Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
“ N umber thirty-four…” Alice whispered to herself as she walked along the homes in St John’s Wood, trying to find Diana’s home.
It was well past the two weeks her friend had told her she would be in town, but Alice severely needed to find a listening ear. She’d found herself between the agonizing place of wanting to scream her heart out or dissolve in a river of tears. Possibly both—at the same time.
She spotted the number on the brass plate and let out a long breath; that was the house. Grasping her skirts, she climbed the steps and knocked with her heart hammering in her chest.
A footman answered and bowed, “Welcome to the Duhart house. May I help you, Miss?”
“Good morning, is Mrs—” Alice flailed at realizing she did not know her friend's married name. “—Mrs. Diana home? I am Alice Winslow, we are old friends.”
It was risky knowing that her friend might have left and she had come out all this way for nothing; if Diana was not there, she’d just taken a rather long walk home.
“She is, Miss,” the man replied. “Please come in and I will let her know she has a guest.”
Relief nearly took Alice’s feet from under her, but she nodded and stepped in, gently peeling her coat and sunhat away and handing them to another footman.
“Alice!” Diana called to her while flying down the stairs, her arms opened for a warm hug.
Wrapping her arms around her friend, Alice held onto her emotions and smiled, but knew it was wobbly. Diana sighed, “I was planning to offer hyson tea, but now I am thinking some sherry would do you well… whatever is the matter?”
Her throat felt thick and so not to risk speaking and her voice cracking, Alice simply nodded and followed Diana up to a cozy sitting room; the soft blue and grey wallpaper and wide-open windows eased the tight feeling in her chest.
“Please, sit,” Diana waved her hand to a chair and pulled out two glasses, then drew out a bottle from a tray beneath the table. “They say ladies do not drink such spirits, but I disagree. A little bit of drink here and there can aid us very much.”
Clenching the skirts in her hand, Alice began, “I forgot to ask you about your marriage name.”
“ Hamilton ,” Diana said gently as she placed a glass before her. “Charlie’s surname is Hamilton. Oh, and I neglected to mention—he’s here but currently making use of a courtesy invitation to White's.”
Staring into the crystal glass, Alice built the courage to finally speak her mind. “I have painted myself into a corner, Dee. I should have known better… but I did not.”
“And you fell in love with your unnamed stranger and do not know what to do, I take it?” Diana said casually as if she were picking up the conversation from the bookstore’s café. “It is written all over your face in agony and despair, darling.”
Alice nodded morosely. “He has vowed to never marry,” she added. “And as drugging as his kisses are, I refuse to be his mistress.”
“Remind me again how you got in his attentions?” Diana inquired.
The tale spilled out, from the night she had ventured to Rutledge’s club, where Edward had intervened to rescue her, to her near collision with his brother, which had sparked her courtship with Benedict. She recounted how Edward had ultimately persuaded Rutledge to relent and court her sister, and even confessed that she and Benedict had broken their courtship.
“And now he is set on winning Penelope’s hand,” Alice continued. “I think it is fair that he knows that she is burdened before he does ask for her.”
“What if there was a way to show the Duke how much he would be missing if he loses you?” Diana mused.
“What?” Alice felt slightly confused. “I need to move on, not seduce him.”
“See,” Diana smoothed the side of her already perfect chignon. “I do not think that is what you want. At all.”
“But—”
“No buts ,” Diana interrupted firmly. “Love is not a feeling that stays stagnant, Alice dear. Saying you love him is one thing, but love requires effort—and you must show it too.”
“But—but he is a Duke…” Alice was utterly at a loss. “What in heavens can I do that every other lady in his vicinity has not already tried?”
“Together, we earned the highest marks in our class,” Diana chirped with a grin. “And men are far simpler than French literature. Now, thinking caps on!”
Entering her home, Alice tossed around the ideas Diana gave and tried to land on one or the other—but she still couldn’t put her mind to it. Hadn’t she just told Edward that she wouldn’t force a man to love her? Wasn’t this doing that very thing?
“Penelope?” She asked, looking into every room she passed. “Are you home?”
“In my room!” her sister called out. “Come in.”
Stepping inside, she noticed Penelope holding a square of cloth and a needle, the most pitiful circle of white stitches adorning the blue cotton. Amused, she gently plucked the fabric from her hands. “And what, pray tell, is this?”
“I was trying to keep myself engaged,” Penelope blushed. “You always make it so easy, so I thought to try it myself. I wanted to surprise you too.”
Alice’s lips twitched at the uneven stitchings and the wobbly embroidery. “You don’t need to do this, Penelope.”
“I think I do,” she smiled thinly. “When I do bring this child into the world, I’ll have to get a job and I figured my older sister would teach me how to mend a tear or stitch a seam.”
Those words tore at Alice’s heart; yes, she’d heard those stories too. What young girl had not heard the whispered horrors of when a young lady had fallen and lost her virtue?
The idea of her sister wearing her fingers out or her eyesight in some dark basement, desperately trying to make a living by sewing the gowns of rich women, made her shiver with fear.
That life was a life of poverty, misery, and a terrifying old age. One would have to fend for themselves in ways that no young lady should have to know; relegated to the advances of men, promising money and protection without marriage. She’d read about those ways too.
“Penelope, listen—”
“If only I’d chosen someone like Lord Brampton,” she sighed, her gaze drifting to the open window. “He has a kind spirit, a protective heart, and a loving soul. If only…”
It took all of Alice’s strength not to spill Benedict’s plans, and she stifled her smile with a castigating tut. “If you want to make proper flowers, let me show you. And no, I do not want to hear any more talk about you becoming a lonely seamstress. Now, let me thread that needle.”