Authors: Lady Hellfire
Then he spoke. Kate let the deep sound flow through her, but unfortunately, Ophelia interrupted him.
“Mother and I were just telling Kate about how the de Granvilles used to own the old Tower, my lord.” Ophelia snapped her fan open and waved it slowly, disturbing a curl that cascaded to her breast. “Kate didn’t know that the Maitlands have acquired quite a bit of de Granville land, and we were saying how fitting it would be if the ancient holdings were united again, somehow.”
Hearing so many lies at once, Kate could only stare from Ophelia and her undulating fan to the marquess. Ophelia’s mother bobbed her head in agreement.
“Yes indeed, it would be fitting,” Ophelia said. “And of course, Lord Alexis is so clever as well as handsome, we’re all sure he’ll be able to find a way of solving such a little problem. Don’t you think so, Kate?”
Flushing, Kate nodded. Such blatant fawning clearly annoyed the marquess, and she was embarrassed for Ophelia and for herself. Oblivious of her error, Ophelia continued.
“Kate is a stranger to England, and I’ve taken her under my wing.” Ophelia moved closer to the marquess. “I know everyone would like her if you were to take her up, my lord.”
Kate could feel her cheeks redden even further. She wondered what they looked like under all the powder, but it couldn’t be too awful, for the marquess only flicked a
glance down at her before returning an increasingly frigid stare to Ophelia. Ophelia plunged on, while Kate tried to quell her own discomfort.
“So I’m sure you’ll do my cousin the honor of dancing with her. Kate would like that, wouldn’t you?”
Kate nodded again, but the marquess was still examining Ophelia as though she were a frog on the toe of his boot. A few moments went by during which Kate kept a smile tacked on her face and willed herself not to blush again. Finally de Granville let his gaze drop to her, but it quickly flitted away to survey the dancers.
“I regret that I am unable to avail myself of such a great honor. I pulled a muscle while riding, and it is only with the greatest difficulty that I walk without limping.”
Kate said nothing, for Ophelia began to scold the man before she could open her mouth. It was evident that the marquess rode too much for Ophelia’s convenience, and his recklessness displeased her. Kate offered her own sympathy. The marquess bowed to her, and she made up the excuse of fetching water for the dozing Aunt Emeline that got her away from the two.
She had to restrain herself from racing toward the refreshment room. Hellfire. That man must have traded his soul to the devil for a wagonload of male allure that would have gotten him accused of witchcraft two centuries ago. She would have loved to dance with him, even if Ophelia’s claim was staked.
She obtained a glass of Aunt Emeline’s special mineral water and went back to the ballroom. Balancing the glass carefully, she skirted the edge of the dance floor. Shining black hair caught her eye, and she stopped. The Marquess of Richfield swept past her with a young woman in his arms. Violins filled the air with the strains of a waltz.
He was dancing. Kate tightened her fingers around the water glass while her heart skidded to a halt, fluttered, then began to pound. Her hands went cold. Her fingers
were numb, and the numbness spread to her legs and feet. Someone almost tripped over her. She stumbled backward into a corner beside a table and set the glass down. Looking around her, she saw that no one was paying attention to her. She had to get away, because there was a pain in her chest, deep down inside. Her lungs tightened, and her eyes hurt from tears that were working their way to the surface. Soon she wouldn’t be able to stop them.
If she were an English girl, someone would have noticed her going. Since she was that odd, ill-bred American, she wasn’t important enough to cause comment by her leaving. For that she was grateful.
Kate picked up her skirts and walked toward the sweeping great staircase that would take her to her room. She reached the foot of it before her vision blurred. She thanked the good Lord she was in the dark hallway when her tears fell, and that she was in her room before she began to sob.
Why was she hurt so badly? Horrible, dirty men had tried to do things to her, and she hadn’t cried. It was only that she hadn’t expected the cruelty. He was a stranger, and he was supposed to be a Gentleman. She couldn’t understand why he would want to humiliate her.
She sank into a chair, leaned on its arm, and cried. She pressed her hands over her mouth so that none of the servants would hear her and investigate. As she tried to control her sobs, her corset creaked with the movement of her body, making her feel ridiculous, and she cried harder. Eventually she was too tired to cry. She leaned back in the chair and stared at the flames in the fireplace. The fire was the only light in the room.
There must be something wrong with her. She hadn’t realized it, but it must be so. That was why Mr. Arbuthnot didn’t want to talk to her, and that was why Alexis de Granville lied so he wouldn’t have to dance with her. Both men were ashamed to be seen with her. Perhaps it was the
way she looked. After all, Ophelia had almost said straight out that Kate’s coloring was freakish. She must be right.
Kate pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose and dragged them beneath her eyes. They came away covered in powder.
It hurt too much, this trying to be a Lady. She wanted to find a woodpile and dive under it. Standing up, she reached behind her back and tore at the fastenings of her gown. More material ripped when her fingers dug into the corset lacings. Soon she was nude and shivering. She climbed over the pile of discarded clothes, found a nightgown, and put it on.
Climbing under the covers, she tugged at the bell cord beside her bed. She would tell a servant to let Ophelia and her mother know that she was sick. Then she hopped back out of bed and retrieved two handkerchiefs from an armoire. She might need them. Huddling beneath blankets and sheets, she felt something at the back of her head. The spray of white flowers. She tore them from her hair. Her fingers twisted and shredded the petals. Faster and faster they worked, until there was nothing left of the blossoms. She gathered a fistfull of petals and hurled them to the floor.
“Who needs dancing anyway.” Her voice was barely audible to her own ears.
She didn’t need dancing. If she didn’t go to dances, she wouldn’t be hurt anymore. And the way to avoid dances was not to become a Lady. Kate settled back among the pillows. She was going back to America. She didn’t need dancing at all, and the next time a man turned her world into magic, she would shoot him.
Maitland House, April 1855
She’d promised herself never to return, and yet here she was, plumb in the middle of English Society again after little more than a year. Kate stepped over the threshold of Maitland House, past a bowing butler, and onto the white marble floor of the entryway. She caught her lower lip between her teeth when she heard Mama burst into tears as she threw herself into cousin Ophelia’s arms. She wasn’t going to cry. There was unpacking to be seen to, letters to write.
What an odd coincidence it had been that she’d convinced Mama to let her come home last February. If she hadn’t, she might not have been there when Papa took ill. His heart, the doctors had said. There had been something wrong with his heart, and now there was something wrong with hers.
Papa was gone, and he was never coming back. Never. There was no one to depend on now, no one to share with, no one to turn to. Last May Papa had started out for one of the gold mines, and he’d never come back.
That was death. Someone was alive, and then they weren’t, and there was nothing you could do to bring them back. You were left with a hole in your existence. You felt all broken inside, but you still had to go on living. You had to get up in the morning, get dressed, eat, and work, even though you’d much rather follow Papa so you could be with him instead of all alone and lost. But someone had to take care of Mama and Zachary and Robbie. Someone had to manage business while the boys were in school.
Mama couldn’t. Mama hadn’t left her bed for three months after Papa died, and that was why Kate had to do all that getting up in the morning, getting dressed, eating and working. It was also why she was standing on this cold white marble floor when she’d promised herself she’d never have to stand on it again. Mama was more broken than she was, and Kate was hoping that coming home would mend Mama. Anything was worth seeing Mama smile again, even returning to Maitland House.
A week later, Kate was waiting for Ophelia on the stair landing, scuffing her boot on the carpet. Her hopes for her mother were rising. Ophelia’s own mother had died a few months after Papa, and Sophia had been able to find comfort in shared grief. Mama was getting better.
Unfortunately for Kate, Society hadn’t changed in the time she’d been away. There just wasn’t much for Ladies to do, not much that was interesting. So Kate chafed even as her mother improved.
Yes ma’am, here she was—in the land where Ladies dwelt, damn them. If Mama hadn’t had her poor grieving heart set on returning to her old home, Kate would still be
in San Francisco with her brothers. Busy. With no Ladies to put up with. Kate was trying to keep from wishing Papa was with her when Ophelia flounced out of her room, chirruping a hello.
Kate followed Ophelia down the staircase, almost laughing at the contrast between their progress. Ophelia glided along in her cage composed of crinoline, petticoats, and skirt, while she, crinolineless, stumped down each step with a violence that revealed her lack of enthusiasm for another afternoon carriage drive in the cold English sunlight. Kate had to admire her cousin. This year’s wider crinoline made her look as though she were a child’s toy rolling along on oiled wheels.
Ophelia sailed across the entry hall. The butler opened the door. Ophelia oozed forward—and stuck. Kate was right behind her cousin and rammed into the edge of the silk cage. The hoop swung down in response to pressure from Kate’s own skirts. The front half of the crinoline tilted. Ophelia shrieked and rammed her arms down to stop the whole edifice from rising up, while Kate hopped backward and reached out to steady the wayward hoop.
“Sorry,” she said. “Here. You hold it down in front, and I’ll squish it so you can get through.”
With the butler averting his eyes, Kate helped Ophelia maneuver through the door. On the porch, they paused to straighten mussed hair and dresses. As a groom opened the door to the carriage, Kate couldn’t resist whispering to her cousin.
“Told you that would happen. How are you going to get into the carriage?”
Kate grinned and pretended to adjust her mantle while Ophelia appeared to behold a carriage door for the first time in her life. The carriage was an open vehicle with doors made to accommodate ladies’ wide skirts, but its designer had never envisioned the advent of hoops.
“If the hoop tips—” Kate began.
“I don’t intend to embarrass myself,” Ophelia said. “You’ll have to steady the hoop while I get in.”
“How did you manage before I came?”
Ophelia flushed. “With the help of a maid, but these new skirts are wider than ever. I’ve never had this much trouble.”
With the groom assisting from the other side of the carriage, Ophelia was levered into place. Kate climbed in, swatted a bowed portion of the crinoline down beneath her own skirts, and sat on it.
“You’ll wrinkle me!”
Kate got up again. It took another few moments to dispose of Ophelia’s skirts to her satisfaction. By then what was left of Kate’s good humor had evaporated.
They set out at a quick pace. For once it wasn’t raining, and the sun made the dew on the grass and leaves sparkle silver and white. Unfortunately, a line of black clouds was amassing over the trees at the horizon. Kate groaned when she saw it. Resting her arm on the side of the carriage, she drummed her fingers. She noticed the shiny black of her sleeve and the snowy froth of the undersleeve. Mourning. She was in mourning for Papa. Hellfire, she was going to cry. No, no she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t think about Papa.
She glanced at Ophelia. She and her cousin had corresponded ever since Kate had gone home after her first visit, and their friendship had strengthened. Underneath all that blond hair of Ophelia’s was a head full of ideas. Like Kate, Ophelia was interested in books and politics. She simply never let anyone know about it, and all her practicing at appearing not to have any intelligence had withered some of her natural sense.
Also like Kate, Ophelia wore mourning, but for her recently dead husband as well as her mother. Ophelia’s heart was in the grave now that she was a widow. Kate knew that because Ophelia kept repeating it, usually with
an accompanying dab at a tearless eye with one of her black-bordered handkerchiefs. How anyone’s heart could be buried in the same hole with the red-nosed, corpulent Earl of Swinburn mystified Kate.
She was equally mystified as to why Ophelia had rushed into marriage with the old bore so soon after declaring her quest for the dark and serious Marquess of Richfield. Yet she’d betrothed herself and married within a few months of that cursed ball, only to lose the earl, wrinkles, red nose, and all, in January of the new year.
Ophelia’s grief was as artistic as it was voluble. She languished. She fluttered and kissed her husband’s picture, especially in the company of any gentleman who called to express sympathy. Her mourning clothes were in the latest styles from Paris, her ornaments of the costliest jet. Kate had merely had all her dresses dyed. Wearing mourning wouldn’t bring Papa back, and she didn’t care if she was fashionable.
“Turnpenny,” Ophelia said, tapping her parasol on the floor of the carriage. “Turnpenny, do hurry. I want to get to the Tower before I lose this marvelous light for my painting.”
“Yes, mum.”
Kate eyed the ribbons and netting of Ophelia’s bonnet before speaking in a low voice. “Afraid we’ll be late and his high and mighty lordship will bolt?”
“Shhhh!”
“I think you’re as daft as the girl you’re named for. He didn’t marry you the first time.”