The Bridal Season (32 page)

“That is not strictly true, Mrs. Poole,” Elliot said calmly.
“By her own admission, Miss Potts has used and altered Lady Agatha Whyte’s
clothing and, again by her own admission, doubts whether Lady Agatha shall ever
be able to use those garments again. Unless,” he scowled at the notes he’d
taken, “Lady Agatha ‘suddenly develops a bosom and shrinks three inches.’ “
Snickers of laughter erupted in the room.

But Grace was not to be so easily quieted. “I said, Sir
Elliot, no crime had been committed against anyone what was
in
Little
Bidewell.

“ ‘Strictly speaking,’ sir, Lady Agatha ain’t here to make no
complaint against Miss Potts, and since she ain’t a citizen of this town, I don’t
see as how it’s our duty to do it for her. Besides which,” she sniffed audibly,
“if Lady Agatha had been doin’
‘er
job, what the Bigglesworths hired her
to do, we wouldn’t be having this hearing in the first place now, would we?”

At this the snickers turned into outright laughter. Someone
from the back shouted, “You tell ‘em, Grade!”, which caused the housekeeper to
go beet-red to the roots of her improbably black hair and beam with delight.

“I should hate to stand across from you in a court of law,
Mrs. Poole,” Elliot said.

“No chance of that as long as we women can’t vote, now is
there?” Grace shot back.

“Oh, no!” Constable Burns shouted. “None of that suffrage
claptrap here. Not now, Grace, or I’ll arrest you for disturbin’ the peace.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Grace muttered flatly, inciting
another peal of laughter.

Letty looked around in stunned confusion. Where was their
animosity, their sense of betrayal? The whole proceeding was taking on the
aspects of light entertainment. They
must
want her to pay for her
crimes.

She frowned, baffled and uneasy. A slow warmth was unfurling
deep within her. She distrusted it, feared it. People were never so ready to
forgive. She’d spent four days trying to get used to the idea of prison: cold,
drafty rooms; gray uniforms; no music; no laughter. No Elliot.

“Quiet down,” Elliot called. “Mrs. Grace Poole has a point.
Does anyone here wish to bring a complaint against Letty Potts and act on Lady
Agatha’s behalf?”

Eglantyne Bigglesworth cleared her throat and slowly rose to
her feet. It was a monumental act of bravery for a woman so naturally reticent,
and the laughter died away as everyone strained to hear her.

“I rather think the point is that Miss Potts has
already
acted
on Lady Agatha’s behalf.”

Several people nodded thoughtfully.

“Lady Agatha had left us, as Mrs. Poole pointed out and as
Miss Potts would so colorfully phrase it, in the lurch. Miss Potts, as Colonel
Vance would so picturesquely put it, leapt into the breach.”

Letty felt the corners of her mouth lift. The darling would
never make a playwright, not with mixing metaphors like that.

“She has done all the work we asked of Lady Agatha and she
hasn’t been paid a red farthing for her efforts. Regardless of whether you make
Miss Potts stand trial or not, I believe we owe her our thanks.
And
Lady
Agatha’s fee.”

Letty gasped. Behind her Dorothy Himplerump gasped, too. Grace
and Merry cheered. Anton puffed out his cheeks and said, “Good show, Eggie.”

Angela stood up and linked her arm through her aunt’s. “I owe
Miss Potts far more than my thanks,” Angela continued. Behind her Letty heard
Mrs. Dorothy Himplerump gulp anxiously. “She has become my friend. She has
offered me invaluable advice and aid. And if you do charge her with some
ridiculous crime, Sir Elliot, I shall personally see that she has the finest
counsel in England represent her.”

Elliot arched a brow, considering the girl a moment before
releasing her from his gaze. “Anyone else care to comment?”

Colonel Vance chose that moment to awaken. His cane clattered
from his lap to the floor and his head snapped upright. He blinked, looking
around and scowling. Spying his daughter beside him, he shouted, “What’s
happened? What’s going on with the girl who used to be Lady Agatha?”

“Nothing, Father,” Elizabeth replied loudly. “They’re still
deciding.”

“Deciding what, for God’s sake?”

“If she’s a criminal!” Elizabeth shouted back.

“Well, of course, she ain’t. She gave me a strawberry trifle,
didn’t she? What criminal gives a fellow a cake?” he said with such profound
disgust that no one could help but smile. Including Letty.

They were the kindest, most generous people in the world. But
she couldn’t allow them to forgive her so easily. She deserved punishment.
Perhaps she needed it. She cleared her throat, but before she could speak,
Atticus March did.

“Well said, Colonel.” He struggled painfully to his feet. “If
I might speak, Elliot?”

Elliot nodded, watching his father closely.

“It seems to me we have a twofold problem here,” Atticus said.
“The first, whether Miss Potts has committed a crime for which it is Elliot’s duty
to charge her, seems to be resolved. No one wants to press charges, and in
light of Miss Potts’s efforts toward Miss Angela in Lady Agatha’s stead, there
is some question as to whether it is even ethical to do so. I believe we all
agree it is not.”

The crowd rumbled with sounds of concurrence. Except for
Catherine Bunting, who remained silent. Letty stared ahead, dazed by their
magnanimity.

“The second problem is a bit trickier. It involves scandal.”
The voices abruptly died away. “In little over a month, a large number of
Londoners will arrive in Little Bidewell. They will be here only a short time,
a week or so, and then they will be gone. They will take our Angela with them
when they go, our daughter, niece, and friend.”

Angela lowered her eyes modestly.

“I am sure we all want Angela’s happiness.”

Everyone nodded; every smile was tender with affection for the
pretty, sweet-natured girl. Even Kip Himplerump looked sentimental in a sulky
sort of way.

“We all know that if these strangers ever hear about the
background of the woman who planned Angela’s bridal party, if they ever hear
anything about her profession or where she came from, Angela’s wedding ceremony
will be forever stained by scandal.”

Grumbles and dark looks shot back and forth between the spectators,
as though everyone was already searching for the lout who’d ratted out the
story of Angela’s actress-
cum
-wedding planner.

“We can’t allow that, can we?” Atticus waited a minute for the
shouts of “no” to die away. “Now, if we arrest this poor girl,” he gestured
toward Letty, “and she is held over for trial, and possibly from there remanded
for the Session Courts, the story
will
leak out.”

The spectators traded worried glances.

“However, if she is
not
charged with any crime, I am
reasonably certain that we can keep the whole affair quiet.

“Of course,” Atticus said soberly, his gaze touching on every
person in the room, “there is one small matter. If anyone should ask, which it
is very doubtful they will, we must all of us to a man—and woman— agree that
Miss Potts was here under Lady Agatha’s auspices.”

Letty waited. She understood why it would be best if she wasn’t
charged with a crime; she conceded that if there was a chance to save Angela
humiliation, it would be worth releasing a two-bit con artist.

But there wasn’t a chance. They couldn’t carry it off.

Letty knew far more about lies than they did. You needed to
keep them simple and you needed to let as few people in on them as possible.
There were upwards of fifty people in the room.

She stood up and said so in a clear, carrying voice.

Atticus regarded her politely as she explained the madness of
their plan, and then he waited just as politely for her to sit down again.

“While Miss Potts’s concern certainly does her credit—” Letty
moaned. They mustn’t insist on attributing her with characteristics she didn’t
own. “—she does not understand Society.”

Now
that
was doing it a bit rough! Letty started to
stand up again but a sharp glance from Elliot put her grumbling softly back in
her chair.

“There’ll be scant chance of any one of us spending time in
lengthy conversations with the Marquis of Cotton’s friends and relatives.
Except for Paul and Catherine, of course.” He nodded toward the Buntings. “Most
of us won’t speak to them at all. We need only keep mum for a few days, for a
few minutes at a time. I daresay we can pull that much off.”

“Of course, we can!” Paul Bunting cried. But Atticus knew very
well who in the room could be counted Letty’s friend and who her foe.

“What do you think, Catherine?” he asked, his gaze holding
hers. “Can we remain mute for Angela’s sake?”

She was caught as neatly as a rabbit in a snare. Struggle
though she might, there was no way out. The smile on her face was stiff. “Why,
of course we can,” she said clearly and, just as clearly, “For Angela’s sake we
can do anything.”

The others had added their voices of assent until the whole
room rang with their intention. Atticus turned back to where Elliot sat in
broody thoughtful-ness.

“Well, Elliot,” he said quietly. “What’s it to be? Is Miss
Potts under arrest?”

Elliot stood up. Letty trembled as he regarded her, afraid he
would release her, equally afraid he would not. She stood up and waited for his
judgment.

“Miss Potts, you are free to go.”

Don’t try to turn a tragedy

into a musical.

MERRY BURST INTO THE MARCHES’ morning room, her white maid’s
cap askew and her eyes bulging. “She be leavin’ on the noon train fer London!”

Elliot rose from his seat at the breakfast table.

“I got Ham ter drive me over, but you best hurry if you’re
thinkin’ to stop ‘er, Sir Elliot, sir.”

“Ring for Mrs. Nichols, if you please, Father, and have her
bring Merry a glass of water.”

Atticus reached for the bell but Merry shook her head. “Thank
you kindly, sir, but I’ll be fine as soon as I catch me wind. I have to get
back and slow her down.” She glared meaningfully at Elliot. “And
you
had
best hurry. She has The Hat on!” And with that pertinent bit of information,
she wheeled about and disappeared.

Atticus regarded his son worriedly. He’d no doubt that Elliot
loved Letty, and from what he’d seen, she felt the same about Elliot. But
whether they could be brought to act upon their emotion was another thing
entirely.

“Miss Potts is an uncommon sort of female,” he said.

“I am glad to have your opinion,” Elliot replied.

“Ah.” Atticus nodded. “Then you have given thought to Miss
Potts and her future.”

“Quite a bit, actually.” Elliot watched him closely. “She
probably ought to be in prison.”

“I imagine there are those who would take that view,” Atticus
admitted.

“
I
am not one of them,” Elliot said quite forcefully.

“Oh? Neither am I.”

“Good,” Elliot replied flatly, and then gave his sire a
half-smile. “I’m sorry.”

His dark face set into naturally imperial lines. “Father, I
love Letty. I have never loved a woman in the same way, and before you advise
me of the dangers of being intrigued by a woman because she has such a diverse
background from my own, let me assure you I have told myself the same thing
time and again.”

Atticus hoped the poor, honest fool hadn’t said as much to
Miss Potts. Being a woman of sensitivity she would—

“It’s not true,” Elliot said. “I do not love her for what she
is, but for who she is.”

“And that is?”

A smile of such extraordinary pleasure appeared on Elliot’s
lean countenance that Atticus drew a breath. “Why, a woman who would give a
fellow a cake.”

Letty placed the sheaf of papers on Eglantyne’s desk,
satisfied that the directions for the wedding festivities were as complete as
possible. She glanced at the wall clock. The London train left at noon. Until
then she could only pace and wait, memories of him standing at her shoulder and
whispering in her ear.

Where had he gone after yesterday’s hearing? What was he
thinking? Did he regret making love to her? Would she ever see him again? If
she occasionally walked down past the House of Lords, would she ever see him
come out and catch a carriage, bound for a late-night dinner? With a lady? A
real lady?

“Miss Potts?”

Startled, Letty turned. She’d been so immersed in her thoughts
she hadn’t heard Eglantyne enter. She was carrying Fagin.

“Yes, Miss Eglantyne?”

Eglantyne held Fagin out. “I’ve brought you Lambikins. I
gather, what with all the distractions and so forth, you forgot him.” Her grave
expression clearly told what she thought of such an oversight.

“His name is Fagin. At least that’s what I’ve always called
him. I suspect you might call him anything you like and eventually he’d answer
to it. He’s a smart little beggar.” She took a breath. “And I didn’t forget
him, Miss Eglantyne. He chose to stay.”

The older woman’s eyes grew round.

“He was never my pet, just a mate that shared the road for a
ways, is all. Never thought we’d see the end of the line together, and looks
like I was right.” She smiled at Eglantyne’s disbelief. “Why should he go
searching about for what he’s already found? Someone who loves him as much as
he loves her.”

“Oh, Miss Potts—”

“Letty. Please.”

“You’re pulling my leg. Dogs can’t love.”

Letty shook her head. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in
the last few days, it’s that none of us can say who ought to love who, and if
it’s right or possible or proper. It just
is,
Miss Eglantyne. Love just
is.”

“Are you sure?” Eglantyne asked, slowly withdrawing her arms.
Fagin relaxed, cradled against her thin chest.