Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The Earl of Worthing and his wife expect a crowd for their first Christmas ball in Kent. If the weather does not make roads impassable, it promises to be the event of the season and will allow the curious a look at the late Mr. Algernon Taylor’s final design of the scarcely year-old Worthing Manor.
Felicity glanced up as Mrs. Box entered the bedroom, her hair white as a dollop of cream atop her rosy face. The housekeeper had a painting tucked under one arm and a freshly washed petticoat draped over the other.
“Thank goodness it’s dry,” Felicity exclaimed, reaching for the petticoat.
“Lord in heaven, you’re not even finished packin’!
” Setting down the painting, Mrs. Box cast a worried look at the half-filled trunk at the foot of Felicity’s bed.
“You should’ve been gone already! You should’ve gone last night.
It’ll look bad, you arrivin’ at the Worthin’ estate a day late for this visit. ”
“Not as bad as trudging through snow at midnight would’ve looked.
” Felicity stuffed the petticoat into the trunk.
Could she manage with only two? Well, she must, mustn’t she?
Just as she must continue to spend hard-earned money on attractive gowns and paste jewels.
The ladies of the ton wouldn’t invite her to their affairs if she weren’t “Algernon’s charming daughter” and instead became “that poor bankrupt Miss Taylor.” Then how would she get material for her articles?
But being late to a country house visit wouldn’t enhance her reputation either.
Remembering who had made her late roused her temper.
“If you must blame someone, blame that dreadful Lord St. Clair. Thanks to him, I had to sneak my article into the Gazette offices last night. By the time I arrived home, the snow was blowing so thick, I dared not travel, especially alone in the darkness. I swear, if I ever see that man again—”
“Be careful, luv. His lordship might be visitin’ at the Worthin’s, too.”
Felicity gazed up at the heavens. “Please, God, don’t, under any circumstances, send that arrogant man to the Worthings, or I can’t be responsible for my actions.”
Mrs. Box ignored Felicity’s appeal to the Deity. “I still can’t believe it—the Viscount St. Clair himself pretendin’ to be from the Gazette. And you, givin’ a viscount a scoldin’! That weren’t too wise, you know.”
“Wisdom be damned. I wouldn’t care if he were a dratted duke! That man deserved a scolding. Why, he was the most overbearing, deceptive, son of a—”
“And that’s another thing. You ought to watch your language, luv.
Picked up too many bad habits from your father, if you ask me.
Those ladies at the country house won’t tell you much if you’re talkin’ like a workman.
” The servant cast her a considering glance.
“Besides, I liked the viscount. He cut quite a figure. Tall. And those muscles ... Lord have mercy on my soul, it made me wish I was young again. He weren’t at all like the gents your father was wont to bring home.
That were no pretty boy. But even with that swarthy skin, he looked appealin’. ”
“Appealing!” Felicity exclaimed, trying to forget that she too had found his rough looks and dark air disturbingly appealing. “If your taste runs to arrogant bullies, I suppose he’s appealing. He thought he could best me because I’m a woman. Well, I set him straight. He won’t bother me again.”
“A pity that. Wouldn’t hurt you none to marry a viscount.”
“Stop that! You know quite well he’d never marry my kind. And even if he would, am I to latch onto any reasonably attractive gentleman who walks through the door? He keeps a mistress, for pity’s sake! I could never keep silent about that!”
“Don’t s’pose you could, bein’ a forthright lass and all. Still ... is he rich?”
“I’m sure he is, or he couldn’t afford a mistress.” She spotted the speculative look in her servant’s eyes and added stubbornly, “I don’t care if he has a dratted fortune. His character is deficient.”
Mrs. Box folded a frilly lace dressing gown and added it to the trunk. Felicity took it out. As if she’d be receiving anybody in her room at the Worthings!
Tightening her lips, Mrs. Box shoved the dressing gown back in the trunk beneath the other clothes. “A fortune can make up for a great many deficiencies in a man’s character, ’specially when his face and form ain’t in the least deficient. If you ask me—”
“I didn’t,” she snapped, though she gave up on fighting Mrs. Box over the dressing gown. The woman would simply sneak it in again once her back was turned.
“I’m merely pointin’ out that we’ll soon have to sell the silver, if only to keep the boys in breeches. And speakin’ of that, we oughta sell this.” The housekeeper held up the painting she’d brought in earlier.
“No,” Felicity said, as soon as she saw what it was. “Not that one.”
“It’ll bring a pretty penny,” Mrs. Box coaxed.
It probably would, even though the artist wasn’t of any consequence.
Still, she couldn’t bear to part with it.
The oil painting had been Papa’s favorite.
It depicted a sultan and his harem in rich, dark reds and golds.
Papa had claimed to like it for the colors and the lines, but she suspected he’d mostly liked the scantily clad women.
Nonetheless, it was her secret favorite as well. She hated to admit to such wickedness, but she mostly liked the scantily clad sultan. He was so different from Englishmen, swarthy and handsome and proud ...
Good Lord. She groaned. He’s the very picture of Lord St. Clair. No wonder she’d found the viscount so fascinating yesterday. Perhaps she should sell it.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“You’d better do more’n that. You scarcely have enough ready change this week to pay the vails at the Worthin’s.”
Felicity gritted her teeth. “I’m not paying the vails.” When Mrs. Box’s face mirrored both horror and disapproval, Felicity added, “I’ll never return there, so what do I care if the servants think ill of me when I leave without giving them a farthing?”
The woman gave an exasperated sigh. “Child, you can’t go on this way. If you’d just set your cap for some young chap at the Worthin’s—”
“‘Find a nice gentleman to marry’—that’s your only solution. I’ve tried, you know. But no acceptable man marries a penniless woman with four brothers to raise, and the unacceptable ones are ... well ... unacceptable.”
“You mean, unacceptable by your grand standards,” Mrs. Box said with a sniff.
“And whose standards should I use? I’d be the one living with the wretch and sharing his bed—not you or the boys.
” If she could find someone to love, perhaps ...
But no, men didn’t marry women like her for love.
They married blazing beauties or delicate flowers or fine-boned china dolls. Not sharp-tongued spinsters.
Not that she wanted to marry. No, indeed. “There are only so many things I’ll sacrifice for my family, and my happiness isn’t one. As long as Mr. Pilkington pays me regularly and doesn’t quibble about what I write, I shall continue to produce my column and earn what money I can.”
“A pittance. It barely staves off your father’s creditors. They’re startin’ to doubt me when I lie about your father leavin’ you an inheritance. How long can I keep them believin’ that your inheritance is slow in comin’ to you legal-like?”
Mrs. Box had come up with the useful lie about the “inheritance” after they’d first discovered that she and the boys actually had an inheritance of 100 pounds per annum, an old carriage, and a mountain of debt.
Of course, James had inherited the house, which was entailed upon his heir, if he ever had one, and the house was mortgaged to the hilt.
So far Mrs. Box’s lie had kept their creditors at bay, but how much longer could that work?
Yet if her choice were to marry for money ...
“Once those nasty wretches get wind of how lackin’ in funds you really be,” Mrs. Box went on, “you know they’ll swarm this place like flies, forcin’ you into bankruptcy. Your brother will lose the house that your poor father designed himself.”
Tired of having the same argument with her most trusted servant and companion, Felicity slammed the trunk shut. “If that happens, the boys and I shall join the circus.”
“Be serious, luv. You must start plannin’ for the future.”
What future? She had none. They both knew it, though she wasn’t ready to face it yet.
“I tell you what,” she said lightly. “Rumor has it that Lord Worthing used to be a pirate. While I’m at his estate, I’ll ask him to put in a good word for us with his fellow miscreants.
The boys would make good pirates, don’t you think?
Swaggering about with sabers in their belts and climbing the rigging ... ”
“Lord have mercy, the Navy would surely stand up and take notice of that.” Mrs. Box crossed her arms over her ample chest. “What you ought to ask Lord Worthin’ is if one of his friends needs a wife.”
“You mean his pirate friends?” When Mrs. Box glowered at her, Felicity added impishly, “I shouldn’t mind marrying a pirate, you know. As long as he bathed regularly and kept his wooden leg well-polished. Or perhaps I could find one with an eye patch—”
“Enough of your nonsense,” Mrs. Box grumbled. “All I’m sayin’ is, if Lord Worthin’ and his wife like you well enough to invite you to their estate—”
“They only invited me because Papa designed their house, and they want me to see it now that it’s finished.” The invitation had taken her by surprise, for she barely knew Lady Worthing and knew nothing of the woman’s husband except rumor.
“I still say you ought to make the most of it.”
“Oh, I will, don’t worry, especially at tonight’s ball. I’m sure to hear enough gossip for a scandal bouquet. Only wait until I write my next column—”