No Occupation for a Lady

by Gail Whitiker

  ‘Really?’ Victoria hardly knew what to say. She’d never given a moment’s thought to her alter ego’s appearance. ‘How...interesting.’

  ‘And he’s brooding, just like a romantic hero should be,’ Miss Wright went on. ‘But as brilliant as he is on paper, he’s very quiet and withdrawn in person. And he dresses well, but only in black and white. And he wears a single red rose in his lapel and—’

  ‘A diamond stud in his ear?’ Alistair enquired. ‘Or a gold hoop?’

  ‘He is not a pirate, Cousin Alistair,’ Miss Wright said, rolling her eyes. ‘He is a playwright. And I’m not the only one who fantasises about his appearance. Ellen Standish thinks he’s fair, Jenny Hartlett is convinced he has red hair and Mrs Johnston is of the opinion he hasn’t any hair at all. But she is partial to balding men, so I suppose that is her idea of attractive.’

  Victoria just stared, aware that the conversation was getting more bizarre by the minute. ‘Well, if I am ever fortunate enough to meet...Mr Lawe I will be sure to communicate the details of his appearance to you.’

  ‘You would do that for me?’ the girl said, looking as though she had been given the secret to eternal youth.

  ‘Happily. But I should warn you that I have no expectation of seeing the gentleman any time soon.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ Miss Wright cried. ‘It is enough to know that when you do see him, you will tell me what he looks like and I shall know whether I have been right or wrong. Thank you so very much, Miss Bretton!’

  Victoria inclined her head, grateful for having emerged unscathed from what could have been a very embarrassing situation. She didn’t like telling lies, but what was she to do with Alistair Devlin sitting right there? She could hardly admit to being Valentine Lawe now when she had not told him the truth during any of their previous conversations.

  She glanced at him sitting relaxed and at ease in the saddle and wished with all her heart that she might feel as calm. But her pulse was racing and when he smiled at her, it only grew worse, so much so that Victoria feared he must surely be able to see her heart beating beneath her jacket. Because his was a smile that was at once beguiling and disturbing, a smile that hinted at things she knew nothing about and had never experienced.

  A smile that lingered far longer in her mind than it had any right to, and that would not be shaken, no matter how hard she tried.

  Chapter Four

  That evening found Victoria alone in the drawing room with a pencil and piece of parchment in her hand. The rest of the family had gone out, and though her parents had asked if she might like to join them, Victoria had excused herself by pleading a megrim. In truth, she was desperate to start writing again and while the evening wasn’t usually a creative time for her, she needed to get past this wretched block and come up with some new ideas.

  Unfortunately, the longer she stared at the blank page, the emptier her mind grew. Surely her burgeoning career as a playwright wasn’t already over?

  Needing reassurance, Victoria set the paper aside and reached into the pocket of her gown. She had managed to find a copy of Sir Michael Loftus’s review in the newspaper that morning and had torn it out, basking in a warm glow of satisfaction every time she read it...which she’d done so many times she had actually committed the piece to memory...

  ...yet another piece of brilliance from the inimitable Valentine Lawe, A Lady’s Choice is easily his best work yet. Lawe’s deft handling of an intricate plot is exceeded only by his skilful use of characterisation, and, in typical Lawe style, he has lampooned members of society and the church in a way that one can only admire.

  Performed at the Gryphon Theatre by that establishment’s exceptional company, A Lady’s Choice is a lively and thoroughly entertaining romp. I take my hat off to Signy Chermonde as Elizabeth Turcott and Victor Trumphani as Elliot Black, and once again, profess myself in awe of Lawe’s talent. I look forward to seeing many more of his plays...

  ‘ “In awe of Lawe’s talent,” ’ Victoria murmured, breathing a sigh of pure pleasure. It wasn’t every day Sir Michael Loftus delivered such a flattering review. She knew that as a result of having read several of his less complimentary critiques. The man could destroy a playwright’s career in a single column. Or, as in the case of Valentine Lawe’s, he could make it.

  ‘What, not locked up in your room writing?’ Laurence asked, strolling into the room with a book in his hand.

  ‘I can’t think of anything to say.’ Victoria slipped the review back into her pocket. ‘I’m having a devil of a time coming up with any ideas for my next play.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about it. You expended a great deal of time and effort on A Lady’s Choice. It’s really not surprising that the creative well has temporarily run dry.’

  ‘But I’ve written three other plays and never had this problem before.’

  ‘No, because as good as your other plays were, they didn’t draw on the same level of emotional intensity,’ Laurence said. ‘You explored both the light and the dark side of love in your last play, Tory, and writing like that takes a toll. As Uncle Theo says, art demands passion and passion demands intensity...and intensity can be very tiring.’

  ‘I hope that’s all it is,’ Victoria said, refusing to let her mind drift off in other directions...or to one other person in particular...

  ‘So where is everyone tonight?’ Laurence asked, settling into the chair across from her.

  ‘The Hungerfords are hosting a card party.’

  ‘Oh, Lord, that should be interesting.’ Laurence opened his book. ‘Mother and Father usually play together. I hope they’re on better terms now than they were earlier.’

  ‘You mean, has she forgiven him for standing up for his brother and sister-in-law when she thought he should have sided with her?’ Victoria shook her head. ‘I doubt it. You know how she likes to hold a grudge. But I suppose it’s not her fault. She just wants me to find a nice man and get married.’

  ‘Then why don’t you?’

  ‘Because I want to write plays and a husband won’t let me do that. He will expect me to pay calls and arrange dinner parties, and to sit at home with no opinions of my own. He certainly wouldn’t approve of my going to the theatre as often as I do now.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Laurence said.

  ‘Yes, I do. He can say what he likes before we’re married, but once he puts a ring on my finger, he will expect me to be mindful of my responsibilities.’

  ‘I think you’re using the writing as a smokescreen,’ Laurence said bluntly. ‘I think you don’t want to get too close to a man because you’re afraid of falling too deeply in love. I remember how devastated you were when Phillip Chesham left England without asking you to marry him.’

  Victoria blushed, painfully reminded of a childish crush she was just as happy to forget. ‘I wasn’t devastated. I was just...surprised. I thought Phillip cared for me.’

  ‘He did, but he was young, Tory, and he wanted to see the world. You just wanted to get married and settle down. It wasn’t the right time for either of you.’

  No, it wasn’t, Victoria admitted, but while her heart and her pride had been wounded, it was her writing that had suffered the most. Emotionally crippled, she had gone for months without even feeling the desire to write. She wasn’t willing to let that happen again. ‘I agree that falling in love can be destructive to a creative mind,’ she said. ‘But I’m older and wiser now, and I’ve established myself in a career. I want to see how far I can take this and I know a husband would try to restrict my activities.’

  ‘I wouldn’t care if my wife wrote plays,’ Laurie said conversationally. ‘As long as she was happy, I wouldn’t care what she did.’

  ‘Even if she was an actress?’

  Laurence blushed to the roots of his hair. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

 
‘Oh, Laurie, I’ve seen the way you look at Signy Chermonde and how you blush when she speaks to you.’

  ‘I do not blush!’

  ‘I’m afraid you do, dearest. You’ve gone quite pink even now.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Laurence said on a groan. ‘And here I thought I was being so good at concealing my feelings.’

  ‘You forget, I’m your sister. I know you better than most. But you must know that nothing can come of it.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that,’ Laurence said, more than a little put out. ‘She’s taken up with that lecher Lord Collins.’

  ‘That is entirely beside the point. Mama would never allow you to marry an actress,’ Victoria said. ‘You know how she feels about poor Aunt Tandy.’

  ‘All too well,’ Laurence murmured. ‘Speaking of ineligible suitors, Winnie tells me you were monopolising Mr Devlin at the Holcombes’ musicale last night.’

  Victoria could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. ‘I was not monopolising him,’ she retorted. ‘Winnie’s nose is out of joint because I interrupted her conversation with the gentleman and then sent her back to Mama’s side. I dare say she would be even more annoyed if she found out I’d met up with him in the Park this morning.’

  ‘You never did. Was he alone?’

  ‘No. He was with his very pretty and much younger cousin.’

  ‘Are you sure she was his cousin?’

  ‘I did briefly wonder if she might be his mistress,’ Victoria allowed, ‘but once I heard them talking, I realised there was nothing of a lover-like nature between them. She is terribly smitten, however, with Valentine Lawe.’

  ‘She told you that?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and I must admit, I found it very strange to talk about him as though he were a real person. I was informed that he wears a red rose in his lapel, which would only ever be black, and that he has dark hair and quite the most amazing blue eyes anyone has ever seen. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was describing you!’

  ‘Unfortunately, I lack the talent and flair necessary to fit the bill,’ Laurence said drily. ‘I take it you did not encourage Miss Wright to seek out an introduction?’

  ‘As best I could without coming out and saying the man is pure fiction. But I did feel guilty about having to deceive her.’

  ‘What else could you do? Mother would be furious if you’d told Miss Wright the truth, especially in front of Devlin. She hasn’t stopped talking about him since Aunt Tandy let slip that you’d met him at the Gryphon.’ Laurence grinned. ‘He must have been surprised to see you at that time of the morning. Did you exchange pleasantries?’

  ‘A few, but in truth, I spent most of the time listening to Miss Wright go on about Valentine Lawe. I believe Mr Devlin was as amused by her fascination with him as I was.’

  ‘A point of similarity, then.’

  ‘The only one.’ In spite of herself, Victoria felt her cheeks grow even warmer. ‘Mr Devlin and I really have nothing else in common, Laurie. He has no fondness for the theatre, and that would have to make matters difficult for me.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Not all husbands and wives enjoy the same things,’ Laurence said. ‘Our parents don’t have many similar interests, yet they manage to rub along fairly well.’

  ‘Only because Papa is not concerned with his position in life. Mr Devlin has to be and it’s quite likely I would be a terrible embarrassment to him,’ Victoria said. ‘Besides, I’m sure he has his clubs and his politics, and lives as indulgent a life as most other gentlemen in his circle. And he will be Lord Kempton one day and so has to bear in mind the responsibilities and obligations owed to the name. What could he possibly want with a woman who has no desire to be married and who does exactly the opposite of what society expects her to?’

  * * *

  At half past two the following afternoon, Alistair Devlin snapped his pocket watch closed in frustration. He had instructed the estate agent to meet him at Gunninghill House at precisely two o’clock and it was now half an hour beyond that. If the man did not wish to sell the building, he should have just said so.

  ‘Mr Devlin!’ A rotund little man clutching a satchel under his arm came hurrying up the lane towards him. ‘Hedley Brown. Apologies for my tardiness. I was delayed by my last client. Quite forgot he was coming.’

  ‘Never mind, you’re here now. I take it you have brought a key?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, I have it here.’ Mr Brown reached into the satchel and withdrew a key, which he proceeded to insert into the lock. ‘Took me a while to find it. We haven’t had much interest in this old place.’ When the key wouldn’t turn, he pulled it out, brushed off a few flecks of rust and reinserted it. ‘I suspect it will need a bit of work to make it comfortable. Ah, there we are.’ He pushed the door open to reveal a large, empty hall. ‘However, it is a fine house and the price makes it quite attractive for...whatever purposes you have in mind.’

  Alistair stepped across the threshold and gazed around the shadowy hall. No doubt Mr Hedley thought he intended to house his mistress here, though why he would establish a night-time lover at such a distance was anyone’s guess. ‘Lead on, Mr Brown. I am anxious to see more.’

  The agent began the tour on the ground floor, which boasted a dark and rather dingy dining room, a breakfast parlour and what might once have been a library. Climbing the stairs to the first floor, Alistair was shown several good-sized rooms, some with windows that faced the road while others looked out over the badly overgrown gardens. Climbing yet another flight brought them to the bedrooms, each with its own dressing room, any one of which was large enough to accommodate several small beds. Above that were the servants’ rooms and the attics. The kitchen, located below ground, was surprisingly large and well laid out.

  It took fifteen minutes to view the house, less for Alistair to come to the conclusion that it was exactly what he needed. The space was commodious and, while there weren’t sufficient windows, the ceilings were high enough that the space did not feel cramped. Outside, there was plenty of room for vegetable gardens and the fields could be used for play areas. There was even a small pond. Mrs Hutchins would have to keep an eye on the younger children around that, but the older ones could help out. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said.

  Mr Brown stared at him. ‘But we haven’t discussed the price.’

  ‘There is no need. I told you how much I was willing to spend and instructed you to find a house that fell within that range. I assumed when I received your note that you had found such a place.’

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  ‘Then there is nothing to discuss,’ Alistair said, ‘except when I can take possession.’

  ‘Well, I suppose if everything meets with your approval, there is no reason why you may not do so as soon as you wish.’

  ‘Excellent. Have you brought the papers with you?’

  ‘Er...no.’ Mr Brown’s cheeks coloured. ‘I had no idea our business would be concluded so swiftly.’

  ‘Then I shall meet you at your office in precisely two hours. Pray have the papers ready for me at that time.’

  Without waiting for the estate agent’s reply, Alistair headed back in the direction of his phaeton. It always amazed him how some people could make an entire afternoon’s work out of what should have been a simple transaction.

  Still, the main thing was that the house was perfect for what he had in mind. It would take work to make it into what he wanted, but he had accounted for the cost of renovations in his calculations. It was unlikely he would have found anything better. If he had, the price would have been that much higher, or it would have been too far out of London to make it viable.

  No, Gunninghill House would do nicely, Alistair decided, glancing up at the old stone building one last time. It had everything the children needed. For that, he could forgive the less-than-efficient Mr Brown his numerous sh
ortcomings.

  * * *

  Although Victoria preferred dramatic works, she occasionally went to the King’s Theatre for operatic performances. She had been fortunate enough to hear the great Italian soprano, Angelica Catalani, perform some years earlier and remembered it as being one of the few performances where the audience had actually been well behaved. Even the dandies who typically made the evening performances into something of a spectacle had been content to sit and listen to the diva sing.

  Tonight, she and Laurence were to see a production of Tancredi by Rossini before going on to a card party at the home of one of Laurence’s friends. Victoria had heard great things about Fanny Corri, who had been cast in the lead role, and expected it would make for a pleasant change.

  What she had not expected was to see Alistair Devlin and Miss Wright seated in the company of another well-dressed couple in one of the best boxes in the house.

  ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the man was following you,’ Laurence murmured.

  ‘Good thing you know better, then, isn’t it?’ Victoria quickly looked down at the stage. She had no wish to be caught staring at Alistair, but it was hard not to let her eyes drift in that direction. He was like fire on a winter’s night—a source of heat that could burn if one ventured too close.

  The performance began shortly thereafter and was a delight from beginning to end. Miss Corri was exceptional in the role of the heroine, Amenaide, and the mezzo-soprano singing the part of Tancredi had a marvellous voice. Only the gentleman playing Orbazzano fell short of expectation.

  ‘I think he might have been the understudy,’ Laurence said as they made their way out of the box at the end. ‘He certainly wasn’t up to the calibre of the other singers. But Miss Corri was well worth hearing. I suspect there will be a line up outside her door this evening. I wonder if Devlin will be one of them. Rumour has it he’s looking for a new mistress.’

  If either of them thought the nature of the conversation unusual, neither of them said so, perhaps because they had each been exposed to the theatrical world for most of their lives—a place where morals were lax and love and sex interchangeable.