The Wish Club

by Stella Cameron

  This, he supposed, was when he was supposed to throw her down somewhere or other and ravage her. Good Lord, but rather than rise even more willingly to the occasion, his rod withered at the thought.

  Hermoine clapped her hands, and backed away from him. “You are to leave everything to me,” she said, far too loudly. “I am naturally shy, but I’m more than ready to take matters into my own hands.”

  She locked the door.

  • • •

  A click sounded, and Kirsty knew the door to Max’s study had been locked. If she could make her feet move, she would rush away. If Max and Lady Hermoine thought she didn’t know what they were about, they were mistaken.

  Lady Hermoine’s raised voice had sounded excited. I’m more than ready to take matters into my own hands, she’d said.

  Kirsty shrank back against the opposite wall. It was true that Max had not instigated what she was sure had been happening in that room, but neither had he stopped it.

  Assuming their actions were hidden from her, they had been touching each other.

  She could not abide it.

  At last she could feel her legs again. Not caring that she passed the odious Fergus Wilkie, or that he leered at her, she caught up the cumbersome taffeta skirt and ran. She ran and ran until she reached the corridor leading to her rooms.

  A person could only endure so much. To expect her to sit by while another woman made love to Max was more than this person could endure. She stumbled the final, short distance and found her door open. Inside, clearly visible as she turned the pages of the book Kirsty was reading, sat Blanche Bastible.

  Not now. Surely she could be allowed to be alone for at least a little while.

  Blanche glanced up and said, “There you are, Kirsty. Her Grace likes to spend the early-morning hours with some deep thoughts she isn’t ready to share with me, so I decided to come and get to know you better today. I decided I’d sit here until you came back, no matter how long that was.”

  With heavy feet, and a heavier heart, Kirsty went inside.

  “Close the door then, girl,” Blanche said. “And do brighten up, for goodness sake. That sour face would pull clouds over the sun.”

  “I’m no’ mysel’, Mrs. Bastible,” Kirsty said.

  “You may call me Blanche. Now, I allow that privilege to very few, and only when I’ve a certain feeling about a person. I have that feeling about you. You’re special.”

  Kirsty said, “Thank ye,” and managed a smile.

  “Don’t forget I’ve known you since you were a little girl. I remember when your brother was born. A handsome child.” She sighed, and sighed again, and her eyes took on a distant look. “I myself didn’t have the good fortune to have a son. Had I done so, I know my life would have been very different. A son takes care of his mother. A son makes sure his mother never wants for anything. A daughter is such a burden. But I mustn’t complain. It is a mother’s lot to put her own needs aside and do the very best for whatever children God grants her. Of course, a daughter takes a mother’s selflessness as her due and gives nothing in return, but, so be it.”

  Kirsty’s spirits lifted a little. “I rather thought the marchioness went to great pains to be certain ye lived well. And ye’ve fine grandchildren to comfort ye in your old age.”

  Blanche raised her head and fluffed her ringlets. “I married my first husband—Grace’s father—very young. I was a child bride, but he was a successful solicitor, and I was swept off my feet. My second husband, the Reverend Bastible, died very unexpectedly. I assure you I have many more vigorous years of my own before I consider doting on grandchildren.” She considered. “Of course, my grandchildren are remarkable.”

  “They certainly are.”

  “But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to talk about you and to guide you. We must be certain we are not interrupted.”

  With resignation, Kirsty watched as yet another door was locked.

  “I see you enjoy Mr. Dickens, too,” Blanche said, placing the book she’d been reading on top of a low bookcase. “I haven’t read A Christmas Carol. It seems it may be both moving and frightening.”

  “Yes,” Kirsty said absently. “It’s new. I’m very fond of Mr. Dickens’s writings. Max gave it t’me. Ye may borrow it, if ye please.”

  “Max gave it to you.” Blanche’s puzzling powers of concentration had already sped away from Mr. Charles Dickens’s latest masterpiece. “You must have him, you know.”

  Kirsty’s mouth fell open.

  “Men are foolish creatures. They rarely know what is best for them. And women, particularly the wrong kind of women, can influence them dreadfully. I am a most exceptional judge of character, you know. That is why Her Grace and I are so close. We both share certain special instincts. I am invaluable to her, and I hope you will not think me presumptuous if I say she is my dearest friend.”

  “How nice,” Kirsty said, catching her breath again.

  “Can I be certain that our conversation remains between us?”

  “Yes, ye can.” Who would ever believe such strange comments, anyway?

  “Good.” Blanche glowered at the door, grasped Kirsty by the wrist, and marched her into the bedchamber. “More private in here. I’m a little fatigued from rising so early, so I shall rest on your bed, if you’ve no objection. You can sit in that chair where I can see you.”

  Without waiting for a yea or nay from Kirsty, Blanche Bastible climbed atop the mattress, and propped her plump, much befrilled self against the pillows. “Ahh,” she sighed. “Much better. I think so much better lying down. Now, let’s get on with it. The matter in hand is securing Max Rossmara for you. How it shall be accomplished, and how we shall dispose of any obstacles in our path.”

  The chair Blanche had indicated, small and well upholstered, beckoned to Kirsty and she all but fell into it.

  “Hmm,” Blanche said. “A young gel like you shouldn’t be exhausted. Not at this time of day.”

  “It’s been an exceptionally tiring day already,” Kirsty told her. “And I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Or any other night recently, I’ll wager,” Blanche said, pursing her lips. “These rooms are all pink.”

  “Rose,” Kirsty told her. “That’s why they’re called the rosy rooms. They used to be Lady Avenall’s when she came to the castle.”

  “Another young woman with her head firmly on her shoulders. But never mind that. There’s more afoot here that meets the eye.” A huge wink made it impossible for Blanche to keep either eye open. “That Hermoine creature. Dreadful baggage. And all those females at The Hallows. I made a very gentle comment to my son-in-law suggesting he investigate them all. He, naturally, promptly told me to mind my own business. Not that I am ever surprised by his curtness. He is a most ungrateful cub. My Grace is far too good for him, and he knows it. He actually told me that there’s nothing at all amiss at The Hallows, which means that there is much amiss and he knows it, but he doesn’t want me to use my superior powers of deduction in the matter because I will show him up—as I have in the past. But I’ll tell you all about that at another time.”

  Reason seeped slowly back into Kirsty. Why would Blanche Bastible choose to befriend her, of all people. It was well-known that Blanche was a social climber who only had time for people she considered capable of advancing her own social position.

  “I take it I’m correct in assuming you have a tendre for Max Rossmara?”

  Kirsty was growing tired of being asked the same question in only slightly different manners. “Why?”

  “Why?” Blanche rose to her elbows. “Because everything depends on your feelings for him, that’s why.”

  Emboldened, Kirsty said, “What o’ his feelings for me?”

  Blanche flapped a hand before her face. “He adores you. Plain as the nose on your face. He affects that masculine air of dominance and distance, but manages to look at you from a hundred different directions. He does so constantly. But you’ve stopped looking at him. Why is th
at?”

  Oh, she was too tired for this subterfuge. “I was advised to be— demure.”

  “Demure? Well, I suppose demure is all well and good in its place, but managing to resemble a particularly obtuse mouse is singularly unattractive.”

  Obtuse mouse? “Max Rossmara is no’ for me. He’s a gentleman, and I’m a peasant who has the good fortune o’ an education.”

  That direct piece of information garnered Kirsty another disgusted flap of Blanche’s hand. “I’ve no time for that sort of stupidity. Listen and follow instructions.”

  More instructions.

  “I know Her Grace spoke with you. She told me, and we are in absolute agreement except for one thing. You’re aware that she feels you should groom yourself to become the man’s mistress—when the time is right?”

  Kirsty averted her face.

  “Oh, do buck up! This shall be our secret—are we agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Kirsty said, wishing Blanche would go away.

  “Very well. I believe you should become Max’s wife, not his mistress.”

  Slowly Kirsty returned her attention to the older woman’s face.

  “And I believe that those people at The Hallows are all very dangerous. But I shall not be listened to, and when I’m proven right, there will be no mention that I foresaw disaster.”

  “Och, I’m sure ye’re worryin’ too much.”

  “I am not worrying too much. There is something very unwholesome about each and every one of them there. With the possible exception of that charming Mr. Horace Hubble. Now there’s a man if ever I saw one.” Blanche’s gaze lost some of its focus. “Oh, yes, indeed. Not since the dear Reverend Bastible died have I seen quite such a magnetic specimen of the male variety.”

  To each, his own. “Could ye be more specific about why ye think Max and I belong together?”

  Blanche yawned. “You have so much in common. You are both extremely intelligent—and enterprising. You are both from exceedingly humble beginnings and so determined to better yourselves.”

  Max was working at bettering himself as they spoke, Kirsty thought, stunned by the power of her misery.

  “We’ll all be going to the ball at The Hallows next week,” Blanche said.

  “Not me—er—Blanche. I’m just an employee. And ye told me we shouldna have anythin’ t’do wi’ any o’ them there.”

  “A ball is a ball,” Blanche snapped. “Lots of people. Everyone who is anyone from miles around. You shall attend at the dowager’s insistence. In fact we have already agreed on the matter, so consider it arranged. And it will be a wonderful opportunity for you to annoy Lady Hermoine.”

  Not understanding Blanche’s point, Kirsty sat forward in her chair.

  “She will not want you there, of course,” Blanche said. “She’s afraid you could be a rival of serious proportions. And when she sees you there, she’ll know you are.”

  “I’m no’ going,” Kirsty murmured.

  “You certainly are.”

  “I couldna possibly. I know I shouldna be asked to dance, but if I were, I’d no’ be able to because I never learned.”

  “We’ve a week. You’ll dance in a week.”

  Kirsty clutched the arms of the chair. “I canna go. I’ve no gown suitable.”

  “That’s about to be remedied. Fortunately Her Grace is leaving that to me. You’re both fighters, you know, you and Max. He’s a bastard. You’re not, of course, but you’ve had no advantages.”

  Kirsty could not allow such a thing to be said. “I have the best of families. They’re good, and true, and kind. I’ve always known I was loved.”

  “But you’ve always known you wanted more.”

  “No. No, that’s no’ true. If it weren’t for Max, I’d probably have been happy wi’ the life I’d have come by naturally. But I did meet him. And he opened the world for me. And he stole my heart.” She wasn’t controlling her tongue well enough.

  “And you stole his,” Blanche said, sounding inordinately pleased with herself. “So it is right for the two of you to be together. But you won’t say I’ve interfered, will you?”

  Kirsty studied Blanche. “I’ve promised I won’t.” There was something Blanche wasn’t saying—something that would explain this unexpected and nearly desperate determination to bring Max and Kirsty together.

  Blanche looked at the clock beside Kirsty’s bed, and said, “Good. No need to mention that subject again.” With remarkable agility, she sprang to the floor, shook out her skirts, and took a firm hold of Kirsty’s hand. “Now it’s time for you to come with me. I have a wonderful surprise for you.”

  “I’m supposed to be at work,” Kirsty said weakly, aware that she’d be unable to return to the study until she was summoned.

  “Work? Fiddle! A girl must have time to be a girl, and I shall make sure you have that time. I know you haven’t seen my rooms. Exquisite, my dear. They have been kept for my exclusive use since I first brought Grace here to marry the marquess. It’s in the East Wing. The Serpent Room.” Blanche squealed like a girl and hurried Kirsty away.

  The Serpent Room was a good distance from the Eve Tower and upon entering Kirsty contained a squeal of her own, but of horror, not glee. Drapes had been thrown open and she was confronted with what could only be described as a fearsome, reptilian creation.

  “Isn’t this just the most marvelous room?” Blanche demanded. “I have seen a great many wonderful things, but never, ever, the likes of this.”

  “No,” Kirsty said. She did not add that her own experience was exceedingly limited, but that she found the place dreadful.

  “The dear dowager has had a replica of this bed made for me at Franchot Castle. That’s where the Franchots’ seat is, in Cornwall, dear.”

  Many-headed gilt lizards swarmed over the posts of a massive bed topped, most strangely, with a quilt lovingly embroidered with clusters of spring flowers.

  “There you are, Geneviève! Right on time, too,” Blanche said.

  The modiste Max had obtained hovered on the threshold, and several seconds passed before she masked her horror at the room before her.

  “Come along in,” Blanche said, smiling happily. “The box is on the table near the window. It arrived late yesterday. See what you think.”

  “I really should be in my room waiting to be summoned to work,” Kirsty said with a sense that she might not care for what lay ahead.

  “Fiddlededee. This is much more important. You know, my dear, you and Max are so very suited to each other.”

  How many times, Kirsty wondered, would the lady restate her theory, with all the discomfort it brought.

  “Why your very presence here in this castle is proof that you’re both of stern stuff. You have put your very humble beginnings behind you and are a bare step away from acceptance by anyone who is anyone.”

  Blanche, it seemed, put tremendous stock in “anyone who was anyone.”

  Max Rossmara did not need Kirsty to help him make his way. He had Lady Hermoine in his study at this very moment—taking matters into her own hands.

  “The dowager and I are going to the ball, and we want you with us,” Blanche said, swaying and smiling. “How nice that Mr. Hubble will be there, too.” Her expression became momentarily distant.

  “I’m sure ye’ll have a time o’ it,” Kirsty said, quickly removing her hand from the painted red eyes of a dark wood dragon that draped the back of a chair. “Mayhap ye’ll tell me all about it afterward.”

  “Now that,” Blanche said, so sharply Kirsty flinched, “will be the last time you even suggest that you might not be in attendance. We will get down to what must be done immediately. Geneviève, what do you think of the material?”

  “Magnifique.” Small, dark, and swift of movement, the modiste carried an armload of shimmering silk moiré, light blue but shot through with other colors—lavender, magenta, a hint of gold, that shifted as the light caught different angles.

  “Magnificent indeed,” Blanche said, sighing. “
Look at this, Kirsty. The dear dowager sent it in my care so that we may be certain it will be the perfect thing.”

  With something near nausea, Kirsty watched Blanche Bastible open an old, red-leather box. Inside, on a bed of slightly worn black velvet, rested the most fabulous necklace Kirsty had ever seen. She had never touched a necklace at all other than the fine gold cross her mother cherished, and which had been a gift from the marquess at the time of Niall’s birth.

  “Aquamarines and diamonds,” Blanche said reverently. “Necklace and earbobs to match. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?”

  “Never,” Kirsty said, with complete honesty. “Please thank Her Grace for lettin’ me see them.”

  Blanche lifted the necklace and arranged it on top of the moiré. She pressed a hand to her breast and closed her eyes. “The perfection of it,” she said. “You will be the envy of all.”

  “Me?”

  The older woman’s blue eyes popped open and settled crossly on Kirsty’s. “Of course, you. Sometimes you are quite addlepated, or you choose to seem so. Your gown will be fashioned of this fabulous material, and you are to wear the dowager’s aquamarines and diamonds.”

  “But—”

  “And the dowager will brook no argument. And Max will also be delighted to have you there.”

  “He declined the invitation.”

  Blanche shook her head. “Such behavior. The dowager has informed the countess that the response was a mistake, and Max will definitely be in attendance.”

  Geneviève, who was already well acquainted with Kirsty’s dimensions, produced several Ackerman’s plates and spread them for Blanche to see.

  “Oh!” Suddenly even more animated than usual, Blanche bobbed up and down. “This one. It simply must be this one. What do you think, Kirsty?”

  Reluctantly, Kirsty went to look. The gown pictured all but defied description. A fantastic excess, from the feathered headdress, to the vastly full, many-flounced skirt. No exclamation could aptly express the sensation Kirsty experienced. So she said, “Oh.”

  “It steals the breath,” Blanche said. “Oh, yes, this will do very well.”