by Nicole Byrd
“Because she never goes out, and you need the practice.” His answer was equally blunt. “If you fall on your face, she will not have the chance to gossip about it. Or not much, anyhow. I thought I could perform two good deeds at one stroke. No need to waste two afternoons, don’t you think?”
Unable to dispute the logic of his argument, she glared at him, but she resented it with all her heart. It was one thing to know that she was awkward and lacking social skills, but to have him point it out—
“And you are not incredibly rude to say such a thing to me?” she demanded.
“Of course, but sometimes, one has to be honest,” he answered. “Besides, as Miss Pomshack noted, this is a laudable endeavor.”
“If you’re not the biggest humbug I ever saw—” she began. Clarissa pointed her finger at him, then discovered that her fingertip sported a bright red droplet of blood. She put it hastily into her mouth before she stained her new muslin gown.
“I sometimes do have a charitable impulse,” he murmured. He took out his handkerchief and offered it to her.
Unwillingly, Clarissa took it and wrapped it about her finger to stop the blood.
Before she could think of a way to refuse, Miss Pomshack was back with their bonnets and shawls and gloves, and somehow, Clarissa was doomed. He had brought an open carriage again, and it was a pleasant ride, even if the streets were noisy and crowded. Clarissa watched the changing street scene—a stout matron argued with a ragman, a horseman in military uniform rode a handsome dark horse, and a cart full of coal had lost a wheel—and ignored her host, and if he thought her rude, so be it!
She was still seething when they arrived at a large house and were helped down by the groom. Whatever the earl’s relation’s problems, poverty was apparently not one of them.
When the elderly butler admitted them and took them up to the drawing room, they found a white-haired lady sitting in a Bath chair.
Taken aback, Clarissa thought she should indeed have been more compassionate. She felt ashamed of her sulking. However, she was further surprised when the lady took hold of the chair’s arms and stood, a little stiffly, then came forward to accept their greetings.
“Good day, Aunt,” the earl was saying. “I thought you might like some new faces. These are my friends, Miss Fallon and Miss Pomshack. My aunt, Lady Crimshawe.”
“How do.” Lady Crimshawe gave them a brief nod.
They responded in kind, and this time, Clarissa thought that at least she achieved a credible curtsy.
Their hostess moved to one of the settees and motioned to her butler. “Take the chair away, Hawkins. I shan’t need it any longer today. And mind that you don’t ram it into the sideboard again.”
To her guests, she added, “Those are genuine Ming vases on the sideboard; my grandfather acquired them in France.”
God help the servants in this household, Clarissa thought.
“Is your gout acting up again?” Lord Whitby asked as they all were seated.
“No, my back,” she told her nephew. Her tone was reproachful. “Did you not read the note I sent you yesterday? I was most stiff this morning when I got out of bed.”
“I read it promptly, and I thought sure you mentioned your foot.” The earl’s tone was pleasant if resigned.
“No, no, that was the day before, and the note before,” she argued. “And why did you not call earlier?”
“I was sure that your good doctor would be at your side, Aunt, and I didn’t wish to pester you while you were having a bad day.”
Humbug again, Clarissa thought, but she managed not to speak her opinion aloud. With a relative such as this, really, could she blame him?
“Hmph,” the older lady muttered. “All of my days are bad, as you well know. I suffer from various complaints,” she said, turning to her other guests. She proceeded to catalogue them, often offering more detail than Clarissa really wished to know.
“And aside from that, I have a liver that is constantly failing. Only my good doctor’s tonic enables me to enjoy any decent meals at all. Why, yesterday, for example, I was barely able to get down a few bites of gruel.”
Her frame was so well padded that Clarissa felt some doubt as to the accuracy of this claim, but she tried to keep her expression compliant.
Miss Pomshack listened closely and made soothing replies, so Clarissa felt it safe enough to allow her own thoughts to wander. She felt some reluctant sympathy for the earl, if he had this termagant as kin. Despite all the symptoms and ailments Lady Crimshawe listed, she looked healthy enough. She was well rounded and her color good, and if she moved a little stiffly, she seemed able to get about easily on her own without the aid of the wheeled chair.
Just as Clarissa thought they would spend the whole visit listening to the older lady’s involved detailing of her health, or lack of it—thank heavens a proper social call was only half an hour—she discovered there was worse in store. Lady Crimshawe finally gave over extolling her illnesses and turned her attention to her guests.
“And you, Miss Pomshack, what is your estate?” she inquired.
“My father was a vicar,” Miss Pomshack answered, her tone dignified. “He served a large parish in Warwickshire and was most highly regarded by his bishop and all who knew him. I am currently serving as a governess-companion for Miss Fallon. I am an old acquaintance of Miss Fallon’s sister-in-law, Lady Gemma Fallon.”
Appearing to dismiss Miss Pomshack from her attention—an enviable position, Clarissa thought wildly—Lady Crimshawe turned to regard the younger lady. Lifting the lorgnette that had been hanging on a chain about her neck, she held it to her nose and stared at Clarissa as if she were some weird and threatening insect. “And you, Miss Fallon?”
“I—I—” Clarissa found herself stuttering again. Who did this unpleasant woman think she was—the queen of England?
“Miss Fallon is a lady of good family.” To her surprise, it was the earl who came to her rescue. “Do you think I would bring any other such person to meet you?”
Lady Crimshawe shrugged and continued to stare at Clarissa. “You seem old enough to be out.”
“I am, I suppose,” Clarissa said, struggling not to squirm under the lady’s inspection. “That is, I am out.”
“And much too old for a governess.” Again, Lady Crimshawe sounded disapproving.
“I’m—I’m somewhat behind in my studies, that is—” Clarissa floundered.
“You’re not mentally deficient, are you?” their hostess demanded. “Whitby, if you are considering making this girl an offer, I would be very sure of both her and her family’s health before you contemplate any commitment. You do not want an incompetent for your heir!”
“Of course he is not making me an offer!” Clarissa hoped her cheeks were not aflame. “I barely know him, and I wouldn’t have him if he did!”
“Nonsense, no lady in her right mind would turn down Whitby. He is in excellent health. In addition, he possesses an old and highly respected title, he has wealth and an esteemed family name—my family name, I might add,” she said, as if that made all the difference. She stared through the lorgnette. “This is another dubious statement. Do not be coy with me, Miss Fallon; it will not do. If there is any problem with your circumstances, tell me directly.”
Clarissa still fumed. “Of all the rude things to say! There is nothing wrong with my mind or my family’s health.”
“Dreadful lack of manners, too,” the old lady continued, apparently undeterred by Clarissa’s outburst. “Do you not know to submit gracefully to an older person’s polite interest in you?”
“If this is what you call polite—” Clarissa muttered, but the other lady sailed on.
“Why are you behind in your studies? Have you been ill?”
Clarissa eyed the woman and tried to think of what to say. That she had been sent to a foundling home and sold from there into household service? She hardly wanted to hear the old lady’s opinion about that! “I am quite well, thank you,” she
answered carefully. “And I thank you for your solicitude regarding my health, but it is quite unnecessary.”
“My aunt could recommend her own doctor,” the earl put in. “In case you ever needed him. Sir Arthur is a man of high reputation.”
“Yes, indeed,” Lady Crimshawe agreed. “Some may say that Reynold is the most respected physician in London, but indeed, I should beg to differ. No one has shown such sensitivity to my suffering as my good Sir Arthur.”
She extolled her own doctor’s virtues for several minutes while Clarissa, throwing Lord Whitby a glance of gratitude, thought she had escaped the interrogation.
But in a few moments, their hostess turned to her again. “I still say it is suspicious that you are behind in your studies, and you did not answer my earlier question as to the reason for it.”
“Perhaps I think it is none of your concern,” Clarissa snapped.
Lady Crimshawe shook her head. “As I said, Whitby. Bad blood here, though she may not wish to admit. Why, look at her pale skin. Probably a faulty spleen. I should look closer at her family, I tell you.”
Miss Pomshack opened her mouth, but Clarissa was beyond caring about propriety. “Of all the bloody nerve!” she exclaimed. “My brother is a most excellent man, who served bravely in the war against France. My mother was a perfect lady, kind and well mannered to a fault, and my father a gentleman, although a younger son and not wealthy. I have plenty of faults, but you need not disparage my family!”
“Your brother was in the war, eh? Did he teach you such unladylike language? Perhaps it affected his mind, and he has infected you. Whitby was in the war, and he’s never been the same since,” the old lady retorted.
“I suppose that should make us well suited, then,” Clarissa flashed back. “But I am not bloody well interested.”
“You may protest, young lady, but I know better. And as for your regrettable choice of words, my own dear departed governess would have washed out your mouth with soap!”
“Just try it,” Clarissa muttered, but she took a deep breath and tried to contain her anger, although she found herself gripping her hands together in her lap.
“I am older than you, and I deserve respect,” Lady Crimshawe instructed, her tone still pompous.
“That does not mean you can be as bad-mannered as you choose.” Beyond caring about decorum, Clarissa met the old woman glare for glare.
Lord Whitby cleared his throat. “This has been a most, ah, pleasant visit, Aunt, but I fear we must not overtire you.”
Her narrow eyes bright, their hostess had been sitting up very straight. But her nephew’s words appeared to remind her of her supposedly invalid state, and she leaned back against her pillowed chair. “Yes, indeed. It is most unkind of you to tax me with such contrary and unobliging visitors.”
“I assure you I will not impose upon you again,” Clarissa informed her. “I wish you good health, Lady Crimshawe.”
Lord Whitby bowed over his relation’s hand, which she extended limply as if it were the ultimate honor, and then he ushered them out. Clarissa was still seething.
“How dare you do that?” she demanded as soon as the door was safely shut behind them. “Inflict that old harridan upon us?”
“Miss Fallon!” Miss Pomshack protested, but with somewhat less than her usual conviction. Even she looked a bit pink in the cheeks.
“I told you, it was a good exercise for you. And on the whole, you did quite well, even if you did lose your composure at the end,” he told her, his tone quite unrepentant. “Or perhaps in the middle. You managed a few civil sentences, at any rate.”
“Lose my composure? You’re fortunate I did not smash that Ming vase over her head!” Clarissa frowned and wished she could kick him in the shin.
And the accursed man was smiling at her! It was amazing how much a smile softened his usually disdainful expression and reminded her for an instant just how handsome he was. Those dark eyes held so much emotion, and the strong chin and well-formed mouth . . .
She found she had forgotten, for an instant, to be angry. Hoping that her expression had not revealed too much, Clarissa looked away.
“Most people who meet my aunt experience a similar reaction. But as I said, on the whole, you did very well.”
“I suppose at least I did not fall over my feet,” she admitted, and his smile widened.
“As I said.”
That made her frown again, but he added as he helped them into the chaise. “Putting a raw recruit under fire will either destroy him or make him stronger. I think you passed the test.”
“You have no right to ask me to pass any test!”
To her confusion, he paused and lifted the hand she had reluctantly given him to help her up the step. He brought it to his lips and she felt the whisper of his kiss, even through her gloves. It sent a strange sort of tingle through her. His eyes gleamed, and for a moment she stared into them, and everything around them receded, as it had that day in the alley. He moved closer—and then released her abruptly and drew a deep breath.
She looked away. He said quietly, “Touché. You are right, of course.”
Which left her nothing at all to say. So, Clarissa climbed into the carriage—fortunately, Miss Pomshack was arranging her pelisse and did not seem to have noticed the moment of intimacy—and sat silently all the way home.
When they reached the Fallon household, he saw them to the door and took a polite leave, but promised to call again.
Why did he bother? Clarissa could not fathom it. He lectured her, tormented her, teased her. It made no sense at all. Was this all about that silly wager?
Even Miss Pomshack was not pleased with their visit. “Upon my word, hardly Christian behavior,” she said after they were inside. “I would chastise you for your language, Miss Clarissa, but this time, I must admit you were sorely provoked. Even I—Well, I think I shall go upstairs and read my Prayer Book for a few minutes to settle my mind before I take my afternoon rest.”
“Please do, Miss P,” Clarissa murmured.
As the other lady left the room, Clarissa walked to the window and watched the earl’s elegant chaise pull away. Somehow, she found she was rubbing her fingertips across the hand he had kissed.
Six
One of the misfortunes that accrued from the dance, from Clarissa’s viewpoint at least, was that more invitations poured in. Even without an official coming-out ball, which her brother and sister-in-law still wanted to hold for her, and which Clarissa still pleaded to put off until she felt more at ease at formal affairs, other events were held out for her amusement.
Reluctantly, she agreed to some of the least socially demanding, which was how she came to be sitting in Mrs. Prescott’s drawing room the next afternoon and, remembering Circe’s instructions, holding her teacup carefully and not too tightly. She wished Circe were here to offer her friendly support, but, Lady Gabriel’s sister was too young to be out except for small family parties. Clarissa herself was the youngest lady in the room, and she felt like a kernel of corn thrown out to a flock of hungry hens.
“Another scone, my dear child?” her hostess cooed.
Clarissa smiled and accepted a pastry, but she didn’t trust the matron’s narrow eyes, which seemed more curious than kind. She found herself saying little, although Mrs. Prescott had asked several almost too personal questions.
“I understand you are newly come to London, Miss Fallon. Have you been away at school?” She blinked her short lashes and waited.
“Yes, I mean, I have only recently come to the city. For the last few years I was, uh, in the North—” Clarissa hesitated, but it was Gemma who answered smoothly to fill in the awkward silence.
“I was very fond of my school; it was located in the North Country, too, in Yorkshire. Education is important even for ladies, don’t you think, Mrs. Prescott?”
Mrs. Prescott frowned for a moment, then perforce directed her steely gaze toward Gemma. “Indeed, Lady Gemma? I should think marriage is the only subjec
t that a young lady needs to study.”
Several other women tittered, and their hostess smiled at their appreciation of her mild witticism.
Clarissa drew a deep breath of relief. Thank heavens for Gemma.
“Why fill girls’ heads with books and such nonsense?” Mrs. Prescott went on. “Needlework, of course, is a desirable skill, and if one learns to sketch or play an instrument, that will add to one’s accomplishments.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Reading is also of value. I just found a new novel that is quite diverting,” Sally Forsythe put in. The handsome brunette, who had attended Psyche’s tea party, flashed a friendly glance toward Clarissa. “And although I never went away to school, my governess was quite strict about learning geography and ciphering and French verbs.”
Clarissa smiled back but kept her gaze mostly on her teacup. If they only knew how little formal education she had had, the matrons would have no reason to debate the subject of education for females.
“Oh, I leave sums to my housekeeper and butler,” another of the ladies said. “Figures do make my head ache!”
“They will steal you blind if you don’t watch,” their hostess retorted. “That is one area where one must be vigilant. I keep a close eye on my household accounts.”
She would not wish to be one of this house’s servants, Clarissa couldn’t help thinking. She took a deep gulp of her tea.
There was a movement at her side, and, ill at ease, Clarissa jumped. Still holding the teacup, she turned too quickly.
It was the parlor maid, who had come closer with the silver teapot to refill her cup. But Clarissa’s out-flung hand hit the pot. The cup she held shattered, splattering Clarissa’s blue-sprigged muslin, as well as the maid’s white apron, with the dregs of tea. Still holding the teapot, the servant jerked in surprise. Some of the liquid splashed from the spout, as well, showering the woman sitting next to Clarissa, who exclaimed in annoyance.
“Oh, my best silk! This is too bad!”
“Matty!” Mrs. Prescott frowned fiercely. “How dare you be so clumsy! Go away and send in the footman with some dry cloths for our guests.”