Authors: Charis Michaels
“Lady Frinfrock,” Miss Breedlowe began, “may I present Miss Piety Grey, recently relocated from America.”
Piety smiled. “How do you do, my lady?”
Silence reigned.
Piety searched her brain for what, if anything, Miss Kembleton-Wise may have instructed them in school about the proper address of an English aristocrat. All she could remember was that Europeans were known to take their supper very late in the night, and it was passing rude to discuss money or enterprise. Money, she knew, was not appropriate polite conversation in America or anywhere else for that matter; but how would Piety explain her current situation without it? Regardless, she vowed again not to lie. If the marchioness led conversation beyond the usual pleasantries—if she demanded answers to the questions why, and how, and when—Piety would tell her. Conceal nothing. Well, almost nothing.
Piety tried again. “It is an honor and a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” She extended her hand to shake.
The old woman did not move. Piety checked over her shoulder, and Miss Breedlowe shook her head. Piety retracted her hand.
“What a lovely home you have, my lady,” said Piety, determined now.
Slowly, with a voice far deeper than one would expect from a woman so small, the marchioness spoke. “What business do you have with Cecil Panhearst’s former home?” A cane emerged from below the desk, and she jabbed the air in the direction of the street.
“I am the new owner,” Piety said. “I have bought Mr. Panhearst’s former house.”
“Young ladies do not
buy
houses,” she replied. “Where is your family? Your husband or your father?”
“I am not yet married, my lady, and my father is deceased.”
The marchioness stared. “Very well. What of your mother? Also dead, I presume?”
Piety did not blink. “My mother enjoys very fine health. She has remarried. To a man in New York City, which is my former home.” She looked deeply into the old woman’s suspicious scowl, carefully choosing her next words.
“I received a large, er, settlement in my father’s will,” she said.
“No male heirs?” asked the marchioness. “None at all?”
“I was my father’s only child.”
“Yes, but you are a female. As you surely know, females do not inherit money, nor do they own property. If not a brother, then a nephew? An uncle? A cousin? There is no male relation to manage the spoils of this will?”
Piety quietly shook her head.
“No man at all to buy this house, at the very least, on your behalf and install you properly inside it, along with someone to look after you? Surely you do not contend that you, yourself, are the sole owner of this home? That you will live there alone?”
Piety let out a breath and stood straighter. “Yes, I do contend that, my lady.” After a beat, she bolstered her nerve and added, “I should like to ask, do you own this house? Do
you
live here? Alone?”
The marchioness’s head snapped up. “I do in fact, although I am the octogenarian widow of an esteemed marquis, not a young, unmarried American of whom no one has ever heard. Furthermore, the circumstances of my ownership are very rare, and my late husband, may God rest his soul, toiled scrupulously for years with the solicitors to make it so.”
“Well, then you will understand.” Piety rushed on, remembering to smile. “Because my father went to the same lengths before he died.” She raised her chin. “It is for the very concerns that you now raise—no brothers or male heirs to see to my best interests—that I seek to safeguard his fortune by . . . by . . . ”
“Spending it?” guessed the marchioness.
Piety sighed. It was the truth. “Yes. Some of it. It went to buy the house.”
The marchioness was silent for a moment, studying her.
Piety forged on, “I had always dreamed of living in England, you see. My father’s family can trace our ancestors to Cornwall. It is believed we still have cousins there.”
“I have no interest in your Cornwall cousins, Miss Grey, unless they, too, intend to relocate to Henrietta Place. Continue.”
Piety cleared her throat. “After my father’s estate was settled and my mother remarried, I needed a change. So I approached my father’s solicitor, a close family friend, with the idea to move abroad, and he happened to have an associate here in London who could arrange the purchase of a property that would suit my needs. There was paperwork, signatures, bank drafts posted across the sea.”
The marchioness harrumphed. “Do I look like an office clerk, Miss Grey? I don’t care about your business transactions. Either you own the house or you do not; that is not for me to determine. However, I do make judgments about the common decency and proper behavior of the people on this street. And considering what I have seen of you, the pressing question may be: What sort of person are you, Miss Grey? Will you introduce suspect morality into our quiet and orderly street?
“You have told me about your dead father and remarried mother, but what of a guardian or companion for yourself? From what I can collect, you intend to reside in a four-story townhome mansion completely alone. Unchaperoned. A single young woman. No husband. No guardian. No family whatsoever.”
“Oh, I intend to employ a full staff. I will begin hiring domestics as early as tomorrow.”
“Butlers and footmen do not qualify, Miss Grey. Who is to protect you from them? I will not abide a clandestine lack of convention in the street, my girl. No resident of Henrietta Place will abide it.” She thumped her cane loudly on the floor.
There was a pause, and then the marchioness asked, “What is your business with the Earl of Falcondale?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The earl. Next door. When I finally persuaded fearful Miss Breedlowe here to insinuate herself into your carryings on, you had already conveyed yourself to his front door and lured him into the street.”
This, too, was not unexpected. The old woman had clearly been taking careful note of her arrival.
Piety proceeded slowly, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve only just met his lordship. We are neighbors to the side, obviously, and there are one or two construction issues pertaining to the adjoining wall of our homes. I will hire workmen to make repairs throughout the house immediately. It was on this matter that I called on him today.”
“And I suppose it is your American sensibilities that regard this sort of contact with a bachelor as appropriate? Setting up house next door to a young, unmarried gentleman—and I use that title with generous speculation, you should know. You, with no chaperone to advise you against pounding on his door in the broad light of morning, carrying on, up and down the steps, without even a proper introduction.
“You are an American,” she went on, “but even an American must know better than to comport herself in this manner—at least one dressed as finely as you, who claims to possess the resources to buy homes and ocean passages, with education in her speech and at least some notion of proper address.”
Piety sucked in a breath to explain, but the marchioness cut her off. “It begs the question, young lady: the money, and the property, and the voyage all alone. There is a large portion of this narrative that is conspicuously absent.” She raised one bushy eyebrow.
“Absent?” Piety repeated. If she failed to fill in the missing pieces, whatever they may be, the marchioness would surely make up her own.
“Out with it,” continued the marchioness. “It is clear to me you are
running away
; I want to know
to whom
or
from what
. Why have you come?”
Piety blinked. Behind her, she could feel Tiny drift across the room to stand at her side.
“Think on it.” Lady Frinfrock’s tone held a clear warning. “Weigh your answer carefully, and do not conjure up falsehoods to me—not after I’ve indulged you this far. The direction we all take from here depends very much on what you have to say for yourself in the next moment.”
Piety nodded, breathed deeply.
Oh, that.
How foolish and short-sighted she had been to circumvent her real purpose. But the truth, she knew, could fall one of two ways: Either it would endear the marchioness to her situation, or . . .
Or what?
She would be shocked and drive them from her home? Fine. They would go. They would proceed directly across the street and do as they as they pleased. It was her house, bought and paid for, just as Piety had said. Certainly, London was different than America, but not so different that a demanding neighbor, marchioness or not, could force her from her own property simply because she had not taken a liking to her situation.
“I stand waiting, Miss Grey.” The marchioness watched Piety expectantly.
“Yes,” Piety nodded. She cleared her throat. “My mother and father were estranged for much of their marriage,” she began. “They did not suit—fiercely, they did not suit—mostly due to my mother, whose personality may be most charitably described as volatile. Primarily, I was raised by my father, to whom I was very close.”
“His name?” cut in the marchioness.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Miss Grey, so far I have learned only that your name is Piety Grey and that you hail from New York, but this is all that I know. Who are your family?”
“Of course. Hyatt. William Hyatt Grey.” She watched as the marchioness took up a quill and began scribbling notes. “He owned a bank, er, several banks—nearly a dozen—throughout the states of New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. He was a brilliant man and a loving father.” She felt her throat begin to ache, her voice grow high and thick. She cleared her throat.
“When he died quite unexpectedly, from a horrible onset of pneumonia, last November, his will stipulated that the banks be sold and that a significant fortune go almost entirely to me. The terms of the will were not a surprise, and yet, my mother was enraged. The will provided for her in high style, but I . . . I received far more. The money set me free. She quickly remarried.”
“How fortuitous for a woman whose own daughter describes her as volatile.”
“Yes, well, I said that she was volatile; I did not say she was ugly. She is a striking woman who moves briskly through the social whirl of New York.”
“I assume this new marriage has bearing on you and your arrival in London?”
“Quite. She married a man named Owen Limpett.”
“Limpett.” The marchioness repeated the name, writing it down.
“Yes, Owen Limpett, a widower, and the so-called stocking king of New York.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Stockings, my lady. Socks. Hose. He owns a mill that manufactures stockings and such. Thousands of pairs, according to my mother. What my mother did not tell me, but what has become plainly obvious these last six months, is that the fortune with which he dazzled her during their brief courtship is either substantially smaller than expected or entirely inaccessible to her—and to his five sons.”
“Five sons?”
“Yes. Mr. Limpett has five grown sons who remain at home, and, for whatever reason, they have aligned themselves with my mother, or she with them, because together they have become tireless in hounding me.”
“Hounding you in what way, precisely?”
“Hounding me for my inheritance.”
The marchioness squinted at her. “What claim could stepbrothers, or even a mother, assuming the will is as explicit as you claim, have over your inheritance?”
“Their wish is for me to marry one of them.”
“Who wishes this?”
“All of them.”
“Which one are you meant to marry?”
“Any of them.”
“Well, that makes no sense at all.”
Piety took a deep breath. “One of the brothers in particular—Eli, he’s called—seems to be my mother’s preferred choice, and he is the most aggressive in pursuing me, but it has been made clear that a match among any of them would do.”
The marchioness paused for a moment and then rose to stand. “I see,” she finally said. “You are fleeing an undesirable match.”
“Please believe me,” Piety said, rushing to the edge of the desk, “when I say that this so-called match is far, far more harrowing than ‘undesirable.’ ” She blinked and felt her throat close again.
“Do not smudge the blotter, if you please, Miss Grey,” the old woman said, reclaiming her own perch. “We shall revisit the topic of your ghastly mother and the avarice of your randy stepbrothers soon enough. At the moment, I wish to know: Who is this woman?” She pointed her cane at Tiny.
Tiny, bless her, had hovered protectively throughout the interrogation, quietly lending support but saying nothing. Without hesitation, Piety said, “Tiny, let me introduce you to our new neighbor.”
Chin high and shoulders back, Tiny stepped to the front of the old woman’s desk.
“Please meet Tiny,” said Piety. “Tiny Baker. My personal maid.”
“You mean your slave.”
Piety immediately shook her head. “Absolutely not.” She draped a secure arm around Tiny’s thin shoulders. “Tiny is a free woman and has been since I was a girl. She is paid a salary for her work, and I provide her with a growing pension, just as my father did.”
“Is this true, Miss Baker?” the marchioness demanded.
“I am no slave, misses,” Tiny said. “Mr. Hyatt paid for my freedom years ago, and I’ve had a real salary—a decent, living wage—ever since.”
Piety squeezed her.
“Fascinating,” whispered Lady Frinfrock, wiggling out of her chair again and scuttling around the side of the desk. She marched up to Tiny and looked her up and down. “I would not have believed it if I had not heard it with my own ears, seen it with my own eyes. Absolutely fascinating.”
Piety’s smile turned hard. “No disrespect, my lady, but Tiny is like a member of the family—quite the only family I have left—and by no means is she a spectacle. I understand that Negro servants are not typical to England, but we had hoped to find a more generous attitude toward equality and respect here than in America, not less.”
“Oh, and you shall find it, Miss Grey, of that you can be sure. I am not gawking at Miss Baker, I am marveling at her. Tell me, if you please, Miss Baker: What is your age?”
The two women exchanged glances, and Tiny shrugged. Piety would not speak for Tiny. If the maid wished to share personal details with the marchioness, she would do it. If not, then Piety would defend her privacy until the last.