Lady Rights a Wrong

by Eliza Casey

  Cecilia turned—and froze. Standing before her was the Apollo she had glimpsed on the way in, and up close he was even lovelier. And he was looking at her.

  “I . . .” she began and trailed off, not sure what to say. They had not been introduced, after all, but Mrs. Trentworth’s didn’t seem the place to worry about such niceties.

  “Go on!” Lady Stonely whispered, giving her a nudge. “If I was twenty years younger . . .”

  “Yes, thank you,” Cecilia managed to say, and she reached for his hand. Whoever he was, she found out he was an exceptional dancer as he twirled her into the crowd. For a moment, she was dizzy with it all.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you at Mrs. Trentworth’s before,” he said, whirling her around and around until she laughed with giddiness.

  “I’ve never been here before. I’m just visiting my godmother for a few days, and she’s friends with Mrs. Trentworth. I’ve heard such exciting things about her salons.”

  “I thought you might be one of her new artists. Or an opera singer, or trance medium. She’s had several of those here lately, quite amusing.”

  “Are there séances here often, then?”

  “Sometimes, yes. Disembodied voices, tables shaking, even some ectoplasm once. My old mates at Oxford would certainly laugh to think I attended.”

  Cecilia remembered Cora’s “gifts.” “Has a medium named Cora Black ever been here?”

  His handsome face turned thoughtful. “That name does sound familiar. Ah yes, a thin lady, with frizzy reddish hair, quite intense?”

  “Yes, that sounds like her. Did she summon up any spirits, then?”

  “She did take on a very weird voice, said she was channeling an ancient Indian guru. But then she fainted, and the séance was quite over. She didn’t seem well, I’m afraid. I saw her home in my car, and she was very quiet, seemed almost feverish, poor lady. Are you quite sure you’re not a medium, too?”

  Cecilia laughed. “Quite, quite sure. I’m just a country lady. Though they do say my family’s home has a ghost. The Blue Lady. I’m not sure I’d want to talk to her; the rumor is that she only appears when tragedy is about to befall the family.” He spun her in a wide circle, and she clung dizzily to his shoulders to keep from falling. He didn’t feel like someone who spent all his days at louche salons, but rather someone who hunted and shot and fished. She wondered who he was. She knew he was a distraction from her purpose in London. “Do you remember if anyone was with Miss Black that night?”

  He frowned in thought. “Yes, there was. We all thought she was some sort of assistant, but I must say she didn’t look at all ethereal. A very stolid, middle-aged sort of matron in a dark-blue suit.”

  It sounded a bit like Harriet Palmer, but Cecilia couldn’t figure out why that lady would attend a séance. From her appearance, and what her niece Bridget had told Jane, Cecilia wouldn’t have thought she was a séance sort.

  “So,” he said as he led her through another twisting, dipping movement of the dance, his touch light, “if you aren’t a medium, could you be an artist? Maybe an actress? You do have a rather Shakespearean look about you, if I may be so bold. Ophelia, or Juliet.”

  Cecilia laughed and felt her cheeks warm with a blush. “Not at all. I’m—well, not much of anything yet.”

  “Now that I cannot believe.”

  “Maybe I just haven’t found my path yet. What about you? Are you an artist?”

  “The merest dilettante, I’m afraid. I do appreciate art, though, so Mrs. Trentworth takes pity on me and invites me to her soirees.”

  The music changed then, to a fashionable tango, which Cecilia hadn’t been allowed to learn. She stepped back from her handsome partner, feeling rather breathless. “Thank you for the dance. I did enjoy it.”

  He smiled, a piratical, bold white slash that made her feel out of breath all over again. “As did I. I hope you’ll partner me again later.”

  Cecilia nodded and hurried away to find Annabel with her admirers near the open windows, a champagne glass in her hand. “Cecilia, you clever thing! Dancing with the Marquess of Eversham. They say he is the most eligible of eligible bachelors.”

  “What!” Cecilia cried. She scanned the crowd for her erstwhile partner, so handsome and mysterious, but he had vanished. She had heard of the marquess, of course—who had not? All the other debs had giggled over him during the Season, hoping he would show up at a ball or reception, but he never did. Mysterious as well as rich and titled. “I thought he was an artist or something.”

  Annabel laughed. “Oh, Cec! For an earl’s daughter, you are a funny one. He seemed quite smitten with you, too.”

  “I am sure that’s not true. And anyway, he seems to have disappeared.”

  “Oh, never mind that. He’s sure to find you again, anyway.” Annabel took Cecilia’s arm and strolled with her along the edges of the room, leaving her admirers looking after her sadly. “I heard the most delicious gossip about the Prices from Mary Winter’s old friend Miss Reade. It seems Mr. and Mrs. Price did not separate just because of Amelia Price’s suffrage activities. Neither of them was faithful at all. And they say Mr. Price might indeed wish to marry again.”

  “Really?” Cecilia found she was not very surprised to hear that. She had had an inkling and was curious to find out more. The Prices definitely did not seem devoted to each other. “Any word on who they were cheating with, then?”

  “Not a solid name, but just leave it to me. I’m good at ferreting out gossip, you know.”

  Cecilia was certainly coming to realize that. Annabel was shrewd and pragmatic, giving nothing away while her charm invited confidences from others. She knew she would have to be very careful once Annabel was her sister-in-law. “I suppose Henry Price could be with a typist from his work, or a dancer or actress. And once he’s out of a respectable period of mourning, I’m sure he could find some young deb to marry. But who would Amelia Price have been with?”

  “She was a lovely woman, for her age,” Annabel said. “And smart and fun, from what everyone says. This crowd quite adored her. Most unlike what I would have imagined from a suffragette! They are usually so—humorless, aren’t they? So stern. It could be anyone, really. How delicious.” She took a drink from the refreshment table and took a sip with one of her catlike smiles. “Oh, Cec. I am enjoying England more and more.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  My word, Lady Cecilia!” Jane gasped as she stared out the bus window at the London streets flying past, the Houses of Parliament and the river in the distance looking like a picture postcard, the crowds swarming the streets. “Do this many people really live here in London?”

  Cecilia laughed, studying a group of businessmen in their somber bowler hats trying to keep the chapeaux from blowing away in the wind. “Most of them, probably. But surely there were even more people in New York? They say the streets there are so crowded no one can ever cross.”

  “That may be true in some neighborhoods, my lady. The hotel where I was employed was always busy, and we worked all hours so I hardly stepped outside. And I would always see the same people in my parents’ neighborhood in New Jersey. Everyone always knew where we were, what we were doing, and they were sure to tell our parents if we stepped out of line.”

  “That sounds exactly like Danby,” Cecilia said. People who had always known her, who knew everything that happened to her family. “How I should love to see New York, though! Everything new and full of excitement.”

  “Or maybe Egypt or India, like Mrs. Solent? They do sound fascinating.”

  “I see Aunt Maggie’s travel tales have captured you, as well, Jane.” They had stayed up late into the night after returning from Mrs. Trentworth’s, listening to Aunt Maggie’s magical tales of the places she had seen. Cecilia and Jane had set out to explore the city early the next morning while Annabel shopped, and Cecilia couldn’t help but yawn from stayin
g up so late.

  “It does sound like something from a book, my lady. Elephants and ancient temples! I never thought I would even see England. Bombay might be too much to hope for.”

  “Maybe not, if you stay in Miss Clarke’s employ. Patrick seems like such a hermit, but he often talks about going off to some jungle to hunt for rare plant specimens. Annabel could go with him.”

  Jane laughed. “Can you picture Miss Clarke in a pith helmet, hacking her way through the jungle, my lady?”

  Cecilia tried to imagine it, but it was indeed difficult. “It is a bit of a stretch, I admit. A Worth gown might not be so useful in the Amazon. Yet I get the sense, Jane dear, that there’s more to Annabel than might meet the eye. And travel isn’t always jungles and cannibals. She might be vicereine of India, if she can persuade Patrick to try his hand at politics.”

  “Would Lord Bellham do that, then?”

  “It’s hard to imagine, I know. Probably being an earl will be enough of a challenge to him. But wouldn’t you like to be lady’s maid at a viceregal court?”

  Jane gazed thoughtfully out the bus window. “I think I like it here in England, my lady. Especially London.”

  “Me, too. I admit, Jane, I do sometimes wonder what it would be like to live on my own here in London. Not like at my parents’ house, pouring tea and never going out alone, but my own flat. Maybe a job of some sort. Or university, like my friend Maud Rainsley. She does love it there.” Cecilia let herself imagine it, just for a moment. Books and studies, friends her own age. “That sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

  “Not at all, my lady! When I lived at home, my brothers were always yelling and getting into my things, my mother handing me chores. I could never go out to a dance or even for a walk. I imagined my own home, too. A room that was only mine.”

  “Why is such a simple, human thing as wanting our own space, to do as we like, so impossible for us women?”

  “Is that why you went to hear Mrs. Price’s speeches, then?”

  “Perhaps. There are alternatives out there, Jane. We are living in the twentieth century now. Things are changing every day. Maybe we just have to be brave enough to reach out and grab them.” Yet reaching out for her own life had not ended well for Mrs. Price.

  They were silent for a long moment, watching the city streets go by.

  “Oh, my lady! Is that grand place the National Gallery?”

  “And look over there, the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.”

  Jane sighed happily. “My mother will never believe I’ve seen such things.”

  “Even above seeing things such as murder, Jane?”

  Jane frowned. “Well, my lady—what my mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

  Cecilia laughed. “An excellent motto for us both.”

  They rode the bus until they reached Tudor Street in the City, an area Cecilia knew little about compared to Mayfair and Belgravia, since she did little business. It would hardly cause gossip if she was seen there, but the wide, bustling streets were lined with banks and law offices, not a lady’s usual purview.

  Mr. Winter’s law office was at the end of a smaller side lane, next to a gated garden. The nondescript, old brick building had polished marble front steps and a brass plaque at the door: “Bird and Withers, Law.”

  “I think this must be it,” Cecilia said. She marched up the steps with a confidence she didn’t quite feel—an earl’s daughter seldom had business with London attorneys, after all. She was quite glad she had worn what she felt was her most businesslike, albeit stylish, attire, a new bronze-brown wool and velvet suit and matching wide-brimmed hat.

  The front office was not large, but most efficiently yet comfortably furnished with leather-upholstered chairs, landscapes and hunting scenes on the walls, and dark-green curtains casting the deep-burgundy carpet into shadow. A lady sat at the polished mahogany desk behind a typewriting machine. She was neatly dressed in a navy blue suit, her graying hair tied back in a tight knot. As the bell on the door rang, she peered at the newcomers over her spectacles, watchful and warily welcoming. Cecilia wondered if she led the independent London life Cecilia and Jane had speculated about.

  “May I help you, madam?” she asked, her fingers poised over the typewriter keys.

  “Yes.” Cecilia took out one of her calling cards from her handbag. “I am Lady Cecilia Bates, daughter of Lord Avebury of Danby Hall. I’m looking for a Mr. Montgomery Winter? He’s an associate here, I believe.”

  The lady’s expression softened as she studied the card. “Do you have business with Mr. Winter, Lady Cecilia?”

  “Not myself, precisely. Our family’s attorney, Mr. Jermyn, said Mr. Winter wrote to him seeking a position. Mr. Jermyn, of course, deals with a great deal of—sensitive information working for my family. I am sure you understand, working in the profession yourself, Miss . . .”

  “Miss Smythe, Lady Cecilia.” A small smile touched her lips. “And yes, I do understand. A family such as yours . . .”

  “Quite so. I happened to be in London for a few days and agreed to make some discreet inquiries. One cannot be too careful these days.”

  “Indeed not. You are quite wise.” Miss Smythe waved them to a pair of leather chairs in front of her desk. “I’m afraid Mr. Winter is out of the city, and Mr. Wither is in court today, Lady Cecilia, if you would care to make an appointment with him?”

  Cecilia wasn’t sure. She didn’t want word to get around that she had been there. “I would, certainly, though I would hate to take up his time. He must be terribly busy.”

  Miss Smythe sighed wearily. “Especially since Mr. Winter’s departure. This is a very old office, and we have many clients who rely on us.”

  “And you have worked here long, Miss Smythe?”

  “Since I left secretarial school years ago. I was just filing then, but I worked my way up to personal secretary to Mr. Wither.” She smiled proudly.

  “Then I am sure you must know just as much about what happens here as Mr. Wither himself.” Cecilia leaned forward to whisper confidentially, “Probably more, I would say.”

  Miss Smythe glanced around. “It is true Mr. Wither and his partner Mr. Bird are not often here. Court appointments, you know. But I am always at my desk.”

  Cecilia studied the closed office doors around them, all in close proximity to Miss Smythe’s desk, and realized she must be able to hear much of what happened daily. “What was your opinion of Mr. Winter when he was here?”

  Miss Smythe leaned forward. “We did have high hopes when he arrived, Lady Cecilia. He came recommended by his father-in-law, and Mr. Price is highly respected in the profession. At first, all seemed to go well enough, if not quite as well as Mr. Wither hoped. Mr. Winter did not bring in the clients it was imagined he would.”

  “Law did not—prove to be Mr. Winter’s passion?”

  Miss Smythe shook her head. “He even lost some of his clients. And then there was the gossip about his wife’s mother. You do know about Mrs. Amelia Price?”

  “The suffragette, yes, of course.” Cecilia decided to feign ignorance of the family and Mrs. Price’s sad end. “Did Mrs. Winter follow in her mother’s footsteps?”

  “Certainly not! Quiet as a little mouse, on the rare occasion we saw her. Mr. Winter could not be blamed, of course, for his wife’s relations, and if he was merely discreet about them, I am sure Mr. Wither could have overlooked it all. Times are changing, and there are all sorts out there. Look at Lady Constance Lytton!”

  “But Mr. Winter was not quiet about the connection?”

  Miss Smythe pursed her lips. “He did not like his mother-in-law, no. But really it was the matter of the Cartwell case. It was terribly bungled and cost us a lot of business.”

  “Indeed?” Cecilia said. She remembered vaguely the Cartwell case but didn’t know Monty Winter was involved.

  “After
that, Mr. Wither had no choice but to dismiss Mr. Winter. Mr. Cartwell insisted on it, and of course he has a great deal of influence with many other clients.”

  “And did Mr. Winter go discreetly?”

  Miss Smythe shook her head. “I do fear not. We are accustomed to working with gentlemen here, Lady Cecilia, and I confess I was rather shocked by it all. He became quite angry about it all, even shouted! I do think he might have blamed his mother-in-law once. Most odd.” She sighed sadly. “The poor man. I thought a physician might need to be called for; he turned quite purple and nearly smashed that lamp on the cabinet over there. And it is eighteenth-century, very rare.”

  Cecilia remembered seeing those little flashes of Mr. Winter’s temper toward his wife while at Danby Village. “Shocking indeed.”

  “He had to be shown out quite forcefully by two of our clerks. Mr. Wither could barely speak for half an hour. And now we must find a new partner. I daresay Mr. Wither will be far more careful in the future.”

  “I’m sure he will.”

  “And I hope, Lady Cecilia, you will discreetly warn your Mr. Jermyn? If he writes to us for a reference . . .”

  “Of course I will tell him, in the strongest language I can,” Cecilia answered. “You need not fear hearing any more about Mr. Winter from us, Miss Smythe.”

  “Thank you.” Miss Smythe opened her appointment book. “Do you still wish to schedule time with Mr. Wither, Lady Cecilia?”

  “Oh no, I’m sure I have all the information I require. You have been most helpful, Miss Smythe. Mr. Wither is very fortunate to employ you.”

  Once back out on the street, Jane said, “Well, that was hardly surprising, was it, my lady? After the way Mr. Winter behaved in Danby Village.”

  “Not surprising, no.” They turned toward the bus stop, Cecilia ignoring the men in their businesslike suits and bowlers who watched them walk past. “Mr. Winter certainly doesn’t seem the sort of man to build a career at a place like Bird and Wither. I’m sure Mr. Price was mortified.”