by Justine Cole
"I've been waiting patiently, hoping that, if I kept silent long enough, I'd be able to discover what the devil is going on," Simon interjected. "Neither of you, however, seems to want to tell me. Now, by God, I'll have some answers." His eyes were the color of pewter as he advanced on the women.
"Don't growl so, Simon. The whole thing is a frightful misunderstanding. Now, let's go into the drawing room, where we can unravel all this privately."
She swept the two of them ahead of her into the magnificent gold and ivory room and then, closing the doors firmly, began.
"The morning after Noelle's arrival, Violet Finch came to me all in a flutter because she had heard from Letty how Noelle was dressed in London and had concluded that I was sheltering a harlot. Simon, you know what a sanctimonious snob she has always been. You also know she is probably the best cook in England and that, at one time or another, practically every member of the ton has tried to steal her from me.
"When Benjamin was alive, I didn't worry about losing her. She was totally devoted to him, which, I might add, frequently caused him a great deal of distress." She smiled softly at the memory.
"Will you get on with it?" Simon barked impatiently.
Constance looked at him reproachfully but continued her story. "Since Benjamin's death, several ladies of quality have resumed their pursuit of my cook—among them, the Duchess of Alls worth, who is a frightful old curmudgeon and, in my opinion, the worst of the lot. To top it, she will insist on wearing puce."
Simon cleared his throat in a manner that Constance could only interpret as ominous.
"At any rate," she hastened, "I have no intention of losing her to anyone, so, when Mrs. Finch was so outraged at Noelle's presence in the house, I thought it only sensible to play on her sympathies.
"After assuring her that Noelle was not a harlot, I proceeded to 'cast myself on her tender mercies,' as I believe I put it." Constance smiled. "She rather liked that. I then painted Noelle as poor and ignorant—a person with no advantages. This, of course, is what Noelle overheard. I led Mrs. Finch to the conclusion that she and I, as women of good conscience, could do nothing else but clasp her to our bosoms, so to speak, in the spirit of charity."
Turning to Noelle, she was suddenly serious. She cared deeply about this child and regretted inflicting such pain. "I'm sorry, my dear. It was certainly a less than noble thing to do, but I confess a dreadful weakness for properly prepared food. If the truth be known, I attached no importance to the encounter at all. If I had, I would certainly have discussed it with you."
Noelle knew that Constance spoke the truth. Her own prejudices against the privileged classes had been her greatest enemy, not this woman.
"I'm so ashamed," she murmured. "You should have thrown me out weeks ago."
Constance laughed in relief. "Not for the world! For the first time in months I haven't awakened in the morning trying to decide how to fill the hours until bedtime. Just wondering what trick you'd pull at the dinner table was enough to keep me amused for half a day."
Noelle looked at the older woman in amazement. "How can you smile about it? What I did was horrible."
"Absolutely," Constance agreed cheerfully, her green eyes dancing. "Several times I would have happily strangled you. Why, the first time you picked up your soup bowl and drank from it, I feared I should have a spasm."
At the sight of Constance's features alight with amusement, Noelle's admiration for her blossomed into full flower. "You are a remarkable woman, Mrs. Peale. I've greatly misjudged you."
Constance waved a hand in elegant dismissal. "I'll hear no more of it. We were both in the wrong. Now, I don't know about either of you, but I am in dire need of a cup of tea."
She rang a small silver bell, then settled herself on the settee, pulling Noelle down beside her. "Now, tell me, Noelle, what would you like to read after you've finished Robinson Crusoe?"
Although Noelle knew how unlikely it was that she would have access to the books she yearned to discover, she pondered Constance's question seriously. "Molière's plays, I think."
The two women were soon engrossed in conversation. The arrival of the maid compelled them to slow down, but when their cups were filled, they began anew, Noelle bombarding Constance with questions about the books in Benjamin's library and Constance dancing from one answer to the next.
Simon stood forgotten in the corner of the room. Although it was still morning, he poured himself a large brandy and sat down to wait them out, studying the two women as he lit his pipe. Constance's elaborate auburn curls rested near Noelle's shorn locks. So tall and proud, she reminded him of a young lioness. Perhaps, just perhaps, his gamble would pay off. If only she weren't so unattractive, for she certainly had the spirit to ensnare his wild son.
Caution, Simon, he warned himself. She still has to be convinced to stay. His pipe had gone out. He relighted it, the smoke clouding around his handsome head as he spoke. "Noelle, your stiff-necked pride almost ruined your chance for a good life. Are you going to let it happen again?"
Although Noelle had been absorbed in her conversation with Constance, she knew instantly what he meant. "Mr. Copeland, I can't take charity from either of you. You must understand that all I've really ever had is my pride."
"Rubbish! How can it be charity? In the past weeks I have interviewed that fool, Tom Sully, as well as consulted with several barristers. There is nothing I can do to terminate your marriage." Unvoiced was the knowledge that there was nothing he would do, even if he could. "Whether you like it or not, you are legally married to my son, so it can hardly be called charity."
Noelle shook her head stubbornly. "I have taken care of myself since I was ten, and I will keep on." She tried to make them understand. "When you don't have food or clothing or even a clean body, other things become important, like courage, pride."
"You talk of pride," Simon countered, advancing on her. "What of mine? Am I not permitted to care for my own son's wife?"
This was an argument Noelle understood. There was no way a man like Simon Copeland could back away from what he perceived as his responsibility. His pride was as fierce as hers.
Rising from her place beside Constance, she lifted her chin with determination. "There is something you should know, Mr. Copeland. My feelings toward your son have not changed. If anything, they are even stronger. I hate him, and I am going to make him pay for what he did to me. I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I will make him pay."
"Fair warning," Simon said easily, "but it does not change my mind in the least. You are my responsibility now, and I will provide for you." He began closing the distance between them.
Impulsively Noelle darted a quick hand under the hem of her skirt and pulled out the knife, pointing its blade within inches of Simon's chest. Behind her, Constance gasped in alarm. Simon's face paled.
"This is the kind of woman I am, Mr. Copeland. The kind of woman you want Mrs. Peale to take into her home. I've been wearing this on my body since I arrived. I stole it from your kitchen because your son took mine. It didn't bother me a bit to steal your knife. I felt it was due me." She lowered the weapon to her side. "But what you're offering, I didn't earn, and I don't take what I haven't earned."
"All right, then! You can God damn well earn it," Simon roared, his face a mask of fury. "You will stay here with Mrs. Peale for a year. More, if need be. Then you will take your place in London as my niece and my hostess. I will pay you a generous salary, but out of that, you must give Mrs. Peale a monthly sum to cover your expenses with her. You must also pay for your own clothing, and, I warn you, I expect you to dress as well as any woman in London. By the end of one year you must be well versed in literature, history, and current events. You must know how to dress, pour tea, and engage in polite conversation. And, by God, if you can't do all of those things by the time the year is up, I'll throw you back on the streets and have every constable in London watching you, waiting for you to dip your hands into a pocket! Now, does that satisfy your d
amnable pride?"
The room fell silent as the two glared at each other. Constance held her breath. Noelle looked so enraged that Constance waited with horror-stricken certainty for the moment when the girl would again raise the knife that was clenched at her side.
There was the muffled sound of a pot banging from far below in the kitchen . . . a branch brushing against the window pane . . . then Noelle threw back her head and laughed so merrily that Constance closed her eyes and released a long sigh.
"It satisfies my pride very well indeed, Mr. Copeland. I am delighted to accept your offer."
Turning her back on Simon, she walked over to Constance and knelt on the floor in front of her. "Will you have me for a year, Mrs. Peale, and continue to teach me?"
"I shall be delighted, my dear." Constance reached out a gentle hand and tenderly brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen across Noelle's thin face. "Provided, of course, that you call me Constance and stop wearing that villainous weapon on your body. I vow, Noelle, you shortened my life by at least a year when you pointed it at Simon." Constance shuddered at the memory.
Noelle grinned mischievously. "A most sensible suggestion. You know how bad-tempered I become when you nag at me about my printing. I might forget myself and pull it on you."
Constance's expression of disapproval was somewhat marred by the twinkling in her green eyes. "I will excuse you now to go to your room and put it away. Otherwise, I shan't be able to eat a bite of dinner, and Mrs. Finch has prepared a walnut cake."
Noelle nodded and, with a smile for both of them, tripped from the room.
Simon slammed a triumphant fist into the palm of his hand. "What a wife she's going to make for Quinn! Hire a tutor for her right away. And see that your dressmaker comes soon, Connie. I don't want Noelle in those rags any longer. Soft colors, I think, and not too many flounces. She doesn't need them. And, for God's sakes, do something about that hair!"
Constance shot up from her seat. "You are overstepping yourself, Simon. Do not dictate to me. When I agreed to take Noelle, it was with the clear understanding that you would not interfere."
"Interfere? Is that what you call it?"
There was such outraged innocence on his face that Constance would have been amused if she had not been so annoyed with his overbearing manner. "You were to give me a free hand," she reminded him coldly, "and not interfere with my decisions. Yet here you are dictating her wardrobe, her tutoring . . ."
"Dammit, Constance!"
"And you watch that vulgar tongue of yours in my presence," she snapped.
"So I'm vulgar, am I?"
With all their old hostilities biting at him, he stormed across the room toward her. For a brief moment she thought he was going to topple her, but he stopped just inches away.
"The way I see it, you're damned lucky I showed up when I did. We could have lost her after that fool thing you did with Finch. You know, after seeing you with her, I'm beginning to wonder just where your loyalties do lie. I asked you to keep Noelle here so that she and Quinn could be reunited one day, but from what I've just seen, I wonder if Noelle doesn't come first in your loyalties, with Quinn a poor second. Or maybe you just want her here to relieve your boredom."
"That's not true, and you know it. Nothing would make me happier than to see Quinn and Noelle together, but I don't want to have it happen on your terms, without her knowledge. She is a human being and deserves to have a choice."
"Are you saying you are going to go back on your word and tell her my plan?" His voice was low and threatening. "Because if that is what you mean to do, you're going to have that girl's future on your conscience for the rest of your life. Do you think she would stay here for one moment under those circumstances?"
Constance felt some of her anger begin to drain away. Wearily she dropped into the small chair next to the window.
"No." She shook her head. "Of course she wouldn't stay."
The room became very quiet. Something stirred inside Simon. She looked so fragile and unhappy, not at all like the self-sufficient woman he was used to seeing. Suddenly he felt like an overbearing bully.
"What do you plan to do, Constance?" he finally asked softly. "The deck is stacked, and it's all in your favor. It looks like it's your game."
Then he went to her and gently put his hand under her chin. Tilting it up, he looked at her almost tenderly. "Don't back out on me now, Connie."
Constance felt a tremor pass through her body. His lips were so close. Would they taste sweet? Her body filled with a longing fora more intimate touch. It yearned to mold naked to his, pliable and yielding. She envisioned him caressing her, burying his lips at her throat, moving them down to her breasts. The frenzy of his touch as she opened herself . . .
"Connie, are you all right?"
She plummeted back to reality to see the concern on his face. Sweet Christ! What was happening to her?
"Of course I am." Angrily she slapped his hand away and pushed herself past him toward the door. "I don't want Noelle to know there is anything wrong, so I will expect you to dine with us at one o'clock, but I want you out of this house immediately afterward. I will let you know what I plan to do before you leave."
As she put her hand on the knob his voice taunted, "You're a cold fish, Connie."
In her room, Noelle stowed the knife under some petticoats in her bureau. As she shut the drawer her thoughts were spinning, a jumble of ideas, feelings, misgivings. It had been an extraordinary morning.
Tossing herself down on her bed, she rested her elbow atop the smooth mahogany cylinder that made up the headboard and tried to imagine what the next year would bring. Doubts plagued her. Was she going to be able to learn all Simon expected of her in so short a time? Although she did not take his threat to toss her back on the streets seriously, she still knew she could not allow herself to fail. She would earn every farthing of the salary he was going to pay her. If she were to become his hostess, she would be the best hostess in London!
For the first time since the night she had been violated, her dream of revenge seemed more than a shadowy specter. The odds had abruptly shifted, and a ragged little pickpocket setting herself against a rich and powerful man no longer seemed such a patent absurdity.
Except it wasn't really the little pickpocket who would even the score! Instead, it would be a sophisticated, educated woman made deadly by possessing the same knowledge that had enabled the pickpocket to survive for so long on London's brutal streets!
She jumped up from her bed. It was nearly time to dine, and her dress was hopelessly crumpled. She certainly couldn't appear in the dining room like this.
The hallway clock chimed one as, her face washed and her hair combed, she reached the bottom of the stairs. Constance was speaking to Simon outside the dining room doors. ". . . for me, I'm not pleased about it, but I see no other way."
Noelle noticed that Simon was stiff.
"You won't regret it, Connie. I promise you that."
"Don't make promises over which you have no control, Simon."
She seemed about to say more, but then she caught sight of Noelle. "Hello, dear. Mrs. Finch has really outdone herself this afternoon." Linking her arm in Noelle's, she began a stream of conversation so amusing that Noelle soon forgot the puzzling exchange she had overheard.
Chapter Ten
Constance did not immediately call in her dressmaker. Instead, she quietly purchased some lacy caps and several simple cotton frocks to replace the unattractive dresses Noelle had been wearing. With each new day Constance could detect marked changes in Noelle's features, and now she intended to give the girl's frail body a chance to heal itself before she properly outfitted her.
The time passed pleasantly. They continued to have their lessons in the morning; in the afternoons, Noelle napped and walked. Throughout the day she consumed generous quantities of the nourishing food Mrs. Finch thrust upon her, eating with such relish that the cook soon forgot she had ever been opposed to the young girl's pr
esence in the house.
Noelle and Constance spent each evening relaxing after dinner over thimbles of sherry. Constance told Noelle about her girlhood, her education, and even the loneliness she felt after her husband's death, and Noelle spoke about her mother. She could not tell it all —it was buried too deeply—but she sensed Constance understood much of what was left unsaid.
Every evening Letty came to her room and brushed her hair. The lamplight began to pick up warm, golden-brown strands growing from the healthy scalp. With repeated washings, and the help of Letty's silver scissors, the bright carrot hues were becoming less and less noticeable.
Noelle's eighteenth birthday came and went. She received a beautifully bound copy of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice from Constance and, from Simon, a gold locket with a note expressing his regrets at not being able to be with her.
The days grew warmer, and Noelle found herself napping less frequently as her body gained strength. One warm June afternoon she was in the garden enjoying her new book when Constance came out to join her, a shawl dangling from her ringed fingers.
"Put this around your shoulders, dear. I don't want you to get chilled."
Noelle took the shawl and looked fondly at Constance. "You spoil me, you know."
"Posh! I enjoy taking care of you." She reached out her hand and lightly stroked Noelle's cheek. "Have you looked at yourself lately in the mirror?"
"I don't like mirrors very much."
"Perhaps you should give them another chance." Constance smiled cryptically.
That night, Constance's curious statement came back to Noelle as she was preparing for bed. Impulsively she stepped over to the mirror she had been so studiously avoiding.
It was as if she saw a stranger.
First to catch her attention were her eyes. No longer dimmed by poverty, no longer obliterated by great purple shadows, they almost leapt from her face—beautiful, bright, tawny as sparkling topazes in her clear, smooth skin. She lifted her hand in wonderment and gently slid the tip of her finger along the dainty curve of her jaw. She tilted her head to the side and stroked her cheek and the smooth expanse of her forehead. Her face was still thin, but now it was the thinness of bone structure, not of poverty. Yes, there were still a few pale mauve shadows. In places, the skin seemed stretched too tightly. But, dear God, the difference! Delicately carved, finely molded, the face in the mirror stood, incredibly, on the threshold of great beauty.