Treasured Vows

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Morgan!” Lord Phipps said in his booming voice. “Good to see you.” He stood and looked up at the banker in clear and complete awe.

  Mr. Morgan bowed slightly in Lord Phipps’s direction. “Good evening, Phipps. It is good to see you again.”

  Phadra didn’t know who was more surprised by his familiarity with his lordship, herself or the Evanses—who all stared in open-mouthed surprise.

  “You know each other?” Lady Evans asked.

  “Of course I know Morgan!” Lord Phipps said. “Best swordsman in London. We patronize the same school.” He nodded at the banker. “I heartily enjoyed that match you had with Woolford. I never liked the man; too high in the instep even for an earl.” He looked at the rest of the company. “His forcing a challenge on Morgan was the best thing that could have happened. Morgan hit him on the fourth disengage. The man didn’t even see Morgan’s sword move. Like lightning.” The affable Lord Phipps turned his attention to the two men with Mr. Morgan. “Have you seen Morgan fence? Marvelous swordsman. I’d wager he’s the best in England.”

  “Many times,” Captain Duroy answered. “We’ve long claimed Morgan is more of a Corinthian than a banker.”

  “I like that!” Lord Phipps declared before breaking into loud laughter. He reached up and, with an air of bonhomie, clapped Mr. Morgan on the back. “But then, swordplay runs in the family, doesn’t it? They say no one could match your father.”

  Mr. Morgan smiled, a tight expression devoid of emotion, and answered lightly, “Someone did.”

  Lord Phipps’s ruddy cheeks turned even redder. The conversation in the room had ceased, and Phadra realized that she wasn’t the only one listening intently to every word the men were saying.

  Lady Roberta leaned close to Lady St. George and asked in a low voice, “Who was his father?” Lady St. George obligingly whispered a hurried reply, and Lady Roberta’s eyes grew wide with recognition.

  Phadra dearly wished she could have heard what Lady St. George had said.

  As if to cover the breach, Mr. Jamison asked politely, “Do you fence, Lord Phipps?”

  “A little,” he answered, “although I’m not in Morgan’s class. Unfortunately, my time is not my own these days.”

  Mr. Morgan explained, “Lord Phipps is at Whitehall.”

  “I’m practically chained to my desk waiting for Napoleon’s next move,” the portly lord confessed.

  “Phipps is a genius at moving supplies and troops to where they are needed,” Mr. Morgan said.

  “With your help,” Lord Phipps added, his face flushing with pleasure at Mr. Morgan’s compliment. “We couldn’t have managed to sail the first ship across the channel without your understanding of how to work the financial markets to our advantage.”

  Captain Duroy nodded. “There isn’t free time for any of us as long as Boney rules the Continent.” The three other men agreed soberly with his pronouncement.

  Mr. Morgan cleared his throat and changed the subject. “William, Thomas, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Phadra Abbott. Miss Abbott, this is Captain William Duroy, with the 7th Hussars, and Thomas Jamison, a university officer at Cambridge.”

  Phadra felt herself blush like a lower-school girl. She held out her hand, and the gentlemen made their bows graciously.

  Before conversation could resume beyond the pleasantries, the butler entered and in a stately voice announced dinner.

  Lord Phipps turned to Phadra. “May I escort you into the dining room?”

  His request startled her. Her gaze flew to Lady Evans. Miranda stood behind her mother, frowning.

  Phadra realized she had no other course of action than to place her hand on his arm. Walking into the dining room, she could feel Miranda’s angry eyes boring two holes in her back.

  Fortunately, once inside the dining room, Lady Evans separated them and seated Phadra between Mr. Jamison and Captain Duroy. Miranda took a seat next to Lord Phipps.

  Mr. Morgan was seated between Lady Margaret and Lady Roberta, who batted their eyelashes at him as if he were Apollo come to earth. His lack of title didn’t seem to dampen their spirits, Phadra noticed.

  One servant had been assigned to every three guests, so the serving of the soup went quickly enough. Lady Evans attempted small talk. “So, Mr. Jamison. You teach?”

  “Yes, history.”

  “Oh. How pleasant for you,” Lady Evans said, and then beamed at Phadra as if to say, Don’t you like him?

  Phadra knew she should pick up the thread of conversation, but she suddenly felt awkward playing this debutante role. She was relieved when Lord Phipps interrupted. He leaned over Miranda, breaking all the rules of etiquette Lady Evans had drummed into Phadra over the last several days, and asked, “Tell me, Miss Abbott, is it true you are new to London?”

  Phadra met the young lord’s eager gaze and then glanced at Miranda. Forced by Lord Phipps to lean back in her chair, Miranda held her soup spoon over her bowl, her fingers curling like talons around the handle.

  Something about the almost malevolent promise in Miranda’s eyes angered Phadra. She graced Lord Phipps with what she hoped was a dazzling smile and answered, “My family is originally from London, and I have only just returned six months ago.”

  Captain Duroy started to make a comment, but before he could get a word out, Lord Phipps blurted out, “Do you believe in fate, Miss Abbott?” He stared at her as if her every move fascinated him.

  Everyone at the table looked from him to Phadra, waiting for her answer to his rather unorthodox question. Phadra didn’t mind tweaking Miranda’s nose once, but Lord Phipps was taking it too far. Miranda’s smile looked frozen on her face—a dangerous sign.

  Sensing the danger, Lady Evans quickly chimed in, “So, did you enjoy the war on the Peninsula, Captain?”

  The inane diversion didn’t work. Miranda’s voice, silky and low, commanded attention, “You surprise me, Lord Phipps. I didn’t imagine you had a taste toward the bluestocking.”

  Lord Phipps sat back in his chair. “Miss Abbott likes books?” He frowned and looked down the table at Phadra as if reconsidering his opinion of her.

  “Yes, she owns several,” Miranda purred. “Let’s see, Miss Abbott, how many years have you attended school? Almost fifteen?”

  Phadra smiled at Miranda to let her know that she knew what Miranda was doing—and it didn’t matter. Her superior education didn’t embarrass her. Furthermore, she had no interest in Lord Phipps. “Yes, fifteen, including the four years that I taught at Miss Agatha’s Scientific Academy.”

  Mr. Jamison leaned forward. “That’s very interesting. I have six children, and I think education is almost as important for my daughters as it is for my sons. Miss Agatha’s has a very good reputation.”

  “Yes, but not as good a reputation as Cambridge holds. Tell me, sir, don’t you think it is time Cambridge opened its doors to women?” Phadra asked.

  “Whatever for?” Mr. Jamison asked, appearing to be surprised by the idea. “My personal observation is that schools such as Miss Agatha’s prepare a young woman for her role as wife and mother better than the academic rigors of Cambridge.”

  Warming up to a debate on one of her favorite topics, Phadra couldn’t possibly hold her tongue. “If that’s our only goal in educating women, then you all would be better off marrying butlers!” She set her spoon down. “I believe there is more to being a wife and a mother than knowing how to ply a needle or dance a tarantella.”

  “But it is not necessary for Cambridge to open its doors to us,” interjected Lady Margaret. “I know I wouldn’t want to go there.” She smiled sweetly at Mr. Jamison.

  “But another woman might,” Phadra said. “Why should she be denied the opportunity because you don’t wish to go?”

  “Because that is not our place,” Lady Roberta answered. “Our place is in being mothers and help-meets.” She looked to Mr. Morgan as if to seek his approval, but he ignored her. He appeared to be studiously examining the ceiling medallions on the f
ar side of the room.

  “Exactly,” Phadra agreed. “And wouldn’t we be better suited for our roles if we were educated? Wouldn’t we be better able to raise our children to be strong citizens of this great nation of ours, and be more entertaining companions to our husbands, if we understood the world, its history, and the forces that govern it?”

  “How would that make us more entertaining?” Lady Roberta asked, her expression blank. “I find this conversation boring.”

  “Yes—” Mr. Morgan started to interject, but Phadra wasn’t ready to let it go.

  “Lady Roberta, someday your youth will be gone.” When the young woman seemed shocked at the thought, Phadra quickly added, “But if you have developed your mind, then the world will always hold a wealth of opportunities.”

  “If I lose my looks, Miss Abbott, I’d rather be dead,” Lady Roberta replied.

  “And that is a silly sentiment, my lady,” Phadra shot back. “There’s more to you and to me than our looks. We have minds.”

  “Ah, now we come to the crux of the problem,” Mr. Jamison said. “The truth is, women are not known for wisdom.”

  “Women are wise,” Phadra said quietly, struggling to keep her temper. “We make wise decisions for the good of our families all the time, and what is good for our families is good for this country. In fact, two women have served as reigning monarchs and helped to make England great.”

  “They were aberrations, not the rule,” declared Captain Duroy. “I for one don’t want my women to be like Boadicea or Elizabeth. Of course, history tells us that Elizabeth was more like a man than a woman.”

  “History tells us no such thing,” Phadra fired back, his ignorance helping to make her point, “because I have read history and I know that the men of her time respected her. And matters such as the mis-interpretation of history are part of the reason a woman should be educated—so that she can determine what is truth and what is fiction.”

  Mr. Jamison’s expression turned cold. “I for one have always considered women a special breed apart from men. I admire them for their beauty and, in some measure, their intellect.”

  “That’s right!” Reggie declared. “We love them for what they look like outside their heads, not what’s going on inside their heads.” He gave his wife an aren’t-I-clever smile, and Phadra noticed that she, poor creature, actually nodded her approval to him!

  Mrs. Evans’s willing acceptance of her husband’s dominance made Phadra throw caution aside. She leaned toward the lady. “Why can’t a woman be lovely on the outside and educated and intelligent on the inside? Why is it always an either-or situation?”

  Mrs. Evans’s eyes opened wide. She turned to her mother-in-law. “I don’t have an answer,” she whispered with a touch of panic.

  Phadra smiled at the innocent woman. “I don’t expect you to answer, Mrs. Evans. There is no reasonable answer. But the truth is, God gave men and women equal minds—”

  “Now, I don’t know if I agree with that,” Reggie, the humorist, chimed in.

  “—but men have made laws and rules to keep women from using them.” She looked around the table, noticing that Mr. Morgan had again returned to examining the ceiling medallions. Well, let him! She didn’t need him to defend her position!

  She addressed the younger women at the table with all the passion in her being. “Captain Duroy doesn’t berate Mr. Morgan for choosing a career as a banker over the military. Nor does either of those two men chastise Mr. Jamison for choosing the academic life or suggest his time would be better spent at home with his children.”

  “Of course not,” Lady Miranda said. “He is a man. It’s a woman’s place to stay in the home.”

  “Think about it!” Phadra snapped back. “A man has the freedom to take care of his children and have a career. Any career of his choosing! Whereas women have only two choices: to marry or not to marry. And there are those who would speculate that we have no worth at all if we can’t manage to capture a husband. Our lives could be so much richer and rewarding if we were educated.” She turned to Mr. Jamison. “The idea that women are not bright enough for higher education is nonsense, and any rules that keep them from attending England’s best schools ought to be declared invalid.”

  “Invalid?” Mrs. Evans said. She looked at her husband. “What does that mean?”

  Phadra wasn’t about to let Reggie steer his wife wrong. She quickly interjected, “It means that some rules should be broken.”

  Mrs. Evans stared at her with a blank expression. Phadra desperately wanted her to understand. She searched her mind for an illustration. “Some rules we should follow. We shouldn’t murder people or steal things. If we do murder and steal, people would be hurt. This is a rule, or law, we should follow.” Mrs. Evans bobbed her head in agreement.

  Phadra smiled, hoping she could phrase this so that Mrs. Evans, and all sitting at the table, understood. “There are other rules that really have no basis other than someone’s decision that things should be done a certain way.” She lifted her soup spoon. “For example, it is a rule of etiquette that we eat soup with a spoon.” Mrs. Evans nodded again.

  “But what if we didn’t?” Phadra asked. “Is anyone harmed by our action if we don’t? Does it make a difference if I pick up my soup bowl like this”—she lifted her bowl up, cradling it in both her hands—“and drink from it like so?” Without hesitation, she placed her lips to the edge of the bowl and swallowed some lukewarm soup.

  She set the bowl down with a flourish. “See. I broke a rule, but no one was hurt. The rule has no merit because it wasn’t that important.”

  But something had happened. Dead silence met her pronouncement. Mrs. Evans, Lady Evans, and all the other ladies around the table stared at Phadra as if she’d committed a mortal sin.

  And the uncomfortable thought struck Phadra that maybe she’d gone too far in her effort to prove her point.

  Chapter 6

  Phadra placed her spoon next to her bowl and forced herself to complete the point of her demonstration in a much softer tone. “If Cambridge allowed women to attend, I think the country might actually be the better for it.”

  No response.

  She looked from stunned face to stunned face and realized that she had crossed an imaginary line and had no idea how to return to the other side. Worse, Miranda was positively gloating.

  “Perhaps Miss Abbott is correct,” came Mr. Morgan’s deep voice. “Perhaps we could do with fewer rules.”

  Lord Phipps turned to him, a look of interest in his eyes. “What do you mean, Morgan?”

  Mr. Morgan shrugged. “There are times I find myself bored with the expected. Who needs a soup spoon?” To the shock of everyone—including Phadra—he threw the spoon over his shoulder. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor. He then picked up his soup bowl and, after lifting it in her direction as if in a toast, drank from the rim.

  Phadra’s mouth dropped open in shock. Mr. Morgan, elegant and handsome in his black evening clothes, was the last person she’d expected to do something so outrageous—or to support her outspoken behavior. Evidently everyone else at the table agreed with her. Except for Lord Phipps.

  His lordship raised his eyebrows and broke into a big grin. “I tire of rules, too! Down with the tyranny of etiquette and the stuffiness of dining rooms. I’ve had enough!” He tossed his spoon over his shoulder where it was caught in midair by an alert footman and lifted his soup bowl. “To you, Miss Abbott, for setting us free.” Putting his lips to the edge of his bowl, he slurped noisily. Reggie Evans laughingly seconded the toast, threw his spoon at a footman, who dodged in time, and drank from his own bowl.

  It was on the tip of Phadra’s tongue to explain that to use a soup spoon or not to use a soup spoon was not the point of her demonstration. However, one look at the horror-stricken expression on Lady Evans’s face as she watched her carefully planned dinner party turn into chaos convinced Phadra that this was not the time to call attention to the fact that it was she, Phad
ra, who had started this nonsense.

  Mr. Morgan turned to his friends. “Duroy, Jamison, won’t you join us?” he asked.

  Mr. Jamison frowned, and Phadra sensed that he’d rather plunge his butter knife into his breast than take part in this inanity. However, Captain Duroy met the challenge. He rose to his feet and raised his bowl. “To Grant Morgan and his fiancée, the lovely Lady Miranda. May they share a long and happy life together.”

  “What?” Lord Phipps said, looking up from his soup bowl. He turned to Miranda, a dribble of soup on his chin. “You and Morgan are going to tie the parson’s knot?”

  Lady Evans uttered a soft, frantic gasp.

  “Oh, I thought everyone knew,” Lady St. George said with mild surprise.

  Lady Miranda sat still, as if she’d been hit by lightning and couldn’t move, let alone comprehend Lord Phipps’s question…and then, ever so slowly, she turned her head to stare in shock at Phadra. Phadra leaned back in her chair, preparing herself for the worst.

  “Oh, Miranda, that is wonderful news!” said her sister-in-law, Mrs. Evans, her voice breaking the silence. Lady Margaret and Lady Roberta added their congratulations. It couldn’t have been lost on Miranda, Phadra hoped, that there was more than a touch of envy in their voices.

  “To Morgan and Lady Miranda!” Lord Phipps cried, his exuberant voice bouncing off the dining room ceiling, and raised his bowl once more.

  With such a toast, there was nothing to do but for everyone to lift their soup bowls and drink.

  Reggie discovered he could blow bubbles in his soup, and his wife giggled at his antics. Lord Phipps was so charmed that he too tried his luck at blowing bubbles in the oxtail soup, and blew some soup up his nose. Lord Dangerfield sat back, apparently amazed by all of this. Finally he raised his bowl and silently toasted Lady Sophie, who blushed and raised her own bowl to shyly salute him.

  The older couples looked as though they would rather have their hands cut off than touch their soup bowls.

  Miranda appeared to bask in the attention, her lips curved into a charming smile that never touched her eyes. Phadra noticed that her hand was clenching her soup so tightly her knuckles turned white.