Gorgeous As Sin

by Susan Johnson

  Softly swearing, he continued his ascent and entered the house through the library. A few minutes later, he left word of his destination for his mother, and after a quick detour to Grey’s, he rode out to Mertenside for the afternoon.

  He needed peace and quiet.

  He needed to think.

  Chapter 31

  ARE YOU MAD? Why would I go to a Thompson lecture? ”

  “Because Dr. Maud Warren is giving the rebuttal,” Sofia said, leaning against Rosalind’s counter and smiling at her. “Maud’s new research disputes all of old Thompson’s outdated theories about women’s inferiority. It should be exciting; the hall will be packed with women.”

  “I’m not sure I need that kind of excitement; the police will be there in force.” The police presence at events such as this was meant to intimidate.

  “We can sit in the back and leave if things get out of control. Say you’ll come. Violet and Christina will be there. We should lend them our support.”

  The two young ladies were just beginning their college careers, having received scholarships at Girton College, Cambridge, thanks to Rosalind’s training sessions. “If they’re going to be there,” Rosalind murmured, “perhaps we should go.” Her Saturday night lectures were about inspiration and change after all.

  “We’ll come home directly after. I’ll have you back by ten at the latest.”

  “Good. It’s been a busy day.” Rosalind smiled. “Although, I do adore Maud Warren’s poise in the face of ranting, self-righteous men like Thompson. It should be amusing.”

  “Absolutely. Thompson always begins shouting when his theories are disputed, as if the louder his voice, the more persuasive his argument will be. If nothing else, Thompson’s temperamental sideshow will help take your mind off Fitz,” Sofia kindly observed, aware of Rosalind’s dreams last night, not to mention having heard the full litany of Fitz’s transgressions at dinner.

  “I’m not sure anything will take my mind off Fitz.” Despite every effort to resist, she thought of him constantly. “It’s stupid, I know. I’m probably the five hundredth woman who’s passed through his life, and none of us has left so much as a ripple on his psyche.”

  “You never know,” Sofia replied, although she was careful not to say more. Fitz wasn’t exactly known for his permanent attachments. His note may have been nothing more than a seduction ploy.

  “Oh yes, I do,” Rosalind firmly said, her pragmatism coming to the fore once again. “I’m not his style if he even has one, which isn’t altogether certain since he amuses himself with women of every age, rank, and description. And he’s not my style by any stretch of the imagination”-she grimaced-“his obvious and impressive charms aside, of course.”

  “Darling, look, if nothing else, your thoughts will be diverted for a few hours at least.” Fitz’s impressive charms were too much in demand for her to offer Rosalind any false hope. “And we’ll also learn something about Maud’s new research. Apparently, female test scores at the universities have been exceeding men’s in every discipline.”

  Rosalind chuckled. “I could have told them that, although it’s wonderful that Maud has evidence to document the fact. Have you ever thought about going to university? ”

  Sofia shook her head. “Not when I’m making so much money with my painting.”

  “Once my finances are in a better state, I just might apply.”

  “Good. You spent too many years taking care of Edward. It’s about time you thought of yourself.” And if Fitz enters your life again, you’ll have someone to pay your university fees.

  “My thoughts exactly.” Along with reminding herself to stop her useless brooding about Fitz.

  “I’ll be here at six. We’ll have a quick supper at the tea shop on the corner before we walk to the hall.” Crossing her fingers behind the screen of her skirts, Sofia smiled and said, “I don’t think you’ll be sorry you went.”

  Chapter 32

  THE LECTURE WAS by turns irritating, amusing, and inspiring.

  Thompson spoke first, offering his conventional lecture on women’s role as ordained by God-that of a woman who can sing, dance, draw, walk well into a room, and be the pride of her parents and husband. As a physician and a man of science he also considered it his mission to bring the light of scientific objectivity to the Woman Question. A vast body of research, chiefly of brain weights, head sizes, and facial proportions, proved, he asserted, that women were much lower on the evolutionary scale than men and the differences between the sexes could be expected to widen even further as man evolved and specialized. According to Thompson, the more primitive female role concentrated on her animal function of reproduction, and the controlling influence of the ovaries on every aspect of a woman’s life, was evident in a full range of diseases from irritability to insanity. He spitefully added that the influence of the ovaries over the mind was particularly on display in woman’s artfulness and dissimulation.

  After reciting his lengthy list of diseases to which women were prone due to the fact that the Almighty, in creating the female sex, had taken the uterus and built up a woman around it, Thompson concluded that the inequality of the sexes would only increase with the progress of civilization. He urged women to avoid too much reading or mental stimulation or they would risk permanent damage to their reproductive organs and in consequence the grand purpose of their lives: motherhood.

  When he finished, he was roundly cheered by his proponents in the audience.

  Coming to the podium to a chorus of boos, Maud Warren calmly waited for the catcalls to subside before speaking. She began by suggesting that it might be possible to view doctors’ determination to elaborate the nature of woman, the sources of her frailty, and the biological limits of her social role with a touch of cynicism since this newly discovered ill-health among women was scarcely imagined a hundred years ago. The increased attention to women and their ovaries (or at least those of more affluent women) could instead be the result of doctors functioning as businessman. The vague and all-inclusive symptoms supposedly originating in the ovaries had created a very lucrative new field of medicine.

  In practice, Maud pointed out, the same doctors who zealously espoused the ills of wealthy, delicate women had no time to spare for the poor. Someone had to be well enough to do the work, and working-class women, according to these doctors, were not invalids of their ovaries. A very convenient logic, she noted.

  The theory of innate female illness predicated on diseased ovaries was skewed to account for class differences with reference to ability to pay, she suggested. Since poor women couldn’t pay for medical care, they were miraculously immune from the popular medical and evolutionary opinions.

  Maud thoroughly rejected the sickly model of femininity and offered statistics showing how many women were beginning to carve out activist roles for themselves in society. These new women of robust health and independence were entering the universities in great numbers despite various popular manifestos warning that higher education caused women’s uteruses to atrophy, induced women to insanity, and precipitously lowered the birth rate among college-trained women. She contrasted the thundering warnings of dire consequences to society by offering evidence of women’s significant achievements in colleges and universities, and by so doing, managed to make Thompson apoplectic.

  He thundered at her, accusing her of undermining the family and the God-given role of women. He fulminated against the women’s movement that was sapping culture of its strength and destroying all those tender qualities of mind and disposition that make women so noble and admired.

  When Thompson and his cohorts ceased their shouting, Maud quietly explained that the Woman Question was not in the end up to men to answer. It was a question of what women want and need and how best they can achieve their goals.

  Ultimately, it was about equality between the sexes.

  As the hall erupted in opposition cheers and jeers, with a wave to Violet and Christina who were enjoying the confrontation, Rosalind
and Sofia slipped out into the summer night.

  “I prefer not waiting until the police start arresting people,” Rosalind explained as they exited the hall. “Although Maud is always so composed. I don’t know how she does it. Thompson, in contrast, looks like a lunatic.”

  “I agree. I wish I could behave with as much maturity. My temper’s fierce.”

  “I’m not sure I’m inclined to admit a failing after Maud’s invigorating lecture, but if I were, my temper could be better controlled, too.” Rosalind smiled. “Not that I’m in the mood for anything but assertive opinions at the moment. Maud’s inspiring.”

  “For all her achievements-don’t forget she has a good marriage, a fine family, and a profession,” Sofia observed, concerned Rosalind might be in an overly militant frame of mind to face a possible visitor at home.

  “Maud’s lucky.”

  “She works hard to balance her priorities.”

  “I know, I know-it’s not all luck. She’s an amazing person.”

  The night was balmy, the streets still bustling with pedestrians and traffic now that the sultry heat of the day had dissipated.

  When they reached the bookshop, Rosalind asked, “Would you like to come up for tea? We can continue singing Maud’s praises over a cuppa.” She grinned. “That lovely purple tinge on Thompson’s face is etched in my memory.”

  “And mine. The old goat is unbalanced. But it’s getting late,” Sofia noted. “So thanks for the invitation, but I think I’ll go home.” She had her instructions. “I might bring over my new hollyhock painting tomorrow and hang it in the gallery, though.”

  “I’ll make room for it in the morning. Speaking of flowers”-Rosalind sniffed the air-“do you smell roses? ”

  “No,” Sofia lied. “You’re probably smelling my perfume.”

  “Ah, no doubt,” Rosalind murmured.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sofia hastily remarked, not wishing to be caught in the middle of Fitz’s enterprise. “It won’t be too early; Lyla’s coming over with my new canvas.” After a quick wave, she hurried away.

  But the moment Rosalind entered her apartment, the intense scent of roses overwhelmed her. Turning on the light, she took off her straw bonnet and scanned the small parlor. Nothing was amiss. Discarding her hat, she moved through the room, walked into her bedroom, and followed her nose to the open windows, where the sweet fragrance was pungent in the air.

  The moon was partially obscured by clouds or the haze that hung over the city in the summer. But even through the dimness and shadow, the contours and shapes in her small yard and garden looked different. As was the heady scent of roses and the faint outlines of a fountain that hadn’t been there when she left! Along with the sound of running water!

  Her heart racing, she dashed back through her apartment, took the stairs at a run, and throwing the back door open, stood transfixed on the threshold as her backyard was suddenly flooded with light. Hundreds of fairy lights illuminated the garden, the twinkling bulbs twined through her small hawthorn tree, strung in graceful loops on the buildings rimming the garden, corded through low boxwood borders, offering up a dazzling spectacle of winding paths, symmetrical parterres, and roses by the score.

  “Do you like it? ”

  The deep voice came out of the shadows and a moment later, Fitz emerged from the gloom, his twill trousers and linen shirt stained and smudged with dirt, the splendor of his face and form undiminished by the grime, his smile breathtaking.

  “It’s very beautiful.” Like you, she thought, when she shouldn’t think anything of the kind. When she should be embracing independent womanhood. “You shouldn’t have done it, though.” Nor should she allow herself to be captivated by him or his grand gesture.

  “I wanted to make amends. And I knew you didn’t like jewelry.” He approached her slowly, uncertain of his reception. Her reply had been decidedly neutral as was her expression-not a scintilla of a smile graced her face.

  “Was Sofia in on your plan?” Snippets of conversation from the evening suddenly made sense.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said to her terse query. “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  He drew in a small breath, unable to decipher her mood, the pitch of her tone carefully modulated, minutely cool. “If you don’t like it, I’ll change it.”

  “Because you can do anything you want.”

  “No, because I want to please you.”

  “For how long? ” Part defiant, part sardonic; she would not be so easily charmed.

  “For as long as you wish.” Notwithstanding his contemplative afternoon at Mertenside, he’d not known until that very moment he aspired to the concept of forever. “I mean it.”

  “Until you don’t mean it.” She softly sighed. “You just want what you want because you can’t have it. Before long-I’ll give you a week-you’ll be appalled at your rash behavior.”

  He didn’t want to argue. He didn’t know how to logically or reasonably explain his feelings. He only knew he was vastly content and happy now that she was here with him. “Come, look at the garden,” he invited, wanting to avoid a contentious discussion. He held out his hand. “I’ve learned all the flower names today. Christ, sorry”-he quickly wiped the dirt off his hands on his pant’s legs and offered his hand again.

  She couldn’t help but smile, the image of London’s most prodigal rake memorizing flower names and mucking in the dirt an unlikely picture. But vastly endearing. “Then you know more than I do,” she replied in a scrupulously bland tone, banishing the word endearing from her thoughts. But the moment she placed her hand in his and his fingers gently closed on hers, she was warmed heart and soul.

  “At the risk of offending you,” he said with a small smile, drawing her down the flagstone path, “I could tell you didn’t know much about flowers from the state of your garden. You’ll find it much improved.”

  “I see that, and apparently,” she noted, indicating his besmirched clothes with a sweep of her hand, “you did more than supervise.”

  In the past that would have been his opening to suggest a shared bath, but he was walking on eggshells tonight. “Actually, I learned quite a lot today,” he politely said, carefully avoiding anything remotely suggestive of sex. “Did you know each rose plant needs a banana peel under it for fertilizer? ”

  “I doubt very many people know that,” Rosalind replied with utter sincerity.

  “Well, now we both do. Let’s sit here.” He pointed to a red Chinoiserie garden bench. “You can see most of the garden from this spot and I’ll point out the important roses.” While she sat and he lounged in his usual way, his long legs stretched out before him, his dusty boots planted on the flagstone, his thigh lightly touching hers, an unwanted shiver raced up her spine.

  Gratified to feel her small tremor but not about to jeopardize the occasion by pressing his advantage, Fitz said with well-mannered grace, “If you’re interested, I learned in the course of the day and evening that there are what are termed important roses. And it’s not just to do with rarity or expense. It has to do with duration of flowering, size of the blooms, the intensity of fragrance, the reputation of the hybridizer-Pernet-Ducher in Lyon is the best. That white over there is one of his called Aimйe Vibert, and that pink is a bourbon rose called Souvenir de la Malmaison, and the lilac-colored cabbage rose is called Rose de la Reine.” He grinned. “Should I go on? ”

  “You amaze me. I doubt your reputation will survive such humble pursuits,” she drolly said, having tamped down her treacherous desires.

  “I care nothing for my reputation.” She looked like a schoolgirl in her white blouse and green-striped skirt. An enchantress despite her lack of finery.

  “But then you never did, I suppose.”

  “If it bothers you, I’ll begin to care,” he quietly said.

  “You needn’t concern yourself with what I wish.”

  “On the contrary, nothing else matters.”

  “Fit
z, please.” He was too close, too beautiful, too destructive to her peace of mind.

  He liked that she’d spoken his name so softly; he liked the uncertainty in her tone. He particularly liked that he was with her again no matter the circumstances. This afternoon at Mertenside, he’d discovered that at least. “I’m only happy when I’m with you,” he said, husky and low. “I don’t know why; I know less why it matters, but it does. I’m sorry in every possible way for what happened to you while I was in Scotland. I want you to take me back.” Shocking words from a man who had never asked anything of a woman.

  “I can’t take you back because I never had you.”

  “You did.” His long lashes drifted fractionally lower. “I didn’t know it, but you did.”

  “If I were so daft and reckless as to agree, I’d only be hurt in the end. You would vanish one day. You know you would.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “See.” She nodded. “I rest my case.”

  “I wouldn’t leave. Is that better? ”

  “You’re just being accommodating now; you do that well.” She smiled wryly. “It’s your speciality, darling.”

  The word darling seared itself into his brain, gave him hope. Not that he’d ever had to deal with repudiation before, and for that reason perhaps he chose to be audacious. Or maybe love made him say what he’d been loath to say before. “I’d be more than willing to accommodate you for the next fifty years or more if you’d let me,” he said, sliding upright on the bench and holding her gaze. “Marry me. I’ll make you happy, my word on it.”

  “Are you drunk? ” His proposal was ludicrous.

  He shook his head. “I haven’t had a drink since yesterday, and that’s a record. We spoiled, self-indulgent debauchees are rarely sober.” He smiled. “You called me that the first time we met.”

  She remembered. “And now you’ve reformed.”

  “I believe I have.” He grinned. “I aspire to please your every desire. Above all, I want to make you happy.” He shrugged faintly. “It’s a novel sensation, such high-minded selflessness, but there it is… my irresistible compulsion.”