by Darcie Wilde
She smiled, but she also shook her head. “We all say that society has a short memory, but that is not entirely true. They just store gossip away, ready to pull it out whenever it might be needed again.”
“I will not conduct my marriage according to the whims and fears of those who have not met you, much less those who know nothing about us together.”
The bitterness with which he spoke this hurt. I should let him go, thought Leannah. I am already hurting him.
And if she did? This was the one question she had a clear answer to. If she did, she was acknowledging that she was nothing except Octavian Morehouse’s daughter. She was saying her life was forever bounded and compassed by her father’s mistakes.
But it was more than that. It was giving up this man forever. It meant never being near him again, never laughing with him again, never sharing a cold muffin and colder coffee again. She hadn’t danced with him yet. She didn’t know whether he preferred his beef boiled or roasted, and did he care at all for the theater? Or did he prefer a concert? Did he read French novels? Had he seen the panorama in Vauxhall Gardens and what did he think of that? Would he object to having a cat in the house?
She wanted to know all these things, and so much more. She let her hand close over his.
With Harry, she had a chance to make something new, something for herself and for her family. It would not be easy. With all that stood against them, how could it be? But if she didn’t try, she was accepting a life without him, and that meant a life without hope.
“Harry, listen to me. I will not deny the money will make things easier, or that it will be a blessing to my family. It’s already helped. But also be aware that I have been poor. I know what everything costs and I will not lose this . . . whatever it might be between us, over a settlement, or a salary.”
“We will fight them together?” He said, echoing the words she’d spoken the night before.
“Yes. Together.”
Her words lit his eyes with the spark of mischief she was coming to cherish as much as the touch of his hand, the sound of his voice, and yes, his ridiculous sideburns. She had not said love. She would not say what might yet be withdrawn. They would finish this fight first. Then, when family and friends and all their fears had been finally satisfied, and it really was just the two of them here, she would say it. Only then.
Twenty-Nine
“Meredith!” Lea got to her feet at once as Lewis ushered her friend into the sitting room. “Thank you so much for coming!”
The first thing the world usually noticed about Meredith Langley was her spectacles. Unlike most girls of the haut ton, Meredith did not demur about wearing them, no matter how grand the occasion. She was known to tell anyone who asked, “I would rather see than be seen.”
If such a person bothered to take a second look, they saw a tall, slender woman with dark, lustrous hair and penetrating gray eyes. Her dress was generally becoming, but never anything approaching the first stare of fashion. Like Leannah, Meredith’s circumstances were what was politely referred to as “reduced.”
“Of course I came.” Meredith handed Lewis her bonnet and wool cloak and hurried forward so the two friends could embrace and kiss each other on the cheek. “You’re looking well, Lea.”
“You mean considering what’s happened?” Leannah gestured her to one of the chairs by the fire. The rain had begun again, and despite the drapes and the good fire, the room held a distinct chill.
“I’d be lying if I said I have no idea what you mean, and you’d know it, so I won’t bother.” Meredith accepted the cup of tea Leannah poured out. In anticipation of Meredith’s arrival, Leannah had ordered fresh tea brought and the service laid out on a small table along with some more of the excellent muffins from the bakeshop. She had to admit, at least to herself, she could conceive a great liking for hotel life.
“I take it Mr. Rayburn is not here?” Meredith was not a bashful soul and helped herself at once to a muffin.
Leannah shook her head and sipped her own tea. “He’s gone to see his banker, about a settlement.”
Meredith nodded. “Probably better to have that out of the way. It will help tamp down some of the nastier gossip.”
“Do you know, that’s what Harry said?” Leannah hesitated. “I almost didn’t write to you,” she said softly. “I didn’t think I’d really need the help. I’m so used to being able to manage anything. After all, I’ve spent years dealing with the consequences of everyone else’s disasters. But now I’m in the middle of a disaster of my own making, and I barely know which way to turn.”
She waited for Meredith to speak some words of consolation, but that was not Meredith’s way. “Is that how you see your union with Harry Rayburn? As a disaster?”
“No. It’s many things, but it’s not that. At least, not yet.”
“You just fear disaster might still come of it.” She clearly saw the agreement in Leannah’s expression and nodded. “I will admit, it is a difficult choice to explain.”
“Or understand. Yes. I barely understand it myself.”
Another woman might have used this statement as an opportunity to deliver a lecture on the importance of self-control. Meredith however, only settled back in her chair, and sipped her tea. “Tell me what happened, Lea, from the beginning.”
Leannah did, and she left nothing out except the details of those moments when she was alone with Harry and both were able to give free rein to their desire. Not even Meredith required that much information.
The entire time, Meredith sat quietly and listened. She did not touch her tea or her muffin. Indeed, she did not even let her eyes flicker once from Leannah’s.
“And that is, more or less, where we find ourselves,” Leannah said finally. “The question now becomes, how is the matter to be handled before the wider world?”
“That,” said Meredith, finally reaching forward to take a bite of her muffin and a sip of tea, “depends entirely on what your intentions are.”
“I don’t understand you. I’ve said . . .”
Meredith waved her words away. “Yes, yes, you said you hope to minimize scandal; which, by the way, is not generally accomplished by a runaway marriage.” She fixed her friend with her piercing gray gaze. “Lea, you have asked for my help. I am more than willing to give it, but I must know where you want that help to take you. Do you intend to let this marriage settle into a matter of convenience, or do you intend to make a genuine future with Mr. Rayburn? Have you fallen in love with him?”
Leannah looked down at her hands, which seemed to be involved in attempting to crush her teacup. She set the delicate china object down before they succeeded. “I don’t know. He is . . . an amazing man in so many ways but, there’s also something secret about him. Something he’s hiding.”
“I expect he could say the same about you.”
“Yes, he could.” She sighed. “I suppose what I really want is time.”
“Time?”
“To find out what’s true. Can I be in love with Harry Rayburn or is all this . . . some temporary aberration.” Can I be in love? The words repeated themselves inside her. It was a strange way of expressing the sentiment, but she made no effort to correct the statement. As odd as it might be, it was also what she meant. She had thought of love, she had felt what she was sure must be love, but she had not spoken the words to Harry, because inside, there was still that question.
Can I be in love? With all that I’ve done and all that I am, is it even possible?
Meredith did not answer for a very long time. She finished her tea, and then poured herself a fresh cup. She’d added a slice of lemon, and sipped. Apparently satisfied with the flavor, she set the cup down on the saucer.
“If time is what you want, I believe I can be of assistance. The great thing is to be seen to act with certainty. You and I might be aware you don’t know yet what sort of future you will have with Mr. Rayburn, but the world must think that you do. If, for instance, you wished to get ready for the
probability that this marriage would dissolve, I would advise that you continue the theme of running away. Undertake a grand tour—Paris, Switzerland, Berlin, Florence, the usual destinations. Call it a honeymoon. Stay away as long as you wish.”
“Is that your advice? Run?” How could Meredith of all people not realize that if she ran, she would be followed—by Mr. Valloy, by her family’s past and her own. There was nowhere she could go to escape that, or to shelter Harry from it.
“Certainly not. You should run only if you wish to be seen as having an affair or something of the sort. If you really wish to try to establish your marriage and to buy time to discover what love there may be within it, then you must set up your house, and reenter society as soon as possible.”
“But will anyone receive me?”
That made Meredith smile, as if Leannah had said something hopelessly naive. “The question is not will they receive you, but will you receive them? You must arrange to hold a private party, and let it be bruited about that you’re inviting no one.”
“It won’t be much of a party, then.”
“Lea, now you’re being silly. You have not been away that long. You know full well that nothing sets society into a frenzy faster than the perception it’s being excluded from something.” When this did not clear up Leannah’s uncertainty, Meredith shook her head, probably at the fact of Leannah’s being such a slow-coach. “Generally, it goes something like this; I know that Mrs. Wells does not like Lady Teal. If I tell Mrs. Wells that Lady Teal has something she doesn’t—an invitation to a particular party, for example—Mrs. Wells will huff and puff and grow irate and feign elaborate unconcern. This will last for approximately three days, after which, she’ll start asking me how can she get an invitation to this party. Now, when Lady Teal hears that Mrs. Wells is angling after an invitation to said party . . .”
“A tidbit she will just happen to hear from you?”
Meredith nodded in acknowledgement. “When Lady Teal hears she has an invitation that Mrs. Wells wants, she will become extremely proud of it, and start telling her acquaintance that she’s to be included in what promises to be a most amusing little gathering, terribly exclusive of course . . .”
“At which point her acquaintances will start looking about for their own invitations,” said Leannah. “They might even apply to her for assistance, which increases her consequence among them . . .”
“Just so.” Meredith raised her bite of muffin in salute.
“And this is what you do?” breathed Leannah.
Meredith’s answering shrug was small, and dismissive. “This is what I do, along with getting favorable notices about everybody’s business in the society columns, of course.”
“You must hate society by now. It’s all so . . . trivial.” It takes so much energy, with all of us running about in circles trying to keep our places. What is it even for?
“And yet here you are attempting to return,” said Meredith as if she heard Leannah’s thoughts.
“I know. I’m including myself in that assessment of triviality.” Leannah shook her head. “I tell myself I’m doing it for Genny, and Jeremy, but the truth is, I’m the one who wants to come back. It’s like . . . like wanting to come home when one has been too long away.” She paused again. “This time, Meredith, what I do, I’m doing for myself.”
“And it is for yourself that you married Harry Rayburn?”
She nodded. “Am I being hopelessly selfish?”
“Never,” said Meredith firmly. “You acted impulsively, but I believe there was more wisdom in your choice than you have yet realized. As for society . . .” Meredith set her teacup down. “For better or for worse, it is the world we were raised in and the people we were raised among. One might wish to leave, but how? And where does one go? There are not many of us who can live in exile among strangers without breaking our own hearts. So, we are left to make the best of it.” She smiled, but a trace of wistfulness remained in her bright eyes. “I’d much rather manage people’s social standing than be a governess or a companion. And, I’ve occasionally done a little bit of good, in my way.”
“I know that you have, and you are now.”
“So, I’ve your permission to arrange this for you?”
“Meredith, you have my most earnest plea that you begin as soon as possible.”
“Excellent.” Meredith reached into her reticule and drew out a well-thumbed memorandum book. “We will have to aim for late in the season to give the brew of rumor and exclusion time to work. Everyone will be tired by then anyway, and nosing about for something new. What shall the gathering be? A musical evening? No. Those are commonplace.”
“It’s to be a small gathering, is that correct?” said Leannah. “Fifty or so guests? Perhaps we could arrange for a viewing of some sort. A piece of art by an up-and-coming painter? Or a reading by a poet or novelist?”
“Why, yes, Lea, I believe that will be just the thing. I can speak with Gideon Fitzsimmons. He knows that world inside and out, and will be able to recommend just the person, someone shocking and innovative, but not overly so. Balance is critical. Once we have secured our artistic individual, we will need some select guests whose names can be dropped.” She tapped her pencil against her chin. “We can begin with Mr. and Mrs. Montcalm. They’ve barely been seen at all since they came back from their own honeymoon. Everyone will be dying for a glimpse and they are such good friends of the Rayburns . . .”
“Unfortunately, I don’t know them.”
“Fortunately, I do. At least, I know Mr. Montcalm.” She paused and ran her finger across her notes. “Now, if you are going to entertain, you need a home to do it in. Has any thought been given as to where you will set up housekeeping?”
“Harry suggested we might look in Dobbson Square. I think that will be a good fit for us.”
“I agree. It’s fashionable, but not ostentatious. He might be able to afford Grosvenor, but it would be reaching high enough to offend the fastidious.” She tapped her book several times with her fingertip. “Perhaps I can plant a few words in the ‘Arrivals’ column in the Woman’s Window . . . unless of course Genevieve would rather write them another of her letters?”
“It is my hope that once this fuss is over Genny will be free to write letters to whomever she chooses.”
Meredith was looking at her again, and the sensations raised by that direct and thoughtful gaze were not at all comfortable. But she said nothing. “Once the house is taken, there will be the furnishing . . . but as it’s you, we’ve no need to worry about taste in decoration or wardrobe.”
“But you will come help me shop?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Tell me, have you met your in-laws yet?”
“No. They’ve quarreled with Harry over me.”
This did not appear to surprise Meredith in the least. “If it’s any comfort, the Rayburns are good people. I think you will fit in well with them once the initial shock has passed.”
“I hope so.” Leannah picked up her cup and looked at it, and set it down again. Meredith waited in silence for her to find her words. “There is something else.”
Her friend raised an inquiring brow.
“Mr. Valloy came to me after he found out about the marriage. He threatened to, in his words, make things difficult if I did not persuade Father to sign over his seat on the board of trust for the Wakefield land.”
For the first time in the whole long conversation Meredith appeared genuinely shocked.
“I knew Terrance Valloy to be a hard man, but I would not have expected this.”
“Neither would I. There is something more going on here than wounded pride. Do you think you could find out what it is?”
Meredith took her time in answering. “I think . . . yes. At least, I will do what I can. There’s a particular gentleman at the naval office to whom I could apply. He has . . . some rather wide-ranging connections.”
“It also might be that Mr. Valloy is in communication with Mr. Di
ckenson about the matter.”
“Two jilted men pulling in harness?” Meredith’s brows knitted together as she turned this possibility over in her mind.
“Stranger things have happened.”
“They have. Very well.” Meredith’s gray eyes glimmered behind her spectacles. “I am engaged.”
“Thank you. I feel so much better knowing you are with me.”
“Put it down to my irrepressible romantic nature.” Meredith closed her book with an audible snap. “Now, finish your tea. You’ve given me quite the list, and we must get started at once.”
Thirty
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Anthony . . . Mr. Dickenson.”
It was the fashionable hour, and Rotten Row—the broad avenue running along the southern edge of Hyde Park—was filled to the brim with horses and carriages. This was the time of day when members of the haut ton who particularly wished to see and be seen ventured out to bask in whatever sunshine there might be, and in each other’s company. None of that top-lofty crowd paid any attention to the neatly turned-out young woman who strolled along the edge of the Row, even though she walked in company of an impeccably dressed and clearly prosperous man who wore his quizzing glass on a gold chain about his neck.
But they should have paid attention. To Anthony Dickenson’s eyes, Genevieve Morehouse surpassed every single woman who passed by in a shining carriage or on the back of a high-stepping horse. How could anyone not be captivated by her, with her auburn hair, her green eyes, or her sweet, slender figure? Everything about her spoke of freshness, of innocence and femininity. She was a perfect jewel. All she lacked was her setting. All she lacked was him.
“Of course I agreed to come,” he said. “I’ve been most concerned about you.” And about what she is whispering in your ears.