An Intimate Education: A Comedic Tale of Open Hearts and Narrow Minds

by Anna Willman

  “A modest home on Upper Wimpole Street?” Her tone was bitter.

  “Yes. Or somewhere like.”

  Her silence was thick with anger.

  He felt compelled to add in his soft, carefully controlled voice, “You must strive to accept this, my dear, for Henderson has already been given his instructions and will begin to put them into effect first thing tomorrow morning.”

  She shook her head and still said nothing.

  “I need you to take certain steps tomorrow as well,” Thomas went on doggedly, determined that she should understand fully what lay ahead. “You must give our servants notice and provide them with references. You may tell them that I will give them each a year’s wages to ease their way. We will need only a cook and a maid of all work, and I am afraid, my dearest, that we cannot afford to keep the chef that we now have. He is much too dear. We will need just a plain cook, suitable for a very small establishment.”

  This instruction stung her to speech. “This is madness. What of my abigail? Am I to do without a dresser?” Her voice rose until it was almost a shriek.

  “Indeed you are. And I shall have no valet.”

  “No valet? Who will care for your clothes?”

  “We will be living quite a different life, my dear, “ he said sadly.

  “I am to give up my gowns? My jewels?”

  “I’ve thought about this very carefully, and concluded that you must keep your jewels. It may be that when I am deceased, you will decide to dispense with them and use the money to provide yourself once more with a few of the elegancies of life. But so long as I survive, we must not live on any proceeds from them.”

  “I’ll never part with my jewels!”

  “As for your gowns, it has occurred to me that you may still wish occasionally to go to the theatre or attend parties, and the maid can serve as a dresser on such occasions. We will, of course, have no carriage or horses, but a hackney can take you.”

  “A hackney?” Her tone was incredulous.

  “Or you might go with a friend in her carriage.” He cut off further protests by plunging on. “You will have a small income of your own from your marriage settlement, which will be sufficient to provide you with gloves and fans and half-boots and such fripperies as you come to need them, and I am persuaded that a fine needlewoman such as you can make what alterations are needed from time to time to keep your gowns in the latest mode.”

  “That is nonsense, Thomas! I do a good deal of embroidery work to be sure, but I am not a seamstress. I know nothing of seams and tucks or alterations.”

  “Can you not learn such skills?”

  “Perhaps. But why must I, when you have plenty of money? I can’t understand why you are doing this!” And she began to cry bitterly.

  Thomas waited in silence, watching her. He lifted a hand as if to comfort her, but she shrugged away from him. When her tears finally began to subside, he spoke again, softly.

  “Indeed, it is a good deal for you to take in all at once. You will need more time. We will talk again in the morning.”

  “I will never accept this,” she said with a fierceness that took his breath away.

  “I’m afraid you have no choice, my dear. Good night.” He stood up, patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, and, when she turned angrily away from him, took his leave.

  He went to his bed and lay awake for some time before finally drifting into a restless sleep. It proved to be but a short nap, however, for less than an hour later he was jarred awake by his wife, who swept into his room with a lit candle in hand.

  “This is your mother’s doing,” she proclaimed. “Tell me what she has done that has set you on this outrageous path. What one woman has done, another may mend.”

  Thomas, groggy and confused, stared at his wife’s face, glowing white and fierce in the candlelight. “What? No. I have thought long and hard and there is only this one way to set things right. Go to bed, Sarah.”

  “What did your mother do?”

  “She gave birth to me. Go to bed now. I can say no more.”

  Sarah’s face shone bright, a circle of white in the dark room. “She gave birth…?”

  He could see the thought as it formed, as comprehension came. “Go to bed, Sarah,” he pleaded. “Leave it be. This is not something for you to know.”

  But she was relentless. “She’s one of Lord Carew’s whores. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why she’s been so agitated this past week. You’re one of his bastard children. And that is why you’ve decided on this ridiculous course of action.”

  “Go to bed. I will not speak of this.”

  “But you do not deny it.”

  He turned his back to her and did not reply. She stood staring at him and then turned and left – a bright light flickering away and leaving the room in darkness.

  CHAPTER TEN: In Which Lady Guinevere Discloses Her Fears

  Charles’ foray to Somerset House had turned up no useful records – there were a number of Westlake births, but only one Lydia Westlake listed at the registry. And Colonel Westlake had reported no births other than those of Elizabeth and her brother.

  Guinevere fretted. Then she ordered her coachman to bring around her barouche and went to call on Louisa. Charles saw her off with a smile of encouragement and retired to his office, where he settled down with a favorite old book on his lap and a slight frown upon his brow.

  It had been several days since her last visit and Guinevere was astonished to find the usually placid household in a mild uproar. Fimber brought her up to Louisa’s chamber, where she found her friend occupied with her abigail in a thorough inspection of her wardrobe. Miss Manning hovered nearby, offering from time to time, suggestions and tea, both of which were either ignored or rejected.

  “Oh Guinevere, how glad I am to see you,” Louisa said. “Just think. Ned and I are going to the continent for an extended tour. Do come and tell me, do you not think this walking dress hopelessly grim? Emily would have me wear it during the crossing, but I cannot think it will do. I cannot imagine what I was thinking when I had it made up for me.”

  “It is certainly very well made, and the fabric is of the finest,” Guinevere said. “It would keep you quite warm and comfortable on the ship to be sure, but perhaps the color is not the best for your complexion. Indeed that bronze is a color that you frequently wear, Miss Manning, is it not?”

  “Oh, that is the very thing!” Louisa said. “Emily, you must have this dress since you like it. There is plenty of fabric to let out the seams – a few minor alterations and it will fit you admirably. And I shall have another made up, in blue, and a pelisse to match, for the crossing. Now Guinevere, you must help me choose what I shall wear when I get to Paris.”

  “I suppose you will need to have a few gowns ready, but surely, my dear, you will want to buy a whole new wardrobe once you reach Paris, for I’m told our English style of dressing is considered not at all the thing on the other side of the channel. You do not wish to appear a dowd.”

  “Ned said something of the sort. Shall I bring nothing with me then but a few gowns?”

  “You will require a walking dress – perhaps the one with the blonde lace – and a couple of morning dresses and at least three evening gowns and one ball gown should suffice, so long as you go to the dressmaker on your very first day. For even the most notable needlewoman must have a few days to complete a gown. But tell me, Louisa, how is it that you have taken a sudden notion to travel?”

  This simple question had the odd effect of making Louisa blush and look down. “I…I will explain it all to you later, Guinevere. Tell me do you think these slippers are too worn? I declare, I shall have to buy new half-boots as well.”

  Guinevere gave her opinion on the slippers and the half boots and then the discussion turned to the subject of hats. Miss Manning, torn between gratification at having a new gown bestowed upon her which she much admired (and one that she was well aware had not even once been worn by her cousin) and her understandable annoya
nce at the way Guinevere’s opinions were so much more welcome than her own, lapsed into silence.

  Her future was uncertain. Of course she was pleased that dear Louisa was in such blooming health, though it could not be a good thing for her to be always in such a state of excitement. Louisa had assured her that she would be welcome to stay here in the Legerwoods’ London town house while husband and wife were traveling, but every instinct warned her that the invitation, though sincere, could not last indefinitely. Nor did her sense of propriety allow her to comfortably contemplate living in the same house as young Edmund without another female to lend her countenance. Louisa had pooh-poohed the idea that anyone would think it improper, but what did dear Louisa know of the world?

  Emily’s one hope was to persuade her cousin to take her with her on her travels, but no hint that Louisa might find herself longing for the comfort of female companionship had thus far met with success. Emily considered asking Guinevere to plead her case, but then a trill of laughter from that lady reminded her of her grievances against her, and she knew she could not.

  She had a competency of her own in addition to the substantial savings she had been able to put by during the last nine years thanks to Sir Legerwood’s generosity, but while she could afford to set up her own residence, her sense of propriety would never allow her to contemplate such an eccentric move. Not only would people think it odd in her, but they would suppose it indicated some grievance between her and her parents, a conjecture as wholly unfair as it was untrue.

  She knew she would end up going back to her father’s house in the country, a dreary prospect in every way. While of course she felt a deep filial affection for her mother and father, their relationship had never been a particularly warm one. Her parents’ health, moreover, continued to be robust, so she would not even feel the gratification of being useful to them as she had been all these years to Louisa. She would no doubt, from time to time, go to visit her sisters, and would most likely be expected to rush to their aid when a crisis of some sort arose, such as the nurse falling down and breaking her leg, or the children coming down with the measles. And, well, children in general were so tiresome when ill, likely to be cross and poorly behaved and not at all grateful like dear Louisa.

  Of course, if she must, she would resign herself to such a life, but it would be so much better if Louisa were to suffer a minor relapse – nothing serious, of course, but just enough to make her realize how much she needed Emily beside her.

  Emily could not help but consider that a drop or two of laudanum in a cup of tea might be just the thing to calm Louisa a little, to slow her down so she could appreciate the quiet life they had lived before. There was something unhealthy, something a little frantic, about Louisa’s current state of excitement. Emily was a close observer and knew in her heart that something was troubling her cousin. A soothing soporific was surely called for.

  The inspection of the wardrobe completed, Louisa sent her abigail away and called for refreshment. Miss Manning, unwilling to sit and watch Guinevere bask in the glow of Louisa’s affection, excused herself and left the two friends to themselves.

  “Now tell me, my dear,” Guinevere asked, when they had settled comfortably, side by side on a plush sofa next to the low, ornately carved tea table and Louisa had poured out their tea, “How is it that you are in such blooming health? And what is behind this new adventure of yours?”

  “Oh, Gwen, I have been in such distress, for I may not tell you.”

  “I don’t understand,” Guinevere said slowly.

  Louisa looked down at her tea cup and did not reply. Her face was flushed.

  “Oh Louisa, you as well?” Guinevere lamented. “I don’t think I can bear it if you will not stand my friend.“ She paused to set her tea cup down on the table. There was a quiet note of pain in her voice, and she pressed her hands together in her lap as she continued speaking.

  “All over town, my old friends and acquaintances look at me askance, some with fear, some with curiosity, all with mistrust. Some of them even snub me, pretending, you know, that they are too busy to pass the time of day or that they have failed to see me. That is bad enough – to see them all rushing away from me – but the worst of them behave with such a false sweetness that I wish I were a bumblebee so that I might sting them. All this in response to Lancelot’s disgraceful behavior. And only because as a child, I played with the boy from the estate adjoining my father’s land. Please do not tell me you no longer trust me.”

  Louisa looked up then, meeting her friend’s eyes. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you, dearest. But I have promised Ned, and I cannot bear to break faith with him again.”

  “Oh no, you must not do that.”

  “But whatever he says, I will not lie to you either. How can I deceive you when you are the only person in the world who has been open with me, who has not protected me from the truth? Indeed, your counsel has given me a fresh chance at life.”

  Louisa set down her tea cup reached out and took her friend by both hands. Her smile was a little tremulous as she went on. “So I have decided that I must simply tell you that I cannot tell you, and in that way I deceive no one.”

  Guinevere laughed. “An admirable solution.”

  “You do not mind?” Louisa asked, fixing her eyes on her friend’s face anxiously.

  “Of course I mind. My curiosity is most ardently aroused. But I will gladly suffer that, knowing you stay my friend.” Guinevere tightened her hold on Louisa’s hands. “You are my only true friend, I think, these days, other than Charles. For though I have been a friend to Lancelot, he is certainly no friend of mine. Just consider what troublesome scrapes he has embroiled me in. It used to amuse me when those lovely ladies tried to draw me into their romantic intrigues, asking me to carry a note to him or a love token. Do they think that, after refusing to partake in their scandalous behavior then, I would be a party to his skullduggery now?”

  “Oh, Guinevere, I am so sorry. Are you very lonely?”

  “I shall be when you leave London. You must write to me often, but nothing that your Ned would dislike.”

  “Oh, you are too good to me,” Louisa said, and smiled her gratitude. “No one ever had a better friend than you.”

  “Nonsense. This will all pass, sooner or later.” Guinevere let go of Louisa’s hands and picked up her tea cup. There was a shadow to her smile as she sipped the sweet brew.

  Then she said, with just a little reserve, “Someone will surely shoot that old scoundrel one of these days and if he survives, he will reform his ways. And then my friends will forgive me and remember that I have never harmed a soul. I wonder if I will forgive them?”

  Louisa, her conscience eased, smiled. “You will, of course. You always do.”

  “Yes. Perhaps. But I do not think that I shall forget.” Guinevere’s smile was a little rueful, but then she set her tea cup down again and addressed Louisa in a tone of grave determination. “I’m afraid I have another uncomfortable truth to tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, it may not be true. I sincerely hope it is not. That is why I have said nothing before. I thought that I should discover the facts before I spoke, but now I need your permission before I can proceed further.”

  “What is it?” Louisa leaned forward slightly.

  “It is Lancelot again, of course. When I went to him on your behalf, he let me read some letters that had been sent to him – letters from women begging him not to include them in his memoirs.”

  “Yes?”

  “One of them was from a Mrs. Lydia Westlake. It mentioned a daughter.”

  “Yes?” Louisa said again, her voice unchanged.

  “Louisa,” Guinevere said carefully, “Your son – Lancelot’s son – is engaged to Elizabeth Westlake, the daughter of Lydia Westlake. It is possible – more than possible – that Edmund and Elizabeth are brother and sister.”

  Louisa stared at her, her expression blank.

  Guinevere reached out and ge
ntly took her friend’s hand. She waited before continuing. It was a good deal for Louisa to take in all at once. Gradually comprehension came and then a period of dazed wonder. Guinevere remained quiet. When at last she could satisfy herself that Louisa’s vision had cleared a little, she spoke again.

  “I have been to call on Mrs. Westlake. Like the rest of the ton, she is mistrustful of me, and it may be that that is all I detected in her manner. But it seemed to me possible that she was hiding something. Charles checked the records at Somerset House, and Elizabeth is the only daughter recorded for that family. There are other Westlakes, to be sure, and perhaps somewhere another Lydia, but Charles did not find one. Of course it might be a pet name – for Claudia, perhaps, or some other name. We do not know, and I only know of one way to be certain.”

  “We must ask Lancelot?” Louisa asked.

  “I considered that, but in truth he may have no clear memory of her, and asking will only bring that letter to his particular attention. I think we dare not.”

  “Lance would do nothing to harm me,” Louisa protested. “I know it.”

  “Then why did you send me to him in the first place? No, you know very well that you cannot rely on his good will, Louisa. Lancelot is desperate. There seems to be no limit to what he might do.”

  Louisa sighed. She thought a minute and then said. “You intend to ask Mrs. Westlake.”

  “I think we must,” Guinevere said.

  “I’m beginning to question my preference for openness.” Louisa said slowly. She caught Guinevere’s eye. “Oh no, I am indeed glad that you told me, but…would it be so very bad if we just left things as they are? I know, of course, that it is wrong for brothers and sisters to marry, though I cannot think why. For you know they do it with horses and hounds all the time, and on purpose, too. Why Lady Levenby was just saying the other day that she planned to match her red bitch with its litter mate, because, she said, she wanted another dog of the same color and sweet disposition.”