” Lucinda said in a small voice.
“You will have to ask her yourself. I hear it was a great success.”
With that, Mrs. Limpid swept out of the room, leaving Lucinda to decide if she had meant the ball or Sarah’s debut.
Sarah condescended to visit her ailing cousin that afternoon. She needed an audience, and here was a captive one.
“You should have seen me. Everyone said I was beautiful, a beautiful young lady. They all fussed over me. You should have seen it!”
Sarah had stars in her eyes. She was gratified to see that Lucinda had tears in hers.
“Mother says I may accompany her to London next month. I am old enough, she says. I shouldn’t wonder,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder to see if Mrs. Limpid was out of earshot, “if they weren’t planning my marriage. I heard Aunt Edwina say she could help arrange a good match, given our family and my settlement.”
“Settlement?” asked Lucinda.
“I have five thousand pounds when I marry,” boasted Sarah.
“Really?” said Lucinda. “How do you know?”
“Robert told me, he read a letter from Grandfather to Father. That’s my portion.”
“Do I have a portion?” asked Lucinda.
“You? I shouldn’t think so. Ask Robert. You should have seen it when I led off the Branlé. I didn’t put a foot wrong. Monsieur Piétain was very pleased.”
She got up and demonstrated.
Lucinda propped herself up on an elbow. “How about the captain? Did you dance with him?”
“Of course I did!” Sarah started to giggle. “I think Mother is wild about him. And so are Aunt Margaret and Aunt Edwina.” Looking down modestly, she added, “He could not keep his eyes off me. Remember how he looked at us when we went down to be presented? Just like that, only even more intense. Like this.” She squinted and pressed her face close to Lucinda’s. “He said he hoped he would see more of us,” she added.
“Us—you mean—you and me?” Lucinda said, clearing her throat.
“No, what…”
“You just said ‘us’!”
“Well …he did ask, did I not have a cousin, and why was she not at the ball—”
“What did you say? What did you say?” squealed the cousin.
“Oh, I don’t really remember. I told him you weren’t a real cousin—not a legitimate one, anyway.”
“Thank you very, very much,” cried Lucinda, losing her self-control. She had been trying so hard to be pleasant. “You are despicable, do you know that? No wonder we can’t be friends. You—you never think of anyone but of yourself. I don’t ever want to speak to you again.”
Gathering the blankets around her, she clamped her eyelids shut and turned her face to the wall.
As soon as Mrs. Limpid allowed her out of the suffocating sickroom, Lucinda sought out Robert.
As the old earl’s only son, Viscount Swyndhurst was treated with a certain measure of respect by the other children. They knew that some day Robert would hold the purse strings for the entire family. It was he who would inherit their grandfather’s title and estates. It was Robert they would have to turn to for their support, grateful for whatever the heir chose to dole out to them.
Viscount Swyndhurst, conscious of his future responsibilities, was different from the other children. A tall, slightly hunched adolescent, his pale face splotched with burgundy blemishes and the sparse bristles of an embryonic beard, he actually paid some attention to his tutors, and attended to his daily prayers dutifully.
It was outside the chapel, a small paneled space furnished with some pews that was tucked away at the end of the long gallery, that Lucinda found him.
“My lord!”
His lordship had just closed the door behind him and the vacant gaze of peaceful meditation had not yet left his face. He looked up and, seeing Lucinda, blushed a slow, vermilion blush.
Lucinda had no way of knowing that Robert was much troubled by certain natural yearnings which he felt it his duty to suppress, and that his morning’s devotion had been dedicated to the cleansing of those shameful thoughts. Nor could she guess that they featured a damsel who looked suspiciously like herself. Robert and the others had so drummed into her their low opinion of her that she ascribed the flush now spreading down his neck to annoyance.
“Forgive me. I wanted to ask you something. But it can wait.”
“What do you want? I wasn’t going riding this morning anyway,” he lied.
He strode ahead of her down the corridor to give himself time to think, and for his blush to subside. Casually, he opened one of the doors and glanced in. It was a small waiting room for unimportant guests, sparsely furnished. It was empty.
“Shall we talk in here?” he suggested. It occurred to him that God had deliberately sent her as a temptation, but he pushed the thought from his mind.
Lucinda followed him inside.
“So! What is it you want to know?” he said, carefully shutting the door behind her prettily arched, slender back. He forced himself to look away, walking over to the window, whose height and dustiness prohibited a pleasant view of the garden outside. He stared out intently nevertheless, his eyes seeing not the grimy glass but the symmetry of the female form as he imagined it under the layers of skirts and bodices: two round breasts in front, two round buttocks behind, a narrow waist the axis.
Lucinda decided she had better get to the point, before he lost interest.
“It’s about our…settlements. Sarah told me that you know what Grandfather and Sir Edmund have—planned, you know, for us. I just wanted to know…just in case, you know…”
Robert turned around, astonished. “Are you telling me you have—marriage plans? You?”
“Not exactly, I should just like to know…”
Robert threw back his head and laughed, a forced, bleating laugh. His voice sometimes played tricks on him, especially when he most wanted to sound like a man.
“Well, all I can tell you is that we”—he stressed the word importantly, having regained control of the deeper registers—”have nothing planned for you. You should be grateful for the roof over your head and the food on your plate. As for your father—whoever that may be—let him come forward and offer a portion. You are his responsibility, after all.”
“But that’s not fair!” exclaimed Lucinda. “I am Grandfather’s granddaughter just as much as Sarah or Catherine or Belinda! Why won’t he…?”
“You know that as far as Lord Hempstead is concerned, you do not exist,” said Robert gravely. “Your existence greatly displeases him.” Now that she was the supplicant he felt strong eno
ugh to face her, although he continued to avoid her eyes. “But,” he went on, frowning intently at her left shoulder, “I myself am of course sympathetic to your unfortunate situation.” His breath started to come a little faster. “You must understand my position. I would see what I could do if, ah, that is if…”
In a split second, Lucinda understood what was about to happen. As he lunged, she ducked under his arm and darted out of the room. Backing down the hall, she stammered, “Thank you, my lord, you are too kind…” and fled.
Clarissa had expected the ball to be a triumph. Her husband, her sisters, and guests were to see what a brilliant hostess she was, how she glittered in company, still able to enchant men with her considerable charms.
Instead, the evening had ended with Lady Clarissa receiving her guests’ compassionate good-byes standing conspicuously alone, Sir Edmund having disappeared for a good portion of the evening with some as-yet undetermined person. There was nothing unusual in that, and would not have assumed great importance if her own appointed swain had stayed by her side. But the captain, too, had vanished shortly after the dancing. It was this that had turned the evening into a nightmarish duty, the strain on her face reflected in the sympathetic and not-so-sympathetic glances of her guests. She had been humiliated, abandoned, betrayed, dismissed, left out of all the fun.
“And to think that it was Margaret…!” she muttered.
It was not hard to link her sister Margaret with the captain’s disappearance. Margaret had left the ball early, pleading the headache—her cheeks flushed with excitement and wine, hah! Margaret had been unnecessarily smug and loving to her sisters when they had reconvened late in the afternoon of the next day—pfff! And then Margaret had had the nerve to suggest that the captain escort her back to London, where she said she was suddenly urgently needed, thus cutting short his visit. Oh, the utter, utter strumpet!
Clarissa had taken to her bed, pleading exhaustion. And consoled herself with the leftover candied walnuts, despite the pain they caused her decayed teeth. And plotted sweet revenge.
“What do you think of our Captain Beaupree?” she said casually to Sir Edmund a night or so later.
It was here, in her chamber, before the conjugal act was consummated, that all of Lady Clarissa’s other business with her husband was transacted. It was the only time that she had him at her mercy and that he was forced to listen to her.
“That favorite of yours?” He sniggered. “Seems to be a favorite of all you Steppys sisters, that one!”
She stiffened, and bit her bottom lip, casting around for another way to broach the subject. But Edmund had begun to yawn theatrically—“Aawnnnn!” (stretching his torso) “…Aawn!…” (pounding his fist on the bedpost) “…Aaarh!” He shook his head, blinked his eyes rapidly, and dabbed at the ghost of a tear. That done, he sat down heavily on the bed, and pointed at his feet. Clarissa stooped, and, one by one, pulled off his shoes.
“I was thinking,” she finally said, “Sarah is getting to be of an age—I should like to see her settled. You saw how she comported herself at the ball.”
“Charmingly. Everyone can see she takes after you, my dear.” He was anxious to hurry her up. It was getting late. Bedding a woman was the best way he knew to assure himself of a sound night’s sleep.
“Well then, do you agree that we should start to make arrangements?”
“Now that you mention it, I was thinking of having a word with Lord Bortroyd. I hear his second son has been left an estate by an uncle that is quite adequate. They tell me it’s teeming with game…”
“I thought,” she interrupted tactfully, “that the young captain was rather taken with her.”
“The young captain?” he laughed. “Beaupree, you mean? That rake was rather taken with every pair of loins in the vicinity, young and old.”
Clarissa’s pleasant expression did not change. She was determined not to let revenge escape her by losing her temper.
“I am sure that he was. And she had eyes only for him. Did you not notice?”
“Silly nonsense. Since when do we take such things into account? She’ll marry whom I pick out for her, and no mush. You know how I feel about this billey-doo business, Clarissa. I will not stand for it. Not in my family.”
But truth be told, Edmund did have a soft spot in his heart for his eldest daughter. If this was what his Sarah liked in a fellow, and come to think of it, if this was what his wife had been after all along with that fop…Well, perhaps he had been a little unfair. He asked bluntly, “What does he have? Who are his people?”
Clarissa had done her homework. “He is a cousin of the Duke of Corot. A second son, but that will make him all the more ready to hear our proposal. He does have an income from his soldiering. His command is worth close to four thousand, so I’m told. The family has a large estate on the Isle of Wight, and some holdings near Salisbury. His brother is the heir, but unmarried, no children.”
She paused, and looked at him expectantly.
“We might look into it, I suppose,” he said.
Clarissa struggled to tamp down the excitement creeping into her voice.
“Shall I—will you invite him to go hunting with you again? You could propose it to him then.”
“I’ll think about it,” he muttered. An image had just flashed through his mind. A picture of Beaupree and the pretty little bastard, Olivia’s child, seated on a bench together. The girl had looked quite flushed. The rake reminded him of himself. He had acquitted himself well in the hunt, too. The rascal had been on the prey before Edmund on two separate occasions. It was quite possible that he had already beaten Edmund to this one too.
9
POTIONS
In a certain way, Lucinda was now happier than she had ever been before. She was also unhappier, naturally, since almost immediately upon finding love, it had slipped out of her reach. But as we know, simply being in love, even hopelessly, impossibly so, can be a thrilling experience in itself. If Lucinda told herself that she wished she were dead, or even that she had never been born, it was her way of underlining the exquisite pain which she was in her heart of hearts very much enjoying. The crystallization of her yearnings was in itself a fulfillment. Her fantasies were so much better, now that she could focus on an actual face.
She spent countless hours recreating the smallest nuance of each moment she had spent in the captain’s company, analyzing every gesture, dissecting every repartee. In the end, it was easy enough to come to the conclusion that it was she who had driven him into her aunt’s arms by pushing him away when he had tried to kiss her, and she convinced herself that he was pining for her, contrite and repentant, just as she was longing for him. She imagined she could feel what he was feeling, and sent him silent messages in return.
Even though she was now fully aware of the implications of her station, recently confirmed to her by Robert—namely, that the lack of a dowry, compounded by her questionable parentage, was a serious obstacle to her marriage prospects—it only added to the excitement: a hurdle to be overcome by true love, providing endless fodder for romantic speculation.
She spent hours examining her face in the looking glass, twisting her head this way and that so as to capture herself in a moment of inattention, hoping to catch a sidelong glimpse of herself as she might appear to him. Whereas in the past she had never paid much attention to her appearance, she now preened and experimented, pinning her unruly hair up in the back, and twirling ringlets in the front for an impression of studied dishevelment. She pouted her lips at the mirror, stretched her mouth into a grin to reveal her dimples, frowned, and opened her eyes wide. And yet no matter how she stared and leered, gazed and ogled, she could not tell whether she was pretty or not, or what exactly it was in her face or form that had started to make men look at her with such a funny, surprised attentiveness, when before she had not warranted a single glance.
She sat back and considered the image before her. The eyes—she really could not judge them. In the process of s
taring at themselves, the eyes assumed an astonished expression. She saw that they were large, certainly, and dark. She wasn’t sure if that was a good feature or not. It looked a little common. The swivel-gazed beauties in the paintings that hung in the reception rooms downstairs had softer, lighter, more protruding eyes and rather more placid expressions. Her mouth was a wide slash in her face, not the tight little pout Sarah was so proud to own. She puckered her lips, but they were too plump for a perfect cupid’s bow.
She looked down at her chest. It looked childishly meager in her low-cut gown—a hand-me-down from Sarah. She leaned over the dressing table and squeezed her arms tightly against her sides, pushing what flesh there was into view. But as soon as she sat back again, the cleavage disappeared. She did it again; imagined a man’s hand pressed into the top of her bodice…
Her mind clamped firmly shut on the unladylike thought. She turned her attention back to her face. Her cheeks and her jaw line were not round and soft as she’d have liked; the bones underlying them were clearly visible if you stared at them head-on. She pressed her chin back and down toward her neck, puffing out her cheeks to see if she could make herself look like Sarah and Aunt Clarissa. A frightened hog stared back at her. She burst out laughing, the air in her cheeks exploding in a loud squelch.
“And what, may I ask, is so funny?”
It was Uncle Edmund, standing in the doorway. Lucinda jumped to her feet. She could not imagine what he was doing here. So far as she knew, he never set foot in the children’s quarters. As always, Uncle Edmund made her feel as if he had caught her doing something she should not have been doing.
“I was just…”—she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand—“just arranging my hair.”
He grunted, but made no move to leave. To her dismay, he hitched up his tight-fitting breeches and carefully perched on the side of the bed. Lucinda looked down guiltily. She’d been staring. She had never seen Uncle Edmund’s ruddy face and blue beard stubble up close before.
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