by Carola Dunn
“Can it be, ma’am, you are unaware of your elder daughter’s authorship?”
Pippa felt cold inside. Was it indeed her writing which had brought down disgrace upon her family? She had expected to be laughed at if it became known, not spurned.
Kitty was frowning. Mrs Lisle, visibly disturbed, demanded, “Authorship? What exactly is Philippa accused of writing, Lady Jersey?”
“Why, The Masked Marauder, of course,” said the countess with a tinkling laugh. “A delicious book, certainly, but far too titillating for its author to lay any claim to the innocence Society demands of young ladies.”
Stunned, Pippa burst out, “But I am not its author! I assure you, ma’am, I did not write The Masked Marauder, nor anything remotely similar.”
“My daughter is not a novelist,” Mrs Lisle supported her. “She could not possibly have concealed it from me in our small cottage. I beg of you, ma’am, do what you can to contradict this calumny. It is utterly without foundation.”
Lady Jersey looked from Mrs Lisle to Pippa and back, her gaze shrewd and not unkindly. “Well, well, I believe you, and I will do what I can.”
“Thank you, Lady Jersey!”
“However, I must warn you that many will refuse to credit the word of Miss Lisle and her family—it is only what you might be expected to say, after all. I fear the book’s popularity makes the on-dit too toothsome a morsel to be easily abandoned. Your best hope is that the real author will come forward.”
“He surely cannot like to see someone else credited with his work,” said Kitty hopefully.
“So we will hope, Miss Catherine. In the meantime, I must advise you all not to appear at Almack’s. I should hate to see you suffer the same sort of reception as Lord Byron’s last year.”
With that bitter remark, Lady Jersey took her leave.
“What happened to Lord Byron?” Kitty enquired.
“Ask Albinia,” her mother advised absently. “I am very much afraid Lady Jersey is correct, and no denials from us will bear any weight.”
“Mama, if I went home—”
“Certainly not! Your papa would never permit you to concede defeat. I shall go up to the sitting room at once and write to Lady Stanborough and one or two others of those I have come to regard—perhaps mistakenly—as friends.” She went out.
“I am sorry, Kitty,” Pippa said miserably.
Kitty flung her arms around her and gave her a hug. “Pippa darling, it is not your fault. I have a very good notion whose fault it is, only I am not perfectly sure what to do about it.”
Pippa scarcely heard her. It was Lord Selworth’s fault, of course, for writing those shocking books. Why could he not have been satisfied with stories which were thrilling and funny, without also making them titillating?
Lady Jersey thought only exposure of the real author would save the Lisles’ reputation. Pippa could expose him, but—if she was believed—his political career would be nipped in the bud.
Even if she could bring herself to do that to him, what of all the good he might be expected to do in the future to right the miseries of the world?
“I have the headache, Kitty. I believe I shall go and lie down for a little while.”
“Let me make you a tisane!”
“No, it is not bad,” said Pippa, wanting nothing so much as to be alone with her megrims. “You had best stay here in case anyone is brave enough to call. Send for me or Mama if any gentleman comes.”
Left alone, Kitty crossed to the window and stood, half hidden by the brocade curtains, gazing down into the street. Normally at this time of day the phaetons, curricles and gigs of her admirers would be thronging there, joined by the barouches and landaus of visiting ladies.
It was some slight comfort that Millicent also would undoubtedly suffer from the dearth. How could she do this to Pippa?
A barouche approached along Charles Street, a gentleman riding alongside. Kitty recognized the Pendrells. Her heart leapt: at least some friends did not believe the slander, and would not let the censure of the rest of the Ton influence their conduct!
The barouche rolled on without slowing, the Misses Pendrell pointing out the Debenhams’ house to the two unknown young ladies in the carriage with them. Vanessa Pendrell said something to her brother, and he laughed.
Chagrined, Kitty turned from the window and dropped onto a nearby sofa. They were all the same. She did not care if she never again saw any of the so-called gentlemen who claimed to adore her. All she wanted was to go home to Buckinghamshire and live the rest of her life peacefully in the cottage with Mama and Pippa—but what about Pippa?
Pippa must be vindicated, if only Kitty could work out how to do it.
“Mr Chubb, miss.”
Startled, Kitty jumped up.
“Didn’t mean to take you by surprise, Miss Kitty,” Mr Chubb apologized, bowing.
“Do you not know we are in disgrace?” she demanded bitterly.
“Yes. That is, heard stories. Wouldn’t have credited them anyway, of course, but as it happens I know the truth.”
“It hardly matters, sir. We are proclaimed outcasts by Society, and if you go against Society’s...You what?”
“As if anything Society dictates could make me stay away from you!” said Mr Chubb with scorn, adding eagerly, “You do believe me, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, but what do you mean, you know the truth? You know Millicent dreamt up the whole thing out of thin air?”
Mr Chubb looked bewildered. “Miss Warren? What has she to say to the matter?”
“That is the trouble, she has something to say to every m-matter!” To her own astonishment and dismay, Kitty burst into tears. “I n-never cry!” she sobbed.
After a moment of startled alarm, Mr Chubb sat down on the sofa beside her, thrust his handkerchief into her hand, and patted her shoulder soothingly. “There there,” he murmured. “I daresay it will all turn out to be a tempest in a teapot, though how even the smallest tempest can blow up in a teapot I have always failed to comprehend.”
Kitty gave a watery giggle, blew her nose heartily, looked up at his sympathetic, concerned face, and came to a decision. “You are quite the nicest, kindest, most sensible gentleman I know,” she said encouragingly.
Mr Chubb turned pink. “D-dashed kind in you to say so,” he stuttered, “but the others, the rest of your beaux, you know, I’m sure it’s just a temporary misunderstanding. What is it Miss Warren’s been saying to distress you?”
“I am certain it is her doing,” said Kitty, with an internal sigh. Was she going to have to do the proposing? Give the poor, diffident dear a bit more time to come to terms with the fact that she was available to him, she decided. Besides, she did not want him to imagine she was pursuing him because of the defection of the rest of her suitors. If she was, it was only in a roundabout way, his loyalty being the deciding factor when she was already prepossessed in his favour.
“Miss Warren has been spreading the on-dit about Miss Lisle being Valentine Dred?” he asked in surprise. “What makes you think so?”
“She put two and two together and came up with five. She knows Pippa does a lot of writing. I told her it is nothing to do with novels and I hoped she had forgot the notion. I ought to have made sure she was convinced.”
“Now don’t start blaming yourself, Kit...Miss Kitty. Whatever Miss Warren believes,” Mr Chubb said severely, “it was very unkind—indeed, downright wrong—to talk of it.”
Kitty shook her head. “Millicent is very good-natured. I am sure she did not realize the damage it would do. In fact, I doubt she intended to mention her guess at all, but she talks such a great deal, things slip out inadvertently. I should not like to carry tales to her brother or sister, yet unless the source of the story is known, who will believe our denials? I cannot bear to see Pippa pilloried. What should I do?”
“I’ve no qualms about telling Wynn his sister started it. Ought to know. Pity he’s out of town.”
“It might not help any
way. Lady Jersey said our best hope is that the real author reveal himself. By the way, do you know what happened to Lord Byron at Almack’s last year?”
“What?” Mr Chubb appeared to be wrestling with a knotty problem. “George Byron? What I heard was that his behaviour was so shocking his wife deserted him and he was ostracized. Lady Jersey and some others gave a party for him to try to bring him back into Society, but everyone left the room when he arrived.”
“Poor man!” Kitty glanced around the empty drawing room. “I can imagine how he felt.”
“Yes, well, he really is a pretty shocking fellow, you know. Don’t ask,” he added hastily. “Not the sort of thing to tell a young lady. Besides, your case is quite different. Miss Lisle didn’t write The Masked Marauder. I know who did.”
“You do?” Kitty cried. “Then you can tell people and they will know it was not Pippa.”
“That’s the trouble.” Mr Chubb looked so harassed and miserable, Kitty’s heart went out to him. “You know I’d do almost anything for you, but this would be betraying a friend’s trust. “
“The author is a friend of yours? Can you not persuade him to come forward?”
“I’d do my best, believe me, only he’s out of town at present.”
Kitty stared at him. “Not Lord Selworth?”
Mr Chubb nodded unhappily. “If people knew, they would never take him seriously as a politician.”
“I shall not tell.” Her promise was reluctant, but she suspected Pippa would not wish to save herself by ruining Lord Selworth’s career, which she was trying so hard to get off to a good start.
Kitty chewed her lip, recollecting the warmth in the viscount’s eyes when his gaze fell upon her sister. Pippa would not sacrifice Lord Selworth to save herself, but he...? “I think he ought to be told as soon as possible what has happened. He will be horrified to hear Pippa is being vilified, and I am sure he will not wish to let it continue a moment longer than it need. Do you know where he went?”
“To Yorkshire. He said he was going to put up at the Black Swan in York.”
“Could you...Oh, Mr Chubb, it is a great deal to ask, but could you possibly go after him?”
“I’ll leave at once,” said her cavalier gallantly, rising to his feet.
“No, wait a moment, let me think. You are sure his career would be badly damaged if he was known to be the author of The Masked Marauder?”
“Positive.”
“Then it would not be fair to ask him to give himself away if other means might suffice. Let us wait until tomorrow and see whether Lady Jersey and my mother and Mrs Debenham can quash the rumours. Perhaps the morning will bring new invitations.”
“All right,” said the obliging Mr Chubb. “Send me word after you know what’s in the morning post and I’ll leave right away.”
“In the meantime, pray do not tell anyone I asked you to go, or about Millie or anything.”
“Shouldn’t dream of it.”
“Bless you!” said Kitty fondly.
Chapter 16
“Pippa, I am so dreadfully sorry!” wailed Millicent, rushing into the drawing room. “Bina says it is all my fault, but indeed I told people you are not Valentine Dred, not that you are, and only my most particular friends, laughing at myself, you see, for making such a harebrained guess just because you are always scribbling away. Forgive me, pray say you forgive me, or I declare I shall go into a decline and—”
“Of course I forgive you, Millie,” said Pippa in bewilderment.
She had come downstairs a few minutes earlier, Nan having woken her from a semi-drowse to tell her Reuben said Miss Catherine was alone with Mr Chubb. The abigail had not wanted to “peach” on Miss to her mama.
“You may be sure I have rung a thorough peal over Millie’s head,” said Bina grimly, following her sister into the room at a more decorous pace. “But I thought it best she should not try to explain the mistake to people for fear of confusing matters still further.”
“If anyone is confused, I am,” Pippa declared, her arm about a weeping Millicent.
Bina sank into a chair, untying the ribbons of her bonnet. “As soon as we returned to the carriage after discovering—oh, but you do not yet know the cause of our difficulties.”
“Yes, we do,” said Kitty. Mr Chubb had quietly departed, Pippa noted with a pang. No doubt he had only now learnt what was being said about her. He was just another rat deserting a sinking ship.
“Then you will have gathered,” said Bina, waving at her watering-pot sister, “that this little bagpipe is responsible. When we heard of the wretched on-dit, Millicent confessed to me that she had suspected Pippa of writing The Masked Marauder.”
“I’m sorry!” sobbed Millie.
“But when Kitty set her straight she told her friends it was not true. Since she had never confided her suspicion in the first place, I suppose it is possible some of them genuinely misunderstood, though one cannot but wonder whether malice....Less fortunate girls are bound to be jealous when Kitty is so very popular.”
“Was,” Kitty corrected her sadly.
“Mr Chubb was your only caller?”
“No,” Pippa said, “Lady Jersey came to inform us that we are no longer welcome at Almack’s. I do think she believed us. At least, she promised to contradict the rumours.”
“She may,” Bina said pessimistically, “but her denials may be as useless as mine. Though no one was impolite enough to say to my face that they did not believe me, I could see they thought I felt obliged to defend my guests.”
“But we are not Lady Jersey’s guests,” Pippa pointed out. “Why should not people believe her?”
“For a start, the other Patronesses might well suppose she was trying to exculpate herself for persuading them to grant you vouchers. Then, others—especially those who wish to credit your guilt—could simply say you have pulled the wool over her eyes, and mine.”
There seemed no answer to that. Mrs Lisle came down with the several notes she had written, and Bina agreed that sending them could do no harm. She held out little hope of their having much effect, however. Very few people, she pointed out, were brave enough to stand up against the weight of the entire Ton’s condemnation.
Bina was in two minds whether to cry off the dinner party she and George were engaged to attend that evening. Her husband persuaded her nothing was to be gained by lowering the flag, so she went off, promising to continue her efforts in the Lisles’ behalf. Mrs Lisle, Kitty, and Millicent spent a dreary evening sewing gowns which might never be needed. Pippa immersed herself in the chimney-sweep speech, which might prove equally futile should Lord Selworth’s Gothic proclivities become widely known.
For herself, she would gladly keep his secret and retire to Sweetbriar Cottage, to write her articles for Mr Cobbett and perhaps to help the viscount a little with future speeches. She could always hope he might occasionally feel the need to consult her in person.
But Kitty deserved better. If she wanted one of the craven wretches who had so meekly deserted her at the dictate of Society, she must have the chance to win him. So Lord Selworth had to be persuaded to confess his authorship to the world.
Yet which was more important, Kitty’s happiness or the services Lord Selworth might render to the oppressed poor? Not to mention his happiness. That night, Pippa tossed and turned for hours, unable to make up her mind. She needed to discuss it with him. She had come to depend on debating issues with him, she realized, on sharing ideas and insights and reaching a deeper understanding together.
He would return to Town in a few days, but by then the Fashionable World might have grown so accustomed to shunning the Lisles that no rehabilitation was possible. If only he had not gone to Yorkshire just now!
The morning brought no new counsel but several more withdrawn invitations. The afternoon brought not a single caller. Pippa had hoped Mr Chubb’s apparent desertion yesterday was due to embarrassment over the to-do with Millicent, but it seemed her first guess was right. He w
anted no part of the Lisles’ downfall.
Kitty valiantly showed no dismay at the defection of her last remaining suitor.
Bina returned from another round of calls no more optimistic than the day before. “No one was actually rude,” she said to Pippa in her private sitting room. “George’s parents have consequence enough to prevent that. But I was met everywhere with indulgent disbelief. I am so very sorry, Pippa. I confess, I do not know what else can be done until Wynn comes back.”
Pippa recalled Bina’s claim to have guessed a secret of her brother’s. “You know, do you not?” she asked. “You know Wynn—Lord Selworth—is....” She hesitated. Suppose Bina knew some other secret?
“He’s Valentine Dred, yes. Absurd name! He used to tell me stories just like the novels, only without the naughty bits which are causing all the trouble. He was the best big brother anyone could possibly have, especially when our father died and Mama remarried. I simply cannot betray him, Pippa, not even for your sake. Can you forgive me?” she pleaded.
“Of course.” Pippa hugged her friend. “I find I cannot betray him myself, so how should you?”
Bina took both her hands and looked at her seriously. “I have sometimes wondered....No, this is not the time. I know Wynn will do the honourable thing, but it must be his decision. We shall have to wait until he returns.”
“I am just afraid people will grow so used to shunning us that their attitudes become carved in stone. Not that I care, but for Kitty...! I wish I could go after him and tell him what has happened,” Pippa cried, not because she had worked out a useful plan; she simply longed to see him and to lay her dilemma before him. She came down to earth. “However, hiring a post-chaise is far too expensive, and on the stage I could not stop to make enquiries.”
“As though I should let you! You must take the landau, and one of the maids, with John Coachman to drive you, if you truly believe chasing after Wynn will help.”
Pippa tried to think. The prospect of taking action—any action—was tempting. If she found Lord Selworth still in York, he could hurry back to London. If she found him already on the way, he could postpone his visit to his family at Kymford and at least arrive back in Town a little sooner.