Lady Em even had the instructors wrapped around her dainty little thumb, being polite, cheerful, eager to learn. Emilyann was quick to see the teachers were as much prisoners at the school as she was, with their miserly salaries, drab existences, reams of rules and regulations. Perhaps they were in worse straits, for she could leave eventually. Sparrow was never one to add to another’s burden; she was a lady.
She was a witch, recalled Miss Meadow, shuddering at memories of pink dye in the laundry, scarlet ribbons appearing in the hair of every single student, in church, no less, and the magistrates even calling on her—twice! Magistrates, dear Lord. The sooner the hellion was gone, the better.
“Yes, well, we must not keep your father’s coach waiting. I expect he will join you in Northampshire as soon as Parliament is adjourned. Then there will be local assemblies and house parties, and next year, London,” she said reverently.
London. It was the goal of a girl’s schooling, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, where a miss could become a Toast, a Belle, a bride. She could also become a social outcast if her behavior was found wanting. Miss Arcott’s behavior was wanting a bridle! In one last, desperate effort to inculcate six years of pleas for propriety, and incidentally save the reputation of her school, Miss Meadow placed a chaste kiss in the air near Miss Arcott’s chin and said, “We’ll be thinking of you.”
“I’m sure you will,” Lady Em said, dropping a perfect curtsy, and, behind her skirts, a lovely little green garden snake.
* * * *
“Freedom, Nanny,” Emilyann shouted, skipping into the old nursery. “Two whole weeks of freedom!”
Nanny put down her mending and adjusted her wire-rimmed spectacles to read the letters being gaily waved under her nose while Lady Em went on happily: “Father writes that Parliament is embroiled in another debate on the Corn Laws and so will not adjourn for at least another two weeks. And even better, Aunt Ingrid cannot come to Northampshire to chaperone me because that nodcock Bobo fell off his horse and broke an arm. Too bad it wasn’t his head; that might have knocked some sense into him.”
“Now, missy, you shouldn’t be agloating over another’s misfortune, and that bein’t any way to talk of your cousin.”
“Nanny, you know very well that if the wiser creature sat on top, Bobo would be wearing the saddle. Besides, he isn’t really my cousin. He’s only Uncle Morgan’s stepson from Aunt Ingrid’s first marriage. Thank goodness I have no blood in common with that bobbing-block.”
She changed the subject at Nanny’s frown. “Father sent Jake Coachman to look after us because Jake’s arthritis is too painful for him to drive right now. He’s been telling me the most wonderful stories about the highwayman they are calling Gentleman Jim. Jake hasn’t seen him in person, of course, more’s the pity.”
Nanny harrumphed. “Fine watchdog your papa sent, filling your pretty head with such notions. Next thing you know, we’ll be having you out on the highway with a mask and a pistol.”
“Not to worry,” Lady Em said, lifting her chin. “I’ll have you know I am a lady now.”
“Sure, and your lovely gown is allover dog hairs and grass stains already, and your hair is no-how, like a gale came through here. And I had it braided so pretty not two hours ago.”
“Oh, Nanny, you know my wretched hair is too fly-away to stay tied for long, unless I sit perfectly still.”
“And a fine day that would be, if I live to see it.”
“Don’t scold, Nanny. I mean to be good, truly I do.”
“Aye, I’ll bet you do, after your papa’s letter. One hint of mischief, he says, and it’s right back to that school for you. No parties or picnics, and no going up to London in the spring neither.”
Emilyann twirled around, oblivious to the falling hairpins and ribbons. “Won’t it be grand? The opera and plays and Vauxhall Gardens and Venetian breakfasts. Father says I’ll even get to meet the prince!”
“And a whole passel of eager young bucks, too. I’ll wager every eligible gentleman in London will be begging His Grace for your hand within a sennight. Some what aren’t so eligible, too.”
Emilyann blushed, an easy occurrence for one of her fair coloring, and one which happened much too often for her peace of mind. “Do you really think so, Nanny? Do you really think I’ll be popular? What if I have to sit out every dance on the sidelines with Aunt Ingrid, or, worse, if only Bobo asks me to dance?”
“You’ll be a wallflower when pigs fly, child. And not just because of your papa’s wealth. He would no more let a fortune-hunter come near you than he’d let Old Toby’s plowhorse near his broodmares. But for the other beaux ...” The old nursemaid shook her head, wondering if the duke knew what he was in for. “You’ll do, if’n you just remember that pretty is as pretty does, and you have to please the mamas as well as the sons.”
“Father said I might have a year to ... to survey the field. I know that sounds vulgar, but that’s how all the girls at school refer to it, and the season is nothing more than a marriage mart anyway. He promised he’d consider my wishes.”
Nanny waved the letter. “And he promised right here that he’d marry you off willy-nilly to the first suitable
parti
if there was one whisper of scandal while you are here. No riding astride, no going into the village alone, no dicing with the stablehands, he says.”
“Yes, and I am to stay away from Stockton Manor, although it seems harsh that I cannot pay my condolences to Nadine. That was a terrible tragedy, losing both the earl and Cousin Marietta in a carriage accident. They said he was foxed.”
“A lady doesn’t gossip, missy. And you know your father ordered that woman’s name not be mentioned around here. At least you won’t be getting up to deviltry with those boys. Master Thornton has taken orders and has his first vicarage, a fine living not far from London, and that rapscallion Geoffrey is still away at school.”
“And what of Smoky? Is there any news of him?”
“He’s Lord Stokely now, of course, but isn’t making any hurry to sell out. We heard he was mentioned in the despatches.” Nanny pursed her lips.
“Why do you look so disapproving? There’s more, isn’t there?”
“There have been stories, stories not fit for your ears, lamb. Wellington’s young officers make a habit out of cutting a dash, you know, and that lad always could charm the birds out of the trees.”
Emilyann hooted in delight. “A rake? You mean Smoky is a rake? How exciting for him! Oh, I wish I could go visit with Nadine. She would know.”
“Ladies don’t gossip, missy. And Miss Nadine is too young for such goings-on. Although what I hear about her and that ninnyhammer aunt of hers who is supposed to be taking charge at the Manor ...”
“I thought ladies didn’t gossip, you old faker,” Emilyann teased. “No matter, I’ll hear all the
on dits
from Cook or Mrs. Finster in the village. Father said I was to have some new dresses made up, to give some of our trade to the local merchants, although I already have so many gowns I don’t know when I’ll get to wear them. But I’ll wait till he returns home to ask him about a duty call to the manor.”
* * * *
She never got to wear the new gowns or make that call, for the duke never came home. It was raining. The right leader slipped and came up lame, so one of the grooms led it back to a farmhouse they had seen. The undercoachman could not handle the off-stride team, and the coach foundered in the mud, miles from nowhere, in the rain and wind and cold. The duke took a chill, which settled in his chest, which became pneumonia, which killed him in three days.
Black was the color of Lady Em’s dresses. Black were her prospects. But not as black as her uncle Morgan’s heart.
Like a sapling growing crooked in the shade of a larger tree, Morgan Arcott grew bitter in the shadow of his brother’s money, power, and title. But for a trick of birth, Morgan would have been the chosen one, their father’s heir and favorite, not the unfortunate younger son given an allowance and a good-bye.
Brother George got to marry the woman of his choice. Hell, beautiful Cora would have been Morgan’s choice, too, if she would have looked at a green lad already in the hands of the cent-percenters. No, Morgan had to wed money, and a bride was found for him among the wealthy merchant barons. A Cit, no less, and a shy, frail, nervous female Laura was, with neither looks nor wit to sugar-coat the pill.
Morgan’s father thought the responsibility of a young bride would mature his son. Instead, Morgan got her with child, got his hands on her dowry, and got himself back to London and the gaming tables as soon as possible. She lost the baby; he lost her fortune, but they both kept trying.
Worn out with three or four futile attempts to bear him a child—Morgan could not quite recall the exact number— Laura faded away mere weeks before her twenty-fifth birthday, which he most assuredly would never have remembered either, the date not being scribed on the back of the pasteboards, although certain other marks were.
By now their father had stuck his spoon in the wall and brother George was Duke of Aylesbury, no more generous nor less censorious than the old man, just younger. He was a rising star in political circles, his investments returning fourfold, his wife increasing. Morgan’s interests also broadened as he added shilling for the gaming dens to card-sharping.
Morgan needed another wife. Oh, not for the comfort of a woman’s warmth; he got all that from a different class of female entirely. No, he needed another investment in his career, another bankroll, but this time there were even higher stakes. George’s Cora suddenly died of childbed fever leaving the one infant, Emilyann, a girl. Morgan found himself second in line to the tide, with his grief-stricken brother vowing to remain a widower.
That was doubtful, even to Morgan. After all, George was still a young man with more sense and family pride than to leave the Arcott fortunes to an ivory-tuner. Nevertheless, the gambler in Morgan saw a chance, albeit a long shot, of getting his hands on the Arcott wealth, taking his rightful place in society, and topping that flat George at something, even if merely in begetting an heir.
Money and an heir. Those were the only two reasons Morgan could ever see for marrying, and he was desperate for both. Finding a bride, however, was not quite as simple this time. There was no wealthy duke spreading patronage, nor were Morgan’s own prospects such that a wealthy Cit would trade his daughter on the chance of a title. Those middle-class merchants and mill owners were as canny as the money lenders when it came to Morgan’s place in the succession.
As for finding a wealthy heiress among his own kind, he had a better chance of finding the lost mines of the Incas. He was not even invited to ton affairs, and chaperones in the park made their debutantes sidestep him like a pile of horse droppings.
Then he found Ingrid, a handsome widow with a handsome jointure and a small son: a proven breeder! Better yet, he discovered her while on a repairing lease to Cheltenham, where word of his unsavory reputation had not reached. He put on sober clothes and attended her at Sunday church; she put off her widow’s weeds and gaily accompanied Morgan to the theater. Even the lad was cautioned to stop drooling, stop fiddling with his unmentionables, and to leave the contents of the gentleman’s pockets alone. With such fine behavior on all sides, a match was soon made.
Now, if
this
marriage were made in heaven the angels had a most quirky sense of humor, for the wedding was one of the few times Ingrid saw her husband that month, much less sober. It was the last time she smiled at him, as soon as she realized that not only would she have to pay for the wedding breakfast herself, but none of Morgan’s noble friends were coming, because he had none.
Beauregard spilled down his shirt whatever he did not manage to cram in his greedy little mouth, and promptly cast up his accounts on his new papa’s boots. He also “found” a shilling that had somehow slipped from the vicar’s topcoat pocket.
Beauregard indeed, Morgan told himself too late, a jumped-up name if there ever was one. As soon as the happy new family removed to Arcott Hall, the only honeymoon spot available to Morgan on his finances, Emilyann and the Stockton boys renamed the sausage-shaped, light-fingered, slow-topped little toad Bobo. Only his mother could love him and, as it turned out, he was the only thing she could love besides Mother Church.
Ingrid was a rampant reformer, an evangelical missionary out to save the world from the evils of gambling, drinking, and wenching—the only particulars Morgan was good at! So she would pray for his soul, that he repudiate the devil before it was too late and he burned in hell forever.
According to Morgan, hell would have been an improvement to life with Ingrid. As for begetting the heir, she did her wifely duty at first, praying the while. Morgan prayed, too, that he could muster up enough enthusiasm to get the deed done. When no child was forthcoming, Ingrid took it as a sign from on high, a punishment for her sin of ambition, hoping to better herself and her son’s position in life.
In her weakest moments she dreamed of becoming a society hostess. Heaven forfend! So she redonned her Puritan gowns and scraped her hair back in a bun and refused to attend plays. And she started getting headaches, especially when Morgan came back to their lodgings in London from wherever he spent most of his time, remembering why he married in the first place.
Gads, he kept asking himself, how could any woman who spouted of hell-fires and soul-scorchings be as cold as her northern forbears? Worse, she was clutch-fisted.
In all honesty, Ingrid had mentioned that the bulk of her wealth was held for Bobo, with her to administer, but at first—before the wedding—Morgan thought he could charm whatever he needed from her; if that woman had been in Eden, Adam would still be eating gruel in the altogether. So it was back to work, back to gulling greenhead boys into losing their allowances, back to weighted dice and shaved decks. Morgan played; Ingrid prayed.
Until, that is, one cold, rainy day when the right leader of the Duke of Aylesbury’s coach slipped in the mud and came up lame.