‘Hush now.’ Matilda knelt down, curling her arm protectively around Brenda. Hysteria had been common enough in the pleasure-house; what Brenda needed were soft words and endless cups of tea. ‘There, there. It will all be alright.’
‘No it will not.’ Brenda sniffed, leaning her head against Matilda’s shoulder with an abandon that was almost unsettling. ‘No it will not. I have been trained for marriage. Every part of me has been adjusted for it, like a pruned tree. And—and all of it has been for naught. You have all stolen prospects that were meant for true ladies. Ladies like me. Except for you, Poppy, but your success galls me all the same.’
‘Oh, now.’ Poppy looked at Ellen and Matilda, her face full of the same shock that Matilda felt in her bones. Such ugly words were meant to remain as thoughts; Brenda, sobbing and sniffing into Matilda’s gowns, was saying the unsayable. ‘That… that is not quite true.’
‘If you remember, Miss Hartwell, our chosen dukes are somewhat notorious.’ Ellen’s voice was a little cooler; Matilda looked at her friend, mutely hoping she wasn’t about to say something cutting. ‘Fashionable ladies such as yourself were avoiding them.’
‘Of course we were! They were atrociously unsuitable!’ Brenda took a jerky, birdlike sip of tea, setting the cup down on the table with a clatter as she leaned her head back against Matilda’s shoulder. ‘But—but you have reformed yours. How have you reformed them? Victor Bale is positively handsome now, with Isabella on his arm, and I have never seen Henry Grancourt more sociable, and Richard Maldon is somehow even more respectable after marrying someone as common as yourself!’
Matilda held her breath as Ellen paused. Her friend was patient, but even the most patient person had limits—and Brenda seemed intent upon testing everyone. ‘Miss Hartwell… you are forgetting yourself.’
‘No! I am remembering myself! It is you, and her, that have forgotten yourselves!’ Brenda’s pointed finger felt like a dagger as it poked Matilda’s chest. ‘And some of the country’s most noble men have apparently forgotten themselves too!’
A line had been crossed. Matilda looked appealingly at Poppy, who nodded as she took Brenda’s hand in hers.
‘Miss Hartwell. The light in here is far too bright for someone who is crying. You will have the most atrocious headache.’ Gently, coaxingly, she encouraged Brenda to rise. ‘Come now. I have a wonderful tonic of lavender that will cool your aching head.’
‘Good. You are good to me.’ Brenda was mumbling to herself now, apparently worn out by her emotional exertions. ‘You stole my prospects, stole them at far too young an age, but you are good to me…’
Poppy’s look back at Ellen and Matilda said more than a library of books ever could. Biting her lip, curling one arm around Brenda’ stooped shoulder, she gently ushered her out of the drawing room as Ellen and Matilda looked on.
Matilda couldn’t even find it in her to sigh. Brenda’s arrival, and subsequent outburst, was merely another unbelievable thing to happen over the space of twenty-four hours.
‘Now that our sweet friend is briefly indisposed…’ Ellen looked at Matilda with a slightly more worried gaze than before. ‘We must speak of practical matters.’
‘Fortunately, we do not.’ Matilda smiled ruefully as she idly picked at her skirts. ‘I have no protectors, currently. In fact, I have no named gentlemen who considered their interest as ownership.’
‘That, at least, is a blessing. We shall have no duels, and the gossip-mongers of London shall not die of overwork.’ Ellen gave a short sigh. ‘The last time that we spoke in any real detail, you told me that you had no need to partake in day-to-day work at the pleasure-house.’
‘I do not. I saved carefully, and chose my gentlemen well. I now have more than enough jewels to pawn.’ Matilda knew such a conversation was deeply ugly, especially when taking place in such luxurious surroundings, but was grateful to Ellen for her concern. No-one ever liked to think too much about where courtesans found their capital. ‘I shall at least have a little independence, in the time before… well, before…’
‘Before the wedding.’ Ellen took a long, slow breath. ‘Which I believe will be soon. Harding will get a special license, no doubt.’
‘My goodness.’ Matilda shook her head, a violent wave of embarrassment assailing her. ‘I always believed that being well-known could only be good. How wrong I was.’
‘Matilda. You do not have to go through with this.’ Ellen lowered her voice. ‘If you have a little capital of your own, you could sail to the Continent. Remake yourself as a widow, perhaps. A boarding house in France, or something similar… it would be a radically different life, I know. But it is possible.’
‘Ellen… I can only say this to you because we are friends of deep association, now. And I would prefer it wholeheartedly if my words are never spoken to anyone else.’ Matilda briefly fought with the idea of speaking her mind at all, before deciding with an impatient shake of her head that it was far too late to be reticent. ‘It… it is not as if I have never noticed His Grace. Indeed, I have… wondered, about him. Wondered about him for quite some time, in fact.’
‘Oh.’ Ellen frowned. ‘Matilda, if you are telling me that Harding’s proposal was thanks to some sort of -’
‘Manipulation? No. I have never been intelligent enough to create situations of that sort. I would have married someone much richer much earlier in life, if I had that particular talent.’ Matilda smiled, leaning over to squeeze her friend’s hand. ‘It… it is merely an observation. This confounded mess is even more complex than it first appears.’
‘Or much more pleasant.’ Ellen smiled. ‘Who knows. This could be London’s most unlikely love-match.’
‘Between a widowed duke and a well-known woman of pleasure?’ Matilda smirked, even as a throb of pain ran through her. ‘Oh yes, Ellen. I am sure it will be a marriage for the ages.’
A marriage for the ages. If Matilda had read any of the scandal sheets that breathlessly recorded the events of the following week, she would have seen similarly mocking sentiments inked over the greater half of the metropolis. There were so many descriptions, comments, asides and outright condemnations of the scandalous marriage, complete with references to both bride and groom that skirted perilously close to libel, that both Richard Maldon and Henry Grancourt had mutually agreed to have threatening conversations with several newspaper editors.
Said conversations, complete with the one editor being half-thrown out of a window, had quieted the gossip somewhat. But Matilda, under Ellen and Poppy’s wise counsel, kept herself concealed in the Maldon townhouse for the week leading up to… well…
Wedding. Such a strange word. When Matilda tried to think of the event much later in life, she found that she couldn’t remember most of it. The day seemed to exist in snatches, surrounded by words of great and glittering import. Church of the Faithful… French damask… special license…
A special license. Matilda had heard men say that to her, in the heat of a passionate moment—it was if they had forgotten that they weren’t dukes, and Matilda was not a blushing bride who had just been deflowered. For all of the ravages and ruin wrought by the aristocracy, Matilda privately reflected, a genuine special license—one requested by a duke, and offered by the Archbishop of Canterbury—certainly made the whole business of getting married considerably easier.
What on earth had Harding said to the Archbishop to ensure the license was granted? What favours had he promised, or performed? Matilda knew that with her own patchy history, a license could not have been an easy thing to obtain… and yet, it had been.
The wedding had been a terrifying, delicious blur. A quiet church; deliberately quiet, anonymous, where Harding and Matilda had no ties. This way, gossipers were either misled or deterred. Winter flowers, a cornucopia of fruit and leaves and berries, filling the church with colour and scent… Poppy and Ellen smiling, their husbands standing uncomfortably behind them…
… Harding’s eyes, steadily trained on hers. His
quiet voice, repeating the vows. The feel of his hands, slipping the plain gold ring onto her finger; the same shiver had run through Matilda, the same base awareness of his touch, that she had felt that night in the gardens.
And now, all of a sudden, the day was over and she was alone. Alone in a splendid, richly-furnished house, which Matilda still could not quite manage to think of as hers. She sat in the drawing room, the thick carpet divinely warm under her feet, a novel lying unread in her lap as she stared absently at the fire.
It was quite the most beautiful house she had ever lived in. Lived in properly; not as the plaything of a gentleman, but as a gentleman’s wife. Expected to laze, and order servants, and read novels while eating marzipan… why, living in a house such as this was the most surprising thing that had ever happened to Matilda, up to and including the time that a minor baron had implored her to do terrible, specific things to his anatomy.
Well. Almost the most surprising. The most surprising thing, if Matilda were honest with herself, was how much she wished Harding were with her to enjoy her surprise.
It was normal enough. Wasn’t it? The man had married her to save her from further ruin; he certainly wasn’t meant to be lavishing private attentions upon her. He had done more than was necessary; a fine wedding, a new trousseau, a dignity in his words and manner more befitting a duchess than a gutter-bird such as herself… it was understandable, more than understandable, that he did not wish to share his evenings alone with her.
He was probably at his Club. Matilda, sighing as she placed the novel on a small table by the fire, wondered what a duchess was meant to do in the absence of her husband.
Arranging some sort of gathering was out of the question. She had no desire to see anyone apart from Ellen or Poppy, and they had given her enough help and encouragement to last a lifetime. To beg for their company now, after they had spent the previous week preparing her for her new role, would try even their patient souls—and as for the rest of the ton, well, they would never accept an invitation from her. She could recreate the Last Supper, complete with every apostle, and receive nothing more than upturned noses in return.
With a sigh, Matilda considered the servants. Poppy had been very firm on the subject of staff; one was meant to be very firm with them, particularly those who had been in service for some time. Hours had to be changed, wages discussed, meals decided upon or rejected; Poppy seemed to consider it a sort of power struggle.
Matilda, alone in the magnificent room, shook her head with a quiet shudder. She had barely seen the household staff; from what she had overheard from Ellen and Poppy, she knew that some of them had resigned their posts upon hearing of her arrival. The cook, a redoubtable woman of about fifty, had looked at her as if she were an entirely unimportant fixture of the house—much less important than the well-oiled range, or the price of duck. As for the maids… Matilda had never got on with maids, even when she was nobody at all…
There was a timid knock at the door. Matilda, attempting to look as rigid and duchess-like as possible, gave the order to enter with a distinct hint of froideur.
A maid entered; a young girl, thin and pale, looking as if a strong gust of wind would blow her over. Matilda watched her struggle with a heavily-laden tea tray for several uncomfortable moments, before throwing caution to the wind as she rose. Gripping the other side of the tea tray, ignoring the girl’s surprised yelp as she helped her place the tray on the table, Matilda smiled her warmest smile.
‘Thank you very much. A cup of tea is perfect for this sort of rainy evening.’ She hardly ever drank tea, much preferring either coffee or warm milk, but the poor girl didn’t have to know that. The little thing couldn’t have been more than sixteen, shivering in her apron as she stood in the drawing room. ‘You are very good, knowing what I wish before I wish it.’
‘… Thank you.’ The girl bobbed a frightened curtsy, clearly torn between natural curiosity and the desire to remain professional. Matilda, still smiling, decided that she had to be new; a replacement for an older maid who wouldn’t want to work for a former woman of pleasure, no doubt. ‘I mean, I thank you, Your Grace. Or my lady, I —oh, crumbs, I don’t—’
‘It is quite alright.’ Matilda lowered her voice. She would never normally wish to make anyone uncomfortable, but she rather feared that the house would be a lonely place without a single confidant. For all the flaws of the pleasure-house, there was always someone sympathetic to talk to. ‘What is your name?’
‘Jonquil.’ The girl blushed. ‘My mum was French. So my dad says.’
‘Well, Jonquil, it is lovely to meet you. Thank you for my tea, and thank you for telling me your name.’ Matilda poured a cup of tea, sipping it with a sweet smile even as the acrid taste curdled her stomach. ‘You… you have been of real comfort to me.’
‘Thank you.’ Jonquil bobbed another curtsy, slightly less nervously this time. Matilda saw the burgeoning curiosity in her eyes, and inwardly prepared herself for questions that would either be uncomfortable or impertinent. ‘I… I know I am not to take liberties, but…’
Matilda tried not to wince. ‘… Yes?’
‘I—I must say it.’ Jonquil stuck up her small chin, trembling from head to foot. ‘I—I think you are the prettiest lady in the whole world, Your Grace. I think you are the prettiest duchess in London. Margaret says you’re no better than you should be, but I think she’s jealous. She has a horrible sour look. You look like you eat flowers for breakfast.’
Matilda blinked. She stared at the young woman, smiling in a slightly disbelieving fashion, wondering how on earth a duchess would reply to such an odd compliment. A small part of her, a decidedly pettier part, wondered exactly who Margaret was and how soon she could be convinced to give notice.
‘You… you are quite charming.’ She said it with real sincerity; Jonquil gave a sagging sigh of relief. ‘Once again, I thank you.’
‘Whenever you need me, Your Grace, you have only to ask. I also make nice sausage rolls.’ With a solemn curtsy, followed by a shy nod of her head, Jonquil fled from the room as if hounds were pursuing her.
‘Well.’ Matilda spoke quietly to herself, sinking back into her chair with a profound sigh. ‘That was certainly unusual.’
As the door opened again, she rose to her feet with a slight air of annoyance. If the maid had decided that another compliment needed to be given… but no, it was not Jonquil.
Christopher Harding. Her rescuer… her husband. The man that Matilda had studied from afar, wishing, wanting. Hoping for things that she had known would never come to pass… but they had come to pass. They had.
It was the first time that they had been alone together since the night in the gardens. Matilda, her breath caught in her throat, let the sheer fact of his presence wash over her; his height, his dress, his face. His kind, serious face, his eyes shining as they looked at her.
‘Well.’ Harding slowly closed the door, his movements silent and graceful. ‘What a long week it has been.’
It was quite the most understated thing that had ever been said to Matilda—and to her exhausted, overwhelmed self, it was also the funniest. Covering her mouth with her hand, not quite knowing whether she was going to dissolve into laughter or burst into tears, she looked helplessly at Harding as the first peals of unstoppable, hysterical merriment came.
She laughed, and laughed, and laughed. She couldn’t help it. And as Harding watched, his expression changing from concern to answering mirth, the room soon became full of hearty laughter.
‘Oh, Lord.’ Matilda wiped away a tear, her shoulders shaking as she exhaled the last of her laughter. It was as if a storm had broken; the tension she had felt growing in her breast had shattered, exploding into fragments. ‘Excuse me. For a moment everything—well. It just seems so very impossible. All of it.’
‘I understand.’ Harding approached, standing opposite her. ‘And your sentiments are by no means unique. I believe half of London has views as to the impossibility of our present
situation.’
‘Half is a low estimate.’ Matilda risked a cynical look at Harding, who nodded with a gently twisted mouth. ‘I… I have been living under glass, ever since that night.’
‘But now we are married.’ Harding’s voice softened, as if wishing to mollify the imagined pain of his words. ‘And soon, once gossip has died down, you will be able to live your life without fear of censure.’
He couldn’t possibly believe that. Could he? Matilda looked down at the carpet, idly noting its quality as the problems of her new state crowded back into view.
He had married her in order to rescue her. He had rescued her; she would be able to keep seeing Poppy, and Ellen—why, she would be a duchess, something that she had never had the courage to even dream of being…
But Harding would never believe that she had thought of him, dreamed of him, before that night. He would certainly never consider her his equal; what man did, knowing of her work? He had been married… how on earth could he possibly look at her, the memory of his first wife fresh in his mind, and consider his foolish chivalry with anything other than regret?
Poppy and Ellen had not spoken of Harding’s first wife. They had known barely anything about her. Matilda swallowing as she looked at Harding, wondered where on earth to begin.
‘You look as if you have something to say.’ Harding looked at her gently; how was the man so confoundedly gentle at all times? It was as if he were simply too secure in himself, too sure, to ever need to show aggression. ‘Please, say it. We must speak freely with one another. You must not be frightened of what you feel, or how you feel it.’
‘Well.’ Matilda paused, fighting the ridiculous urge to play with her hair. It would show she was nervous, and duchesses could not be nervous. ‘I have many things that must be said. The first, I believe, must be an apology. The fault is mine, Your Grace—’
‘You cannot call me Your Grace. We are married.’ Harding’s smile was incongruously soft against the weathered lines of his face. ‘And there is no blame to be apportioned here. Apart from that due to Lord Featherstone.’
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