A Lady in Disguise Read online

  “Mr. Everard,” Lillian said, “I’d rather not.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told.” His voice was as rough as she’d ever heard it. Without meeting her eyes, he walked from the room.

  After luncheon, during which the talk revolved around clothes not investments, Lillian made herself useful to Lady Genevieve. Though she would not herself admit it, the older woman did not move as swiftly as perhaps she once had. Lillian volunteered the use of her quick, light steps to carry messages and coordinate all the bits and pieces of a ball.

  When next she saw Thorpe, he sat quite near to Nora, his arm draped casually over the back of her chair. Passing close behind them, Lillian heard Thorpe say, on a laughing note, “It was easier to agree than to listen to your uncle’s eternal hinting. If he requires a rout to content him, so be it.”

  “Aunt Grenshaw is just as difficult,” Nora said. She seemed much more relaxed in his presence than she had been before.

  “On the contrary, I like a woman who knows her own mind.” The two chuckled companionably.

  Though he did not turn his attention from Nora, Lillian felt that this last was to her address. She hurried to collect a book of receipts Lady Genevieve had been certain she’d left in the library, leaving them with their heads together over discarded hands of cards in the salon.

  At church the next morning, they sat beside one another in the pew, and Thorpe helped Nora find the text. Lillian said her psalm. Every morning saw Nora and Thorpe out early on horseback. The rest of the time, she walked with Thorpe or played for Thorpe or took tours of the house and gardens with Thorpe. Mr. and Mrs. Grenshaw beamed and nudged and broadly winked at each other. Lillian said her psalm in a more determined tone, even muttering it aloud at times.

  In her spare moments, which were few, she found herself limning a letter to Paulina. At night, before dreaming, she could almost see her hand moving across an empty page, writing with a pen of fire dipped in ink of pure venom. She could tell Paulina that Thorpe Everard’s only “trouble” was that he forgot one woman the moment another drifted across his vision. A fickle and cold-hearted man, afflicted with a permanently wandering eye. His consideration held no more meaning than the caress of an errant breeze.

  With her knowledge of Paulina’s schoolgirl character, which she doubted had changed over the years, Lillian felt certain this was the way to bring the baroness hotfoot to Mottisbury. At times, she was sorely tempted to write just such a letter. Yet, the remnants of honor inculcated at that same school held her back. Telling tales was against the code, even telling them on a miserable man. Let Paulina come herself, if she must know the man’s secrets.

  Then Lillian could see, in that misty precognizance that comes on the outermost edge of sleep, Paulina Pritchard running up to Thorpe and hurling her arms about him. She saw his face change until it wore that same amorous expression she herself had so briefly glimpsed. He would profess his perpetual passion for Paulina, realizing she was indeed the one and only woman for him.

  Lillian groaned at the same point every night, and woke up. Again and again, she declared that this was not jealousy. Only one who loves, she reminded herself, can feel jealous.

  * * * *

  Despite Thorpe’s fiat in reference to Lillian helping the staff in their preparations, she had spent the last few days lending an extra hand where it was needed. She assembled the layers of the pink gateaux prior to icing. She polished silver and helped fill vases with blooms from vast gardens she had not yet visited. With the maids, she cleaned the parquet floors of the ballroom and the petite salons to the sides of that enormous chamber, listening all the while to their gossip.

  “I come just before she died,” Burrows confided. “She wept and wailed something fierce about that baby. Called the master things no right-feelin’ woman should say. I mean, it’s God’s way, ain’t it? But she was the scaredest woman I ever saw.”

  “Aye,” said the second maid, Hale. “And the prettiest. Do you remember how she looked? No, you weren’t here then. But I remember the first time she ever danced here. All in silver and gold, she was, with her hair all bound up with roses. The master took one look... aye, you could see it in his face. He never took the hand of another gel that night, I can tell you! Ate their hearts out for him, and he never noticing.” Her voice dropped away to nothing, as she mopped the floor with extra vigor.

  “How soon after that did they marry?” Lillian asked, wishing she had sufficient self-control not to ask.

  “Oh, not more ‘n six weeks, I reckon,” Hale said. ‘Then they went to Lunnon for the bridal month. And the boxes and valises they came home with! All for her, every stitch. I scarce ever saw her in the same gown twice, I can tell you!”

  ‘The master fair doted on her,” Burrows added. “Nothing was too good. He was always bringing her something to take her mind off the child. Not that it ever did.” She frowned.

  “You should have been here before she found out she was breedin’! Things was different. Gay! She laughed all the time.”

  “I heard Mr. and Mrs. Becksnaff say there was a house party near every week!”

  ‘True enough, true enough.”

  “And the gentlemen as thick around her as bees around a honey pot!”

  “Very generous, some of them, if you happen to see one of ‘em in the hall some night.” Hale leaned on her mop, lost in memories of the grand days. “Not that the master made any mind of it. He never would hear ill of her.”

  “Was there any ill to hear?” Lillian asked. Had she really sunk so low as to question his servants?

  “There’s always ill, miss, for those who’d hear it. Being Chapel, we don’t hold with such talk.”

  Lillian changed the subject after that set-down, talking about the flowers that would fill the ballroom, and hearing in turn about the fits Mrs. Becksnaff threw over the hors d’oeuvres.

  The morning of the ball, Lillian sat alone in the schoolroom, drawing letters in a round hand on a sheet of foolscap. Addy could now pick out any letter in the alphabet, even when given to her out of their proper order. Lillian had begun to ask Addy to read along after her in one of the easier books on the shelf. She thought these lessons would be reinforced if Addy could learn to trace out the letters as well as to say them.

  When a rap sounded at the schoolroom door, Lillian jumped, scraping a line through the large G. Vexed at herself, for she well knew that Thorpe had taken Mrs. Grenshaw and Nora into the village, she called out, “What is it?”

  Mr. Grenshaw came in, his gleaming face organized into a grin. “What a pleasant little room!” he said, glancing about. “Exact perfection for learning! And a remarkable fine background for your beauty. Miss Cole, if I may say such a thing.”

  Lillian inclined her head a scant inch. Unfortunately, Mr. Grenshaw did not seem to require much encouragement. He said, “What a pity my dear daughter could not have lived to see her little girl all grown up, with a governess of her very own. Emily doted on learning. I’m sure you would have had found many subjects in common with her. There never was such a girl for facts ... and figures.”

  “No doubt, Mr. Grenshaw.” This did not tally at all with Mrs. Grenshaw’s description of Emily’s turn of mind. Hoping he’d continue to talk about the late Mrs. Everard, Lillian said, “Now I know where Addy found her aptitude for learning.”

  “Not that Thorpe isn’t a clever fellow. Yes. Why, he administers the entire Everard fortune by himself, or virtually so. And that’s no paltry sum, I can tell you!”

  “Mr. Everard gives the impression that this responsibility rests lightly on his shoulders.”

  “Oh, he’s a gentleman, right enough. As I told my girl when she said he was the one she wanted to marry, ‘Money’s money, but the gentry’s bankable even when they’re short of the actual.’ Not that an Everard worries about that. He’s got the needful in buckets.” Mr. Grenshaw stuck his hands in his coat pockets and his expression was not nearly as admiring as his words.

  “It seems
to me,” Lillian said, “that the wealthier a person is, the less likely they are to part with any of their... er ... brass.” By now aware that Mr. Grenshaw could not be described as “gentry,” she thought he would be more likely to continue talking, if she tuned her words to match his own. Actually, except for their appearance and that she never had any doubts of her father’s integrity, Mr. Canfield and Mr. Grenshaw were quite similar. Indeed, listening to Mr. Grenshaw nearly made her homesick for her father.

  “You’ve struck it exactly! Being in your situation, you’d know all about that, eh? I’ll wager you’ve worked in places where the gold plate lies thick on the table, and you lucky to get a look-in at five pounds from year to year. Not that you can have been a governess long, by the looks of you.”

  “It has sometimes seemed much longer than it has actually been.”

  “I daresay, I daresay. But didn’t it gall you to think of all that good blunt going into someone else’s pocket? Someone who ain’t... isn’t half so learned as you? And why? ‘Cause they was born to it, that’s all, just an accident of nature ... and there they are with the stuff in sacks and you working day to day with nothing to show for it.”

  “Mr. Everard seems very generous.”

  Mr. Grenshaw hastened to say, “I’m not speaking of Thorpe; he’s a good sort. When Emily was alive, it was all ask and have. No meanness. If there’s one kind of fellow I bar, it’s one that won’t spare a farthing to buy a friend a glass of beer. Thorpe’s always done right by us, even since that sad time, but there’s no denying it troubles me to ask for it. If I could only get this plan in motion ... but there, it’s as you say. The richer the fellow, the less he wants to take a risk. Not that our enterprise could be called risky! No, I assure you. Your money’s safe as houses ... safer! Rent don’t make you fifty percent return per annum on your money!”

  “Fifty percent per year, Mr. Grenshaw?”

  “At the least! The very least! Profits can only go up!”

  “It sounds most interesting, sir. Regrettably, I have no savings to invest in any venture, no matter how lucrative.” Lillian remembered her father kicking a similar rogue out of doors and coming back to say, “You deal the same, Lillian, with anyone that offers you more than seven and a half on any investment. All monies returned by third year, my ... foot! Taking me for a sap-skull. Me!”

  Mr. Grenshaw came to sit quite close to Lillian. She slid a trifle farther down the window seat, and he leaned forward to fill in the intervening space. His breath smelled of stale tobacco. “I know you haven’t any money to speak of, Miss Cole. How should you have? But you know plenty that do. A word from you—someone they know and have trusted with their children.”

  “I hardly think—”

  “Just write ‘em a note, saying how you met a gentleman with an investment scheme, and how you’d invest yourself if you had it. They’d be happy to send you what you ask. And you wouldn’t need but one hundred pounds each from ten different people. Maybe your friends can write to their friends, and such like.”

  “A thousand pounds, Mr. Grenshaw?”

  “A hundred pounds apiece isn’t nothing to get in on the kind of blunt we’ll be making this time next year. One of the partners had to back out of the scheme, owing to an unforeseen circumstance, and the others can only hold his space open for so long. A mere thousand and we’re in like a greased pig!”

  “I don’t know....” Lillian said, drawing out the words in a way designed to force Mr. Grenshaw to fill in the pause.

  “ ‘Course we needn’t tell your friends what the true profits are. We’ll tell ‘em twenty-five percent per year, and the rest goes right into your little pocket!” He tried to pat her leg. Lillian moved it out of reach just in time.

  “Perhaps if I knew more about what you have in mind.”

  Mr. Grenshaw looked instinctively over his shoulder, though he could have seen nothing but the open sky beyond the window. He apparently decided to take the risk. “Some acquaintances of mine have the chance to sell supplies to the army and the navy. With the war going the way it is, it could be years of big profits before peace is made. And after that... well, there’s always a war going on someplace, isn’t there?”

  “Regrettably.” To make profits even half of what Mr. Grenshaw promised, the supplies must be as rotten as the hearts of the speculators. She wondered if the “unforeseen circumstance” which prevented one of them from investing was a sudden jail stay, or something worse.

  “I don’t know if my former employers would listen to me on such a subject, Mr. Grenshaw.”

  “They might, they might. You never know when it comes to money. Why not take up your pen again, and write ‘em today?” He was obviously struggling to keep the avuncular tone in his voice. “It’ll only take a couple minutes of your time, and think of the money. Miss Cole! Your own house. No more working for other people. You could marry. Start your own family, like.”

  Lillian gathered up her paper and pen and rose to her feet. “I cannot give you an answer just now, Mr. Grenshaw. Allow me to think on it for a day or two.”

  “There’s no time,” he said, making a grab for her hand and missing. Sweat stood out on his brow. “My partners will hold the place for me if they believe I can raise the wind. They’re waiting to hear.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’ll give you my answer later.” Lillian hurried from the room. Silently, she tiptoed back to steal a glance at Mr. Grenshaw.

  Rising to look out the window, he struck his fist into his hand. “Blast ‘er, Claude. Slipped through yer fingers. I hope Ursula has better luck.” He fell silent.

  Ursula apparently hadn’t. Lillian was standing on the stairs when Thorpe entered with Mrs. Grenshaw and Nora trailing behind him. He walked quite fast, but not quickly enough to outpace Mrs. Grenshaw’s whine. “If you only knew what it meant to us, I’m sure you’d not begrudge us. Emily—”

  “I fear,” Thorpe said, “that if you do not hurry, you will not have time to dress before my guests arrive. It would have been better to let the coachman choose his own pace, instead of slowing him to a crawl. Till this evening, ladies.” He bowed and walked away.

  Lillian saw Mrs. Grenshaw pinch Nora’s arm. The girl bit her lip but did not cry out. “Couldn’t you have said something to turn him up sweet?” the older woman hissed. “My Emily would have had him handing us the money on a silver tray, petting him and telling him what a bountiful fellow he was. But you! Shrunk over in the corner without a word to say for yourself. And after sitting in his pocket this whole week, practically! You should have gotten us that money by now!”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt—”

  “ ‘Sorry’ butters no parsnips!” Mrs. Grenshaw seemed to master her anger. “See you do better tonight! Now, you’ll need to bathe and wash your hair. Did you lay out that gown, as I told you?”

  “No, Aunt. We were in such a push to leave this morning, I hadn’t time!”

  “Do you want to ruin everything? Get upstairs and do it now, or it’ll have to be pressed and the servants will talk and spoil everything. Go on, what are you waiting for?”

  Lillian shrank back as Mrs. Grenshaw pointed upwards. Nora dropped a curtsy and ran for the stairs. Mrs. Grenshaw waddled away, possibly to report failure to her husband. As Nora passed on the stairs, Lillian threw out a hand. “My dear...” she said, then halted, hardly knowing how to go on.

  “Oh! Miss Cole. I didn’t see you.”

  “I’m not surprised. You have many worries just now. You see, I heard everything your aunt had to say. I cannot claim to envy you your relations.”

  “I—I love my aunt dearly.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, of course. She’s ... they’ve been very good to me and my family. My father’s dead. Without Uncle Grenshaw, we should have starved.”

  “But do you think it right to sell yourself into marriage for their sakes? That is what they mean to do, is it not? To persuade Thorpe that you are Emily re-created, so that he will once more fall
in love with her. Thus, giving themselves free access to the funds Emily made available when Thorpe’s adoration for her blinded his better instincts. Am I not correct?”

  The girl before her blanched and swayed. Lillian touched Nora to steady her. The staircase was perhaps not the best venue for a conversation of this type.

  But Nora recoiled from Lillian’s hand. “No! No, you’re completely wrong! Aunt Grenshaw says you’re in love with him yourself, which is why you are talking like this! I— I... adore Mr. Everard. Anyone who marries him must be the luckiest girl in the world!” So saying, Nora flew away up the stairs and down the corridor, her breath coming in great gasps, as though she were about to cry.

  Lillian wished her pity for the girl had not brought her to speak. Nora obviously had little will of her own left, and whatever faint remnants might remain were lost to a sense of family duty. She would not summon enough resolve to refuse Thorpe if he asked her to be his. If necessary, Lillian would reveal her true identity to Nora and offer her protection and money. This she would do despite the danger of Mr. and Mrs. Grenshaw’s upsetting a butter boat over her and the fear of being despised by Thorpe for her deceptions. She knew full well what it was like to be pressured into marriage because of someone else’s ambitions.

  * * * *

  Rarely had Lillian felt less like enjoying herself than this evening. Nevertheless, she dressed with some care in the gown that had so mysteriously entered her wardrobe. The deep blue brought out of the clarity of her skin, while the silver strands woven into the material seemed at once to darken her lashes as well as to lighten her hair. She couldn’t help wondering if the dress became her so well because Thorpe had not only purchased it for her but also would see her in it tonight.

  Suddenly feeling much better, Lillian stood on tiptoe to see more of herself in the tiny glass propped on the worktable. She pinched her cheeks to bring up color and rubbed her lips to make them a deeper shade of pink.

  She could not resist the temptation to draw her sapphires from their hiding place. Holding them to her throat, she could believe that the past eight days were no more than a curious dream invented between a fete champetre and a morning reception. Looking about her at the mismatched furnishings of the governess’s room, Lillian smiled. This was by no leap of the imagination her own rose-colored bedchamber in her father’s London home.