Sir Geoffrey bowed too low for politeness. It bordered on parody. “Good morning.”
“Good morning Sir Geoffrey,” she said, facing him boldly despite her rapidly beating heart.
“So formal?” his tone was mocking.
To her self disgust Lucy felt herself begin to shake. She found it hard to control, but she dropped Janet’s arm and gripped her hands tightly together. Sir Geoffrey saw the gesture, and she was afraid he understood its meaning.
“Don’t you think it’s time to come home?” he asked. “I’ve come to fetch you. Your mother is expecting you.”
“Does she know where I am?” she asked quickly.
“Yes,” he said. “She is distressed that you should think of staying this side of town, but I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”
“I think,” Lucy said slowly, “I prefer to stay here, for the time being.”
Sir Geoffrey shook his head regretfully. “I fear that’s impossible. There’s too much to do before next Friday and she desires you to come home.”
“Go to the house, Janet,” said Lucy. “Fetch them here.”
She glanced over to where Janet stood, just behind her, but the girl stood resolutely still. “You should go home,” she said. “See your mother.” She put her chin up. Lucy looked from her to Geoffrey and suddenly she knew this wasn’t their first meeting. Foolish, foolish Janet.
“I will,” Lucy replied. “But not like this.”
“You will,” said Sir Geoffrey, his voice filled with menace, “do as you are told.”
Before Lucy could respond, Greene had moved to the other side of her, preventing any precipitate return to the house. Lucy looked wildly about her. There was no one in the gardens now, except for them, and only a few people further away. Shouting would be useless. Janet stood quietly, watching, a slight smile on her eager face.
Lucy tried to push past Greene to get back to the house, but as she did so, the man seized her by both arms, holding her easily despite her struggles. He pressed a hand to her neck. Panicked, Lucy tried to cry out, but she couldn’t, and when Greene pressed from the other side of her neck, a black curtain fell over her senses.
***
Lucy woke up in a room she knew, but not the one she wanted to wake up in.
The bedroom was just as she remembered, but it seemed different to her now. She looked around her without moving but she couldn’t see anyone in the room with her so she ventured to sit up.
She seemed unharmed. It was as though the whole of the past month was a dream. She shook her head, clearing the last of the muzziness, and saw the clothes she had put on that morning thrown over a chair. The plain dark blue looked as though it belonged to someone else. In a way, it did.
Suddenly she threw back the bedcovers and ran to the chair, snatching up the gown. She fumbled inside it, and with a sigh of relief discovered what she wanted. A small pouch, containing a little key and a ring, a half hoop of diamonds.
She threw the gown back over the chair and climbed back into bed, clutching the pouch, her only talisman.
They had brought her home. This grand, cold room, nothing out of place except the suddenly dowdy clothes was her bedroom. Her heart sank. She stared at the furnishings, the elegant, large dressing table with its orderly regiment of cut glass bottles and jars, their silver tops winking at her in the sunlight streaming through the window.
Someone had undressed her, so someone had seen the marks on her back. No - she realised she wasn’t in her night gown but her chemise, the garment she wore under all of her day clothes. They had stripped off her outer garments and put her to bed to recover.
Fear gripped her stomach, she felt sick and ill, but she determined not to give in to it. She hated that feeling. Every time she had felt it before, she’d given in. Not this time. She had too much to lose.
Did they know about Philip? She hoped not. And how had they found out where she was? Remembering the scene in the park Lucy had her suspicions, but she was loath to give in to them. Speculation was a waste of time. She had no idea what she was going to do now, or what she would be allowed to do, but she might as well get up and face it. Otherwise, she knew she would feel sicker.
Accordingly, she threw the sheets aside and got out of bed. Since the clothes she had arrived in were the most accessible, she picked up the gown. Her stays lay underneath it. She put them on.
The door to the bedroom opened and her abigail came in. Not Potter, but Curtis, the maid she’d been allotted when she came out into society, a dragon who had a way with hair. Curtis bowed her head, said, “My lady,” as though Lucy had never been away and drew back the chair to the dressing table.
Sighing, Lucy sat down and submitted to having her hair dressed. It all seemed inevitable, and it would give her some time to think, to steady her whirling thoughts. At one point she put her hand up and said, “Closer to the head, if you please. And let a curl drop on to my shoulder.” The maid stopped, looked at her and obliged, in silence. Before this, Curtis had made all the decisions about Lucy’s appearance, guided by her mother. Since their efforts had met with considerable success, Lucy had been happy to let them. But no longer.
She had no objection to the gown Curtis had chosen for her, an evening gown in her favourite shade of cerulean blue, sprigged with little white snowdrops. But it had more decoration than she was used to, and she thought it could do with a little less. “Before I wear this again,” she said, “I’d like this removed.” She flipped at a frill on the bodice. She would show everyone she had changed, live up to her new ideals, and although her dress was a relatively unimportant part of it, it would help to indicate her intentions.
“Yes, my lady,” said the maid, but with a tone of censure in her voice Lucy had come to know well. She turned and confronted her maid, suddenly angry.
“When I am married, I wish to take more control of my own wardrobe. I would appreciate it if you ceased to consult with my mother on my clothes, and came to me directly.”
Curtis looked at her, and Lucy thought she saw her mouth twitch. A smile would be too much to hope for. “Yes, my lady.” The anger with her maid eased away, as Lucy recognised that Curtis wasn’t her real concern.
“And,” Lucy pursued, sensing her advantage, “I will have a certain position to uphold. I think you could do with an assistant. While I’ve been away, I’ve been looked after by Potter, who used to work here as a chambermaid.” She waited for recognition from Curtis. After a moment the maid lowered her eyes and nodded. “A girl of quick understanding, my lady,” she said.
“Potter wouldn’t be able to look after me in my new position. She has no idea of the Grande Toilette, and has minimal skills with the more expensive fabrics like lace. Nevertheless I have found her very useful, and I propose to take her on as your assistant. But since she would spend most of her day with you I would like to know that you would be agreeable to the scheme.”
“It would be my pleasure to teach her, my lady,” said the maid, although her sour expression suggested otherwise. But Lucy knew better, that the sourness and taciturnity masked a kindness the maid was usually careful to conceal.
Lucy nodded, smiled, and left the room to find her mother.
***
Lady Royston was where Lucy expected her to be; in the drawing room. It was too early for visitors, but Lady Royston preferred to use the grand reception room on the first floor to the more intimate morning room downstairs, except when she was conducting household business. She sat in a gilded armchair, Aunt Honoria in a lesser chair by her side. The arms and the general style of the chair suggested a throne. Lucy made her curtsey and then went to kiss her mother on her powdery cheek, and then her aunt. She longed to thank her aunt for what she had learned from Potter was her invaluable help that night, but she didn’t want to start the discussion.
“Good evening, Lucy.”
“Good evening Mama, good evening Aunt Honoria.”
“Dinner will be in half an hour. We will be alone. I wish to speak to you first.” There was a pause, designed, Lucy thought, to increase her nervousness. Although this wasn’t like before, she needed the time. She decided she would let her mother lead the way for now, until she saw which way the land lay.
Lady Royston looked at her, taking her time before she began to speak. “I am severely displeased with you, Lucy. Your departure was exceedingly difficult to explain.” Another pause. Lucy said nothing, although she knew she was expected to apologise. “I have been very put out, I never expected such behaviour of you.” The large, pink ostrich feather on the crown on Lady Royston’s magnificent turban quivered, an echo of her indignation. Her pale hands rested carefully, palm up, on her pink satin lap. “I will therefore allow certain people to visit, but I will put it about that you are still convalescent and you wish to rest so you are perfectly well for your wedding. We will go to
St. George’s
on Easter Sunday.”
So far, Lucy didn’t object, though if she had been allowed out into society, she might have found an opportunity to slip away. In a way she was relieved. She knew she couldn’t keep running, although she could have wished to remain hidden for another few days. Perhaps this way she could persuade her mother not to force a public argument. So for now, she said; “Yes Mama.”
“I can only be thankful we found you before your wedding day. There is news about that, but I’ll leave it to Sir Geoffrey to tell you, since he expressly requested it of me. I am a woman who believes in keeping to my obligations.” It was meant as a reproof.
“I will not marry Sir Geoffrey, Mama.” Suddenly, Lucy made another decision. A small one, but significant. She would never call her mother ‘Mama’ again. Since her discoveries, and her hurt at the way her mother had used her, any fondness she had felt had crept away with the unthinking obedience she used to offer her elders.
“Nonsense.” Lady Royston’s carefully creamed and powdered brow creased into a disapproving frown. “You have signed the contract and declared your intention. There is no reason I can think of why the marriage should not take place.”
“Can you not? Did Aunt Honoria not tell you?”
“Tell me what?” the sharp gaze went to the faded woman by her side, and Lucy could have bitten her tongue out rather than cause her gentle aunt any discomfort. However, the damage was done now.
“Aunt Honoria saw what he did to me. I cannot marry a man like that, mother.” The new word, so much colder than the fond ‘Mama’ passed unnoticed.
“He beat her,” Aunt Honoria said quietly, her voice quivering with the emotion she dared not voice. “And abused her.” The word ‘rape’ wasn’t to be mentioned in Lady Royston’s drawing room.
“He anticipated the wedding a little,” said Lady Royston in ponderous tones, as though she was teaching a child. “And if he offered you any chastisement, it was well deserved. You had behaved in a hoydenish way, and passed beyond the bounds of what he was prepared to accept.”
“I went to my lawyer’s office.” protested Lucy. “And Lord Royston and Lord Wenlock were there so what impropriety could there have been?”
“Dear God.” Lady Royston’s voice quivered with emotion, and the feather shivered in violent motion. “That I should bear such an ungrateful child. I find the perfect husband for you and you so nearly push him away with your appalling behaviour. That you should think of going anywhere with that man. Don’t you know what he wants to do to us?”
Lucy reflected that she knew very well what he wanted to do to her, or rather, with her, but she stayed silent for the time being. She would bide her time, keep to her refusal to marry Sir Geoffrey, and wait for Philip to return from
Norfolk
. She doubted her ability to defy her mother on more than one front.
Lady Royston’s lecture continued. “From now until your wedding day you will remain within this house except when you cannot avoid otherwise. Then Greene will go with you. He will never leave you. You will not repeat your foolish actions of last month.”
She looked at Lucy gravely in silence for several minutes. “I am deeply ashamed that you forgot your position so much as to do what you did. I wish to draw a veil over the whole affair. As far as I am concerned, you have been ill, and you are now returned to be married. Is that clear?”
“Yes, mother, it’s clear,” Lucy said, and feeling slightly sick, she continued, “But I will not marry Sir Geoffrey. He is a brute, and most likely will kill me within the first year.”
“Nonsense. He is a perfect gentleman, a man of perfect ton.”
“And no fortune.”
“That too is an exaggeration,” said her mother. “I have been in conversation with him on that score and I am perfectly satisfied on that subject. True, his fortune does not approach the size of yours, but it is enough.”
Lucy nearly choked on the mendacity of the statement, and the thought that, until this last month, she had trusted her mother implicitly. “His fortune,” she said, “According to Mr. Chumleigh, is non existent.”
Her mother coloured up. “You would take the word of an employee rather than your mothers’?” she demanded. Her voice rose louder as her temper rose. “You trust strangers more than you trust me? I shouldn’t have to explain this to you, Lucy, but I will. Sir Geoffrey has invested in what will be a highly lucrative venture. His capital is tied up in it, but in the next two years, it will be returned to him threefold. He will be a wealthy man. And you will be his wife.”