“Oh they were, were they? And just what do you know about them? Were they married? To each other?”
“Father,” said Atticus warningly. “There’s no need to drag Genevieve into a sordid discussion. She knows only what she has been told, after all, and the subject may be painful to her.”
“It is not painful, uncle. I know very little about my parents, so I cannot take offense at stories about them—however unkind those stories may be.” She tossed her bright ringlets and fixed the old baron with a challenging look. “I know only that Uncle Atticus felt that I should be happy as part of his family with his beautiful wife Clara. We have yet to discuss any future beyond that. Does that answer satisfy you?”
The old man’s face was reddening. “Impertinent baggage!” he spat. “Atticus, take your so-called ward out of my sight, and don’t let her come near me again until she can keep a civil tongue in her head. If you’re wise you’ll give her a whipping, but then you’re too soft-hearted to raise your hand to anyone, woman or not.” He raised a tremulous hand to point to the door. “Brutus, show them out.”
Atticus did not move at once, even as the valet briskly stepped over to throw the door open for us. I felt the muscles of his arm tighten against mine, and I remembered then that he had been trained in bare-knuckle fighting. He was not afraid to raise his hand against a bully, despite his father’s taunts.
But the baron was old and frail, and in any case his father. Atticus made him the most civil of bows and, with no word of farewell, led me to the door. Genevieve, head held high, was hard on our heels, and no sooner had she stepped into the hallway than Brutus shut the door with a swiftness that made her jump.
“I am sorry, uncle,” she said contritely. “I was rude. Your father is elderly, perhaps wandering in his wits, and I ought not to have taken offense at his words.”
A smile almost too fierce to deserve the name came and went on my husband’s face. “Father would be most disappointed had you not taken offense; his chief delight nowadays is in sticking pins in people to see what makes them flinch. You’ll apologize to him, but not until he’s had a night to enjoy nursing his offended pride.”
“Very well,” sang Genevieve, her penitence vanishing as quickly as winter sunshine, and hummed a little tune as we left Lord Telford and his spite behind us.
Chapter Fourteen
Unfortunately, over the days since Genevieve’s arrival I had been unable to find the right moment to tell Atticus about Collier’s note. Our nighttime meetings were consumed by discussion of our guests and what it was incumbent on me to do or not do in order not to disgrace myself (or my husband) before them, and when my thoughts did return to the note it was never a convenient time to detain Atticus alone.
It was the same the following day. He and the male guests were out with the guns all day, and they returned with barely enough time to dress for dinner. I gritted my teeth and made pleasant conversation with the women in the parlor, where I kept one eye on the doorway, waiting for Atticus to appear. Birch would sound the dinner gong soon, and then I’d have no chance to speak privately with him until hours later when we met for our usual late-night conference.
The decorous murmur of feminine conversation was shattered by the irruption of the men into the drawing room. Energized from their day outdoors, they seemed to fill every corner of the room, both physically and with their boisterous voices.
Mr. Bertram was the only exception. Looking comfortingly unassuming with his wild hair and two-seasons-old dinner coat, he was speaking to my husband in a voice I could not hear over the bragging of Lord Veridian about how many grouse he had bagged. But Bertram’s next words caught his attention.
“If we are concerned about the local men haranguing the girls on their way to church, as has happened with some of the Anglican institutions, we can consider building a chapel wing onto the facility itself.”
“I should think the exercise and fresh air would do the residents good,” mused Atticus. “To be bottled up in one place day and in and day out would make it seem a prison. But you’re right, we don’t want the young women to suffer unwanted attention. I wonder if perhaps—”
“What’s this?” boomed Lord Veridian. “What young women are these? Are you starting a harem, Blackwood?”
“Cecil, please,” murmured his wife.
Atticus hesitated, clearly unwilling to elucidate for an almost certainly unsympathetic party, but Bertram helpfully provided the answer. “Quite the opposite,” he said brightly. “Young women who have come to grief will find a refuge for themselves and their children in the institutions that Mr. Blackwood is planning.”
I nearly groaned aloud. Even I knew that this was not a suitable topic for the time and place. Anything likely to create controversy was anathema to a gathering like this one, and most especially in mixed company.
Sure enough, I saw shocked glances pass between some of the women. “I scarcely think,” one matron said reprovingly, “that discussion of such depraved creatures is appropriate.”
Her husband laughed too loudly. “And yet I find it a fascinating topic! Tell us, Blackwood, how do you propose to locate the despoiled lasses to populate these homes? If you need scouts, you have a willing volunteer here. I’ll happily search the neighborhood for undiscovered wantons.”
A rumble of appreciative laughter from some of the gentlemen greeted this sally. It was time I took command, like a proper hostess. “I’m certain that my husband will explain the entire scheme to all of the gentlemen after dinner,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the sniggering, “when you won’t be constrained by the presence of ladies.”
“Exactly so,” said Atticus firmly. “The topic is ill suited to the present company. Not because I find anything salacious in the unfortunate circumstances that make such a scheme necessary, but the presence of my young ward—”
“I’ve got it,” Lord Veridian interrupted. “These are all of your brother Richard’s castoffs, eh, Blackwood? With all of the wild oats he sowed, you’re probably talking several acres’ worth of crops.”
“How dare you.” I had not meant to speak, but the words flew from my lips. “How dare you speak so of Ri—of a member of my family.”
His lips spread in an oily smile, and he treated me to the honor of a long scrutiny of my entire person. I felt as if his gaze were leaving a film on me. “Pardon me if I give offense, dear lady, but I’m only repeating common knowledge about young Blackwood. You never had the opportunity to know him, but if you had—” A nasty grin. “Let us say that he might have left you a sadder but wiser woman.”
“How brave of you,” I said witheringly. “Casting aspersions on a dead man. If he were here to defend himself, you’d not be so free with your vile claims.”
Suddenly Atticus was beside me, and although he did not actually put his arm around me or in any physical way offer support, I suddenly felt less vulnerable. “Clara, my love, it is like you to spring to my family’s defense. But I assure you”—he directed a look at Lord Veridian that was so cold in its fury that the man’s head retracted as if he had been struck—“you’ll not have to listen to such filth any longer. Veridian, you are no longer welcome at Gravesend.”
I did not see him make a gesture, but instantly Birch and two of the strongest-looking footmen were there, positioned around the slanderous peer as if creating a barrier between him and the rest of the company.
“Escort Lord Veridian out of the house,” Atticus ordered. His words were clipped, and I had never seen such icy anger in his eyes. To the man in question he said, “Your belongings will be sent after you.”
There was an instant’s silence, while Lord Veridian, whose face was slowly crimsoning, stood swaying as if from a blow or from too much wine. Those nearest him had fallen back, as if he might contaminate them—all except for Lord Cavendish, whose kind face was perplexed.
“Blackwood, is this not a bit rash?” he said gently. “Surely so drastic a measure is unnecessary. Veridian, ap
ologize to our host, and let’s put this unpleasantness behind us.”
But this seemed only to rouse the man. “I’ve no intention of apologizing to this madman,” he barked. “You can’t just throw me out like rubbish, Blackwood. For God’s sake, I’m the Viscount Veridian!”
“You’re a disgrace to the peerage,” Atticus informed him. “Birch, get him out of my house.” One of his hands had descended to rest gently on my shoulder, and I found the touch reassuring. My hands were shaking, and I clasped them in my lap to still them.
Shocked murmurs arose as the footmen hauled Lord Veridian from the room. They met with little resistance; either he was too stupefied at the turn of events to put up a fight, or he had some belated impulse to recall the dignity of his position—an impulse that had not been present earlier, or it might have prevented him from saying any of the repellent things that still echoed horribly in my mind.
“How could he?” I whispered. What was the point of inventing such disgusting lies?
“My love, don’t distress yourself.” Atticus’s voice was so low that I could scarcely hear it over the avid buzz of conversation that was already filling the room. I realized that the scene had provided my guests with an even tastier morsel of scandal to gossip over than Genevieve’s obscure origins. “Don’t pay any mind to what he said,” he urged.
How could I not? But he gave me no chance to reply. “I’ll just see that he’s giving the men no trouble,” he told me, and made his way out of the room.
“What a disgusting man,” announced Genevieve distinctly, and there was some laughter—but also mutterings of disapproval. Bertram gave her a smile.
“Miss Rowe, you have just witnessed something that may be nearly unique among the English peerage,” he said. “A viscount doing a job of work.” His voice was so cheerful that I was first astonished and then, belatedly, grateful.
Genevieve shook her red-gold ringlets in pretty puzzlement. “And what work is that?”
“Why, digging his own grave.”
She wrinkled her forehead at him. “Is that clever, Mr. Bertram? I cannot tell.”
He laughed rather than taking offense. “No more can I, Miss Rowe. Now, I have heard that you are a delightful singer. If I accompany you on the piano, would you be so kind as to favor us with a few songs? I think some sweet tunes are just what we need after that ass’s braying.”
There was a silken rustle from across the room as Lady Veridian rose, and the murmur of conversation halted at once. “If this is the kind of hospitality you offer, Mrs. Blackwood,” she said quietly, “I think you’ll find your acquaintance shrinking rapidly.”
I had momentarily forgotten the viscount’s wife, and I must have looked like a half-wit, gaping at her as she continued, poised and calm.
“The only charitable assumption one can make in the face of such a preposterous gesture is that your husband has lost his wits.”
“No more than your husband has,” I snapped before I could control myself, and the ripple of shocked laughter told me, too late, how inappropriate the remark was.
Lady Veridian’s stare might have been the coldest thing I had ever seen, and yet it made my face burn. She said distinctly, “I hold you personally responsible for this scene, Mrs. Blackwood.”
“Ladies, I beg of you,” Lord Cavendish began, but she silenced him with a look.
“You may not know it,” she continued, biting each word off with angry precision, “but my husband’s family is one of the oldest and most distinguished in this country. Perhaps you consider yourself an American and have little respect for the noble tradition of the peerage, but I assure you that if you were a man, my husband would have had every right to call you out for the things you said.”
The entire room was awaiting my response. Even if Atticus had been there, I knew he could not save me this time. If I did not meet this confrontation head on, I would lose face before every person present, and it would never be forgotten. A clammy dread clutched my stomach, and I rose so that I faced my accuser eye to eye.
“Lady Veridian,” I said, willing my voice not to quaver, “I’m sorry if I have insulted you. But the Blackwoods, I understand, are also an old and venerated family and worthy of respect. Perhaps I do have a bit of the Puritan in my makeup, but I would think that in any country it is unacceptable to slander someone who is unable to defend himself. If my husband’s brother were alive, he would have had every right to call Lord Veridian out.” My mouth was so dry it was a marvel that I could speak at all, but she showed no signs of thawing yet. “You are welcome to stay on at Gravesend without your husband,” I offered, and instantly knew it had been the wrong thing to say. If I had been on the way to gaining her respect, I lost it then.
She inclined her head and regarded me with a contempt that was almost palpable. “Mrs. Blackwood, you clearly have much to learn about English society. Among civilized people, a wife and her husband are considered one person. You cannot extend or revoke an invitation to only one—nor can you insult one without insulting the other.” She snapped her fan open so suddenly that I jumped. “Pray excuse me,” she said icily. “I must have my maid pack my things. I won’t discommode you by remaining a moment longer than I must.”
Her sweeping exit from the room left a profound silence in her wake.
I bit my lips and tried desperately to think of what to say to smooth this discordance over. Apologize to my guests? The scene had been none of my doing, but the revolting viscount’s. But the terrible quiet only grew more agonizing by the second. I sought Genevieve’s eyes and saw a similar helplessness in them. Strangely, that brought me a measure of calm.
“Genevieve,” I said, “I believe you were going to sing for us. Perhaps, after this memorable conversation between me and Lady Veridian, you and Mr. Bertram might favor us with something in a similar vein—say, Rossini’s Cat Duet?”
It could have been a devastating misstep. For a second it hung in the balance whether the company would condemn me as irredeemably flippant and impudent.
But then Lady Stanley gave her distinctive chuckle. “Clearly American bloodlines are infused with steel as well as brass,” she said. “Yes, let us have the ‘Duet for Two Cats’—or shall we consider it an encore?”
That seemed to turn the scale. First one, then another of my guests permitted themselves a smile or titter, and my shoulders sagged in relief. Genevieve and Bertram quickly took their places at the piano, and as their spirited meows sent the guests into more laughter, I resumed my seat and felt the panicked beat of my heart subside into something closer to normality.
“I wouldn’t have had that happen for worlds,” said Atticus. “Clara, I can only say again how sorry I am. Lord Veridian shall not enter this house again.”
I drew off my gloves and sank into a wing chair with a little sigh of gratitude. It was a relief to close the door of my sitting room and be freed from the eyes of both guests and servants—to be offstage, in a sense. Especially after my close brush with social disaster, I was blissfully relieved that now I could finally relax.
If Atticus felt the same way, one would not have known it to look at him. He was pacing before the fire with as much restless energy as if he had just sprung from a cage. His pale blue eyes were bright with fury.
“Lord Veridian is not worth your anger, Atticus,” I told him. “As disgusting as he was, his words can’t hurt Richard now. I’m sure that everyone knows the truth and will dismiss his foul lies accordingly.”
He halted in mid-stride and turned astonished eyes to me. “Clara,” he said in a different voice. “That isn’t what enrages me. I know how much it must have hurt you to have him speak so coarsely about women in that unfortunate situation.”
I wasn’t certain whether to laugh or take his words in earnest. “I have known several of these unfortunates,” I said slowly, “and I do feel compassion for them, but I’m not certain why you should think that the subject is one that I take personally. Certainly it isn’t well suited to drawin
g-room conversation, but I was not offended on my own behalf.”
To my bewilderment, he actually went on one knee beside my chair and took one of my hands in his. “You’re so brave, Clara, but you mustn’t feel that you have to hide your feelings from me,” he said gently. “I know how wounded you must have been by those coarse references to light women.”
An explanation for his solicitousness was finally dawning on me. “Is this to do with Genevieve?” I asked. At his solemn nod—I cannot deny it—my heart sank. My voice was dull when I asked, “Is she your mistress?”
He stared at me. “My mistress?” he repeated, in a voice of such consternation that I had to believe it sincere. “Good God, Clara, of course not!”
But that left only one other explanation. “Your daughter, then,” I said. Even, it seemed, as honorable and decent a man as Atticus was not a stranger to dalliance. With no wife for so many years, what other course was open to a man of normal passions? So he had taken a lover, who had borne him a daughter. It spoke well of him that he was taking responsibility for her, paying for her education and upkeep, even introducing her into his own circle. It was more than decent; it was generous.
Still, it gave me a little twinge to imagine how happy he must have been with this woman to have embraced her illegitimate child so completely. Would he still be with the woman of his heart if his position, and hers, had permitted it?
As I pondered these depressing thoughts, Atticus drew back as if to take the full measure of me and make certain I was the same person he thought he knew. “Clara, there’s no need to keep up the pretence,” he said, in so bewildered a tone that I felt churlish for having evoked it. “You don’t have to hide the truth any longer. I know the sad secret that you’ve had to conceal.”
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