Arabella paused, gathering up her ire, her amusement giving way to great snorts of indignation. Lucinda cringed.
“And what, may I ask, does Lady Doughby know of all this? Fancy her sticking her nose into our family’s affairs without so much as a by-your-leave! That woman is a scandalous gossip. How did she find out about you? How? Tell me, you little rat! You viper! You…you…Honorable, by God! How dare she! How dare you! You had better confess at once, or I’ll give you such a thrashing you’ll wish you had never been born!” She crumpled up the letter and hurled it at her niece’s head.
Lucinda was four years old again, facing terrifying adult disapproval. Incapable of standing up for herself, all she could do was to deny the blame.
“I didn’t know…it had nothing to do with me…” she whimpered.
“You conniving little bitch. Go! Get out of my sight! I cannot stand the sight of you! Out!”
And Arabella, in her fury at learning that her sister Olivia might not have been quite as ruined as she had supposed, and that Olivia’s daughter was not some wretched bastard but the legitimate offspring of a lord, could not resist a vicious kick at those “honorable” legs—and, with a running leap, again, there! right in the shins!—before slamming the door shut, with a mighty crash, behind her.
Lucinda, shaking all over, sat perched on the edge of her bed, rubbing the bruises on her leg. She did not know what to think. On the one hand, she was now legitimate. Not a bastard. They could no longer hold her mother’s supposed sin against her. She had proof, right here, in the crumpled letter that she was smoothing back into readable shape. So that was one thing, one very, very good thing.
She stopped, and sighed. Her head was spinning.
On the other hand, she was still penniless. And it was clear from Aunt Arabella’s reaction that she would have to contend with the same level of ill-will; she was still the poor relation, and would have to continue to sing for her supper.
She shuffled over to the chest at the foot of the bed. She shook out the voluminous gown she had worn on the day of her arrival, Sarah’s hand-me-down; it was a little creased, and musty-smelling, but glamorous compared to the grimy garments she now ripped off and kicked into a corner. She dipped her kerchief into the stale water in her washbowl and dabbed at her hands, her arms, her neck, and face, wiping them dry with a corner of the bed sheet. She pulled on the smock and lace-edged petticoat which Arabella had condemned as excessively frivolous. Next, she stepped into the gown, pulling it up to her chest and wriggling first one arm, then the other, into the sleeves. With great care she laced up the boned front. Last came the embroidered stomacher, an inverted triangle designed to lengthen the torso and whittle the waist. She had no pins, so she pulled two ribbons out of the tiered sleeves of her smock and used them to belt the stomacher in place.
She pulled the hairpins out of her aching topknot, and shook her curls loose. Having no mirror, it was not easy to fashion a hairstyle, but, working by touch, she managed to pull the hair back from her face and twist it into a loose bun with a few pins at the crown. She pulled some shorter strands free at the hairline and along the temples; these sprang by themselves into the little corkscrew-curls ladies’ maids spent hours coaxing into shape with hot tongs. Licking her fingers, she tried to slick them down into what she hoped was a more deliberate pattern. She bit her lips and pinched her cheeks, as she had seen Sarah do. Lastly, she shook out her skirts, and, bending over, pushed each breast up into the very top of the décolleté, creating two small mounds separated by a faint shadow that could almost pass for a cleavage. Her legacy, the glass slippers, peeked out from beneath her skirts. It would have to do.
She let herself out of the room quietly.
“Grandfather…”
“Err?” A bubble of spittle popped out of a corner of Lord Hempstead’s mouth. “Wha…whazzit?” He had to shake himself, to rid himself of the dream in which he had been a nursling, slippery, fresh and new.
“What is it?” he intoned imperiously, through the permanent film of catarrh clogging his throat.
“It’s just me, Lucinda…”
Lucinda? Before him stood a lean little thing, quivering. Had he sent for him? Her? He sent the feelers of his memory fumbling about in the region of his breeches, to see what was going on down there.
Alas, there was no enthusiastic response from the nether parts. Ah yes, of course. The reality of his illness spilled into his consciousness in a flood of sourness. He fixed the futile apparition before him with a peevish stare. “Well?”
“Grandfather, please read this…”
Grandfather. A relation, then, not an assignation. He sighed, and took the creased paper from her hand.
When Arabella received word that her father wished to see her, she knew it was not a good sign. She had intercepted the slut Lucinda on her way back to her room, dressed in a manner expressly forbidden. Arabella had taken great pleasure in ripping the girl’s gown to shreds, but she now regretted her momentary loss of control. (There had been some good lace and expensive embroidery; Mistress Wapping would surely have paid a handsome sum for it.) She had also given the minx a sound beating until she confessed that she had been to see Lord Hempstead; had then beaten her some more, for good measure. Now Arabella’s wrist hurt, and it was all Lucinda’s fault. She stomped into the library.
“Ah. There you are.” Lord Hempstead averted his eyes. He could not bear ugliness, which was why Arabella’s presence was seldom required.
“Yes, Father?” she asked sullenly. Her arms were crossed in front, over her midriff, an awkward stance that emphasized the bulges she was trying to hide.
“Send word to Edmund. Today. I wish to consult with him on a matter concerning my granddaughter Lucinda. It appears—it appears an injustice has been done.” Turning away from her, he muttered the rest at the embers in the grate. “My little Olivia, she was such a—sugar-plum, that one! I had high hopes for her. She’d have made quite a stir at court. Fool, wretched little fool, she was. Ah, well.” He tapped the stem of his pipe absently against a lone front tooth. “But now her child—the baggage from Dorset—it seems she’s all right, legitimate enough. Without my consent, of course, but born under the Law. Fresh little thing too, just like her mother.” He chuckled. “She’ll do quite nicely. With her looks,”—Arabella stiffened—”we shan’t be long drumming up a husband. But we need bait. A modest sum will do.” He drew himself up a little higher against the pillows. Scowling at his hopelessly unmarriageable daughter, he ordered, “Have Edmund come here at once. Remind him I do not like to be kept waiting. And Robert too. What are you waiting for, woman? Go!” he scowled.
“But Father…” Arabella began.
“I am tired now. Send in Hoogschotel.”
“But Father…”
“Did you not hear me?” He waved the back of his hand at her, shooing her out of the room.
Arabella dutifully sent a groom to Belweather Manor with the message that Lord Hempstead requested the attendance of Sir Edmund and the viscount at their earliest convenience. She also gave Dr. Hoogschotel permission to step up the quick-silver cure, which she had ordered suspended some weeks earlier, having observed—correctly, as it turned out—that the treatment was sapping the old man’s remaining strength.
Sir Edmund and Robert arrived at Wriggin five days later, just in time to witness Lord Hempstead’s final delirium. They decided it was a good thing that none of the ladies of the family had been present at his death-bed, because at the end he had thrown off the sheet, arched his back, grabbed his withered part through his shirt and snorted something no one could understand. And as the solemn group around the bed stared in disbelief, he fell back onto the pillow, a miraculous erection in his hand, his face frozen in wide-eyed, open-mouthed ecstasy.
17
A PROPOSITION
Consider the proposition that Love Is Blind. Even the sagest of women and wisest of men may find that it is possible to be so blinded by love that all common sense
, alas, flies clear out the window. Which is why the great moralists maintain that Love is governed not by Goodness or Grace, but is led around by the nose by Folly.
Lord Hempstead’s death provided Sir Edmund with the opportunity to bring his young niece back to Dorset. Sadly, he was obliged to invite his sister-in-law as well, since he could not have Arabella staying on at Wriggin Hall; he did not trust her. The steward, Tucker, a good fellow, was to take care of the place until a wife was found for Robert, the new earl.
Both men had been shocked by Lucinda’s pallor and gauntness (enhanced, to be sure, by the unflattering shade and shape of Lady Arabella’s cast-offs), at the bruise marks on her skin and at the sooty greyness embedded in the pores around her nostrils. “Really, Arabella,” Edmund complained, “the gel’s all skin and bones. And those bruises, how’d she get those?”
“I thought you liked them lean, Edmund,” Arabella said snidely. “Just like father, you are. You don’t like a woman to look womanly. I don’t know how she got those bruises. She is a clumsy thing, very, very clumsy. And wicked, too. I haven’t any notion how Clarissa put up with her for all these years.”
“Well, she’ll have to put up with her again for a while,” Edmund said.
Lucinda looked at them dully when they told her she was going home. She’d be happy to see Bessie again; that was all. Grandfather had died before making good on his promise to her; it was no use raising the question of a marriage portion now. Uncle Edmund and Robert would never allow her to encroach, however modestly, on their own shares of the Steppys fortune. As for Sir Matthew’s letter, they were not impressed.
“So you see,” Robert said patronizingly, waving the letter at her, “you should be grateful for the roof over your head. This makes it plain that your father is not going to do anything for you. You should be more than thankful to us.” His voice rose to a triumphant bleat. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to…”
“Enough, my lord,” said his brother-in-law. “I am sure the young lady is grateful, and cognizant of her obligations toward us.” He leered at her behind the new earl’s back. “Eh, my dear?”
Lucinda kept her eyes on the floor—at least, that’s what it looked like. It was actually the tips of her beaded slippers she was scrutinizing.
“Fine,” Edmund said. “You will come home with us, my dear. You are our charge, after all. Belweather Manor is where you belong,” he added sentimentally.
“Sir,” Lucinda mumbled, confused. How had her Uncle Edmund, who’d been such an ogre to her, metamorphosed into this well-meaning gentleman who winked at her conspiratorially, as if to ally himself with her, against the world?
“Well! We shall see what Clarissa has to say about that,” muttered Arabella under her breath.
“What did you say, Aunt?” asked Robert.
“I? Say something? No, my lord,” fluted Arabella, trying out some feminine meekness on her younger brother, the brand-new master of Wriggin Hall.
Clarissa was in no state to protest the return of her disgraced niece. She was lounging in front of her dressing table, appraising the effect of a dose of the belladonna cordial on her languid eyes. She noted that one of her breasts was lolling, exposed, across the lace of her half-open dressing-gown. She smiled at it lovingly; imagined her lord and master coming in at that very moment and being transfixed…
It so happened that Edmund did enter her closet at that very moment. But he was not transfixed. In fact, he looked away, annoyed. She sat up. How, she wondered indignantly, how could he not be transfixed, when she presented such an alluring sight? She had seen the portrait of the Duchess of Cleveland, the king’s mistress, when she was in Sir Peter Lely’s studio to have her own portrait done, and had studied it intently for clues. The painter had captured the duchess in a similar artless déshabillé. Clarissa was convinced that her own skin was whiter, her lips droopier, her eyelids heavier than the king’s favorite. For Heaven’s sake! How could Edmund avert his eyes from this vision, this presentation of all that was womanly?
“Good God, woman, cover yourself! Have you no shame?”
Shame? He was a fine one to talk. But the belladonna had got her tongue, and she found she was unable to recriminate. With great dignity, she drew the lace across her chest.
“I came to tell you the earl is dead.”
Father dead. Ah well. She sat forward a little and peered at her reflection, curious to see the effect of tears in those limpid eyes.
He was saying something else, explaining the arrangements, the necessity of having someone stay at the manor. He was needling her, demanding a response. Challenging her. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said!”
“Of course I have,” she protested, wrapping the words with difficulty around her relaxed tongue.
“And…?”
“F—fine,” she pronounced airily. She’d had enough of him. She wanted him to leave her alone so she could ponder her bereavement in peace and practice a suitably distraught demeanor. And she might need another nip of the cordial, for her nerves…
It was not her intention, but not an hour had gone by before Lucinda had told Bessie about her uncle’s renewed attentions. She had meant to keep quiet about the whole thing, but somehow, as soon as she found herself in Bessie’s comforting presence, it came tumbling out.
“So…” Bessie had purred, after the hugging and the exclaiming and the tears were done, “so you see, everything’s all right again, pet, all’s forgotten and forgiven.”
It was only because Lucinda was so thoroughly in the habit of disagreeing with Bessie that she couldn’t help sighing, “What? Nothing’s forgotten.”
“Oh, lamb. Your uncle and aunt have decided to take you back: surely that means…”
“It doesn’t mean it’s forgotten. He hasn’t forgotten.”
“Who, ‘he’? You mean your uncle?”
Lucinda nodded.
“What do you mean, he hasn’t forgotten?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Nothing? No, tell me, what did you mean?”
“I meant nothing.”
“No, my young lady, I know you better than that. I know you meant something by that. Tell me. Now.”
“Well, Bess, you know.”
“Know what? I know nothing. I am waiting for you to tell me.”
“You know, I just meant that Sir Edmund didn’t bring me back here because all has been forgiven and forgotten. He brought me back because he wants to…”
“Wants to finish what he started?”
“…”
“Wants to finish what he started, is that it?”
“….”
“Oh my pet…oh my pet! Lord. Did he say as much?”
Still no answer.
“He did, eh? And what did you say?”
“Nothing.”
Was it only fifteen short years since Bessie had carried this little bundle in her arms, had been able to rock her to sleep at will, had been in control of every taste that passed her lips, had encouraged her to take her first steps, had taught her her first words, had made her believe in fairies and in God and in miracles; indeed, had had the conceit to think that every thought in the child’s head had been put there by her? And yet here they were but a few years later—where had the time gone?—and Bessie, who had groomed Lucinda to believe she was special, could not understand why, just when it was established she was not illegitimate after all, and would now have to be accepted by her peers, the girl suddenly seemed willing to throw it all away for a life of shame.
“But you haven’t…you didn’t agree!” she cried.
“It’s too late, Bess,” Lucinda sulked. “Don’t you see…?”
“I don’t see! I don’t see!” Bessie’s voice was shaking with fury. “He can’t! You can’t! I won’t have it!”
“Oh, come on, Bess. Where do you expect me to go? What do you expect me to do? At least this way, I stand a chance. He has promised me an income, you know, if I will be, you know, his—”
“Yes, an income. Fifty guineas a year. If I am discreet about—it.” Lucinda knew that by giving Bessie the details, she was only making it worse, but she pressed on, as if explaining the thing reasonably could make it seem a reasonable thing to do. “I could save it up, for my portion. In five years, when I am twenty, I’ll have over two hundred and fifty pounds, and with that…”
“In five years nobody will have you! No matter how rich you are! Don’t fool yourself, girl. You’ll be used goods in the eyes of every decent gentleman. No, no, that’s no future for a lady. Oh please, please lamb. I know, we’ll run away. Perhaps that nice lady Thomas is working for now, she’ll take us in, and…”
“No Bessie,” Lucinda said firmly. “You know we can’t do that. We have no right to expect charity from anyone, least of all from someone who is no relation.” She turned to look out the window, avoiding Bessie’s eyes. “Anyway,” she said dramatically, “this is where I belong.”
Since it is impossible to read another person’s mind, there is really no point speculating about their motives. It is hard enough to understand our own motives sometimes. Given the fact that Bessie was ignorant of her pet’s secret crush on Captain Beaupree, and that she had no idea how very little Lucinda understood about the true nature of sex, there was no way Bessie could make sense of Lucinda’s puzzling capitulation.
The clue lies, simply, in a chance remark overheard by Lucinda on the journey home to Dorset in the claustrophobic carriage. The men were sitting on one bench, the two women on the other. It was very hard to avoid knee contact with the person sitting opposite you; Lucinda’s thighs and calves ached with cramp. Aunt Arabella had fallen asleep, snoring, her mouth wide open. Lucinda was also pretending to be asleep in order to escape the men’s probing glances.
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