Stokely had always possessed robust appetites, and the passage of neither years nor wives had caused them to diminish. What did dwindle were his resources, so jaunts to London for the pricier pleasures were a thing of the past. Even the countryside was not such a fertile field for plowing, not for a bleary-eyed, bloated old philanderer with pockets to let. Attics to let, more likely.
“I must have been foxed.”
“That’s not an excuse, man, that’s a condition!” Now, the Duke of Aylesbury may have led a celibate life after the death of his beloved Cora. Then again, he may have not, but at least he was discreet. He was certainly no prude, not living in London among the decadent aristocracy, but he most assuredly did not bring those pleasures home to sully the eyes and ears of an innocent, inquisitive child. “In front of my daughter, by Jupiter!”
“Chit had no business being in the library. Why she couldn’t play with dolls like other girls, I don’t know. My little Nadine don’t go tearing around on horses, playing at soldiers with the boys, or reading books, you can be sure of that.”
Whatever else the earl may have said concerning the education of girl children was drowned out in the duke’s roar. What they weren’t supposed to learn, he bellowed, was how their governesses got topped by ramshackle Romeos!
Cousin Marietta had found something better to do with her evenings than read tawdry romances.
“You’ll not bring scandal to my doorstep,” the duke insisted. “I expect a special license before the week is out. You may honeymoon at my hunting box.”
“But listen, I can’t afford another wife, especially one with dreams of London ballrooms in her cockloft. It ain’t as if—” The sound of a fist being smashed down on the desk gave him pause. He may have been a randy old fool, but he wasn’t gudgeon enough to face Aylesbury at twelve paces over any female. Marietta was a tidy armful, anyway, a bit scrawny and featherheaded with die-away airs, but a man could do worse.
... And some marriages are made in heat.
Scandal kept from his door, the duke meant to keep it that way. He was rid of Marietta; he’d be rid of the whole Stockton clan.
“That boy of yours bids fair to follow in your footsteps, and I don’t want him near my girl.”
“Come now, the lad’s only sixteen. Wild oats, you know.”
“I know it all! Do you think I don’t keep track of everything that concerns my family? I know he’s been sent down from school so many times they hardly recognize him there. His instructors say he’s near brilliant—where he got that heaven knows—but he lacks discipline. He’ll end up another care-for-nothing loose screw, and I won’t have it.”
The earl grew even more red-faced, if possible. “The whelp’s just army-mad. Always has been. I won’t let him sign up, the heir and all, so he’s just kicking at the traces. He’ll likely buy his own colors when he’s eighteen with the money his mother left him. I misdoubt I can stop him.”
“What, did you think my girl would follow the drum?”
“Dash it, man, the chit’s only what? Ten or eleven? He’ll be ready to settle by her coming out.”
“And if he’s not? If he’s so deeply in debt he’s just waiting for her dowry? It won’t do, man.”
Damn, but the earl saw all that wealth slipping away. “Then maybe my second son, Thornton, would suit you for the chit? Lord knows he’s sober and steady enough for a bishop.” Lord knew where those traits came from, either, but the earl held out his last, faint glimmer of gold. Fool’s gold, of course, as he saw by the duke’s answer.
“I swear your first wife must have played you false, Frederick. That boy can’t even keep up with Emilyann on horseback, for all his four years’ advantage. He’s nothing but—”
The earl may have agreed that Thornton was a priggish toad-eater, but enough was enough. His third son, Geoffrey, was a jolly, likable lad, but he was younger than Miss Arcott, with no chance of coming into the title or lands. The duke would never go for that, so Stokely had nothing to lose. Hell, he was getting a flighty new wife, a parcel of debts, and his heir’s future to settle all over again. At least he deserved the satisfaction of spoiling the duke’s holier-than-thou attitude with a few home truths of his own.
“There’s to be no scandals in your family, eh? What about your own brother? The man’s a regular here-and-thereian. You worry about keeping your darling’s fortune safe from my boys, but Morgan Arcott would go through that money in a year, and throw your girl in the streets without thinking twice of it. And if”—he was in full spate now—“if you are thinking it will be so easy to settle your daughter to some high-born gentleman, think again. If ever there was a hell-born babe with more instinct for trouble, I’ve never seen it. The chit is a regular tomboy and a hoyden to boot. I’ve never seen her with her hair combed or her face clean or her pockets free of frogs. She’s on terms with every groom and dairymaid for miles, and has about as much ladylike decorum as my prize pig. Less, maybe.”
He didn’t say that he’d miss chasing her out of his orchards and stable yards if she ever changed. He didn’t say that everyone adored Lady Em for her cheerful deviltry and there wasn’t an ounce of guile in the moppet. He just concluded: “If she don’t blot her copybook, it’ll be a miracle. And even if you get those haughty London hostesses to accept her, she ain’t going to make anyone a comfortable wife, I’ll wager.”
“Don’t bet on it, you cannot afford to lose.”
It took a while for Lady Emilyann to figure how to smuggle letters into and out of Miss Meadow’s Select Academy for Young Ladies in Bath. At last she received a reply to her most recent tear-stained missive.
Dear Sparrow,
he wrote.
Don’t worry. I’ll marry you anyway.
Under the British legal system, a person who stole a loaf of bread could be hanged or sentenced to a long imprisonment. He, or she, could be exiled to Botany Bay or one of the other penal colonies. Many such involuntary tourists died on the voyage or from hunger, disease, or the elements. Others survived and made the best of a harsh living. Some even fought hard to succeed in their new life—dreaming of the day they could go home.
For the crime of being a child—worse, a girl child— Emilyann Arcott was shipped off to Bath, to a school devoted to the task of making young girls into model citizens, young ladies ready to make their bows to society. If it took mincing steps and modulated speech, Emilyann would do it. Dancing, French lessons, even the harp, she would learn it all, then go home, or so she thought in her childish naiveté.
But Rome wasn’t built in a day, and a hoyden wasn’t made into a debutante overnight, and life wasn’t fair. No matter that Emilyann outpaced her instructors, or charmed even the redoubtable headmistress with her eagerness to learn, she could not go home, except for an occasional long vacation. Gads, it was a life sentence!
And how she hated it! Some of the lessons were interesting, and she made friends among the less silly of her fellow students. She did not even mind the uniforms the others despised, never caring about her clothes so long as they were comfortable; she barely resented the rules about keeping them neat, for there was no chance to muss anything. She missed the country, the freedom, the rough-and-tumble of boys’ play, the bustling activity of a productive estate. She missed Nanny and Cook and all her friends on the farms. She missed her dog.
She did not miss Smoky, who had himself been at school for ages and would soon join the army. Boys could have adventures! Of course she remembered his last promise, but without much hope for the future. Not even he could change the mind of the Duke of Aylesbury. No one ever had, in Emilyann’s memory, and not for lack of trying. Her own tears and pleas and threats to starve herself hadn’t prevented her continued incarceration at school.
Instead, she was sent to a dragon of an aunt for one whole vacation, where she did nothing but read improving works and sew shirts for the parish needy. (Those who had one arm shorter than the other, who didn’t take part in strenuous activities like breathing, which would have opened her pitiful seams, or those who did not require buttonholes, which were entirely beyond her. Miss Arcott might understand the functions of an orery, but the workings of needle and thread were true mysteries.)
She did not miss her father either. She hardly knew him, except as some distant divinity to be worshipped, feared, and obeyed. Occasionally he would grant some benediction, like petitioning Miss Meadow to provide riding lessons for the girls, and sending Emilyann’s own pony down to Bath. Mostly, however, he was an implacable force, in God-like charge of her life.
Previously, Emilyann had childishly and cheerfully accepted his edicts concerning her future. Of course she would marry the man of his choice. That was as natural to her as her name. She was Lady Emilyann Arcott, betrothed to Everett Stockton. Here was her right hand, here was Smoky. What could be easier?
Things were different now. Among all the other gossipy, giggly young misses, some approaching their debutante seasons and freedom from Miss Meadow and lessons in deportment, Emilyann quickly learned that daughters, especially daughters of wealthy, powerful men, were only pawns in their fathers’ chess games. The girls might read as many lurid romances as they could smuggle into school, dreaming of the dashing heroes who rescued the distraught damsels, but they knew they would wed the suitor their fathers chose, be he old and gouty, pock-marked, or averse to bathing.
Lady Em kept Smoky’s letter, folded so many times the creases almost split, and dreamed her own dreams.
* * * *
“Well, my dear, we will be sorry to lose you here at Miss Meadow’s Academy.”
That was a lie. The pudgy little headmistress would be sorry to lose only the duke’s patronage and the money she had extorted from him for his daughter’s schooling. Emilyann waited to see if Miss Meadow would be struck by lightning for such a monumental untruth. No such luck, so she courteously replied “Thank you.” She would
not
tell the bigger whopper by replying that she would miss the school.
“I am sure you will make us all proud of you when you enter society.” Now, that was coming too strong, Emilyann considered. Likely old Meadowlark was shaking in her boots lest any prospective parents learn what institution had had the molding of this particular pupil.
“Sixteen is a bit early, but the dear duke feels you would benefit from some local society in Northampshire before your official presentation, and sooner or later we would have to see you off anyway. It is the nature of young things to leave the nest, try their wings, take their proper place....”
Miss Meadow was rushing through her standard farewell speech, most likely to get to the celebratory bottle of champagne that much sooner. Emilyann found no fault there; she had been eagerly anticipating this day herself for six years now.
“... Remember that you will always be in our hearts.”
Hah! That midget martinet might look like a cherubic chipmunk, with pouchy cheeks and button eyes, but her heart held all the affection of a flea! Emilyann murmured, “How kind.”
“We will miss you.”
Miss Arcott choked and needed a restorative sip of tea. That was the biggest rapper yet. Miss Meadow would be vastly relieved to see the last of Lady Emilyann Arcott.
She looked like the model student, hands folded demurely in her lap, blue eyes cast respectfully downward, light blond braids twisted into a pristine bun at the back of her neck—not a single hair would dare to be out of place. She wore a simple but elegantly fashionable white muslin gown that had been ordered from the most expensive dressmaker in Bath, with a percentage, naturally, accruing back to Miss Meadow’s account. Her cheeks were appropriately pale, untouched either by artifice or vulgar sun-darkening. Smiling politely, repeating her “Thank-yous” in a softly sweet voice, Lady Emilyann was an angel, a lady, a debutante!
A wraith, a shrouded corpse, a blasted virgin being readied for sacrifice, she muttered to herself as she took another sip of tea. (A lot better quality than the brew served the pupils.) Lord, it had been a long time—for both of them. Emilyann had learned in her very first year that cooperating with the gaolers would not shorten her sentence. No knight on a charger was going to ride to her rescue either.
Smoky had charged off to join the army while his father and Marietta were on honeymoon. His letters were few and then, when he joined the Peninsular campaign and his knack for playing least in sight sent him behind enemy lines, even more sporadic. Lately, all she heard about him was when she managed to see his brothers at some neighbor’s house during vacations.
No, if anything was going to be done about her wretched condition, she would have to do it herself. It was not in her nature to be mopey and miserable, not when she could do something to enliven her days and make the gaol bearable. As the daughter of a duke, with a more than generous allowance and a natural friendliness that charmed the kitchen staff, the grooms at the hired livery, and anyone else she had no business being in contact with, there was a great deal Miss Arcott could do to subvert authority ... and make Miss Meadow’s life hell.
How many creatures had crept, crawled, and slithered their way into the schoolrooms? How many bushels, barrels, and bales of merchandise had found their way to the academy’s kitchens with Miss Meadow’s signature on the order forms? The clocks set back, the signs repainted naughtily, the Madeira watered at a social for local patronesses—the list went on and on because there was nothing Miss Meadow could do about it.
There was only so much retribution she could exact before the duke withdrew his daughter and blackened the school’s reputation. Miss Meadow would never admit defeat—nor refund a tuition. Not even the time the entire school had to be quarantined during the bishop’s visit when a whole grade came down with measles—that had been painted on!
None of the other girls would ever squeal on the chit; she was a hero to them. Even the older girls who had already absorbed Miss Meadow’s strictures on propriety and decorum, she thought, were not above giggling at Emilyann’s fits and starts. The most senior students, those wise young debs who were about to make their curtsies to the polite world, realized it would be better to stay friends with one of the wealthiest heiresses in England. Furthermore, they liked her, with her gamin grin and big blue eyes and boundless energy.