by Carola Dunn
He gave her a straight look. “If I had forbidden your approaching them, would you have heeded the prohibition?”
“Not unless I saw good reason for it,” Pippa said promptly, “and no good reason to go against it.”
“Not a compliant female,” he said, his tone reproachful, with a sigh and a shake of the head.
Pippa was glad to see a twinkle in his eye. If she had had the least chance of winning his affections, proving herself far from submissive was likely to dish it. As it was, she said pertly, “No compliant female could possibly have directed your efforts these past two months. I should like to call upon the Society for the Abolition of Climbing Boys, or whatever they call themselves, but I do not know their direction.”
“They cannot circulate a petition without coming out into the open. I’ll find ‘em. And I’ll let you know when I do.”
“Noble of you!” Pippa exclaimed, and he laughed.
When she danced with him that evening, he had not yet tracked down the society, but when they met next day he passed her a slip of paper with their direction.
“I have something else for you,” he said. “Come for a drive in the Park.”
“You said we should not be seen together,” Pippa demurred.
“Not too often, I said. I drove Millicent yesterday, Bina the day before, and your mama the day before that—there’s no getting near your sister. Be compliant for once: go put on your bonnet.”
Pippa complied, her curiosity aroused. What did he have to give her that he chose not to give openly, in company? Not a betrothal ring, alas. In such an unlikely event he must have spoken first to Mama, and Mama would certainly have informed her of such a momentous occurrence.
Instead, she informed Mrs Lisle that she was going out with Lord Selworth, and went upstairs to fetch bonnet and gloves.
The viscount’s curricle was waiting at the door. He handed Pippa up, took the reins from his groom, and joined her. The groom scrambled up to his perch behind as the horses, a stalwart pair of blacks to match the carriage, set off along Charles Street.
Pippa with difficulty restrained herself from asking about her mysterious gift. Conscious of the groom’s ears close behind, she made an innocuous remark about the weather. This led—the servant’s presence soon forgotten—to a discussion of the prospects for a good harvest, leading to the relief of hunger across the country, and its effects on politics.
The afternoon was warm for May, with a thin haze of cloud obscuring the sky but letting the sun shine through. In the narrow streets, the heat reflected uncomfortably from cobbles and brick walls, but they soon reached the Chesterfield Gate and entered Hyde Park.
The grass was bright with buttercups, daisies and dandelions, reminding Pippa of the wide variety of wild flowers now blooming in the country. The woods would be carpeted with bluebells, the hillsides with cowslips, the water-meadows with lady’s smock. Much as she enjoyed them when at home, she reflected, she did not miss them as Kitty did. To her, the fascination of politics made up for spending Spring in Town.
Pulling up just inside the gates, Lord Selworth told the groom to wait nearby for their return. Then he headed south, but he turned off towards the Serpentine before they reached Rotten Row.
Though there were a good many people about, it was too early for the crowds of fashionable carriages, riders and pedestrians who would flock to the Park later for the daily Grand Promenade. When the curricle pulled up in the shade of a tall elm, they were quite private.
Lord Selworth reached under the seat and pulled out a rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “Here,” he said, thrusting it into Pippa’s hands, and at once looking away with an air of unconcern, apparently watching a pair of riders cantering across the grass.
Books? The size and weight were right, though several layers of paper obscured details of the shape. Pippa struggled with the knotted string, in vain. In vain she felt in her reticule for scissors. “Have you a pocket knife, Lord Selworth?”
“What? Oh, sorry.” For some reason he flushed as he handed her his pen-knife.
Comprehension dawning, Pippa abandoned any attempt to save useful lengths of string. She sliced through it, unfolded the paper, and found three calf-bound, gold-lettered volumes. “The Masked Marauder! Oh, splendid!”
“I thought you might like a copy of your own,” said Lord Selworth, looking pleased at her pleasure.
“Thank you, Mr Valentine Dred. I shall treasure it. I did not know it was out already.”
“In the bookshops tomorrow, the libraries the day after. The publisher says a great many copies were sold beforehand,” he said modestly. “You had best keep yours well hidden, as I have inscribed each volume to you.”
“Assuming it is similar to your previous works, I should in any case hide it away. It is not at all proper for Kitty or Millicent to read.”
Almost reluctantly, Pippa opened the first volume to the title page, wishing his inscription might say: “To darling Pippa, with all my love, Wynn.” Naturally it did not. But nor was it a formal “To Miss Lisle, from your obedient servant, Selworth.”
For my dear Prometheus, she read, this, with humble gratitude and devoted admiration, Valentine.
Pippa laughed. “I shall keep them very well hidden,” she promised. Devoted admiration? For Prometheus, of course.
* * * *
Whatever Pippa’s views on the propriety of Kitty and Millicent reading The Masked Marauder , within the week all Society was talking about it. Demure damsels whispered and giggled behind their fans; mature matrons told each other, “My dear, I positively blushed when...;” Corinthians and Tulips alike vowed to each other they had laughed till they cried; serious gentlemen condemned the book as trivial, indecent nonsense, but it was to be noted that not one had failed to peruse all three volumes.
And all Society asked with a single voice, “Who wrote it? Who is Valentine Dred?”
Chapter 15
“Who is Valentine Dred?” asked Millicent, as she and Kitty strolled down Piccadilly, their abigail a pace behind.
It was certainly a rhetorical question, for not only did she not expect an answer, she failed to pause to allow her friend to provide one had she been able.
“No one talks of anything else, I vow,” she continued without taking breath. “It is becoming a shocking bore. Who do you think he can be, Kitty? At least, Valentine is generally a man’s name, is it not? But as it is only a pen-name—everyone seems to agree it is a pen-name—it could just as well be a woman. Do you think it might be Lady Caroline Lamb? She wrote Glenarvon last year, after all.”
“I have not read Glenarvon,” Kitty deftly inserted into the stream, practice having made her expert, “nor met Lady Caroline, but I have heard that she has no sense of humour.”
“Then it cannot be her, for everyone is laughing over The Masked Marauder. I wish Bina and your Mama had not forbidden us to read it,” Millicent mourned. “The Pendrell girls have read it. Vanessa says it is very shocking, to be sure, but funny and thrilling, too. The hero is quite the most dashing gentleman you can conceive, and the heroine’s plight most pitiable.”
“I do not believe I should care to be married to too dashing a gentleman. Suppose he were to make a habit of dashing off whenever one needed him?”
“You are laughing at me again,” Millicent said resignedly. “It is true that in real life a dashing husband may not be altogether comfortable, but it is only a book after all. I think it very hard that we may not read it when the whole world talks of nothing else.”
“Not having read it does not stop you talking of it, Millie dear,” said Kitty, laughing aloud. “We have heard so much about it, we scarcely need to read it ourselves. Here is the haberdasher’s I told you about. Let us hope they can match your ribbon.”
Millicent dropped the subject of The Masked Marauder for quite half an hour. Unfortunately, they then happened to encounter two young gentlemen of their acquaintance who had just been to Hatchard’
s to purchase a copy—without luck, as the entire stock was sold out.
On parting from the disconsolate pair, Kitty said to Millicent, “I never thought to see Mr Carlin or Sir Anthony looking to purchase a whole book! The perusal of a single page in a newspaper is a great labour to them.”
“Oh, but a novel is quite different. Only think, Kitty, what a great labour it must be to write a whole book! My wrist positively aches at the very thought, I declare. Yet Pippa is always scribbling away with never a complaint of fatigue. I wonder what it is she writes, that she always hides it when one enters the room.” Her mouth dropped open as a notion struck her momentarily dumb. “Kitty, do you suppose Pippa is Valentine Dred?”
“Good gracious, no!” cried Kitty in horror.
“Well then, what is it she writes so busily? I am sure it cannot be letters, for there are pages and pages and it would cost a fortune to post them all. You must know, Kitty. You are her sister. If it is not a book, what is it?”
“I cannot tell you, Millie, so be a dear and do not press me. I repeat, Pippa is not Valentine Dred. Oh, Millie, do but look at the signs in the window of this shop! ‘Guineas taken with delight; Shillings quite welcome; Halfpence will not be refused.’“
“‘Half sovereigns taken with avidity,’“ Millie read, “‘Crowns hailed with pleasure; Farthings rather than nothing.’ It quite makes one want to go in and buy something, only I cannot see anything I need. That beaded reticule is quite pretty, but I have spent nearly all my pin-money for the week.”
Fashion regained its usual preeminence in her chatter. Kitty was able to persuade herself that the nonsensical notion of Pippa having written naughty romances had flown from her companion’s head as swiftly as it had entered.
* * * *
Meanwhile, Wynn and Miss Lisle had each called upon the leaders of the society circulating the petition against the employment of climbing boys to clean chimneys. By prior arrangement, they met in Charles Street in the ladies’ sitting room to discuss their findings.
Before he knocked on the open door, Wynn paused on the threshold. His beloved sat at the writing table, one slender, shapely hand reaching out to dip her quill in the inkpot, her delicate profile framed against the window. In the north light her pale skin was translucent, her dark, smooth hair sleek.
Wynn had a sudden, almost irresistible desire to pull out all her hairpins and see her cloaked in those silken tresses.
Had he really once told Gil Chubb she was plain?
As if she felt his gaze, she turned, her face lighting in a smile which at once gave way to anguish. “Oh, it is perfectly horrible!” she cried, casting down her pen.
“I ought not to have let you go,” Wynn said grimly, striding forward to take her hands in his. Not pretty? She was beautiful in her passion! Finding his mind drifting to how her face would look under the influence of a different sort of passion, he sternly called himself to order. “I had not imagined such painful stories, I confess.”
“How could anyone imagine such inhumanity? Those little boys driven up chimneys, often so narrow they can barely pass, sometimes hot enough to burn, at best scraping and bruising themselves, and suffocated by falling soot. And then, if they come down alive—which they do not always—forced to carry heavy bags of soot, and beaten; never washed and frequently not fed....”
“Small wonder many turn to begging and some to stealing, but that some people believe the solution is to send them to Sunday school is incredible!”
“Is it not? If they do not die of burns, or suffocation, or beatings, they may cough and choke and wheeze as they please provided their morals are good, and live on stunted and deformed.”
“To die later of ‘chimney-sweeps’ cancer.’“
“Such little boys, Wynn,” she said, tears in her eyes, “as young as four!”
He yearned to kiss away the tears. For the first time, she had called him Wynn, but he must not read too much into the mark of intimacy. It had probably slipped out unintentionally. After all, she constantly heard his sisters calling him by his Christian name.
Letting go of her hands, he sat down. “The official minimum age is eight, but as long as the law is not enforced, destitute parents will sell younger children to the master sweeps for a guinea or two.”
“Some sweeps send their own children up the chimneys,” Pippa said with incredulous abhorrence.
“And some buy boys kidnapped for the purpose. Did Mr Montgomery tell you about the child rescued by a Yorkshire family?”
“The Stricklands? Yes.” She gestured at the papers on the desk. “I have been trying to work out the best way to make that story the centrepiece of your speech. Surely any responsible, loving parent hearing it must instantly wish to free all climbing boys, if only for fear of their own sons suffering a like fate! But I have not enough information. I should like to question the Stricklands, to meet the child if possible, only Mama would never let me travel so far. Lord Selworth, do you suppose you—?”
“I do.” To see the hope in her hazel eyes turn to warm approval, Wynn would have travelled a great deal farther than to Yorkshire—if it were not that he must leave her behind. “Montgomery gave me their direction in case I wished to correspond, but you are right, a personal interview will be much more useful.”
“I believe so.”
“What we want is details, is it not, to flesh out the story? How they happened to rescue him, what made them suspect he came from an affluent home, anything he recalls of his abduction?”
“Exactly. Doubtless you will have a better idea of just what to ask once you have spoken to them.”
“I shall leave in the morning.” Will you miss me?
“I wish I might go too. How long do you think you will be away?”
“Two or three days each way. Say three: Kymford is not far off the Great North Road so I may as well spend a night at home in each direction. It will not delay me much.”
“Oh yes, you should take the opportunity to see your family. Two, perhaps three days in Yorkshire. Ten days in all, or less, not so very long.” Pippa’s sigh, though slight, did not go unnoticed, but she returned at once to business. “While you are gone I shall put my notes in order—you brought yours?”
“Yes, here, I copied them from my pocket-book for you.” Wynn retrieved the papers from his pocket and handed them over.
“Thank you. I should be able to bring the speech into some sort of shape, ready to insert the child’s story. I do believe this will be a truly splendid speech. I only wish such horrors did not exist for you to speak about.”
“We are doing what we can to put a stop to them,” Wynn consoled her, “but if brooding over the misery throws you into the dismals, you must let the speech wait until I come back to cheer you up. Promise?”
“I promise not to fall into a decline,” she said with a faint smile.
* * * *
It was two days after Lord Selworth’s departure that Pippa first noticed the cold looks. Mrs Drummond Burrell, haughtiest of Almack’s patronesses and usually distantly condescending towards the Lisles, actually turned her back when they entered a room.
Then, in the course of a single evening, Pippa was invited to dance by three gentlemen of decidedly rakish reputation who had never before noticed her existence. All three made sly remarks she could only interpret as improper. One actually suggested that they should retire together to a small salon near the ballroom where he knew they would not be disturbed. When Pippa frostily refused, he muttered something about “whited sepulchres,” but to her relief he did not persist.
Rather than repeat the unpleasant experience, she told her mama she was a little tired and would sit out the rest of the evening. She need not have troubled. Not one of Kitty’s court, her usual partners, asked her to stand up.
In fact, their numbers were considerably diminished, and Kitty herself sat out three sets for the first time since their arrival in Town.
The next morning, Bina asked Pippa to join her in her s
itting room. When Pippa arrived, her friend thrust a pile of notes into her hands. “Read these.”
Every one was from a hostess requesting that Mrs Debenham not bring the Lisles with her to her entertainment.
“What is going on?” Bina asked, troubled.
“I have not the least notion.” Pippa described the insulting behaviour of her partners last night. “Surely discovery of my political interests would not lead to that particular form of disrespect,” she said helplessly. “I cannot imagine what I have done to earn it.”
“Nothing!” Bina was furious. “Some scandalmonger has invented a story about you for want of anything better to do. Now that Princess Charlotte is safely married, people can no longer employ themselves in wondering whether she will shy off at the eleventh hour! Believe me, if you are not welcome at these parties, you may be sure I shall not attend.”
“But you must, Bina. It is not fair that Millicent’s Season should be ruined because someone is slandering me. Poor Kitty! Perhaps if I go home to Buckinghamshire, people will forget and accept her again.”
“No, I shall not let you run away, if only for Wynn’s sake. It might be just as well, though,” Bina said thoughtfully, “if I continue to take Millie about so as to have the opportunity to try and find out what is being said. One cannot fight a rumour one has not heard. For a start, we shall call on every notable gossip in Town.”
But one notable gossip called on the Lisles while Bina and Millicent were out. Lady Jersey, an elegant and influential lady of about thirty years, came straight to the point.
“I fear you are sailing in troubled waters, ma’am,” she said bluntly to Mrs Lisle. “I regret to say that, in view of Jersey’s association with your late husband, I have been deputed by my fellow-Patronesses to request that you no longer attend Almack’s.”
Kitty gasped. Aching for her, Pippa took her hand.
“Why?” asked Mrs Lisle, matching Lady Jersey’s bluntness.
Her ladyship’s delicate eyebrows rose. “Surely you can guess.”
“Indeed I cannot! To my knowledge, neither I nor my daughters has done anything to deserve the way we are being treated.”