Chapter Nine #2
How widely, she did not know. It seemed her mother and father did not know either. In the carriage, the earl said, “Well now, it might have been a coincidence. After all, there were other books guessed at.”
“What were those other books, Papa,” Beatrix asked. “The Moor and Valhtek?”
“Nothing Miss Sprite would read so do not think of them,” the earl said.
“But if it is not a coincidence?” the countess asked. “If it is being talked of? You know how people are, my love. They will say she spoke of the book and they will not bother saying she’d never even heard of it.”
Beatrix waited to hear how her father would answer.
She did not know what the consequences would be if word that she’d claimed to have read a certain book she had not read was circulated.
Miss Sprite had left her with the impression that the worst thing that could happen to a lady was to be gossiped about.
She had not been specific about what would happen though. What was that worst thing?
She could not be imprisoned over it. At least, she did not think so. As far as she understood it, the church had condemned that mysterious book so she could not be sure there was not some sort of church prison.
Beatrix thought it more likely that the punishment for being gossiped about was being shunned. People would not invite her to entertainments or wish to be introduced to her.
“No need to be up in arms just yet, I do not think,” the earl said, patting his wife’s hand. “Our Beatrix made an innocent mistake. An odd mistake to be sure, but innocent nonetheless. Anyone who knows her will perceive it.”
“I do not know so many people yet, though,” Beatrix said.
The countess held her hands up. “Your father is right. We should not think the worst. As it is, we will have our hands quite full once Miss Sprite understands what has happened.”
“Need we tell her?” Beatrix asked, rather dreading Miss Sprite’s reaction.
Her mother laughed, just a bit hysterically. “We will have to tell her. She will find it out on her own if we do not.”
Beatrix looked quizzically at her mother. She did not see how Miss Sprite would find it out. She did not know any of the people who had attended the Duchess of Ralston’s party.
“Do not bother attempting to figure it out,” the earl said. “Servants know everything. We think they all talk on their time off. There is probably some sort of club they all belong to. Nobody knows.”
Beatrix sat back. This was the first she’d heard of anything like it. Though, it would explain how Miss Sprite happened to know that Lady Mellon had a series of wigs and had very little hair underneath them. Or that the vicar soaked his feet in salts every evening.
It would also account for Miss Sprite knowing that Miss Pratt had been caught flirting with a groom from her father’s stables and had been sent to visit an elderly aunt who lived very remote in Cornwall.
Beatrix had been told Miss Pratt adored the old aunt and insisted on visiting her.
Miss Sprite had disabused her and Caroline of that public story so that they might understand the perils of flirtation.
According to Miss Sprite, Miss Pratt would be living on boiled and mashed potatoes and cabbages for a month, as her old aunt had less teeth than was helpful.
She would see nobody. There would be no entertainments.
They would retire for the night at seven. It had sounded rather terrible.
Was that how word had got out that Beatrix had mentioned that book?
This mysterious servants’ club? The only other way would be if Lord Chester, his mother, father, or dowager had said something.
Maybe one of them had said something to one of their own servants and then the news had traveled to this secret club.
Did Mr. Feldstaffer know about this secret club?
If he did, he would never say. He played things very close and never gave away any personal information.
At least, aside from his poor mad brother who wanted to set London on fire.
Their butler had to go and soothe his brother on Thursday afternoons and they were all grateful that he did so.
Nobody wished for another fire like 1666.
As the carriage traveled through the streets, Beatrix listened to the soft clip-clop of the horses’ hooves.
She leaned her head against the window and watched the light of the moon shine on wet doorways.
It occurred to her that what really frightened her about the situation had little to do with what the faceless ton would say.
Lord Harrelston would become apprised of it. What would he think? What would he say?
He was a gentleman, so he would not say anything about it. He might just drift away, like an unmoored ship carried away on a current.
Beatrix wished there was some way to tell him how it had really been, but she did not see how to bring it up until she was sure he’d heard about it. But then, at that point, it might be too late.
She knew she ought to be worrying about Lord Chester and his family, but she was not. She really liked Lord Harrelston. Maybe even more than liked, if she allowed herself to go that far.
Beatrix could not ignore her natural reactions to the gentlemen she encountered this night.
She’d been delighted to see Lord Harrelston.
Thrilled, even. And then Lord Chester and his dowager…
it had been a heavy, forced feeling. As for Lord Monroe, well her views were far more clear on that fellow. She just wished him to go away.
There was no getting around it. She much preferred, very much preferred, Lord Harrelston.
“Never mind it, Beatrix,” the countess said. “We will be off to Lord Chester’s house on the morrow for a musical evening and I am certain it will be a delight.”
Beatrix stifled a sigh. Her mother and father were all in for Lord Chester. She had so hoped she would be too. She had imagined they would meet each other and there would be an instant liking, growing into something more.
As it was, she did not think Lord Chester liked her any more than she liked him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Lord Chester had escaped his dowager’s falcon-like gaze and slipped out of the Duchess of Ralston’s party.
He hailed a hackney and made his way to Annie’s apartments.
It was necessary he see her tonight, as tomorrow night he would be trapped into a musical evening so they could all listen to Lady Beatrix play the pianoforte.
Annie would be unhappy if she were ignored for two days in a row, and an unhappy Annie was a drunk Annie who might do anything.
The last time he’d left her alone for too long she’d taken all the paintings off the walls and put her foot through them. She was at a loss to explain the symbolism of smashing up a Turner landscape, she’d just been enraged and it had been the first thing that had occurred to her.
As he rode along to her set of apartments on Ryder Street, he reviewed the evening. Monroe had put in a comment about a lady reading a book that would be condemned, and that the gentleman would stand by her.
It did not announce what book or what lady, but he presumed the earl and countess, and Lady Beatrix herself, would leap to the understanding that the word was out about Fanny Hill.
He hoped that would lead to a desperation on their part, and their willingness to grab at any offer of marriage that was proposed.
As that was unfolding, he would carefully stay just out of reach, while Monroe would make clear that he was very much within reach.
The whole thing could be carried off more easily if the dowager was not haunting his every step.
His parents were relatively oblivious and would believe anything he proposed as fact.
He could have walked away rejected, Lady Beatrix having chosen another.
The dowager believed nothing. She suspected everything.
She knew about Annie and there was no telling if she would reveal what she knew.
He presumed the only thing that held her back was family shame.
It certainly was not in any consideration for him.
And then there was Harrelston to think about.
He somehow had to ensure that Harrelston would hear the details of Lady Beatrix claiming to have read Fanny Hill, and claiming to like it.
Harrelston was a buttoned-up sort or man.
Lord Chester could feel the disapproval in his eyes whenever the fellow looked at him.
He would never accept such a lady. The faster Harrelston was made to go away, the better.
Lord Chester hopped out of the hackney and went to Annie’s door.
He knocked the signal—three short knocks, pause, two short knocks.
This, supposedly, was to alert the household that it was him and not some troublemaker.
He rather thought it was to alert the household that it was him, in case Annie was entertaining somebody else.
That person would be hustled out the servants’ entrance as he was let in the front doors.
Martha answered the door rather quickly, so he did not think they had all needed time to cover up the evidence of another gentleman visiting. “She is above stairs, my lord,” Martha said. She paused and then whispered, “With a second bottle of champagne, just opened.”
He sighed. She would be in her cups already. He handed over his hat and coat and jogged up the stairs. He found his light o’ love draped across a sofa with a glass of champagne. A tray of fruits and cheeses sat on the table in front of her.
“Rufus!” she cried. “I am very glad you have come. I have made a momentous decision.”
He, for obvious reasons, did not like the sound of that. Annie was not known for her rational decisions.
“It’s so simple, it’s been staring me in the face the entire time,” Annie said. “I simply need to put my foot down.”
His eyes drifted to the stack of paintings in the corner that she’d put her foot down on.
“Not like that,” she said, laughing. She drained her champagne and poured another glass. “You do love me, do you not?”
“Desperately,” he said mechanically, still trying to work out where she was going with her putting her foot down.
“As I thought,” she said. “My foot is down, my darling. You must tell your mother and father that you love me and that is that. Nobody can stand in the way of love. The Capulets and the Montagues found it out! You will do it, will you not? You will tell them?”
“Naturally,” he said, in a gambit to soothe her. “Just give it some time. I’ll need just the right moment and then they will need to get used to the idea.”
“Not a lot of time, though,” Annie said stubbornly.
Lord Chester nodded sympathetically. He did not mention that the time involved was not a chance in a thousand years, as that was not the timing she would be hoping for.
He set her champagne glass down, picked her up, and threw her on the bed. Annie needed to be distracted from this latest idea, and so did he.