A Lady Never Tells

by Candace Camp

  Rose sighed, frowning. “Then you must not marry him. How could you have a happy marriage without love?”

  “How indeed?” Mary echoed tonelessly.

  There was the sound of voices down the hall, and Mary turned to Rose anxiously. “Please, don’t tell Lily and Camellia.”

  “Of course not. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” Rose patted Mary’s hand.

  “Thank you.”

  “Mary! You’re back!” Her younger sisters entered the room, followed by Charlotte. “Good. We can start looking through Mama’s things. Can Cousin Charlotte join us?”

  “Of course.” Mary smiled at their cousin. “Although you may find it a bit boring.”

  “Oh, no, I think it’s all quite fascinating,” Charlotte assured her. “Mother never told me about Aunt Flora before, but since you arrived, she has said quite a bit. She feels terrible about what happened. At the time, she wouldn’t have defied their father, but she regrets losing her sister.”

  They began to rummage through the trunks, finding mostly old clothes, but also a cloth doll with a china head, somewhat battered, and a miniature tea set with a chipped teapot. There were old composition books, filled with childish notes and essays. The diaries they found were all those of a child, filled with scrawls about lessons, meals, and, primarily, her sisters. Lily read these aloud, adding her own dramatic inflections, as the others rummaged through the trunks, and everyone laughed to hear the accounts of Phrony’s bossiness or Cyn stealing Phyl’s lemon drops or the four girls conspiring to play a trick on their governess.

  “I should hold this over Aunt Euphronia’s head,” Charlotte declared. “The next time she tells me my boys are wild as March hares, I’ll remind her about the frog in Miss Carpenter’s bed.”

  “Oh, look!” Rose brought out a wooden box and opened it. A mirror was attached inside the lid, reflecting the little figures of a man and a woman dressed in clothing from the past century, their hands held up to touch as they dipped toward one another.

  “It’s a music box! How sweet.” Charlotte reached over and wound the key. The figures sprang to jerky life, turning in a minuet.

  “It’s her jewelry box.” Rose set it down and began to take out the objects tucked away in the satin squares—two rings that were too small to fit anyone but a child, several filigree buttons, a couple of pairs of earrings, a glittering brooch shaped like a vase of flowers, a tortoiseshell bracelet, and a pendant portrait of a gentleman in a white wig.

  “Children’s things and paste,” Charlotte said, picking up the brooch and looking at it. “A girl her age would not have had many valuable items, and no doubt she took with her the few she did.” She turned to the portrait on the pendant. “This is the old earl, her father.”

  “How sad.” Rose ran a thumb across the pendant. “She must have been so angry with him she didn’t even want his picture. I wonder if she regretted it later.”

  “Here are some letters.” Camellia pulled a small stack out of another trunk. The letters were bound by a dark green ribbon, which Camellia tugged open. “Lady Cynthia Talbot. They’re all addressed to Aunt Cynthia here at Willowmere.”

  The girls glanced toward Charlotte, who looked puzzled. “My mother? But she told me she never received a letter from Aunt Flora. She said she wished she had known where she was, that she would have offered her help.”

  “They haven’t been opened.” Camellia handed the missives to her.

  Charlotte turned the top letter over, frowning as she examined the unbroken seal and the address. “I suspect Aunt Euphronia or Lord Reginald must have kept them from Mother. I don’t think she would have ignored all these. Perhaps the first one, out of respect for her father. But Mother is much too softhearted not to have even read any of them.” Charlotte thumbed through them, counting. “There are eight. Aunt Flora must have decided then that Mother had cut her off, too. How sad.” She echoed Rose. Charlotte raised her head. “May I take these to my mother? I know she would like very much to see them. I truly don’t think she knew of their existence.”

  “Of course. Take them. They were written to her, after all.” Mary glanced at her sisters for confirmation, and they nodded.

  Charlotte tied the letters again and set them aside as the girls continued with their exploration. Mary opened the last trunk, which was filled primarily with clothes. Lying on the top was a small leather case bound with ribbon. When she untied it, the case folded open to reveal several sheets of paper. She drew in her breath sharply as she looked at the angular writing.

  “Papa! This is Papa’s handwriting.” Quickly she scanned the letter. “He’s asking for our grandfather’s forgiveness. Oh my, this must have cost him dearly.” Tears sparkled in her eyes. “He says that he should bear full responsibility for their elopement, that Mama did not wish to go against her father, but Papa talked her into it. Which is absolutely not true!” Mary added fiercely, looking up at her sisters.

  “Of course it isn’t,” Rose agreed. “Mama said she was furious with her father, and she was determined to elope.”

  “But Papa wants our grandfather to forgive Mama. He talks about his three little girls—Lily, you must not have been born yet—and he says how sorry he is that they will grow up without knowing their family. Listen: ‘I do not ask for your aid. Though our lives are not the sort which Flora and I knew in England, we are too happy to wish for anything other than what we have. My wife, however, feels the loss of paternal love, and I would ask that you write and assure her that your face is not turned against her.’”

  Mary handed the letter to Rose, who read it with Lily and Camellia leaning over her shoulders.

  “It doesn’t say when it’s written—I mean, not the year, only the day and month,” Rose pointed out.

  “I know.” Mary nodded. “The return address is Littleboro, Maryland. I remember living there. Papa opened a school. We moved when I was seven or so.”

  “What else is in there?”

  Mary looked down at the case in her lap. “It’s a letter, several letters, in fact, from someone in Baltimore. He seems to be a solicitor.” She thumbed through them. “He is corresponding with Lord Reginald about a search for Mr. Miles Bascombe. Here he says that he has gone to Littleboro, and he itemizes the expenses he incurred. This is the final letter. It is dated July 10, 1806. He says he cannot locate our father and his family in Littleboro, Maryland, or any of the surrounding towns. ‘I cannot in good conscience,’” Mary read, “‘continue to accept your fees for my services, as I am unable to fulfill your wishes.’”

  Mary looked around at her sisters. It felt as though something had lightened in her chest.

  “Our grandfather was looking for us?” Lily asked.

  “Of course he was!” Charlotte beamed. “I knew he could not have remained stiff and unbending all that time. Grandfather was not a bad man.”

  “But he waited too long to write Papa, and by then we were gone.” Tears pricked at Mary’s eyelids. “He tried to contact us. He wanted to know us.”

  “Maybe he would even have wanted us to come here,” Lily offered.

  Mary nodded. “For the first time, I feel a bit as if we belong here.”

  With a choked noise, Charlotte leaned over to hug Mary. “Of course you do. You have always belonged here.”

  Chapter 21

  Lady Sabrina’s dinner party was two nights later, and the entire group at Willowmere attended. Mary was relieved to learn that Royce and Fritz would be riding their horses. She had spent the better part of two days avoiding Royce, and the last thing she wanted was to be closed up in a carriage with him. She could tell, from the frequent glances Royce sent her way, that he wanted to talk to her again. Mary had little doubt that he intended to again press her to marry him—which was precisely why she made sure to seat herself between two of her sisters every evening in the drawing room after supper.

  Tonight the sisters wore their finest evening dresses, eager to show them off to Lady Sabrina. Lily could hardly si
t still, but kept shifting in her seat and leaning over to twitch aside the carriage curtains and glance outside.

  “Honestly, Lily,” Camellia grumbled the fourth time Lily did so. “It’s too dark to see anything out there anyway.”

  “I know. I keep hoping we’ll see the lights of Halstead House soon. How long do you think it takes to reach it?”

  Charlotte smiled patiently. “It won’t be long, I’m sure.”

  The next time Lily reached over to take a peek, she let out a little squeal. “There it is! It’s grand.”

  The other girls now shot to the windows to get a glimpse. Halstead House, ablaze with lights for its visitors, was indeed a great mansion, almost equal in size to Willowmere and far statelier in appearance—though to Mary’s mind it lacked Willowmere’s more haphazard charm. Made of dark gray stone, it was built in a perfectly symmetrical E, and the lawn in front of it was laid out with the same precision, walkways crossing it in a perfect X, a single walk bisecting it from the curved drive to the front door. Liveried footmen stood on either side of the entrance, and one sprang forward to open the carriage door while the other opened the front door for them, bowing as they passed.

  They were shown by the butler through a grand entry, two stories tall and floored in black and white marble, to an anteroom decorated in cool sea green and white. Lady Sabrina, serene and cool in ice blue, a choker of large white pearls around her neck, awaited them upon a bench in the center of the room. Several feet away stood Lady Vivian, vivid in a dark gold dress that showed off her milk-white shoulders and elegant swanlike neck, chatting animatedly to a slightly stoop-shouldered older gentleman with graying hair.

  Sabrina’s eyes opened wide when Mary and her sisters entered the room. She rose with liquid grace, coming forward to greet them. “My dears, how absolutely lovely you look.” She shook her head as she clasped Mary’s hand between hers, leaning forward confidingly. “Isn’t it amazing what a London frock will do for one?”

  Warmly she greeted the girls by name, then turned to the others. “Charlotte, Fitz, I am so glad you and our dear Vivian were able to come up so soon. And Royce …” She smiled slowly. “I am delighted you decided to join us.” She held out her hand and he bowed over it, then released it, stepping back and turning toward Vivian and the older man as they approached the guests.

  “Sir Royce. Talbot.” The older man shook their hands, his manner reserved.

  “My dear, allow me to introduce you to the earl’s cousins.” Sabrina smiled sweetly at him. She went through the introductions, confirming that he was, as Mary had suspected, Lord Humphrey Carlyle, Sabrina’s husband and Lady Vivian’s uncle. Almost as an afterthought, she turned toward Vivian. “Oh, and, of course, you know Lady Vivian.”

  “Of course.” Vivian swept past Sabrina, smiling brilliantly and giving each of the Bascombes a warm greeting. “It is wonderful to see you again. How very handsome all of you look. You will take London by storm next Season.”

  “You are going to London next year?” Sabrina turned to the sisters in surprise. “Well … how delightful. I am sure that you will handle it just fine. The main thing to remember is not to let the old matrons frighten you. Or at least,” she added with a dimpling smile, “do not let them see you are afraid.”

  “You needn’t worry about that,” Vivian assured her. “I think you’ll find there is little that frightens the Bascombe sisters. In any case, I will be there to help smooth their way. I intend to sponsor them next Season.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. I am planning a ball to introduce them all.”

  “At the duke’s town house?” Sabrina’s smile wavered a fraction.

  “Of course. Only the grand ballroom there would be adequate. It will be the event of the season.”

  “I am sure you know what is best, dear.” Sabrina turned to Mary. “I must confess I found Carlyle Hall quite overwhelming the first time I was there.” She tucked her arm through Mary’s and began to lead her away from Vivian and the others, leaning her head closer to say in a low, confiding voice, “Our dear Vivian, of course, grew up in the house. She does not understand how the rest of us might feel when confronted with such grandeur. Why, even this house has such a grand air that one cannot quite feel at home in it, can one? Willowmere, I fear, must seem the same to you.”

  “Willowmere is rather large,” Mary hedged, for she liked Willowmere. She knew that she probably would have found it more intimidating if she had not first stayed in Stewkesbury House in London. Though Willowmere was larger, it was less formal, from its wayward sprawl of buildings to its friendlier servants, and it had a lived-in feel, with comfortably worn furniture and the marks that showed generations had inhabited the house.

  Mary noticed that the rest of the party had drifted after them and was again grouped around Mary and Sabrina.

  “You must not worry,” Sabrina went on. “I am sure that you will become accustomed to Willowmere. At least Halstead House is not so gloomy as it used to be. I redecorated several rooms, including this one, soon after Lord Humphrey and I were married.”

  “Yes, this room once had a Jacobean carved walnut doorway into the dining room,” Lady Vivian said brightly. “Of course one would wish to get rid of that old thing.”

  Sabrina let out a little chuckle. “I fear Vivian is much attached to the house as it was; she still has not forgiven me for my changes. The doorway was lovely, of course, but so massive and dark.” She turned toward Royce. “You remember it, don’t you, Royce?”

  “I cannot say that I do, my lady.”

  A moment of dead silence followed his terse remark, then Fitz stepped into the conversational breach. “Your renovations are as charming as yourself, Lady Sabrina.”

  Sabrina bestowed her glowing smile on Fitz. Mary, glancing at Fitz, noticed that his return smile did not reach his eyes, and it only then occurred to her that Fitz’s compliment could be taken in an entirely different way. She glanced back at him sharply, but he was already turning away and she could not see his expression. Did Fitz not hold Sabrina in high regard?

  Mary frowned. It was scarcely remarkable that two such attractive women as Sabrina and Vivian, both used to being the center of attention at any gathering, would have some clashes, particularly when they were residing in the same house. But she could not help but wonder why men, especially such flirtatious men as Sir Royce and Fitz, might not like a woman as lovely as Sabrina.

  Lord Humphrey escorted his niece, the highest-ranking woman in the room, into the dining room, which left it to Fitz to offer his arm to Sabrina, and Sir Royce to take in Charlotte. Mary and her sisters trailed along behind them. As they took their seats around the table, Mary noticed that, breaking with the usual ranking, Sir Royce and Fitz had been placed in the midst of the women on either side, the whole group arranged near the head of the long table.

  “I apologize for the unevenness of the table,” Sabrina said. “I tried to think of some unattached gentlemen I could invite to even it out, but I could not. So you must forgive me for setting you two gentlemen amongst us. I could not help but feel it would add to the conviviality.” She turned to smile at Royce, seated on her left. “We all know each other so well, ’tis almost like family, is it not?”

  “A number of us are related to each other,” Royce admitted. “And others are no kin at all.”

  He looked across the table at Mary, and she felt a blush begin to spread along her cheeks. Drat the man! The way he affected her was most annoying. Even now, just looking at him, she could feel the visceral tug of attraction. She remembered his thick hair sliding between her fingers, his hands on her skin, her body surging with pleasure beneath him.

  Mary lowered her eyes to her plate, embarrassed by her physical reaction. Women were not supposed to be this way, were they? To feel such need, to hunger for a man—not for his love, but for his body? She could not help but think that if she agreed to marry him, such pleasure would be hers almost any time she wished. Lovemaking would be san
ctioned; indeed, it would be expected, at least until an heir was born. But she could not marry just for pleasure. A marriage entered into solely for passion would not last; it could not. She knew that ultimately it would not make her happy.

  Talk flowed around her. Fitz and Vivian were both expert conversationalists, and whenever the evening showed signs of flagging, they brought the discussion to life with a bit of gossip or news from London. Mary added little to the conversation, and even Lady Sabrina seemed rather reticent through much of the evening. Mary could see the way Sabrina’s eyes lit up whenever the talk turned to London and the Season, and she remembered the times that Sabrina had mentioned her boredom here in the country. It must be hard for her, Mary thought, married to someone much older than she and mired on this rural estate.

  The dinner seemed interminable. Far more formal than the evening meals served at Willowmere, it went on for course after course. Mary, full after the fish course, the rest of the time just pushed her food around on her plate—though she did note, with a small upsurge of pride, that she knew which utensil to use with every dish.

  It was a relief when Sabrina finally stood up, signaling for the women to leave the men alone with their port. They made their way to what Sabrina called the assembly room, a long chamber with several groupings of chairs and sofas, as well as a large burnished mahogany table in the center.

  “Come, Mary,” Sabrina said, once again linking her arm through Mary’s. “Let us take a stroll around the room.”

  Mary smiled and walked with her along the perimeter of the large room as Vivian and Mary’s sisters seated themselves on a sofa and chairs at one end.

  “I enjoy having a friend again,” Sabrina told Mary with a sweet smile. “Life is lonely here, with no one my age about. It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”