Chapter Eleven
The next day, Sibyl slept late. She’d tossed and turned all night, having nightmares of her father dying in a watery grave, of people laughing and jeering at Phillippe’s paintings of her, and of Kate Harvey and Mr. Heyter, dancing and kissing, then laughing at her.
She’d woken up more than once with fresh tears staining her pillow.
Was she ruined? Would she die an old maid?
She woke up eventually and felt bleary-eyed. The morning light had filtered into her bedroom through the thin curtains, and light rain pattered against the window. It would be another wet, cold, drizzly day. At any other time, she would have enjoyed the gray skies, but not today.
There was a tentative knock on the door of her bedroom. Lucy opened the door and stuck her head in. “Are you awake?”
“Yes.”
“Are you all right? You’re normally the first one down to breakfast. Even on gloomy days.”
“It’s not been a regular sort of gloomy day,” Sibyl mumbled. She pulled the bedcovers closer around her like in a cocoon. It was tempting to go back to sleep.
“True.” Lucy came and sat on the bed. “But you’ve never been the sort of girl who hides from her problems and stays in bed all day. That’s for other women. Not you.”
Sibyl peeked out from behind the bedcovers. “You think so?”
“Mm-hmm. Why else do you think Mrs. Dove-Lyon and Phillippe would be coming to your defense?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Well, sure. But I think it’s more than that.
” Lucy bit her lip. “You inspire people, Sibyl. It’s why…
” Her voice grew quiet. “It’s why I’ve always looked up to you.
They could have just turned their backs and let you to your fate and not given a whit about your reputation.
But they do. And that’s because of you. I think you just have to believe in yourself. ”
Sibyl sat up. “When did you get so wise?”
Lucy grinned. “I’ve been spending time with Mr. Heyter’s sister, Penelope. We talk and read books and play games. It must be her influence.” She rose from the bed. “So come on. I’m hungry, and breakfast is getting cold.”
Sibyl waited for Lucy to leave the room and dressed simply in an ordinary brown day dress, her hair plaited back, and went downstairs to breakfast.
Her mother and sister were already there and eyed Sibyl, who filled a plate with toast and jam.
She poured herself a cup of black tea and began spreading butter and jam on her toast, when her mother cleared her throat. “Sibyl,” she began.
“This came for you.” Lucy picked up a parcel and held it out.
Sibyl munched her toast, looking at Lucy’s proffered parcel in brown paper. Whatever it was, she didn’t want it. “Do I have to?”
Lucy grinned, while her mother said, “Yes. It is addressed to you. Or give it here and I’ll open it.”
Lucy said, “We’ve been waiting ages for you to come down so we can see.”
“Be my guest. The less news I hear, the better,” Sibyl said.
“Well, I trust what Mrs. Dove-Lyon said,” remarked Lucy. “She said all would be well and I believe her.”
“Hear, hear,” Mrs. Clifton said. “That’s the spirit, Lucy. And I will ignore the fact that you were obviously listening to our conversation when you should have been doing your lessons.”
Lucy opened her mouth in a smile, then pouted. She handed over the parcel to Mrs. Clifton, who tore it open. “Oh, there’s a note.”
“What does it say?” Lucy asked.
Sibyl chewed and swallowed, not wanting to hear more.
“How odd,” their mother said. “I don’t understand what she means.” She read, “It’s from Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who writes: ‘Miss Harvey may have her father’s ear, but she is not the only one with friends on Fleet Street.’”
“What does that mean?” Lucy asked.
“Writers. Newspapers. They all work there.” Sibyl looked up.
“Well, that makes sense. It’s papers. The London Times. The Daily Tribune. The Islington Inquirer. The Denmark Street Daily.” Mrs. Clifton held out papers and handed them to her.
Sibyl lowered her toast and read. “Oh, my god.”
“What is it?” Lucy asked.
“The Countess d’Arbley has given an interview to journalists about me.”
The headlines read: Star Singer Defends Disgraced Model, Countess d’Arbley Speaks Up for Stunning Painted Beauty, Singing Countess Strikes Out at Insipid Gossips, and more. Sibyl read on as the countess described her circumstances as most unfortunate and completely undeserving.
She was quoted as saying, “I know the young Miss Sibyl Clifton, very well. She is a dear girl and completely innocent of all the nasty things people are saying. She has a rare beauty, and it is no surprise to me that an artist as great as Phillippe Mercuse desired to capture a glimpse of it on canvas. Phillippe is a dear friend and has the utmost respect for Miss Clifton, and I can report that every moment they shared was chaperoned. There was no indiscretion or inappropriate behavior. What is shocking is how low some people will go to bring down a rising star, but then, I should know. It happens to us all.”
Each paper Mrs. Dove-Lyon had enclosed bore the same interview.
But unlike Kate Harvey’s editor father, these journalists had done some digging and printed that they had seen or heard of no indication of any impropriety, suggesting that the editors of some gossip columns might wish to check their sources before printing hearsay.
“My goodness.” Sibyl lowered the papers and set them aside. She drank her tea and bit into her toast mechanically, her mind going a mile a minute.
“What does it all mean?” Lucy asked.
Their mother said, “It means your sister’s reputation is restored. She is vindicated. The countess—and Mrs. Dove-Lyon—has done her a service, and Sibyl is cleared of all fault.”
Sibyl’s chest rose. She would be all right. Trust Mrs. Dove-Lyon. The woman had used her connections and had restored her honor. She could walk down the streets again and not feel haunted, or like she had to hide. She let out a small sigh of relief.
There came a knock at the front door of the townhouse.
Mrs. Clifton groaned. “Oh, what now? Surely, they can appreciate the hour. We’re still at breakfast.”
“It is almost noon, Mama,” Lucy said.
“That’s not the point.” She let out a disgruntled noise and said, “Yes, what is it?” to the footman.
He passed her a note and said, “There is a caller for Miss Clifton.”
“Who? It had better be a suitor. With flowers, or sweets. Better yet, both,” Mrs. Clifton said.
“It is a Miss Margaret Watson.” The footman said.
Sibyl paused. “Margaret? That’s odd. All right, I’ll receive her in the parlor.”
Sibyl joined Margaret presently, wiping her dress free of crumbs and curtsied. “Miss Watson.”
Miss Watson wore a gray walking coat and old-fashioned bonnet that looked out of place.
She had clearly been rained on, for the bonnet dripped water on the floor and her shoulders were damp from being in the wet weather.
But as she faced Sibyl, her eyes had a haunted look about them.
She had a wretchedness that made Sibyl stiffen in alarm. Something was wrong.
Margaret turned to her, curtsied, and said, “I’m so sorry.”
“For what? What’s happened?”
“For everything. It’s all my fault.” Margaret’s face was pale.
“What are you talking about? Come, sit down.” Sibyl patted the sofa and they sat. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s me. My loyalty, I was mistaken. I’m sorry.” Margaret’s words came out in a rush. “I had to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“That it’s my fault this ended up in the papers.
I… I knew how jealous Kate was of you and that she wanted to be a model for Phillippe, but I didn’t appreciate what she would do about it.
I thought she was just full of empty threats and gossip.
She’s never done anything like this before.
But when I saw her damage the painting at the Lyon’s Den, I knew she had crossed a line.
She should never have damaged that painting of you. It was a beautiful picture.”
Sibyl looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “Thank you. I think Phillippe is more hurt than I am about it.”
Margaret nodded seriously. “It is physically painful to see a work of art damaged like that.” She looked away and swallowed.
“Kate takes no responsibility for her actions. She never has. But we have been close friends, practically since birth. It is hard to shake a friendship like that—and easy to overlook each other’s faults. ”
The young woman bit her lower lip. “She was there for me when my mother left us, and we’ve relied on each other for as long as I can remember.
So when Kate told me she wanted to stop you and Mr. Heyter from being together, and she wanted to model for the artist, she begged me to help her. As her oldest friend, I agreed.”
Margaret continued. “But then I met you, and you were so nice, and kind. Smart and funny. I liked you, and it made me feel… wrong. I felt guilty about helping Kate in her schemes. It was me who spotted you coming back from the garden at the Lyon’s Den.
I told Kate. It was obvious that you’d been amorous with someone, and I didn’t want to break her heart about you and Mr. Heyter, so I gave her the suggestion that it was the artist.”
“You?” Sibyl stared, open-mouthed. “How could you? Why? What did I ever do to you?”
“Nothing. You did nothing. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Sibyl glared at her. “You could have simply not said anything. It’s no business of yours.”
Margaret cast her eyes down, chastened. “I know. Kate was so furious, she demanded to know what happened at the rest of the party.”
“And you were happy to oblige. Do you have any idea the damage that has caused to my reputation? My family? People have thought I was a loose woman. That I had compromised my virtue.” Sibyl’s hands clenched.
Even though she had blurred the lines of her virtue, she was not a harlot.
Her maidenhead was still intact. But that of course, was none of Miss Watson’s business.