by Anne Gracie
Lady Beatrice’s was not the usual kind of literary society; it was, as Lady Beatrice herself informed any new members, just for fun, and not for dreary intellectual posing and prosing on about—there were plenty of other literary groups for that kind of thing. Lady Beatrice simply offered a good story, read aloud by her nieces, and accompanied by tea and cakes. The tea served was often sherry or wine.
It was particularly popular with older people whose eyesight was fading and who found the small print in a book difficult to read. And anyone who so much as mentioned alliteration, allegories or anything else Lady Beatrice called “clever-clogs show-offery” wasn’t invited back.
Damaris returned from the pottery with barely fifteen minutes to spare. On their mother’s instructions Amos and Henry had insisted on escorting her almost all the way. Damaris had convinced them to leave her a short distance from Mayfair by telling them she’d be in trouble if she was seen with them, that her home was just a step away and she’d be perfectly safe now, thank you.
Ridiculous that they were protecting her from the wiles of Freddy Monkton-Coombes. Almost as ridiculous as imagining Mr. Monkton-Coombes was interested in seducing her.
A line of carriages had formed at the front of the house already. She entered through the kitchen door and hurried up the servants’ stairway.
She slipped into her bedchamber. Daisy was there to meet her. “Gawd, I thought you weren’t never goin’ to get here,” she said. “Quick now, let’s get you presentable.” She helped Damaris out of her outer clothes then handed her a washcloth. “No time for a proper wash today, just a lick and a promise.”
“Daisy, you’re a saint. Thank you.” Damaris dipped the washcloth into the waiting warm water and washed herself quickly.
“Jane’s already in there. She’ll start. Right, let’s get this gown on you.”
“Has Lady Beatrice said anything?”
Daisy shook her head. “Nah, but you’re gonna have to tell ’er soon. Turn ’round and I’ll do you up.”
“I know.” Damaris glanced at Daisy over her shoulder. “Mr. Monkton-Coombes knows.”
“He what? How come? You didn’t tell ’im, did you?”
“Of course not. It was just by chance—he saw me going to work and followed me. He even talked to Mrs. Jenkins, the owner.”
“Bloody ’ell,” Daisy muttered. She tugged the dress to straighten it. “Right, that’s done. Now we’ll just tidy your hair.” She undid the simple knot Damaris always wore for work, brushed her hair out, then twisted it into an elegant plaited coil high on her head. “No time for anything fancy today. So, you reckon Mr. Monkton-Coombes will tell on you to Lady Bea?”
“I don’t know. I hope not.” Damaris glanced at herself in the looking glass. “Daisy, you’re a wonder and a marvel. If you ever decided not to be a mantua maker, you could always find work as a lady’s maid.”
Daisy snorted. “Nah, I been at other women’s beck and call all me life—now I want to do something for meself.”
Damaris glanced at her, a little dismayed. “I hope you don’t think I was treating you like a maid just now, Daisy.”
“Nah, ’course not. This”—she waved her hand at Damaris’s hair and gown—“this is what sisters do for each other. Now, get movin’, or we’ll be late. I don’t want to miss nothing of this story.”
Damaris gave her a swift hug, then the two girls hurried downstairs to the large drawing room. A babble of conversation wafted down the hall toward them. William, the footman, was bringing in some extra chairs; the society was proving more popular each week.
As they entered the room, Lady Beatrice caught their eye and smiled. The room was crowded—there were forty people at least. The old lady gave a signal and Featherby, the butler, rang a little bell. The din started to fade as people ended their conversations and found their seats.
As one by one the audience members were seated, only one man remained standing, a tall, elegant gentleman dressed in a dozen shades of gray: the Honorable Frederick Monkton-Coombes. He stood at the rear of the room, leaning against the mantelpiece, his arms folded, watching her. He made no move to find a chair.
Damaris pretended not to notice him. Threading her way through the crowd, she joined Jane at the front of the room. Now that Abby was on her honeymoon, the reading was left to Jane and Damaris; Daisy had learned to read in the last few months, but she wasn’t up to performing in front of strangers.
Jane smiled as Damaris slipped into the waiting seat. “Just in time,” she murmured. “I’ll go first, shall I? Give you time to gather your thoughts.” She lifted the current book they were reading and a hush fell.
Jane began, “Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. . . .”
Damaris let the words wash over her, unhearing. Had Mr. Monkton-Coombes told Lady Beatrice about their encounter in the street? What would the old lady say about Damaris working in a menial position? Would she be upset? She glanced at Lady Beatrice, who was listening to the story with her eyes closed. Of course she’d be upset—in Lady Bea’s world ladies simply didn’t work. The menial nature of the job would appall her, and besides, she wanted Damaris to have a life of carefree fun.
Once she learned, she’d probably forbid Damaris to return to the pottery. She’d probably want to buy Damaris a cottage, but Damaris couldn’t accept that, not on top of all Lady Beatrice had already done for her, and was planning to do. A London season just for fun.
As the daughter of a missionary, Damaris knew only too well that while charity was a blessing, it could also be a burden. It always came with some kind of obligation, explicit or implicit. She’d spent her whole life either giving or receiving charity, mostly at the same time; living on other people’s charity so that she and her father could help the children at the mission. Her mother’s money had run out by the time Damaris turned fifteen.
For once in her life she wanted to be free to make her own choices. To be answerable to no one.
She had to stop Mr. Monkton-Coombes from telling Lady Bea.
Damaris glanced across the room to where he still lounged against the wall, the only person in the room still standing. She had a clear view of him. And he of her. He was frowning, but he wasn’t looking at her. She followed his gaze but couldn’t work out who or what had disturbed him. Everyone in the audience seemed to be listening attentively to Jane.
Perhaps he was just staring blankly; people often did that when they were listening to a story, lost in the world of the book. Or lost in thought. She hoped he wasn’t thinking about whether to tell Lady Beatrice about her.
“‘. . . she could not but flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them forward to the great event.’” A short silence fell. Jane, having finished the chapter, passed the book to Damaris, and a buzz of conversation rose.
Damaris hesitated. Should she approach Mr. Monkton-Coombes now and speak to him? There would be a short break now for everyone’s refreshments to be replenished—people liked to listen while they sipped tea or sherry or nibbled pensively on a cake or an almond wafer—and then it would be Damaris’s turn to read.
But what if he argued? It would only draw attention to them, and she didn’t wish that. London society was hungry for gossip of even the mildest sort.
He straightened and stepped away from the wall he’d been lounging against. Damaris rose from her seat, clutching the book to her chest. If he tried to approach Lady Beatrice, she would intercept him, distract him somehow. She had no choice.
• • •
Freddy was intrigued. Damaris had kept glancing at him on and off throughout the reading session. Clearly she wanted to talk to him. He headed toward her, but he’d taken a mere h
alf dozen steps when—“Mr. Monkton-Coombes, the very man I wanted to talk to.” An elderly female claw hooked him from the crowd. “You know my great-niece Hermione, don’t you? Hermione Fullerton-Smith?”
Freddy did, much to his regret. One of the Lincolnshire Fullerton-Smiths and a muffin of the highest order. “How d’ye do, Miss Fullerton-Smith?” he muttered, casting a frustrated glance across the room to where Blenkinsop, a fellow he’d been to school with, was oozing flowery compliments over Damaris.
Dammit, Blenkinsop was exactly the sort of fellow Max would expect Freddy to protect the girls from.
She turned her head, caught his eye and gave him an unreadable look.
At his elbow, the dowager tightened her grip.
“What a lovely surprise,” Miss Fullerton-Smith murmured with a coy smile. “I didn’t expect to see you until the house party. I’m so looking forward to it. And”—she walked her fingers playfully up his arm—“to getting better acquainted with you.” It left him cold. Colder than cold.
He stepped back, ostensibly to let a footman bearing a tray through. “I’m afraid I don’t know which house party you mean. And I doubt very much if I’ll be there.”
She gave a tinkling laugh. “Well, of course you do, and you’re being very naughty. Mama and I have been assured by your dear mama you’ll be there.”
Freddy almost snorted. His mother knew nothing of his social engagements. And wherever this house party was, if the Armthwaite muffins, Miss Blee and now the Fullerton-Smiths were attending, he planned to be as far away from it as possible. Somewhere like France. Or Russia.
A silvery bell rang out. Immediately people began to resume their seats. Freddy took his leave of Miss Fullerton-Smith and her great-aunt and retreated to the opposite side of the room.
Damaris raised her book, preparing to read. The room fell silent. Freddy found another wall to lean against and retired to glower at Blenkinsop and listen to Damaris’s beautiful voice reading.
The wretched story continued. These girls seemed to have an endless supply of stories about women whose sole aim in life was to find rich husbands. Ghastly stuff. Who’d write a book about muffins?
• • •
“Another chilly morning, Miss Chance.”
Damaris, who’d just let herself out of the back gate, jumped as the deep voice came out of the swirling fog. “Mr. Monkton-Coombes?” She didn’t even try to hide her surprise. It wasn’t quite dawn. He was clearly waiting for her. “What on earth are you doing here?” Again.
“Escorting you to work.”
“I don’t need an escort, thank you. I’m perfectly all right by myself.”
“I’m not going to argue. I made a promise to Max I’d look after you girls and I mean to keep it. It’s to stop Abby worrying,” he added, hoping it would mollify her. He presented his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, she took it.
“You don’t need to worry,” she said as they turned a corner. “I know this area. I used to work at the pottery before . . . before we came to live with Lady Beatrice.”
“You worked here before?” It was the first he’d heard of anything she’d done before she came to live with Lady Beatrice. Her background—all the girls’ backgrounds—was shrouded in mystery. He knew there was something shady about them, that they weren’t really Lady Beatrice’s nieces, but Max had been pretty closemouthed about it all, and as far as most people knew they were the offspring of a Venetian marchese called Chancealotto. Who had been made up by Lady Beatrice.
“Yes, and I’m working here again.”
He wondered what had made a gently raised girl seek work in a pottery in the first place but he could see from the set of her chin that she wasn’t going to explain.
“You’re sure you’re not in trouble from gambling or some such thing?”
“No. I told you before, I don’t gamble.”
“But there must be some urgency,” he persisted. “After all, in a few months you’ll be having your season and next thing you know, you’ll be married and your future will be secure.”
He felt her shiver. “Are you cold?”
“No.”
He glanced at her gray cloak. It was thin and rather threadbare. “You shivered.”
“I’m not cold.”
She didn’t look cold. Her cheeks were quite rosy.
“And I won’t be getting married.”
“Nonsense, of course—”
“I should have said, I don’t want to get married.”
“You don’t want to get married?” He swung around to stare at her, then shook his head. “Nonsense. All girls want to get married.”
“Not all girls.” They moved on.
“Every girl I ever met did. And does.”
“Some girls marry because they want to, because they’ve found the man they want to go through life with, but most marry because they have no other choice. A single woman has very few options in this world, so for many women it’s a compromise. They marry for security, for wealth or position, and the chance of children—the man is almost immaterial.”
Freddy’s mouth tightened. Didn’t he know it? The muffins his mother kept hurling at him wanted him for exactly those reasons—and the fortune, lands and title that would come to him after his father’s death. Freddy himself was immaterial; a means to an end.
She continued, “A few girls are lucky enough to be given the choice, to marry if they want or to remain single: They’re the women with money of their own.”
They walked on a few blocks in silence. A small boy swept some horse dung out of their way as they crossed the street. Damaris nodded at the child and gave Freddy an expectant look. He fished for a coin and flicked threepence to the urchin, who caught it in a grubby fist, saying, “Fanks, pretty lady,” with a gap-toothed grin. She gave him a warm smile.
“Don’t you want children?” Freddy asked.
Her smile faded. “One can’t have everything in life,” she said quietly and picked up her pace.
“You can’t possibly prefer a life of drudgery, working in a pottery for a pittance, to marriage to some wealthy member of the ton.”
“Can’t I?”
“No, it doesn’t—”
She turned on him. “Why all the questions? It’s none of your business what I do with my life, never mind the hypocrisy.”
“Hypocrisy?”
“You’re famous for your aversion to marriage and yet you have the cheek to criticize me for mine.”
“I wasn’t criticizing,” he said, stung.
“No?” She gave a huff of disbelief and walked ahead, hugging her cloak more tightly around her. “And before you ask, yes, Lady Beatrice knows I don’t want to marry.”
“And?”
“She accepts it, but she wants me to have my come-out anyway. For fun, she says.”
Very sensible, Freddy thought. The old lady obviously didn’t believe her, either. Damaris was still young, nineteen or so—too young to be making such a momentous decision. She’d no doubt change her mind. And even if she didn’t . . .
“Even if you don’t choose to marry, there’s still no need to work at this kind of job. There are other alternatives for you, surely, more genteel positions than working in a noisome back alley.”
“I like painting china.”
“You could paint china and still be comfortable working as a—as a lady’s companion, for example.”
She gave a kind of snort through elegantly flared nostrils.
“What’s wrong with being a lady’s companion? Lady Beatrice would gladly employ y—”
“Lady Beatrice is too kind and generous for her own good, which is why I will not sponge off her indefinitely. Do you think that’s what I want? To take and take and give nothing in return?” She rounded on him suddenly. “Why don’t you want to get married?”
; “What? None of your b—”
She smiled. “Exactly. And yet marriage offers you so much: a wife to run your home and do your bidding—”
Freddy snorted. “Do my bidding? You don’t know much about wives if that’s what you think.”
“A companion, children—isn’t it your duty to produce an heir to continue the family name? What do they say, ‘an heir and a spare’?”
Freddy loathed the expression.
“Or is it women you have an aversion to? I know some men—”
“I do not have an aversion to women!”
“Well then, why don’t you want to marry?”
Nettled, Freddy stared at her in frustrated silence.
She gave a little grin. “See? Not so much fun when you get a taste of your own medicine, is it?” She took a few steps, then seemed to reconsider. “You’re going to tell Lady Beatrice about me, aren’t you?”
He wasn’t, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. He shrugged. They walked on a little.
She said abruptly, “Have you ever had nothing, Mr. Monkton-Coombes?”
He frowned. “In what sense?”
“In any sense. Have you ever had nothing, owned nothing, not so much as a penny to your name?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, I have—several times in my life—so don’t talk to me about ‘need.’ You look at me and see a girl who’s well fed, well dressed, comfortably housed and elegantly shod.”
He couldn’t help but glance at the boots she was wearing. They were damn ugly and far too heavy for her.
“Not these. I can’t very well tread the filthy backstreets of London in dainty slippers, can I? Especially not with the weather we’ve been having,” she said impatiently. “I mean in general, I appear to have everything I could ever want.”
He nodded.
“And you know from whom all this abundance comes, don’t you?”
“Lady Beatrice and Max.”
“Exactly—and don’t misunderstand, I love Lady Beatrice dearly and am deeply grateful for her generosity and that of her nephew—but what if, for some reason, Lady Beatrice or Lord Davenham turned against me? Where would I be then?”