Chapter Five #3
“Dead end,” said the man. “Her footsteps stop right here. Seems as though she escaped. Perhaps she climbed the hedge.”
“That’s not possible,” said the woman.
“Oh, I don’t know. She was rather spry.”
Elswyth dared to crack her eyes open again. The woman came into view, meeting the man in the middle of the corridor. Her skin was flushed and her stylish hair frayed at the edges. She smacked the man’s chest.
“How could you let her go, you useless idiot!” the woman said.
“And what would you have had me do, if I caught her? Slit her throat?” the man asked, laughing.
The woman said nothing. She only frowned and looked away.
“She has no idea who we are,” the man continued. “Who is she going to tell?”
“Perhaps you are nobody, but I have a reputation to protect,” the woman said. She pushed herself away from the man, but he kept her close. “Why was she even here? You said it was closed.” Her lips twisted into a perfect frown.
The man rolled his eyes and brought the woman toward him with one strong hand. She collided with his chest, their faces mere inches from each other.
“It was probably some gardener’s assistant, gone to fetch a pair of shears. Don’t let it trouble you. Come. Let’s be rid of this place before we’re further interrupted.”
The man’s hand traced up her back, and he attempted to bring her into a kiss. The woman pushed away, rebuking him.
“Make this right, Silas,” she said. Then she broke from his grasp, turned, and left.
The man stood alone for a moment, a sour look crossing his features. He turned back once more to where Elswyth hid, and she quickly closed her eyes, praying he did not see her.
When she opened them again the man named Silas was gone.
When they’d returned to number 4, Elswyth immediately called for supper. Mrs. Rose fetched it, two heaping bowls of stew with fresh bread and wine. Elswyth tore into it like an animal, forgetting all manners. They sat at the tea table by the window while Mrs. Rose daintily stirred her soup.
“You eat like a hog,” Mrs. Rose said, wrinkling her nose. “Please stop making those sounds. I think they can hear you chewing in Berlin.”
Elswyth paused through a gulp of wine and stared across the small table. She swallowed. “If I don’t replenish my vitae, I’m likely to faint,” she said.
Mrs. Rose sighed. She sipped her small glass of sherry. “Will you at least explain what happened in the hedge maze? You looked as though you’d seen a ghost.”
“There was moaning, to be sure,” Elswyth said, “but no ghost. I’m afraid I stumbled onto a pair of gentlefolk making the beast with two backs.”
Mrs. Rose leaned forward. “My—how scandalous! Surely a husband and wife?”
“It did not appear so, no,” Elswyth said. “I saw no wedding bands, and they were both quite young. That, and they saw me watching and gave chase.”
“Watching?” Mrs. Rose said.
Elswyth rolled her eyes and dunked another piece of bread in the stew. “I didn’t know what else to do. I came upon them and was trying not to be discovered.”
Mrs. Rose thought for a moment, tapping her finger on the table. “Giving a lady the green gown in the hedge maze. How scandalous. And you’re certain they saw you?”
“I disguised myself as topiary—quite more exhausting than making a few flowers,” she said.
“Clever, I suppose. Your green thumb comes in handy once again,” Mrs. Rose said, “but I’m afraid we find ourselves in a predicament. If the lady and gentleman are of society, as you suggest, then they will use any means necessary to cover up their transgression.”
“What for? I thought such things were common. Natural, even,” she said.
Mrs. Rose looked aghast. “Perhaps for commoners, but never for a lady. What if she were to become pregnant? Her bloodline would be polluted by bastards.”
Mrs. Rose said the word with unusual distaste, turning up her nose. “It’s quite important, of course, for a lady of good breeding to maintain her good breeding. No, what you witnessed is not acceptable. And it is not fortunate that they saw your face.”
“But they do not know who I am, and I do not know who they are. What harm could come of it?”
“Certainly they will not see it that way, if their very fortunes are on the line. A young lady who is not a virgin is no young lady at all, Miss Elderwood. She will be unmarriageable. Her reputation ruined. And as you well know, a young woman’s marriage prospects are often a family’s political and financial prospects.
If I were her—if I were her father—I would take very drastic steps to ensure my daughter’s reputation remains unimpeachable. ”
Elswyth frowned. She thought again to what the man said: What would you have had me do?
Slit her throat? The woman had said nothing in reply, and Elswyth did not like the implication.
Would they really have killed her to keep their secret?
Who else in London would kill for the same?
Her sister was ever fond of gossip. Had she discovered something she was not meant to know?
She thought again of the bouquet, sitting on the vanity.
Hellebore meant calumny. Social ruination, the greatest fear of all the women of society.
But was good standing worth killing for?
Beware, Elswyth thought again, I am dangerous.
Elswyth spoke. “Let us hope my anonymity protects me.”
Mrs. Rose considered for a moment and then gestured to the left side of Elswyth’s face. She looked at Elswyth with a sympathetic expression. “Unfortunately, my dear, you are of a singular countenance.”
Elswyth’s fingers moved to her left hand, where her scar traced out from beneath her sleeve. The same scar that consumed the left side of her face, there for all to see. “Of course. How many young women in London bear a disfiguration such as mine? If they do not know me yet, they soon will.”
Mrs. Rose lowered her hand and laid it on Elswyth’s. “Fret not, dear. I have faced worse setbacks than this. We move forward regardless. We continue preparing for your presentation to the queen and your tableau vivant.”
Elswyth scowled. She thought perhaps she could segue this incident into some time away from Mrs. Rose, time to search for information about her sister. But the matchmaker was not so easily deterred.
Mrs. Rose, perhaps noting Elswyth’s dour expression, quickly took her hand away, settling it on her reticule.
“Oh, and Miss Elderwood, I imagine today might have awakened certain… curiosities.” She cocked her head.
“It’s only natural. But I must warn you, as your mentor, not to indulge such impulses.
To do so only leads to heartbreak and ruination. ”
Elswyth almost laughed. “You think I’m going to throw myself into the hands of some rake, now that I’ve witnessed lovemaking? I may be young, Mrs. Rose, but I am not totally na?ve to matters of the flesh. I make a study of it, in fact.”
“I suppose. But you would be surprised how many young ladies I’ve worked with develop a blockage before they are wed. It makes the matter of finding a husband all the more urgent.”
“A blockage? You mean they become pregnant.”
“Oh, no, dear. An unwed lady is never pregnant. But a few do develop menstrual blockages. If that were to be the case, one would need to get the blockage removed. And that can be a remarkably harrowing procedure.”
Elswyth took a bite of bread. “I am aware of what an abortion is, Mrs. Rose.”
Mrs. Rose made an indignant sound. “For shame! None of my girls have ever needed something like that. But… if one were to become quick with child, there are only two things to be done. The first is to wed swiftly. Preferably to the father, but if not, it becomes necessary to wed the first man that offers and make a cuckold of someone. Not ideal, naturally. The second is feign some illness until the child is born or claim to go on a tour abroad for a year. When the bastard does come, it’s right to the orphanage.
Then the girl can return the next year and try again for a husband.
But society is not stupid. Some will gossip, and one’s chances of finding a proper match are greatly diminished.
No one wants a ruined woman for a bride, after all. ”
Elswyth frowned, chewing her bread. She looked over to the vanity where Persephone’s bouquet waited.
But no… Persephone might have been a flirt, but she wasn’t stupid.
She wouldn’t despoil herself if it would interfere with her chance at a rich, genteel husband.
And the rest of the bouquet still didn’t make sense.
Elswyth swallowed her bread and took another sip of wine. “Well, you needn’t worry about that. I am of a singular countenance, as you say. Not many men are lining up to deflower me.”
Mrs. Rose sighed. “You might think so, but you underestimate men. There are all sorts of tastes in the world, you know. No matter how ugly you believe yourself to be, there is someone, somewhere, who thinks you are the most perfect person in the world. Even with your scars.”
“That is… strangely kind. Or insulting. I’m not sure,” Elswyth said.
Mrs. Rose ignored her, sighing. Then she reached into her reticule and produced a small vial filled with purplish liquid. She clutched it for a moment as if considering.
“I’ve been meaning to give you this anyway. It’s a tonic that helps prevent these menstrual blockages. Essence of silphium.”
Elswyth took it; a viscous red oil shimmered within. “Two drops a day, in the morning tea. At least until we’ve found you a husband. And even afterward, if you wish to postpone motherhood for a moment.”
Elswyth blinked. “I’m surprised, Mrs. Rose, that you would want me to postpone motherhood at all. You seem like the type that would think motherhood is the greatest achievement possible for a woman.”
Mrs. Rose sighed. “I do want what’s best for you, you know. I don’t just say that. And I do think that having a husband is what’s best for you. But after that, when—or if—you become a mother should be your choice. I would like to give you options. That is all.”
Elswyth thought for a moment. Mrs. Rose continued to surprise her, and she realized that she didn’t know anything about the woman. Her eyes returned to the bouquet, where it sat on the vanity. Then she asked: “Mrs. Rose—I’ve been meaning to ask you. Did you know my sister?”
Something unreadable passed behind Mrs. Rose’s eyes. It vanished, and she was her normal cheery self again.
“Oh. Well, no, not really. Why do you ask?”
“I only supposed that if my father hired you to help me with the social season, he might have hired you to help Persephone as well.”
Mrs. Rose laughed uneasily. “Well, he did. Initially. But I’m afraid…
How do I put this. I’m afraid she was quite difficult to work with.
She assumed she knew everything she needed to already.
And she was talented. The diamond of the season, people claimed.
” Mrs. Rose huffed as though insulted. “But no—I did not work with her long. She wrote to your father insisting she no longer needed my services, and he agreed.”
“You were let go,” Elswyth said.
“A mutual parting of the ways, dear,” Mrs. Rose said, lips pressed into a line, “as I said. Your sister could be very difficult to work with.”
“I suppose,” Elswyth said slowly. She watched Mrs. Rose’s face carefully.
“And yet that must have been so troublesome. A young girl insisting she knew better than you, with all your years of experience. Being dismissed. And then to have Persephone go on and be named the diamond, after she was so rude to you.”
“I was not dismissed,” Mrs. Rose said, rather sharply. “And, not to speak ill of the dead, but clearly she did not know best, given the circumstances.”
Elswyth chilled. “I see.”
Mrs. Rose stood, apparently finished with the conversation. She reached across the table and took Elswyth’s plate, even though she hadn’t finished eating.
“I nearly forgot—I’ve asked Lord Devereux and Mr. Ogunlana to be your practice audience for the tableau vivant tonight. Meet in the drawing room at six—and wear the ivory silk robe à la Grecque. It will be an excellent costume.”
She stepped toward Elswyth and examined her hair. She sniffed and then made a face. “And take a bath; you smell like horses. Ta-ta!”
And with that, Mrs. Rose hurried away, leaving Elswyth fuming.
She looked again to the bouquet. So carefully coded, so exquisitely designed.
One might think that someone like Mrs. Rose—a specialist in society’s elaborate rituals, like floriography—would be ideally suited to craft such a message.
And if she had loathed Persephone—if her dismissal had somehow besmirched her reputation—perhaps Mrs. Rose would have had reason enough to want her sister dead.
Elswyth realized that she’d made a mistake; she’d assumed that Persephone’s killer had been one of the men closest to her.
But women—like their flowers—could be poisonous.