Harcourt blinked. “The … oh, yes. Quite.” On the
way to the Strand, he’d accompanied Simon on a brief stop at the studio of a promising, if unconventional, young violinist by the name of Gardner. “Those, too,” Harcourt said with a tentative nod. “Very … vigorous.”
“Crude, you mean.” Gardner sawed his bow as though trying to break his instrument in half.
Harcourt hesitated. “I don’t … really care, to tell you the truth. I’m still stuck on the other matter.”
“Goodness. It’s been nearly an hour since I broke the happy news.”
Harcourt shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face. He was a blue-eyed redhead with the coloring to match, but at present, he looked even paler than usual. “Look here, you’ve had almost five weeks to come to terms with the idea that she isn’t dead.
I
recall the girl tumbling about in her pinafore on our lawn at Hatby. My mother took to bed for a fortnight after she disappeared.” He grimaced. “I believe she made my father interrogate the entire staff, lest he discover one of them harboring hidden intentions with regard to the nursery.”
“The great servant purge of 1872,” said Simon. “I believe an entire generation of nannies was scarred by it.”
Harcourt frowned. “But you must remember her, too. You were at Paton Park that summer, weren’t you?”
“No,” Simon said. “Not that summer.”
“But I recall letters from you. That was the summer you were thrown from a horse during a steeplechase, broke your collarbone. Am I imagining this?”
Simon sighed. That summer he’d come up with a hundred lies in his letters to friends. Rushden, infuriated with him for some reason Simon could no longer recall, had exiled him to some gloomy estate
in Scotland. He’d escaped his escorts at the train station in York and managed to get to his parents’ home. When they’d promptly plotted to return him to the earl, he’d fled yet again, to London.
The paltry sum in his pockets hadn’t lasted four days.
It had been a lonely and bitter journey back to Paton Park, where Rushden and the countess had awaited him. Adolescent boys could muster a great deal of angst, and the realization that he was incapable of fending for himself—that no choice remained but to run back to Rushden with his tail tucked between his legs—had felt at the time like the blackest blow life could deliver.
It occurred to him now that at the same age, Nell had been working half-days at a box factory. Or so she’d claimed during one of their breakfasts together. In his shoes, she would have known exactly how to fend for herself.
The thought absorbed him. When Harcourt cleared his throat, it took Simon a considerable effort to muster his wits for a reply. “Yes, the steeplechase. I must have forgotten about that.” He remembered very little of that summer but the depth of his rage. It had driven him to a variety of stupid things—including an impossible jump for which he’d not forgiven himself for years. He’d suffered a broken collarbone, but his horse, Jupiter, had not been so lucky.
Rushden had insisted that Simon fire the bullet that ended Jupiter’s suffering. It was one of his only decisions that Simon, looking back, could respect.
“But you must have met her at some point,” Harcourt said.
He ran his fingers down the side of the bottle that
sat between them. “A few times. Very briefly.” He’d first met the twins while visiting Paton Park on a holiday from school. He recalled being unable to figure out which was Cornelia and which was Katherine. In retrospect, he had a good guess. Nell had been the one who demanded candy from him. Kitty had been the one who’d thrown her doll at his head when he’d admitted he didn’t have any.
“Is she much changed, then?”
“She was five years old at the time,” Simon said dryly. “Put your mind to it.”
“No, but what I mean is …” Harcourt shifted in his seat. “You say she was lodged in the rookeries. Does it show?”
“Do you imagine that it wouldn’t?”
“I simply—” Harcourt fumbled. “I wonder if she managed to retain any of her upbringing. Surely she can’t be … like the rest of them?”
Simon found himself wordless. It wasn’t the absurdity of the question that gave him pause as much as the revelation it forced on him. Though Harcourt had been raised in privilege, he was well traveled and broad-minded. If
he
imagined that Nell’s high origins might have allowed her to float through her upbringing unaffected, then the majority of their peers would not only imagine but
expect
it of her.
What a pity. Over the last few weeks, her attitude toward her tutors had transformed. The results of her enthusiastic efforts were awkward; from Bethnal Green to Mayfair was a very large leap. But Simon had calculated that all she required was a rudimentary ability to avoid offending those persons who might be tasked to judge her fitness as Lady Cornelia.
Harcourt’s questions now forced him to reconsider
the matter. Reclaiming her inheritance would not guarantee restitution of all the privileges her birth should have safeguarded. Kitty Aubyn moved through the world assured of her welcome in it. Nell, on the other hand, would never find it easy to belong.
Surely she can’t be like the rest of them?
Of course she could.
He tried to reason with his own uneasiness. Her fortune would go far to soothing any troubles her new life might cause her. She had no interest in the social circles that might disdain her want of savoir faire. Why should she? He’d learned at a young age that some men’s approval was not worth the price it required.
His silence was causing Harcourt to squirm. “Dash it, Rushden, you know what I mean. Bethnal Green! It’s the wretchedest fever den in London, I expect!”
“Surely not,” he said flatly. “I believe that honor must go to Whitechapel.”
The waiter appeared, clearing his throat to discreetly draw their attention. Simon took the bill, ignoring his friend’s complaint as he reached into his jacket for his billfold.
“I was meant to get this!”
“Be at ease,” Simon said. “My fever-den bride will soon put my worries to rest.” He laid down a note and looked up into Harcourt’s wide-eyed regard.
“You mean to do this, then? Truly?”
Good God. “I assure you, I will not invite you to make Lady Cornelia’s acquaintance until I’m convinced that she carries no contagions.”
Harcourt hissed out a breath and sat back. “Ho, old fellow—I didn’t intend—”
“No, of course not.” He paused, feeling uneasier
yet. How absurd to take offense. Harcourt spoke of Nell Aubyn as a dreaded last resort because she
was
the last resort. “Forgive me. My mood is uncertain.”
Harcourt hesitated. “Dare I ask why?”
He picked up the letter from Grimston, giving it an indicative flick with his thumb before tucking it into his jacket pocket. “Minor irritations,” he said. “Nothing more.”
The stairs loomed before Nell, promising a long and winding descent toward the checkerboard floor of the lobby.
“Harmonic poise!” Mrs. Hemple called up. She was waiting at the base of the stairs beside St. Maur, and the low neckline of her fine, dark gown revealed two extraordinarily large surprises. Strange society, this, in which a girl couldn’t flash her ankles but a woman of sixty prepared for polite company by donning a dress that bared half her bosom.
“We’re waiting,” St. Maur said dryly. “Breathless, etcetera.”
A smile twitched Nell’s lips. She’d wager he was breathless with boredom. This was the fifth time she’d come down the stairs toward him, and she was determined to do it without tripping this time. Dinner was waiting and her stomach had started to growl.
She straightened her shoulders and placed one gloved hand on the banister. The heavy knot of her hair weighed down her skull, pulling her chin up to the proper angle. With her free hand, she hooked up a loop that unobtrusively shortened the skirts of gold silk. The unforgiving boning of the corset held her spine straight, and the tight sleeves ensured her arms maintained a pleasing bend as she descended.
As she reached the first landing, Hemple chirped, “Attention to the turn! Gracefully, now!”
“All I ask is that she doesn’t break her neck,” St. Maur said in an undertone.
“She must master it,” Mrs. Hemple said cheerfully. “Monsieur Delsarte considers stairs an excellent test of harmonic poise.” Every day this week, she’d put Nell through various exercises from Delsarte’s
System of Expression:
first the
serpentine movement
, then the
sinking wrist
and the
rotation of head in various attitudes
.
Descending a staircase was more complicated than Nell had ever known.
But as she glided around the turn and reached the safety of the final descent, she finally felt light on her feet—untroubled, at long last, by the yards of silk. Since a lady wasn’t meant to look too pleased with herself, she directed her smile toward St. Maur. In a close-fitting black coat and starched white cravat, he made a very convincing object for a girl’s admiration.
He smiled back at her, while in the periphery of her vision, Mrs. Hemple’s frown became apparent. “Gravity,” she warned. “Do not grow overconfident.”
Just this once, Nell ignored the instruction. St. Maur’s expression told her how well she was doing. His own smile was fading but his eyes did not leave her face. Smart lad; Nell knew she looked smashing: this shining gold gown was lovely. What cause for gravity? She was mastering the stairs, a gorgeous man was ogling her, and the dinner ahead was bound to be delicious.
As she reached the lobby, she laughed, and so did St. Maur. “Neck intact,” he said as he held out his arm. “Well done.”
Mrs. Hemple sniffed. “Your lordship, you agreed that practice would benefit Lady Cornelia. Please do
not skip the formalities now she has reached the lobby. You might have asked for the pleasure of her escort, in reply to which she would have made a verbal acceptance before taking your arm. That’s how it’s done, you know.”
Nell met St. Maur’s eye again. “Oh yes,” he said. “I do know.” He gave Nell a quick smile as he released her. Taking a precise step backward, he sketched a lithe bow. “My lady,” he said. “May I have the pleasure?”
He was only following the script, but the rich timber of his voice on that single word—
pleasure
—made Nell’s mind go briefly blank. What a wicked smile he had.
“My lady,” Mrs. Hemple prompted.
She blinked. “By all means,” she said, and took St. Maur’s arm.
The table looked like a miniature hothouse, so many bowls of flowers and ferns that a girl couldn’t reach for her wineglass without encountering foliage. At intervals, small lamps covered by colorful shades cast a rosy glow over the snow-white tablecloth. Tonight’s formal dinner was an exercise to prepare her for debuting into society. Nell had doubted the necessity until she’d caught sight of the place settings: seven pieces of silverware flanked each plate.
“You’ve not touched your oysters,” observed St. Maur. He sat at the head of the table, Nell at his right, Hemple at his left.
“They’re raw,” she said. Everybody knew oysters were tastiest—and safest—fried to a crisp.
“That wasn’t by oversight,” he said.
“Vulgar,” Mrs. Hemple sang. “It is not your place to make observations on your host’s menu. Now, do have an oyster. Once one has accepted a course, one must take at least three bites; otherwise, one casts doubt on the dish.”
Nell looked at the quivering lumps on her plate. She’d no wish to spend the night hanging over a chamber pot. She braced herself with a sip of wine, white and sweet, and then another—muttering a silent prayer of thanks when the footman came by to collect her plate.
“Saved,” St. Maur said, too softly for Mrs. Hemple to catch.
“Fry them,” Nell muttered. “I beg you.”
Mrs. Hemple clapped her hands together. “Small talk? Excellent! His lordship and I will demonstrate its proper substance and nature for you.” Clearing her throat, she turned toward St. Maur. “My lord, do you enjoy the theater?”
St. Maur gave Nell a wink before turning to Hemple. “Why, yes, I attend quite regularly. And you?”
“I fancy myself an enthusiast,” Mrs. Hemple said with a girlish bat of her lashes. “To wit, I recently enjoyed Mr. Pinero’s newest play. Perhaps you saw it?
Sweet Lavender
is the name.”
“Indeed,” said St. Maur. “A work of great wit. Who can forget the immortal line: ‘Where there is tea, there is hope’?”
Mrs. Hemple turned expectantly toward her. “You see how it is done.”
Nell rolled her lips inward. “Oh, aye,” she said. “I’m agape with interest.”
St. Maur snorted.
“Mind you don’t come off as pert,” Mrs. Hemple said sharply. “And please be mindful of your diction! Now if you will please attempt an exchange with his lordship.”
Nell nodded and turned toward St. Maur. He sat back in his chair, a smile playing on his lips. “Do you like the theater?” she asked.
“Not the theater!” Mrs. Hemple cried. “You must never ask a question which may expose your … lack of experience. Avoid questions of the theater until you have attended it. The weather, my lady, is always a wise choice. Or … let me see …”
“Literature,” St. Maur said. “Lady Cornelia can speak marvelously on Shakespeare.” He lifted his glass to her.
A flush of pleasure spread through her—intensified by Mrs. Hemple’s evident surprise. With a smile at the old lady, she said to St. Maur, “Have you read—”
“I do not recommend literature,” Mrs. Hemple cut in. “In this day and age, all manner of rubbish is printed.”
“The weather, then,” Nell said through her teeth. “How pleasant the weather is today, don’t you agree?”
“It rained,” Mrs. Hemple said.
Nell felt herself begin to scowl. “And what if I like the rain?”
The opening door saved her from Mrs. Hemple’s reply. A footman came around to serve a creamy soup that smelled of mushrooms and divinity. But he dispensed the portions so stingily that Nell could almost see through the bisque to the bottom of her bowl. “A bit”—
more
, she was going to say, but from the corner of her eye she saw St. Maur shake his head.
Once the soup was dispensed, another footman distributed glasses of sherry. After his exit, Mrs. Hemple spoke. “One does not ask for more soup,” she said as Nell lifted her spoon. “Or more of anything, for that matter, but
particularly
not for soup. A full bowl would be
very
vulgar.”