Merry hoped her mother couldn't hear her grind her teeth. "I have a plan," she said, struggling to sound pleasant and self-assured. "I've had one for years."
Her mother raised her brows, but before she could respond the butler knocked on the open door. "Pardon, Your Grace. Sir Patrick Althorp has just sent up his card."
Her mother went so pale Merry feared that she would faint. She recovered with a toss of her well-coifed head.
"For goodness sake!" she exclaimed, her cheeks now brightly pink. "Can't you see I am not at home to visitors? Tell the baronet I'll see him later."
And she dismissed the butler with a wave of her elegant hand.
"Is something wrong?" Merry asked, surprised by her response. Lately, the duchess and Ernest's father had been as thick as thieves. The duke didn't seem to mind, but sometimes Merry wondered at his unconcern. She herself did not like the man. He was too watchful, she thought, like a serpent about to strike. "Have you and Sir Patrick fallen out?"
Her mother exhaled loudly but did not confirm this budding hope. Instead, she swapped the green plaid she'd been holding for a deep magenta satin. The color looked fine to Merry, but both Lavinia and Madame immediately shook their heads. Once the offending bolt was set aside, her mother's reflection met her eyes. "You were speaking of a plan?"
"Yes," Merry said, trying to gather her powers of persuasion. "Once I come into Grandmama's money,
I want to breed Arabians. I'm sure I can make a go of it. You have to admit I have every qualification
I could need."
"Every qualification but one," said her mother. "As far as I know, you have yet to grow a penis."
The shock of this blunt speech tied Merry's tongue. "I don't... I don't need a penis to ..."
"Merry." Her mother silenced her spluttering retort. "Be reasonable. First of all, you won't receive that trust for ages. And second, what man would marry a woman who ran a stud?"
"But I don't want to marry. That's what I've been saying all along."
"You
think
you don't want to marry, but believe me—"
Merry covered her face and fought a scream.
"Believe me," her mother continued, "you'll feel differently when you're thirty and all alone."
Merry sensed this was not the moment to mention her plan to have affairs. Being unmarried did not,
after all, mean living like a nun. "I won't feel differently," was all she said as she let her hands drop to
her sides. "I know you and Papa only want me to be happy, but I'm sure I wouldn't be happy as
Ernest's wife."
"Nonsense," her mother scoffed. "Ernest Althorp is a perfectly nice boy. And far from repulsive. Good manners. Good teeth. Strong as an ox. Plus, I've always liked blond men."
Then why don't you marry him, she thought, but was shrewd enough to keep the words inside.
"Come now," said her mother, her tone light, her expression strangely hard. "You're being overly romantic, which I never thought of as one of your faults. Trust me, a love match is not the least bit
like a novel."
"I don't care about a love match. I care about being free."
"Free?" Her mother's laugh was anything but joyful. "Dearest, only whores and rich widows are truly free."
"You don't understand," Merry said.
"I do," her mother insisted. "I simply don't agree."
After that, there was nothing to say.
* * *
Under leaden skies. Merry galloped her mare flat out across the Knightsbridge grounds, pushing the
horse until steam rose from her flanks and clods of turf flew out from her pounding hooves. Even this
did not soothe her. How could it, when Flick, the horse she'd bottle-fed as a foal, might soon be
carrying a stranger?
There had to be a way to get her father to retreat. She couldn't surrender, not when surrendering meant making both herself and Ernest wretched.
On the other hand, could she really forego the greatest pleasure of her life? Give up her horses? Let
them pass out of her care? Worse, could she risk old Ginny's future?
Damnation. If only her mother weren't so immovable! Merry wasn't sure she had the right to make her father choose between his daughter and his wife. Nor—which was worse, if she was honest—was she certain his decision would come down on her side.
She slowed Flick to a walk, her breath coming as heavily as the mare's. Clearly exhilarated, the horse frisked underneath her. What spirit she had! And how horribly Merry would miss her! She wished
Evelyn and James hadn't left for the country, though she knew they did not support her position. Her whole family was against her, every one. Without their help, she didn't know what she could do.
* * *
Isabel at least provided a distraction. She was full of news when Merry saw her that afternoon. Her father-in-law had died unexpectedly and her husband was now an earl.
"Which makes me a countess," she said, sounding strangely wistful. Sprawled on her back on Merry's four-poster bed, she wore a gray and black bias-striped walking dress. The hem of the overskirt, fetchingly draped and piled, was trimmed with tasseled braid. Even Lavinia had clucked in appreciation
as she passed. Isabel's current pose would not do the outfit good, but at the moment she did not care.
Merry sat beside her on the bed. "You're not happy about being a countess?"
"Oh, I suppose I'm happy. I didn't really know Andrew's father, so I can't pretend I'll miss him. But
we'll be in mourning just forever. As it is, I barely snuck out of the house wearing this. It's as gloomy
as a crypt, Mer. All the mirrors covered. All the drives muffled in straw." Wrinkling her nose, she
plucked at her handsome gown. "I'm too young to wear crape."
"I don't know, I think black makes you look ethereal."
Isabel grinned and covered Merry's hand. A moment later, she remembered her complaints. "We're leaving for the estate the day after tomorrow. It's in
Wales
, Merry.
Wales
! Some unpronounceable, godforsaken place. Lord knows how long we'll be there. According to Andrew, his father was a cheeseparing old goat who let the place go to ruin. It'll take ages to put things in order the way he
wants."
"But surely
you
don't have to stay all that time."
Isabel blushed and busied herself straightening the tassels on her sleeve. "Andrew says he doesn't sleep well anymore unless I'm with him." Her color deepened at Merry's snort. "Yes, I know. I said he was
fat and boring, and he is, except..."
"Except?"
"Except it is rather comforting to have him close at night, holding me, you know."
Merry could imagine few things less comforting than being held all night by a controlling prig like
Andrew Beckett. With an effort, she held her tongue. "Well," she said resignedly. "It looks as if
we'll both be prisoners of rectitude for a while."
Isabel hummed in sympathy, then wagged the tips of her black kid shoes. "Merry, I was wondering,
are you certain you don't want to marry Ernest Althorp?"
"Not you, too," she groaned. "I'm glad you're content, Isabel, but surely you know that wouldn't be the case for me. Or for Ernest. Can you imagine him trying to put me on a check-rein? We'd be at each other's throats."
"I suppose," Isabel conceded and rolled up onto her elbow. "I simply don't see how you're going to get your parents off your back. Of course, you could keep me company at Caerna-whatsis. Nothing much
to do there, you understand, but Andrew's father kept a decent stable and at least you'd have a respite from your mother's scolds."
"You didn't see her face. She's never going to let this go, no matter how long I stay away. What I should do is pretend to go with you, then run off to join the music hall. After that, even Mother would have to give up on marrying me."
"Ha ha," said Isabel, "as if you could even sing."
Merry had meant the idea as a joke, but now it sparked a thought. "Wait," she said. "I know what we need, what both of us deserve."
"I'm sure I don't want to know," said her friend, but her eyes were immediately alight. She was not, apparently, a proper countess yet.
"A prank," said Merry, her blood beginning to hum with anticipation, "like we used to play at school.
One last hurrah before our families skewer us on the stake of respectability."
Both she and Isabel were sitting up now, clasping each other's hands. "Nothing too dangerous," Isabel cautioned, "and nothing we'll be caught at."
"Cross my heart," Merry assured her. "No one will know but you and I."
* * *
The escapade could not have gone better.
The music hall in
Soho
had held a number of middle class families, even a few unattended females like themselves, all outfitted respectably—including the ones they suspected of being women of ill repute. Indeed, Merry and Isabel were underdressed, clad as they were in clothes borrowed from their maids.
The program, too, was all they could desire: a humorous
pose plastique
with men dressed as Greek goddesses reenacting the Judgment of Paris, a bawdy but not indelicate skit called "The Spare Bed,"
and a number of surprisingly talented singers, the last of whom had pretended to search the audience
for a husband.
Merry hummed the refrain about
single young gentlemen, how do you do
as the hired hansom cab dropped them off before Merry's house. Happily, its high brick wall shielded them from sight. The hour was late, the streets nearly empty. Wanting to make sure her friend was safe, she escorted Isabel to her carriage.
The smart five-glass landau waited in the narrow lane between the Knightsbridge house and its nearest neighbor. Once inside, Isabel would pull the shades and change into her own dress, now completely
black, while hiding any irregularities of fastening beneath her coat. Then she'd return home to her unsuspecting husband. He, bless him, was under the impression she'd been visiting an ailing friend.
As she invariably did at the end of a prank, Isabel grew fearful. "Be careful," she begged as Merry
handed her up the carriage step. "Don't linger in the lane. It's foggy tonight. I want you to go straight
to your door."
"I will," Merry promised, and kissed her friend's cheek.
Chuckling to herself at Isabel's nerves—for what could go wrong now?—she pressed a gold sovereign into the coachman's palm. "Take care of her," she said, though the driver and she both knew she meant
take care not to tell.
With a nod and a grin, he flicked the reins across the horses' backs. Merry watched them pull away.
From the sound of it, the leader needed his shoes picked, but that was nothing the Beckett's groom couldn't handle when they got home.
Shrugging off the concern, she followed the long brick wall to the servant's sidegate.
The man must have been waiting in the shadows. She neither saw nor heard him when he grabbed her from behind, hooking her neck and waist to drag her forcibly off the footpath.
A second of frozen shock delayed her scream. That was enough for the man to get his palm across her mouth. She struggled then, violently, but her strength was no match for his. He cursed under his breath when she kicked his shin, but other than that he did not speak.