After Mr. Harris settled down a bit, he and Titania discussed the specifics of their agreement. She would deliver her first column in a week, with publication set for the week following. The first week’s grace would give Titania enough time to survey the likely candidates to ensnare, and figure as well who her potential competitors in the marriage mart were. The second week would allow Harris to build anticipation in the public. Although the pay would be inadequate to keep most ladies in shoes for a dancing season, it would suffice for now. Harris, perhaps already fending off potential bids for her column by jealous competitors, hinted at a raise should her writing prove as successful as he supposed.
The beauty of her plan was that it depended on Society’s notoriously salacious nature to make her column writing a success, and perhaps establish her as an author, which would enable her to eke out enough of a living so she and her dependents wouldn’t starve. That eventuality, of course, would be absolutely necessary only if she were unable to attract anyone with enough of the ready that she could overlook the fact she didn’t love him. She swallowed hard when she thought about how she had come to define success.
Despatch from the battle front, March 1813
Choice. Freedom. Love.
Three simple words, but how many ladies have actually experienced even one of these firsthand?
And no, being in love with one’s newest gown or making the choice between sherry and ratafia do not count. And please don’t even mention being free in the afternoon to pay a visit to one’s closest friend.
How many of us can actually choose our future? How many of us will ever get to be in love, the kind of love that makes the poets (notice almost all of them male) embark on prose so rapturous as to make a debutante blush?
That is the life of a soldier, I am sad to say. We are not free to choose our battles, merely to fight them. We are not free to love where we choose. We can only follow orders.
We can only hope the foe is worthy of our efforts, and make the best of things when the smoke has cleared and the white flag has waved.
A Singular Lady
Chapter 6
“What the—?” Titania heard the commotion even before she reached the front door. So much for getting a chance to relax; she’d be lucky if she could even hear herself think.
As she turned the doorknob, the noise grew even louder, if possible. The coach had arrived from Ravensthorpe, apparently accompanied by a full marching band. The entrance hall was filled with the sounds of joyful greetings, exclamations on the length of the journey, and lively phrases commenting on how wonderfully grand but exceedingly sooty the city was.
Titania paused at the doorway, smiling; the familiar voices allowed her to imagine for a moment that she was back in the country, but the warm thought flitted away as she suddenly remembered where she was truly, and why her retainers—most of whom had never before left Northamptonshire—had all descended on the house in Little Chiswick Street.
Titania walked into the middle of the fray and held out her arms. “Welcome, all of you, to London. I am so glad you have arrived; there is much work to be done. Not least of all—Miss Tynte, what have you got?”
Usually coolly elegant, always the picture of decorum, her old friend rose from where she had been sitting on the floor, chuckling with laughter as she clutched two exceedingly dead chickens in her hands. “It seems Cook was not certain she could trust the London mongers to know a proper hen.” She gestured toward the many baskets littering the floor. “What she will do when this fine collection of country foodstuffs is depleted is probably a question best posed another day.”
Thibault bounded down the stairs, his face alight with pleasure. “Ti, for once it is not me causing the ruckus. Look at ’em all, and look how much stuff they have brought. Say, Wilton, did you bring Satan?”
Titania rolled her eyes. Sometimes she forgot he was so young. “Thibault, seeing as how you were not supposed to be here, how could Wilton have known to bring your horse?”
After much fussing and unpacking—Ravensthorpe’s housekeeper had sent almost everything in the house except for herself—Titania was able to get Cook in the kitchen with her arsenal of foodstuffs, the younger servants disengaged from each other and settled down, and Stillings properly set up in his bedroom, situated discreetly on the first floor not because of his rheumatism—of course not—but because he would have to be on call to open the door for Titania when she and Miss Tynte returned home from their evening’s pursuits.
At long last, the hubbub subsided. Titania climbed the staircase back to her own room with a weary tread. She was sure she had experienced quite enough of society—both high and low—for one day, and now just wanted to sit. Alone. At last.
“Ti!” Thibault yelped, jumping onto her bed and bouncing like an overlarge puppy. Titania clenched her teeth and forced herself not to tear his head off. Verbally, of course; Thibault had already outgrown her heightwise a few years ago.
“Thibault, how many times have I told you that you have to knock before popping into my room like a rowdy brawler? I am resting. Unlike you, I actually had a lot of work to do today. That is, I assume mischief is only a preoccupation, and not an occupation in itself.”
Thibault tilted his head up to look at his sister, then nodded in agreement. “You do look a little peaked, cross patch! You have to remember, sister,” he said, dropping his voice to a confidential murmur, “you are not as young as you used to be. You might—” he continued, but before he could finish, Titania picked up a book of Ovid’s poems and flung it at his head. Luckily for his artfully disordered hair, it glanced harmlessly off the wall and fell with a soft thud to the floor, the pages splayed open, as disarrayed as Titania’s thoughts.
“I am not nearly as old as people would have me be,” she grumbled as she picked the book up and carefully smoothed the pages. “And I will ask you to stop reminding me! You are as bad as Electra constantly reminding Orestes to avenge the death of his father!”
Thibault looked blankly at Titania for just a moment, then fell back onto the bed, laughing hysterically. “You, my dear sister, have to have the bluest stockings in the land. You have the ability to turn any conversation into an occasion for study!”
“And so should I, my dear brother,” said Titania, fixing an overly sweet smile on her face. “You above all should find more occasions to study. There has to be one Stanhope capable of getting a degree...even if it’s the wrong one... Oh, I wish I had been born a man!”
Thibault looked at her seriously. “No, you don’t,” he answered. “When you are not pursing your mouth up and pretending to be a thousand years old, you are a fine writer, moderately good at accounts, and you happen to be a lovely lady as well. The only thing you are terrible at is horse riding. You remind me of our mother, and you know more than anyone she was the most wonderfullest creature alive. It is not your fault that it is bad ton to be anything more than ornamental.”
Could it be Thibault was actually growing up?
She reached out to him and ruffled his hair until he wriggled out of her arms and ran to the glass on the wall.
“Now you’ve done it,” he complained. “Dash it all, Titania! I spent half an hour on this, and now look! I look like the worst kind of cully.” She could hear him still grumbling as he marched down the hall.
At least you don’t yet look like a boy whose home has been stolen away from him. At least not yet, Titania corrected herself as she sat back in her chair. She felt a tiny bud of optimism try to blossom in her chest as she started thinking about her column.
That night, when Thibault had been safely sent off in another ludicrously loud waistcoat and Miss Tynte had retired early to bed, furtively clutching a lurid romance novel, Titania settled down to work.
She pulled out some paper and started to make a list of the husbandly essentials, only to pause when she realized her list consisted of “intelligence,” “humor,” “green eyes,” and “broad shoulders.” Frowning, she scratched out all t
he words, replacing them with “wealth,” “an agreeable mama,” and “some education.” This list did not look nearly as exciting as the first.
She let her mind wander to the morning’s kiss—her first real one—and how Lord Worthington’s arms had felt around her. She had never dreamed that a kiss could be that exhilarating, and that she would be left wanting...what? She wasn’t sure just what it was she wanted, but she was both dreading and anticipating seeing Lord Worthington’s handsome face again. Not to mention the opportunity to converse with him, too, she quickly added to herself.
IT WAS SOMEONE SHE did not want to see who paid Titania her first morning call.
“Titania!” Claire exclaimed, peering at Titania’s face. “You must not be used to town life, you look positively done up!”
Muttering “dusty library” and “too many costermongers,” Titania showed Claire the way into the drawing room.
After tea had been poured, and general comments on the entertainment the other evening had been exchanged—yes, the ballroom was far too hot; yes, the musicians could have used more practice; no, the Ponsonby girl did not look well—Claire leaned forward in her seat and gave Titania an intense look.
Oh, no, Titania thought. She’s going to ask me why I’m here and not with my aunt. What should I say? Quickly, she ran through the possibilities—whooping cough, redecorating, a morbid fear of facial moles—when she realized Claire was not asking anything of the sort.
“What did you think of Lord Gratwick, Ti? He was much smitten with you, unless I am very much mistaken. He has just sold out his army commission; it seems he had to return to handle his uncle’s estate. From what I hear, he is exceedingly plump in the pocket, and ever so attractive, too, don’t you think? Wex remarks it’s a good thing he offered a better title—the silly thing—because otherwise I would have married Lord Gratwick. At the time, of course, there was no thought of Gratwick inheriting his uncle’s estate. I believe there were at least three people in line before him. But my loss is your gain, Ti!” she finished gaily.
Titania’s hackles were raised instantly. She had found Lord Gratwick intriguing, yes, but something in Claire’s tone made her want to dampen her friend’s enthusiasm. A shared interest in books and one conversation was hardly enough on which to judge a person. A shared interest in books and the best kiss ever experienced, well, that was another thing entirely.
“Claire, I have only just met the gentleman. I do not think he could have been ‘smitten,’ as you say, in one evening’s encounter. Nor should you suppose that I could ever feel so,” she continued, deliberately using her lecturing-to-Thibault tone.
“Lord Gratwick appears a distinguished, learned man, and I am looking forward to reviewing his uncle’s library,” she finished. She quickly cast fresh bait to change the subject. “You must know, Claire; I understand that there is a new modiste who is responsible for creating some of the gorgeous concoctions I have seen the ladies wearing. Perhaps she is dressing you? I understand her name is Madame Felicité.”
Claire could not resist. She seized at the new conversational gambit as a trout to a fly, a hound on a fox, a magpie after a shiny coin. “Yes,” Claire said, looking with great pleasure down at her own gown, “she made this little trifle of a gown for me—you do like it? Perhaps, Ti, I can persuade her to take you on? It appears,” she continued, gesturing toward Titania’s simple frock, “you are in need of her assistance. It wouldn’t do for you to look fresh out of the country, not with so many other ladies making their debut. And I wouldn’t say this but to a good friend, but it’s not as if you are in your first blush of youth.”
There it was again. Could she really look that old at twenty-three? Her eyes drifted toward the mirror over the fireplace. She was relieved to discover that her hair was still black, her face was unlined, and she hadn’t suddenly developed a hump. She might have a chance yet. She chuckled to herself, then turned to Claire.
“Thank you, Claire, that is awfully sweet of you, but I would not be able to carry off Madame’s gowns nearly as well as you. I will stick with my plainer fare. I can only hope I will have something to wear as I escort those apes into hell.”
Claire laughed, a trilling giggle. Titania wondered if she practiced it daily. “Titania, I did not mean to imply you were an ape leader! Be assured, some gentlemen prefer a lady to be more mature than the chits from the schoolroom. Lord Gratwick, in fact...“ she continued, returning to her theme and restoring Titania’s dismay. “Lord Gratwick has remarked the young ladies this year are all so insipid, and cannot discuss anything of import.”
Before Titania could reply, Claire glanced at the clock on the mantel, then shuddered in mock horror. “My word, Titania, I did not realize it was so late! I must make some more calls and go home to get ready to return here later with Lord Gratwick. You may not credit this, but it takes me positively ages to get ready. Wex tells me it only proves the best things are worth waiting for. Isn’t he the dearest man?” she concluded with a simper.
Titania murmured agreement, thinking he must also have the patience of a saint. After Claire’s departure, Titania heaved a gusty sigh and retreated to her bedroom before anybody could coerce her into lying again. There would be plenty more opportunity for that later on.
“WHERE ARE THEY?” TITANIA was dancing with impatience in the drawing room, waiting for Claire and Lord Gratwick to arrive. She was not accustomed to the city way of waiting for events to happen; at Ravensthorpe, she had always been on the move. And since she had long since read every book in her father’s collection, she was looking forward to discovering new ones, even if it was in slightly shady company.
“Miss, Lady Wexford and Lord Gratwick are here. May I show them in?”
Claire pushed past Stillings, glaring at him as she walked toward Titania into the room. “As if I were not your oldest friend.”
Lord Gratwick’s silky voice spoke from behind Stillings. “Do you not mean dearest friend?”
Claire turned her glower on him, as well. “Ignore him, Ti, he has been a grumpy bear all day.”
“If you did not insist on changing your hat not once, but three times, I would not be nearly as grumpy.”
Titania laughed, placing her hat on her head as she spoke. “Never mind that, you two, you are here and we should be on our way. I am so looking forward to viewing your late uncle’s collection.”
Claire sighed in bored torment, and glided toward the mirror to review her reflection.
“And I have been eager to see you again, Miss Stanhope,” Lord Gratwick said. “The best treasure in my uncle’s library may not have arrived yet.” He waggled his eyebrows significantly at her, and she hastily turned toward Claire.
“Claire, your hat is well worth the delay.” Titania did not see what made it different from any other hat she had seen Claire wear, but discussing it made her a lot less uncomfortable than hearing Lord Gratwick pay her such open compliments.
Her uneasy feeling ebbed as soon as she set foot in Lord Gratwick’s uncle’s library. Titania found books on classical subjects, but also natural philosophy, political economy, history, and a substantial collection of modern works. Perhaps, Titania thought wryly, she should return each morning to reread Coleridge’s “Fears in Solitude” to better reflect her present state of mind.
Claire, having absolutely no interest in books—after all, Byron seemed to prefer brunettes, so what was the point?—had by now wandered off in search of more interesting sights. Another mirror, no doubt, Titania thought.
As Titania explored, Lord Gratwick seemed content to spend his time observing her, commenting on the various items she found, but without the zest of a true book lover. His present demeanor was a marked contrast to the other evening. Now and then Titania happened to glance over at him in the course of inspecting yet another dusty treasure, and her feelings of alarm returned.
He was looking at her—but no, she saw, rather, he was seeming to look through her, his hands methodically tearing a piece
of paper in half and half again until nothing remained but tiny pieces. His face wore an expression Titania could only describe as foreboding, making her grateful her taste in books did not run to Gothic novels, as she would have been shrieking in terror by now. He noticed her scrutiny, and reassembled his genial countenance. Titania noticed his smile did not reach his eyes—indeed, she reflected, it had not once since they had met.
“Titania.” Claire’s voice penetrated her thoughts. “Is it not time to go? It is not quite ladylike to be hunched over musty books when one could be doing civilized things such as shopping or leaving cards at friends’ houses.”
“Yes, of course, Claire, Lord Gratwick, I am sorry to get so engrossed. But Lord Gratwick, your uncle’s library is stupendous, and I very much appreciate the chance to view it.”
“Humph,” Claire snorted. “The question is, Titania, will Lord Gratwick be able to make any money from this pile?” The three stood and surveyed the small stack of books Titania had sorted through. Many more still rested on the shelves.
“No, I think not immediately,” Titania replied. “The newer books are not yet in short supply, whereas the older books have obviously been read many times, so a collector would not be interested.”
Lord Gratwick moved to assist Titania with her pelisse, a deliberate, measured tone in his voice as he spoke.
“A collector, Miss Stanhope, is interested in all sorts of things, especially if they are older.”
My goodness, Titania thought, if that is his idea of a compliment, I would not like to hear an insult. She giggled to herself as she pondered what other backhanded compliments he might offer: Miss Stanhope, your hair is as disheveled as my emotions. Miss Stanhope, if all the candles in the world went out, I could still read by the pale light cast by your skin, or, more to the point, Miss Stanhope, you are old, with terribly white skin, messy hair, and a crooked nose. But by some miracle, I still admire you.
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