Clearly, an understanding had been reached. She had been tried in absentia and now there would be hell to pay. But as yet Priss was unsure which action on her part had been the one to do the job. In the strange state of detachment that had arisen since last night’s fiasco, she found that she no longer cared. Robert was lost. Father was angry. Beyond that, there was nothing more to say.
She rose without a word and walked through her door, down the stairs, down the hall, relieved that she no longer felt fear, or even the anger at injustice that had so often led her to rebel. There would be shouting, then it would be over and she could go back to her room.
She went to stand at the place before her father’s desk, wondering that there was not a worn spot in the carpet from all the lectures she and her sister before her had received here. This would likely be the last of them, for she doubted she would be living much longer in this house. At least in Scotland, or wherever he was likely to send her, she would no longer be able to hear him shout.
Without preamble, her father slammed his newspaper down on the desk between them and stabbed a finger at an article.
She leaned closer to read.
It was widely suspected that a certain Lady P. took a surprise trip to Scotland last Season with her dancing master. Last night, she was caught at her own engagement ball seeking private lessons from him. R. is discovering that London thoroughbreds are hard to train.
‘Explain this,’ her father said, as though he did not understand exactly what it meant.
‘I think it is quite obvious what is intended,’ she replied. It is about me. And Gervaise. The R. is Reighland, of course.’
Her father’s eyes narrowed. ‘And how did this come to pass?’
‘I cannot say,’ she admitted. ‘Gervaise was at the ball, but I did not invite him. Robert found us together.’ She would not repeat the particulars of the conversation that followed. They were no one’s business but her own, though she suspected that Father had heard them already, if he’d talked to Robert.
But now he was shaking his head in disgust. ‘I have allowed you much freedom of late, assuming that Reighland had you well in hand. But I should have known that you would abuse it and seek out your lover.’
‘I did not seek out the company of Gervaise,’ she said. ‘Though we quarrelled—even Robert would tell you that. Anyone who says otherwise is lying.’
‘You should know how to recognise a lie, Priscilla. You have told enough of them over the years. You have wrapped me round your finger and given me nothing but grief.’ Benbridge smiled. ‘But that is at an end. I had hoped, with your marriage to Reighland, that at the very least you would be his problem and not mine. If you have jeopardised that, do not come weeping to me for another chance.’
He did not know? That made no sense. Robert must have chosen to conceal the contents of her letter for a day or two, to keep the evening from becoming even more newsworthy.
But there would be no better time to speak the truth to her father. It was likely to gain her what she had wanted all along. It would save her a second scolding when the story of the break appeared in the papers.
But why, now that the moment was upon her, did she want nothing more than to run to Robert, to climb into his lap and be held by him, burying her face in his shoulder and hiding from the embarrassment of this latest disgrace? She imagined him whispering soothing words in her hair, offering her his flask, making some quiet dry joke about her popularity with the press, then easing her back on to a bed and chasing the memory out of her mind.
But that Robert was gone, as much a fantasy as her fears of him had been. She was alone and it was time to prove to her father that she was quite capable of truth when it suited her. ‘I know better than to expect another chance, Father. And I understand that Reighland was the best match you would ever make for me. But after the embarrassment I put him through last night, I could not justify holding him to our agreement. Therefore I have released him from our engagement and returned his ring.’
‘You did what?’ It was not the shout she had expected. Really, it was little more than a whisper. But she had no trouble hearing it—she could swear that the whole house went as silent as air before a storm.
‘I ended the engagement,’ she repeated, resisting the urge to brace herself against an impending gale. ‘I cannot put him through the shame of seeing his wife as a topic for gossip, of the ton questioning the paternity of his children. When I was forthcoming about my past, Reighland graciously agreed to overlook it. I hoped to live honourably with him and to overcome any scandal. But it seems that there will be no escaping from what I’ve already done. Nearly a year has passed and people talk more about it than they did right after it happened.’
‘He knows?’ Her father’s eyes were bright with malice. ‘And why, pray tell, does he know anything about your past?’
‘I told him all,’ she admitted. ‘From the very first. It was only right that he know the truth.’
‘Only right,’ mocked her father in a high-pitched voice. ‘I will tell you what is right. And that is keeping those in the dark who deserve to remain so.’
‘He said it did not matter,’ she argued.
‘Then he is a bigger dolt than I thought. Now you are the subject of ton tattle, no other man in London will have you.’
She lifted her head. The worst would be over, soon enough. She would put forth her proposal and he would put her on the first coach out of London. She need never think of any of it again. At the very least, she would not have to deal with the immediate repercussions of her refusal. ‘If Gervaise means to reappear each time I re-enter society, then perhaps it is best if I make a permanent withdrawal to the country, for your sake as well as mine.’
‘You stupid, stupid girl. What this Gervaise fellow does means nothing. If you could not manage to keep away from the worthless lout who soiled you, than the least you could have done was refused to give Reighland his walking papers. You had a duke well and truly on the hook. And you let him go over something so foolish as your honour.’
‘And his,’ she insisted faintly.
Her father laughed. ‘Do not try to make me believe that this was over anything more than your desire to spite me. For twenty years, you have cared for nothing more than your own wants and needs. You have used whatever tools that came to hand to make yourself tiresome and difficult until you got your way. This is no different than that.’
But it was. Still, she could not fault his argument. Nor was it difficult to see why he might doubt a change in her character. ‘I cannot marry him,’ she said, hoping that a repetition would be enough.
‘And I cannot do better for you. Nor do I wish to see my own character dragged through the mud with my efforts to give you a place.’
She breathed a small sigh of relief. He finally meant to send her from town. He would deliver sentence, sounding no different than he did at Benbridge when acting as magistrate over his tenants.
Now her father stood and came around the desk to stand at her side. She had not thought of him as tall until this moment. He was several inches shorter than Robert, but today he towered over her, so large was the anger he carried with him. Then he took her by the elbow and walked her out of the study and into the hall. ‘I suppose you are now thinking that I will foist you off on to some other poor relative, in another failed attempt to expunge the stain on your character with time and distance.’ He sounded gentle, almost sympathetic. It was her first warning that something was terribly wrong. ‘It is hardly necessary, you know. I have a new wife now. And Veronica has more sense than your faithless mother ever had. I will have a new family. In a few months, there might be a son who will cause less trouble in my life than two daughters ever did. In this last act as your father, I will not be manipulated into giving you exactly what you want.’
Last act? Did he mean
to kill her? ‘Father…I do not understand.’
‘Understand this.’ He hurried her the last few steps through the hall and opened the front door; they stood on the threshold together, looking out into a steady drizzle. ‘I no longer need you. Since you seem so set upon making your own decisions without consulting me, I free you from any obligation to listen to me at all. And by doing so, I free myself. Let us see how you like it, you wilful strumpet.’ Then he pushed her through the doorway and closed the door behind her.
She stood for a moment, trying to process the meaning of this. She was still in a day gown, had no bonnet, gloves or shawl and had been left standing on her own front step in the rain. She grabbed the knocker and let it fall. ‘Father? I am sorry I’ve upset you. But if you would give me a moment to explain.’ He would see that this action was not wilfulness on her part, but a carefully considered decision.
There was no response, so she knocked again. Twice. And louder. ‘Father!’ Perhaps she had been wrong to be so sudden. She could send another letter to Robert and he could be the one to explain the situation to Benbridge. Surely fading quietly from memory was better than another scandalous and sudden parting from a daughter.
‘Father!’ She pounded on the door until her hand hurt, knowing all the while that it would do no good. Even if the servants wanted to, they would not open. She was sure that Benbridge stood just on the other side to prevent it. He meant to teach her a lesson, leaving her to soak to the skin before he considered allowing her back into the house. If then. It was possible she would spend the night, pacing the street in front of her own home.
Unless he truly meant to send her away for good.
She had imagined a hurried carriage ride from London and a forced visit to some aunt or other. Eventually, she would be forgotten and that would be that.
But if he locked the doors and refused her entrance, where was she to go? She had no reticule, no money to buy a ticket on the coach, no letter of explanation or introduction. She did not even have a cloak to keep off the rain. And it was growing dark.
She knew the direction to Reighland’s house, of course, but she could hardly appeal to him for aid. With her ruined reputation and their broken engagement, there could be only one type of help he could offer.
For a moment, she considered it. She could be his mistress, if he was willing. He still wanted her body, she was sure. His anger on seeing Gervaise had been quite beyond what she would have considered appropriate for damaged pride. He was jealous. And she could use that to her advantage.
If she could stand to part with him again…which she could not. It had been quite hard enough, setting him free. But to be taken into his protection, only to watch him tire of her and release her again?
She shuddered from the cold and the rain and the misery of it, then began to walk.
Chapter Seventeen
The trip had been awful. It could have been worse, she supposed, if the neighbourhood she sought had not been a proper one. Even so, on the way to it she had been forced to endure the offers of help from several ‘gentlemen’ who were not gentlemen at all. What could she expect, really, wandering the streets dressed as she was, with a muslin gown soaking to transparency? They had thought her a soiled dove, with her wet skirts clinging to her legs and no sign of escort.
She had sent them away with fleas in their ears, using her best drawing-room glare. But there was little consolation in having pride when one was footsore and drenched to the skin. It encouraged the fear that when she reached the end of this evening’s long journey, she would find that door barred to her as well.
She stood on the front step, letting the rain drip from her gown, and waited. A housekeeper opened the door and said, ‘Oh, dearie’, before catching herself in a familiarity and dropping a curtsy. Then she ushered her in properly, calling for a footman to find the mistress.
It was a small house, Priss noted, but it was nicely kept. Warm and comfortable. And just the sort of place she suspected would have a warm drink for a stranger, even if she was arriving unexpectedly, and possibly unwelcome. If they would let her stay the night, perhaps tomorrow she would have some idea of what to do.
‘Priss!’ Without warning, she was crushed in a hug.
‘I know it is past time to be calling. And certainly, I have no invitation…’ she muttered into Drusilla’s sleeve. It was a more fashionable sleeve than she was used to seeing on her sister’s arm. And the familiar smell of her sister’s Castile soap was overlaid by unfamiliar cologne. But the feeling of loving arms was just as she remembered it.
‘You are talking nonsense, Priss.’ At least Dru still sounded like Dru. ‘What are you doing washed up on my doorstep like a drowned rat? You poor thing.’
‘Father,’ she managed, weak with relief at the feeling of being taken in hand by her much stronger, older sister.
‘Not another word,’ said her sister. ‘Not until we have you warm and dry again.’ Her arm around Priss’s shoulders, she led her towards a sitting room, calling for a toddy and a wrapper.
‘I will wet it clean through…’ Priss sniffled at the water dripping down her nose from her hair ‘—and your upholstery and rugs as well.’
‘Never mind them. Come up to my room instead; we will get you into a hot bath and one of my nightgowns. And as we do, you will tell me all about it.’
It felt wonderful to be held close and to not have to think any more. Dru had always been so good about organising things, knowing what was needed and procuring it without fuss. Now she was leading Priss up a flight of stairs to a large and comfortable bedroom on the first floor. Priss glanced around her as the footman brought the tub and the maid and housekeeper began filling it with steaming water.
There were men’s things in the room. Apparently, Mr Hendricks shared the space with his wife. The cramped quarters did not seem to bother Dru in the slightest, but it reminded Priss that there was another who might have objections to seeing his house turned into a refuge. ‘Are you sure that it is all right? Will Mr Hendricks mind?’
‘That I have taken in my own sister?’ Dru laughed. ‘I will see to it that he does not.’ There was something about the merry smile that hinted at secrets she would not have expected Dru to have. Priss remembered the perfume scenting her sister’s sleeve. She’d have described it as lush and seductive, had she smelled it on another. Apparently, the time away from home had changed Dru more than she’d realised.
‘Tell your husband I am sorry.’ Priss sniffled again, then sneezed. ‘But I could think of nowhere else to go. Father put me out. I never thought he would, but he was angry. Now that he has married Veronica, he says there will be a son. He doesn’t need me any more, nor does he wish to give another thought to his troublesome daughters.’
‘And we will not think of him, either,’ Dru assured her. ‘Now that you are engaged, you needn’t ever go back. We will take you in until after the wedding.’
‘No,’ Priss said in a whisper, suddenly afraid that the sniffling might be the beginnings of tears and not illness. ‘There will be no wedding. Ever. Gervaise has returned. There have been items in the paper. They did not use my name, but it was obvious. Everyone knows.’ The tears began to fall again and she wiped them away with her damp sleeve. ‘And it is all my fault. I could not put Robert through that. People will think he is marrying a common whore.’
She waited for the stern lecture that she knew was coming. Silly had been after her for years to mind her reputation and to mind society, begging her to just once exercise some care before acting. She had not listened. Now she was in the soup for certain.
Instead her sister pulled her down on to a couch by the window and stroked her hair, offering her a handkerchief.
Priss took it and blew her nose. ‘I have caused so much trouble for everyone. Now I must pay the price for it.’
‘You tried to do what was right,’ Dru assured her. ‘And Father was horrible to you. Reighland is horrible as well, if he will not stand by you in a time of crisis.’
‘It is not his fault at all,’ Priss argued. ‘I could not force Robert into the shame of marrying me, so I released him from his obligation.’
There was a hesitation, then Dru’s grip on her tightened. ‘That was very noble of you.’
‘Father does not think so. He says I am a stupid girl: Reighland was trapped and rightly so, and that all I had to do was keep my mouth shut and go to the altar. Father says he will never unload me now, so he will have no more of me.’
‘You are not stupid. You are right not to want a husband who feels he has been trapped. I do not think it would make for a very happy marriage. But if there has been some event that compromised you…’ Dru proceeded hesitantly. ‘I can still send John to the duke and insist that he have you. It is wrong of him to turn his back on you, just when you need him. And even worse to leave you at the mercy of the gossips, in part because of his behaviour.’
Priss gave a wet laugh. ‘I never expected to have a happy marriage until just recently. Now that I have ruined my chances for one, I do not think I could abide another kind. It was stupid of me to run away with Gervaise. Thank heaven you caught me before Gretna Green, or I would be legshackled to him.’
Surprisingly, Dru had found tact. A year ago, she would have agreed and ended with some pious platitude. But now, though she did not rush to her sister’s defence, she allowed, ‘You had your reasons for leaving our home. They led you to do things that were unwise. I think you were smarter than you let on when you told me, all those months ago, that you had no freedom.’
Lady Priscilla's Shameful Secret Page 17