Flirtation & Folly Page 8

  She went to the window instead. With the sashes and shutters thrown back, it was probably far easier for passers-by to see into the brightly-lit room than for guests to see much in the dark, snowy streets. That was how life was done in London: everything was staked upon show, and the unseen, hidden in one’s heart, was mostly irrelevant. At least, that was how it felt to Marianne.

  It was strange to feel her spirits slowly seep away so soon after Captain Pulteney’s attentions. When he was saying witty things to her or complimenting her smile, she felt lit up and alive. But now, the barest glance back at the card table proved he was bestowing his smiles on Miss Stokes instead. Probably with equal sincerity. It was an unkind thought, but somehow she felt full of distrust.

  It was not difficult to trace the cause of her low spirits. She had imagined herself the belle of her aunt’s party for a few brief moments, the cynosure of Captain Pulteney and Mr Lowes, the elegant friend of the Stokes sisters. But Miss Emily had dispatched her with the smallest of well-bred, conversational pushes. The tiniest sifting of social threads had proven Marianne’s place there was tenuous. She was not welcomed. She was tolerated. And she felt sure Miss Emily was now telling Captain Pulteney about the fan-shaped pleats on her day dress over their cards.

  It does not signify. It was a lie, but she tried to pretend it was true. All her struggles to prove herself so far had failed, but there was always another effort to be made. She supposed she had to keep trying. How else would she acquire a husband? How else would she escape the rectory and a dreary life of looking after other people’s children? She had no other way of becoming the woman she longed to be.

  Mr Hearn was still watching the group playing cards from his distant throne of the wingback. The look on his face as he stared at Frederick Lowes was positively savage. In her present state of mind, Marianne was almost pleased to see it. It felt real and stark, the way the church’s gritty stone had in the fog. She pushed a footstool close to his chair and seated herself.

  “I should think you would have chosen a seat closer to the fire,” Mr Hearn said. The abruptness of his tone was rude, suggesting he did not want company, but Marianne ignored it.

  “You are farther from the fire than I.”

  “True, but I am never cold.” He glared over her shoulder.

  “That’s a ridiculous thing to say. If you were in a snowstorm in Russia, you would be cold, I daresay,” she said, keeping her voice in good humour.

  “But I never am in a snowstorm in Russia.” He was still focussed on his friend, who was laughing at something Miss Emily had said.

  Marianne followed his gaze. “Have you known Mr Lowes long?” she asked.

  His thick eyebrows drew together, dark and forbidding over his black eyes. “We were at school together.”

  “Childhood friends can be so endearing.” She struggled to find something from her own background to add, but in truth, she had not really had much time for friendship until she came to London. “There is a governess at Mrs Walters’s house, who sometimes would be out walking with her charge while I was out walking with my brothers and sisters. We used to meet and trade books.”

  “How charming.” His sour mood made his tone sarcastic. “I daresay you gave her some very instructive religious pamphlets from the rectory.”

  “In truth, I usually loaned her history books. She said they helped her sleep.”

  Finally, he looked at her and barked a laugh. “I see. And what did she lend you?”

  Marianne leaned forward. She could picture the fragrant meadows so clearly—her smaller brothers leaping at each other or switching at the tall grass with sticks, Harriet and Matty picking flowers or lolling in the sunshine. Best of all, a prized book clutched in Marianne’s hands and an hour or two to read while the children occupied themselves. Her governess friend would stand by and make idle remarks about what she liked best in the novels she loaned, but often Marianne could not hear them for the roaring in her ears of clattering swords, creaking castles, weeping maidens, or whatever thrills the novel might provide her. It had been heavenly.

  “Novels.” The answer sounded so plain and simple, but to Marianne it meant a great deal more.

  “I should think the circulating library would do just as well for that,” Mr Hearn said.

  “Oh, I borrowed books there, too, of course. But I had to stay home and mind my brothers and sisters most of the time. Belinda was the one who always got to walk to town, and she usually took Clementina with her, since I had so much to do.” At Mr Hearn’s blank look, she said, “Belinda and Clementina are my sisters. Two of them, anyway.”

  “Ah.”

  “Besides, most of the books I wanted to read I would not dare to put my name down for at the library.” Marianne flushed a little. “It would not look right, and Papa would not have approved.”

  “You wanted to read scandalous novels, I suppose.” Mr Hearn’s voice had warmed from its savage tone to something more like amusement.

  “Oh, yes.” She supposed it was not ladylike to admit it, but it felt surprisingly good to be natural for once. “But of course Papa would never have allowed it, if he had known.”

  “And this governess provided you with scandalous tales while she let her charge romp with strange children?” A smile crept over his face.

  “Yes. She was a very good person,” Marianne said, “but a very bad governess.” They shared a laugh, and Marianne thought Mr Hearn looked a great deal calmer than he had all evening. She dared to venture a question. “Perhaps Mr Lowes loaned you scandalous books as well? In my experience, that is how great friendships are formed.”

  Mr Hearn grimaced. “He never loaned me anything. Actually, we hated each other in school. I was older than him, and I am afraid I never was very kind to him.” He cast a contemptuous look at the man. “Schoolboys can be abominably rough, I suppose.”

  “You mistreated him?” She could not hide her surprise.

  “I should like to say I was a perpetual champion of justice, but I fear as a boy I was rather selfish and callous. It took—ˮ Here he broke off, and Marianne suspected that the rest of his response was not the one he originally intended. “—a stint in India for me to see that other people’s feelings matter, too.”

  “So when you came back, you became friends,” she said.

  “Not really.”

  The mystery of it all was irritating, but intriguing too. “Why bring him here, then? I cannot see that my aunt Cartwright’s dinners are a terribly desirable social scene for him to latch on to. She is hardly a queen of fashion. Why did he want to come, and why did you bring him, if he is not your friend?”

  “He wanted to come because he knew it would be a nuisance to me.”

  As odd as the claim was, Marianne had to admit it was backed by her own observations. Mr Lowes had seemed eager to annoy Mr Hearn, although she still did not understand why his remarks caused the reactions they did. Mr Hearn must have felt he had revealed enough about it, because he promptly changed the subject.

  “I should think you would ask me about India, Miss Mowbrey. Surely not that many people you know have been there. It is a marvellous place.”

  “I would be delighted to hear about it. And you will have the satisfaction of knowing your audience has not the smallest probability of detecting any ridiculous lies you choose to invent about it. Tell me that tigers swim in the ocean, or that the natives eat all their children, or any such nonsense, and I will have to believe it.” She grinned.

  “Tigers do swim, sometimes, though not really in the ocean,” he said. “The air is hot, which I daresay you can imagine, and elephants roam the forests. You would not think it, Miss Mowbrey, but an elephant can move quite quietly. I knew several hunters who were very badly shocked by the appearance of an elephant where they did not expect it.”

  “Truly?” She did not know whether to believe him, but she was delighted with the description.

  “They are very heavy, of course, but their feet are well-padded.”r />
  “Did you go hunting often, Mr Hearn?”

  He shook his head, dragging dark hair briefly over his starched cravat. “It never appealed to me, I am afraid. And my hands were full—logistical matters, as I explained before. But many of the soldiers I knew took time to hunt.”

  “Do ladies hunt in India?” Marianne asked, thinking of the reckless women joining fox hunts near Wrumpton and shocking their neighbours with their exploits. It had sounded terrifically exciting, but of course no rector’s daughter could do such a thing.

  “They most assuredly do.” Mr Hearn’s tone was grim, giving Marianne the sense he was not speaking of tigers or elephants. “They hunt for what they want most.”

  “Money? Admiration?” she said, thinking of Aunt Harriet and Belinda.

  “Something that will give them both,” Mr Hearn said. “A husband. Ladies hunt for husbands in India.”

  It was hypocritical, given that Marianne was all too aware of her own need of a match, but she drew herself up with dignity. “I would not call any woman who hunted a husband a real lady.”

  “But is not that what all ladies seek? Why else do young ladies fixate on a Season in London? Indeed, are you not here for that very reason?”

  “Of course not.” The lie tasted foul on her tongue, but Marianne could not think why. She had told the same falsehood, directly or indirectly, a hundred times since coming to London. But saying it to Mr Hearn made it feel different. Something in the man gripped her, as if he was somehow dragging her upward to a higher standard that felt rigorous and unfair. He demands too much of life. And of me, a small part of her added. The thought soured her. Somehow the conversation had turned both rude and personal, and Marianne struggled to move it to a politer standing.

  “It is true that ladies often wish for a husband. It is the picture of hunting that is unladylike. To stalk, to ensnare, to shoot—these all suggest there is nothing desirable in the woman herself that would make a potential husband freely choose her and remain committed to his choice.” She tried to reframe the idea. “As I see it, a lady is more like an exclusive jeweller. She has something precious she is willing to part with on the right terms—namely, her heart. She does not need to trick or attack. She may not even advertise the worthiness of her possession. It simply becomes known, and men seek it themselves for its value.”

  Mr Hearn looked impressed despite himself. “A pretty metaphor, but an illustration of the best case rather than the average, I think.” He seemed content to let the matter lie, and Marianne felt a burst of pride in her ability to deflect the personal conversation. They continued to chat until Marianne had lost all notion of the time. It took Miss Emily’s gentle squeeze of her elbow to attract her attention. Miss Stokes was gathering her reticule and fan, preparing to leave, while Mrs Stokes was bidding goodbye to the hostess. Martha stood a pace off from Marianne, waiting for her cousins.

  “How comfortable you must have been chatting here, Miss Mowbrey. I have not been so lucky. Captain Pulteney has been teasing me most relentlessly about losing.” Miss Emily’s brilliant smile showed what she really thought of such luck. Tugging at her elbow, she guided Marianne to stand and leaned in towards her. “My mother has just given me the worst news, Miss Mowbrey. Really, I don’t know how you will forgive me.” She spoke in an undertone, but her voice was still clear enough to be heard quite easily. “The Irish cousin is to come with us on our shopping trip.”

  Marianne’s face grew warm. Martha must have heard. She carefully did not look at her, but the red-haired girl stepped up to Miss Emily without hesitation.

  “Why, Marianne will not care. She and I are great friends, are we not, Marianne?” She threw a grin at her. “We shall all go shopping together and enjoy ourselves.”

  “That’s right, Martha,” Marianne said. It was a feeble effort of solidarity, but it was all she could do to support the Irish cousin.

  “Oh, indeed.” Miss Emily drew back from Marianne, and Marianne felt the loss with a pang. An expression crossed Miss Emily’s face that, on anyone less beautiful, would have been described as a sneer. “I am so pleased for you, Martha. I had no idea you were so close.” She shrugged off Marianne’s weak attempt at conciliation and moved to stand with her mother and sister. When they left, Miss Emily passed by Marianne with a slow, decorous walk—the kind more suited to her languishing sister—rather than her usual vigorous stride. That, more than anything, told Marianne she had chosen poorly. Miss Emily was offended.

  February 1812

  Although the winter sun rose earlier and earlier as January turned to February, for Harriet Adams’s household, no difference could be seen at the breakfast table. This was because they all habitually rose much later in the day than Marianne did in the country. By the time Aunt Harriet and Marianne had assembled in the dining room and heaped hot buttered toast, rolls smeared with jelly, and thick slabs of ham onto their plates, it was nearly noon.

  The late rising suited Marianne. Breakfast generally proved itself the most agreeable meal of the day. Her body felt flush with energy after her repose. The previous evening’s awkwardness seemed distant and unimportant, while the current day’s pleasures promised the éclat she had dreamed of. No matter if day after day proceeded with the same rise and fall of expectations. For Marianne, the morning always burst with the fresh, flowering hope of the charming young lady she would become by eventide.

  On the Tuesday dedicated to the delayed trip to Bond Street with her friends, Marianne sipped her chocolate with even more enjoyment than usual. Aunt Harriet sat at the end of the table reading a letter over her eggs. Marianne removed a piece of ham from the tray and set it onto her plate, where it lay neatly flanked by a small triangle of toast and half a roll. Although a few stray thoughts disturbed Marianne’s peace—remembrances of a concert last night, where her dress had unfortunately caught the attention of an elderly man with a quizzing glass and produced a guffaw—she was able to console herself with the prospect of shopping with the elegant Stokes sisters.

  “Enjoy the mint jelly,” Aunt Harriet advised. “Lady Angela will likely visit today, so the rest will go with her. It may be some time before Hodges can make some more. Lady Angela does seem to dote upon it.”

  Marianne repressed a grimace at the woman’s name, but at least she would likely be out shopping when Lady Angela made her visit. The thought lightened her spirits further. “Shall I ask Jeannette to fill the basket and have it ready?” Marianne asked. She felt full of good humour today, ready to assist her aunt before whisking off to Bond Street.

  Aunt Harriet looked up from her letter. “Who?”

  “Jeannette, Aunt Harriet.”

  “Who on earth is Jeannette?” Her lined eyes blinked in confusion, making criss-crosses at the tops of her cheeks.

  “The lady’s maid you were so good as to give me,” Marianne said lightly, but she could already feel her aunt’s ire beginning to waken.

  “You mean Jenny. She is calling herself Jeannette now?” Aunt Harriet scowled, and the fine lines and criss-crosses jumbled together into a mess of scratches. “What foolishness is this? The girl plagues me for two years about wanting to be my lady’s maid, as if Anders did not suit me, and when I finally let her try her hand at it with you, she loses her sense altogether.”

  “There can be nothing wrong with a little ambition,” Marianne said. “She only wants to improve herself.”

  “By play-acting as a Frenchwoman! That’s ambition, indeed.” Aunt Harriet huffed and set down her letter. “She is going right back to being a housemaid the moment you return—leave.”

  Marianne spotted the slip at once. Her aunt had almost said the moment you return home, as if Marianne would surely fail to find a good husband.

  “You do her great wrong in spoiling her with silly names. She shall not be fit for service if you keep this up,” Aunt Harriet said.

  Marianne squeezed her butter knife, but she put it down in a ladylike fashion. “It is not wrong to like a different name b
etter. She didn’t have any choice about ‘Jenny’. Her mother probably named her that, and she is stuck with it. I have often thought I should like to change my name to something prettier. I could be Sophronia, or Devotina, if my family would indulge me.”

  Aunt Harriet’s stricken face looked as though she could not determine if Marianne was being serious. “Devotina! What a ridiculous name! I believe you made it up just now.”

  Marianne’s face hardened. “I did not. It is the name of the heroine in The Italian Count.”

  “Oh, a novel. Then someone else made it up.”

  “All names are made up, if it comes to that, Aunt.” Marianne took a deep breath. She would not let her aunt’s scolding upset her morning. “Perhaps here, I alone shall call her Jeannette, and then she can change her name fully when she someday takes a permanent position as a lady’s maid.”

  “It shall not be in this household,” Aunt Harriet said, tapping her finger to emphasise each word. “Pretending to be what one is not always causes harm. I should think about that myself, Marianne, if I were you.” Aunt Harriet set down a dish of jam with an authoritative thump. Marianne stared at the glistening red globules behind the glass and tried to wish her own hot blood into congealing as solidly.

  “I will not call her Jeannette in company,” she replied. It was the largest concession she was willing to make at the moment, and although some rational part of herself scoffed at it, it felt like a great sacrifice when she looked down at her breakfast and felt her meal ruined. Why did her aunt have to be so sharp-tongued?

  “You have to show more sense, Marianne, if you are ever to accomplish what you say you want to accomplish.” This was Aunt Harriet’s indirect way of referring to Marianne’s marriage pursuits. “Gentlemen like that Mr Lowes will think you are half-mad, the way you talk and dress. We do not live in a novel.”

  “Captain Pulteney does not think me half-mad,” Marianne said in carefully neutral tones. He had even complimented her originality. That was the sort of man she wanted—one who admired her charm and creativity.