Dukes of the Demi-Monde

by Felicia Greene

  ‘A fine dream.’ Marcus paused. ‘A dream that was not pursued?’

  ‘A dream that could never be pursued with the money we had. Or didn’t have.’ Elsie picked at the skin of the apple, waiting for Marcus to change the subject. True to form, he did after the shortest of pauses—the true sign of a gentleman.

  ‘I must confess—I have thought little about the story I must tell to your mother and father.’

  Elsie smiled, blushing as she looked down at the small, rounded swell of her stomach. ‘I don’t think you need to go into the particulars.’

  Marcus’s surprised burst of laughter warmed her through. ‘I haven’t thought of so much as a name.’

  ‘Hmm. It is more difficult than I would have thought.’ Elsie stared at Marcus under the guise of studying him, secretly enraptured at the way the sun moved over his open, handsome face. ‘You look so very much like a Marcus.’

  ‘Then perhaps we should stay with an M. Mark, perhaps? Michael?’

  ‘Yes. Michael. Like—like the archangel.’ Elsie blushed harder, looking away. ‘Or like many other ordinary men, who are not angels.’

  ‘Michael. It suits our purposes very well.’ Marcus paused. ‘Michael Makepeace?’

  ‘That sounds a little too artificial.’

  ‘Michael Dogood?’

  ‘I fear you are attempting to make me laugh, instead of putting serious thought into the matter.’

  ‘I see.’ Marcus’s laughter had Elsie smiling in response. ‘Michael Goodenough it shall have to be.’

  Elsie gently inclined her head. ‘The name is, indeed, good enough.’

  ‘As am I?’

  ‘As are you.’

  ‘A great relief.’ Marcus looked up at her, the slight twist at the corner of his mouth distracting Elsie from her apple. ‘And what do I do?’

  ‘Goodness.’ Elsie sighed, tilting her head as she thought. ‘What can Michael Goodenough do? His hands are far too soft for field-work.’

  ‘I would take it as an insult, but it’s true.’ Marcus moved slightly closer; Elsie held her breath as he sat down on a sack only a little way away from where she sat. ‘I don’t work in the fields. Neither do I whittle, brew beer, or do any other number of things that men are traditionally skilled at doing.’

  ‘Only some men. Not born gentlemen.’

  ‘I wasn’t born a gentleman.’

  Elsie struggled to not choke on her apple. Composing herself with difficulty, she looked narrowly at Marcus. ‘But… but you are…’

  ‘Enormously wealthy. Yes.’ Marcus said it so casually, as if he were relating his hair or eye colour. Elsie could do nothing but blink. ‘But it was all made through speculation, originally. My father was very lucky indeed.’

  ‘And what was he before?’

  ‘Before he was made a baronet? I do not know.’ Marcus smiled. ‘He and my mother do not speak of it. I rather believe they wished me to grow without even the thought of trade.’

  ‘I see.’ Elsie looked at the apple, her voice acquiring a bitter tone despite her best efforts to avoid it. ‘The spectre of trade. The stain of it.’

  ‘I… I believe they were scared.’ The gentle compassion in Marcus’s tone made her feel even worse. ‘Scared that I would grow not knowing what I was. Who I was.’

  ‘Yes.’ Elsie sighed. ‘I suppose so.’

  A moment of slightly awkward silence came and went. Elsie dug her nail into the apple, removing a small piece of the thin red skin as Marcus moved closer still, quietly sitting next to her.

  He had sat next to her many times, at the Cappadene Club. It had been normal there. Here, in the open air in a vegetable cart, his proximity felt a thousand times more illicit. Illicit, and thrilling in a way Elsie had barely dared to imagine.

  ‘I suppose I could be a bookseller.’ Marcus spoke more quietly now. As if he knew he had offended her, and wished to make it right. ‘I adore books, and buy enough of them to at least have a passing knowledge of the trade.’

  ‘If you add ballads to your selection, you will be much more convincing.’

  ‘Understood. I am a friendly seller of books and ballads, depending on your needs.’ Marcus leaned back, smiling at Elsie. ‘How freeing it sounds.’

  ‘Freeing as long as you have food in your belly and a home to go to.’

  ‘I do. And my wife is waiting for me there.’

  ‘Now, sir.’ Elsie shook her head, secretly quivering at the way he had said wife. ‘Am I not to lift a finger?’

  ‘You are my wife.’ Marcus looked at her, clearly surprised. ‘I would certainly hope not.’

  ‘And you say you were not born a gentleman. Only a gentleman would think their household secure with their wife not lifting a finger outside of it. One bad season, and you’re out on the street.’ Elsie clicked her tongue, shaking her head ruefully. ‘I would at least need to keep the accounts.’

  Marcus’s voice was soft as he replied. ‘I have so much to learn from you.’

  Another moment of silence, less awkward this time. Deeper, somehow—more profound. Elsie, suddenly wishing she was in the gaudy finery of the Cappadene Club—anything other than her plain, foolish rags—wished she could move away.

  If she kept sitting this close to him, she would want to lean forward. Want to breathe in the scent of him, make him laugh, bury her head in the warm, soft hollow between his neck and his shoulder…

  ‘I will need to think of the books I’ve been selling. Perhaps I should make a list.’

  ‘Adding too many details to a falsehood only makes it more obvious. Life is rarely as detailed.’

  ‘What a cunning creature you are.’ Marcus smiled. ‘As I said—I have much to learn.’

  ‘It is mere fact.’ Elsie shrugged, crunching happily into her apple. It was beginning to feel oddly liberating, being outside—even being in simple clothes, the kind she had seen her mother wearing as she was growing up. It led to a freedom of behaviour—of thought. ‘One must keep lies as simple as possible.’

  ‘I prefer to think of it as a story.’ Marcus idly poked a potato with his toe, watching it roll over the boards of the cart. ‘You must be a fine storyteller. You have to be, after all of the books you have read.’

  ‘I used to spin stories for all of the children in the village.’

  ‘Then I can’t remain a travelling bookseller forever.’ Marcus leaned against the sack, his head perilously close to Elsie’s shoulder. ‘Not with a wife with such a talent for storytelling.’

  ‘I can travel with you.’

  ‘Not in your condition. Even you can’t convince me that working women tramp the length and breadth of the country in your current state.’

  ‘Not if they can help it.’

  ‘Then we will need a bookshop. A real, brick-and-mortar bookshop.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Elsie sighed with contentment. She snuggled down into the sack; Marcus’s shoulder was only a few centimetres away. How strange to think that they hadn’t lain together—hadn’t touched one another, despite meeting in a brothel. ‘One with newspapers for everyone to read, and all of the latest editions, and a place where people can drink coffee and read books to those who cannot.’

  ‘Our bookshop sounds as if it will be quite an expense.’ Marcus laughed, leaning back on a sack of carrots. ‘I see a lot of toil in my future.’

  ‘You are not used to working outdoors.’ Elsie laughed, shyness sticking in her throat. ‘You—you are not used to any work that isn’t done from behind a desk.’

  ‘Your accuracy wounds me.’ Marcus smiled back. How different he looked in the light of the sun—how hopeful. As if this strange dream were her true, real life. ‘And you should not be doing any work at all. I must scrimp and save while you keep yourself well.’

  ‘I can do light work. Kitchen-work.’ Elsie breathed in the smell of the outdoors, a hint of Marcus’s scent bringing a quiver to her throat. Even while dressed as a common labourer, he smelled clean and cared-for in a way she craved. ‘Being at the Hall
will do me good.’

  ‘You must be careful.’

  ‘You do fuss.’

  ‘Of course I fuss.’ Marcus held up his hand, the gold ring shining on his finger. ‘We are married, after all.’

  For a moment, it seemed real. All too real—too splendid for words. Elsie felt through her skirts for her reticule, where the ring he had given her lay.

  He hadn’t spoken a word, when he had given it to her. It was probably best. Still, as Elsie’s fingertips brushed the shining gold band at the bottom of her reticule, it felt like a wasted opportunity.

  There she went again, with her foolishness. What was he meant to say? Take this ring, you who carry another man’s child, so that I may briefly feign to be your husband?

  ‘You should probably put it on before we arrive.’ Marcus’s voice was gentle. ‘At least before we meet your mother and father.’

  ‘I didn’t want to put it on in London.’ The ring felt warm in her palm as she drew it out, holding it lightly in her closed fist. ‘Too dangerous.’

  ‘You don’t need to explain why you weren’t wearing it.’

  ‘I know.’ Elsie paused. ‘I—I don’t know why I explained.’

  She wanted to explain. She wanted him to know enough, care enough, to demand an explanation. Even though it was the very last thing she could expect from Marcus Bennington.

  Closing her eyes for a moment, forcing herself not to think such girlish thoughts, she slipped the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly; Elsie opened her eyes as she held it to the light, marvelling at the way it gleamed.

  It was the most precious thing she had ever felt against her skin.

  ‘How did you make it fit?’ She looked at Marcus, briefly shocked at their proximity. They were practically nose to nose, lying in the sacks as the cart rattled onward. ‘How?’

  ‘A guess. An educated guess.’

  ‘Educated?’

  ‘Well.’ Marcus turned to look at the sky, his voice acquiring that strange, husky tone that Elsie longed to hear. ‘I—I have had ample time to look at your hands.’

  There was nothing for it. She would simply have to do something—touch his palm, clasp his hand in hers, kiss him. Something that would break the unbearable tension of being close to him, so very close, and yet so faraway.

  A sudden jolt from the cart nearly sent her flying. Marcus’s grip on her arm was very different to the soft, tender touch Elsie had been hoping for, but the effect still made her gasp.

  ‘Are you well?’ Marcus looked around as the cart came trundling to a stop. ‘Did you fall onto a nail?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ Elsie smiled, hurriedly pushing away the splendid thoughts that had filled her mind. A swarm of men and women surrounded the cart; she and Marcus sprang apart, rising to their feet as a hum of conversation flowed over them.

  ‘Goodness.’ Marcus looked around, clearly confused. ‘Where are we?’

  Elsie breathed in the scent of fruit and vegetables, unwashed humans and horse manure with a sigh of nostalgia. ‘We have arrived.’

  Pandemonium. Marcus had never seen preparations for a ball from the point of view of the servants before, and he already knew the experience would be unforgettable. Far more memorable than simply dressing in front of the bedroom mirror with the help of his valet, Peterson, at any rate.

  The sheer mass of people! Of provisions, too; meats and fruits and fishes and flowers and spices, great stacks of white candles, cart after cart after cart of bread and coffee and ice… and people, so many people! So many people that after half an hour, thirty minutes, it became all but impossible to discern anyone’s rank.

  Seeing Attlebury Hall from the perspective of a servant was an education in itself. The grand, glittering space that he had enjoyed as a guest seemed like a world away when trapped in the dark, ill-designed rooms that made up the servants’ quarters. Only the kitchens were well-lit and pleasing to the eye; the rest, hot and crowded and full of a strangely festive air of panic, were deeply unpleasant to even contemplate.

  Was this what his servants felt when he had a gathering? Marcus pondered the question as he followed Elsie through the twisting labyrinth of corridors that led to the pantries. The work, the sweat, the pressure heaped upon their backs… this was no life to lead.

  He would have to think seriously about the staff in his care. But before he could begin considering his own servants, Marcus found himself being drawn into a silent stretch of corridor by Elsie.

  ‘My parents will be in the pantry. It’s their tradition the day before a ball—Father reads to Mother, and they take a rest.’ She paused. ‘Are you ready to meet them?’

  ‘So soon?’ Marcus’s heart leapt to this throat.

  ‘There’ll be no time after this, I think. Not before the ball.’ Elsie looked apologetic. ‘Now, or never.’

  ‘Well then.’ Marcus steadied himself, wishing to take her hand, too timid to make the leap. ‘Do not be frightened, Miss Harcourt. Mrs. Goodenough.’

  ‘Mrs. Penn.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I chose a new name.’

  ‘And what is my new name?’

  ‘Augustus Penn.’

  ‘I loathe it.’

  ‘I know.’ Elsie’s nose wrinkled as she laughed. ‘It’s horrible.’

  Marcus followed her as she began to walk the corridor, more in love with her than ever.

  As Elsie opened the door to the pantry, his mind dwindled down to a still, small point. Too nervous to accept the wider picture, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest, Marcus focused as hard as he could on the minute, separate details of the scene.

  Two elderly people that had to be the Harcourts. Mr. Harcourt’s grizzled head, his confused frown as he looked up from the book he was holding. Mrs. Harcourt’s ecstatic smile, Elsie’s features glowing in her face as she rose from her chair—and her sudden frown, small but growing, as she took note of Elsie’s growing shape and the ring on her finger.

  The silence was acute enough to hear a pin drop. Mr. Harcourt put the book down with a thud, his face reddening as he rose…

  Marcus watched, speechless, as Elsie opened her mouth.

  It was a volcano. A ferocious explosion of raised voice and pointed fingers, with Elsie furiously fighting every point raised. Marcus only had time to confirm his false name and invented trade before shrinking back against the wall, Mr. Harcourt’s bellow filling the room.

  ‘You come here to us now, with this news? No letter—no word?’

  ‘There was no time.’

  ‘I can see that!’ Mr. Harcourt gestured dramatically to Elsie’s stomach, his voice dwindling to a grumble. ‘Of all the—’

  ‘Enough.’ Mrs. Harcourt’s soft voice was more effective than a shout. Mr. Harcourt, looking helplessly at his wife, fell silent.

  ‘These things can be uncertain. Sometimes it—it takes a little while to tell.’ Mrs. Harcourt smiled cautiously at Marcus, reaching out to pat his hand. ‘The important thing is that you made an honest woman of her, and the babe. That’s the important thing.’

  Mr. Harcourt scowled. ‘I still would have liked a letter.’

  ‘I knew I would be coming here, Father.’ Elsie stood her ground, trying to keep her voice as even and pleasant as she could. ‘I didn’t wish to send you a letter and have you riding a donkey to London.’

  Mr. Harcourt’s mouth twitched. ‘What makes you think you’re worthy of a donkey, daughter of mine?’

  ‘I’m not.’ Elsie laughed. ‘But it’s the only animal we own fat enough to transport the both of us to Surrey. Unless you take Bessie the pig, and she’s far too strong-willed to carry you.’

  Mr. Harcourt’s answering laughter was real and genuine. Marcus smiled, too anxious still to join in, thanking God that Elsie’s parents had almost, maybe, accepted him into the fold.

  They had accepted him, hadn’t they? He wasn’t dead. But then, there was still time. Oh, but the relief was already there, strong and swift, coming at the
mere idea of their acceptance of him into the Harcourt family.

  No. That couldn’t be what he was so relieved about—it would make no sense. Elsie’s parents needed to accept the ruse, not him—needed to believe that Elsie was married. Who exactly she was married to didn’t matter.

  Even though it felt like it mattered. To Marcus, a swell of sentiment rising in his chest, it mattered very much.

  ‘At least the child will be able to own its name. Only the nobs don’t care about being born the wrong side of the blanket.’ Mr. Harcourt shook his head in deep disgust. ‘A more degenerate class of wastrels, I never—’

  ‘Father.’ Elsie put her hand on his arm. ‘We depend on the degenerate class for our bread.’ Her eyes darted to Marcus, silently reassuring him. ‘And we can all agree that there is no time for such discussions at this precise moment.’

  ‘Yes, dear. There is no time for anything at this precise moment.’ Mrs. Harcourt looked at her daughter knowingly. ‘Almost as if you designed it this way.’

  ‘I do not know what you could possibly mean, Mother.’ Elsie shrugged, the picture of innocence. ‘But if there is work to be done, we can set to it.’

  ‘Mr. Penn will go with your father.’ Mrs. Harcourt’s warning look to her husband seemed to preclude any possibility of violence. ‘You, my lady, can be of no use at all.’

  ‘Why that’s—that’s not true at all!’ Elsie’s eyes widened. ‘I can clean, and cook, and—’

  ‘And nothing. My grandchild will not be tossed about like a ship at sea.’ Mrs. Harcourt hooked Elsie’s arm through hers with a decisive nod, making her way to the door with Elsie in tow. ‘We’ll set you up in one of the staff beds. They won’t need it until tomorrow night, at any rate—too much to do.’

  ‘Mother, I—’

  ‘And nothing.’ Mrs. Harcourt smiled at Marcus. ‘We will see one another after the ball, Mr. Penn. Then everything can be talked of properly.’

  Marcus bowed as she began bustling down the corridor, dragging a clearly unwilling Elsie with her. He caught sight of Elsie’s smile—of the glint in her eyes that said, we did it—before they vanished out of sight.