A Useful Woman (9 page)

“I am Sir Reginald's daughter, Lady Jersey, and yes, I was there yesterday.” Doubtlessly, Mr. Whelks had informed her of this, and all the other details. “As to what you have heard from Mrs. Holywell, I could not say.”

“Well. Well. This is very good.” With a great rustling of brocade, Lady Jersey turned to their hostess again. “How clever of you, Lady Blanchard, to bring the young woman here so quickly. It is vital,
vital
that we suppress any word, any possible hint, of this terrible accident. Think of the papers! Almack's will be under siege! There will be writers and gawkers and all sorts of vulgar persons clamoring to get inside . . . It will be impossible! So, you first, Miss Thorne.” Lady Jersey gestured impatiently for Rosalind to come stand before her, like a headmistress to a schoolgirl.

Fortunately, at that moment, the housekeeper entered with
the coffee tray, and Lady Blanchard was able to interrupt the scene. “Ah, thank you, Mrs. Pauling. Will you please pour for us, Rosalind? You take sugar, do you not, Lady Jersey?”

Checked, Lady Jersey waved her quizzing glass negligently. Rosalind concentrated on fixing and passing cups of coffee, and on keeping pique out of her expression.

Lady Jersey gulped her coffee. “As I was saying, Miss Thorne. I've made inquiries, you should know that. Mr. Whelks says you're a sensible and useful sort, and Lord Casselmain speaks for you.”

Rosalind felt a fresh heat rising in her cheeks that had nothing to do with modesty. “I will have to remember to thank him.”

“You should, and of course, your association with our own Lady Blanchard speaks volumes. Despite your excellent connections, however, I'm sure you recognize that your being in the ballroom at all was a serious breach of conduct. If you were to find yourself censured by the board of patronesses, the consequences to a young person such as yourself could be most severe.”

Merciful heavens. She's threatening me.
And there beside her was Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, nodding with such vigor Rosalind was surprised her head didn't drop off and land in her coffee cup.

Lady Blanchard took a small sip of coffee and set her cup down. “Sarah, I can entirely vouch for Miss Thorne's discretion. She has been my dear friend for many years, and ably assisted me in many delicate matters.”

“I'm sure that's so, Jane, since you say it is. But you understand our situation, do you not? There cannot be one breath, one hint of this matter abroad. It is only by perfect and complete secrecy that we will be able to keep the institution of Almack's free of vulgar scandal or speculation. We must have your solemn promise, Miss Thorne, that you will say nothing to anyone!”

The women's attention all fixed on Rosalind.

Had it not been for Lady Blanchard, Rosalind felt sure she would have told the lady patronesses to all go hang. When her father and Charlotte ran off, Almack's slammed its doors in Mother's face, and in hers. She also knew perfectly well that if she brought up this fact now, Lady Jersey would look surprised. In fact, she would not understand why Rosalind might even think to protest the matter. One did not allow an abandoned, degraded, or divorced woman into Almack's.

Rosalind lifted her chin.

“I promise you, Lady Jersey,” she said. “That you are already far, far too late.”

In the Lion's Den

I think her a fearful kind of person, she dares do or say anything to anybody.

—
Marianne Spencer Stanhope Hudson,
Almack's

Silence fell, thick, heavy, and disapproving. Lady Jersey lifted her quizzing glass to once more scrutinize Rosalind's figure and bearing. That glass was an odd affectation for a woman who was still in her prime. Rosalind found herself wondering if Lady Jersey might be shortsighted in more ways than one.

“I hope, Miss Thorne,” said Lady Jersey sternly. “That you are not accusing Mr. Whelks or Lord Casselmain of improper talking.”

“No, m'lady,” answered Rosalind promptly. “But there were servants and tradesmen in the rooms, not to mention bystanders outside. Also, by now, all the servants in all your houses know what happened.” She paused and let each of the women see the seriousness of her expression. “Your own movements, Lady Jersey, are closely watched by members of the press and public. Those who make it their business to know such things are already aware something of import has occurred, and depend on it, they will be avidly seeking details.”

Mrs. Drummond-Burrell cleared her throat hesitantly. “There might be something in what she says, Sarah.” This statement evidently cost her no little effort, because she pulled a kerchief from her sleeve and blotted her upper lip. Lady Jersey, however, was already drawing in an enormous breath, preparing to launch her own speech.

“There is also the fact that Mr. Aimesworth's death will not remain a secret for much longer,” Rosalind went on. “The pieces will be put together, no matter what the patronesses do, no matter what power or discretion they exercise. It will be published abroad, and probably sooner rather than later.”

Lady Jersey's chin quivered. Rosalind knew the grand dame of Almack's was frightened by what she'd heard. Unfortunately, Lady Jersey was the sort who reacted to things that frightened her by dismissing them.

“Such indiscretions as you allude to,
Miss
Thorne, might be a danger among low, chattering sorts, but I may assure you that in the very best society—”

“Almack's will die a death by parlor gossip,” said Rosalind evenly. “London's matrons will panic. They will rescind their subscriptions and refuse to let their daughters cross the threshold lest they be murdered in the retiring room.”

“Murder!” cried Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, the drama of her exclamation somewhat muffled by her lace kerchief. “How horrible! You cannot be serious, Miss Thorne!”

“It does not matter whether I am or not,” replied Rosalind. “The papers will use the word, you may depend upon it.”
Oh, Alice, you're going to get to use your “blood in the ballroom” bon mot after all!
She had to look away lest she accidentally smile at the thought.

“What are we to do!” exclaimed Mrs. Drummond-Burrell to Lady Jersey. This time she remembered to lower her kerchief. It
occurred to Rosalind that Mrs. Drummond-Burrell could hardly be more than one and twenty. She might be a veteran of tiny ballroom skirmishes, but this moment was entirely outside her experience.

“Clementina, you will collect yourself!” Lady Jersey thundered. “We cannot allow ourselves to be terrified, or compromised, by an unlucky accident.”

Lady Blanchard leaned forward. “Lady Jersey, if I may suggest you listen to Miss Thorne. She has assisted many of our finest ladies through murkier waters than these. I will be quite relying on her in the coming days.” She paused as if she'd just hit on some beneficial notion. “Perhaps Rosalind could speak with some people she knows. She has, in the past, been able to make sure that the newspapers put things in the
correct
light.”

“Has she?” Lady Jersey sniffed. “I, of course, have no experience with newspapermen myself. Tawdry gossip merchants, and the women! Ten times as bad. All of them spreading rumors for the lowest sort of person to dine upon. I would be the last to praise anything that detestable little Corsican did in France, but his control of the popular press seems an entirely sensible measure. I do hope it's a question you might persuade Lord Blanchard to put forward in the coming session,” she added to Lady Blanchard. “Still, if your Miss Thorne has some experience in these matters, with your imprimatur, Lady Blanchard, I think we may consider any suggestion she might have.”

The ladies all turned to her expectantly. Rosalind folded her hands, in case there was any possibility they might start trembling, or curl into fists. “My suggestion, Lady Jersey, would be to make no attempt at secrecy. Any denial about what happened will increase the amount of attention paid to the matter.”

“As Shakespeare tells us, ‘The lady doth prostest too much, methinks,'” murmured Lady Blanchard.

“Just so,” Rosalind agreed. “At the same time, if anyone inquires as to the details of the incident, it is only necessary to speak with sympathy of the family and their loss.”
Incident.
Even as she spoke, Rosalind felt uneasy.
I am reducing the loss of a man's life to an incident.

Lady Jersey tapped her quizzing glass thoughtfully against her palm. “What you are saying is that the matter is like that of a girl refusing a troublesome suitor. The more she demurs, the more that suitor will be certain there's something worth having. Yes. There is some sense in that. And being sure to place the emphasis on the Aimesworths is also an excellent scheme. It was after all the young man's own fault. He was in a place he had absolutely no business being. The family must bear the burden of what he has done, not us.”

Yes, because what could a family's grief matter when compared to the reputation of your little club?

Rosalind's teeth came together with a sharp click, grinding down on words and anger before either had a chance to escape.

But Lady Blanchard heard, and she saw the flash in Rosalind's eyes. “Rosalind, my dear, I feel a draft. Could I trouble you to go fetch my new cashmere shawl? You know the one I mean.”

It was, of course, a discreet invitation to withdraw before she said something they would both regret.

“Of course.” Rosalind rose to her feet. “If you will excuse me, Lady Jersey? Mrs. Drummond-Burrell?”

She received the polite nods of permission and took herself out of the room as quickly as she decently could. Out in the hall, she stopped and pressed her hand against her stomach, trying to get her breathing under control for a moment. But she could not be caught standing here. She started down the corridor toward the family rooms. Lacey would probably be in Lady Blanchard's room. She would know which shawl was meant.

“Miss Thorne. May I have a word?”

Rosalind was so intent on recovering her composure that Lord Blanchard's voice seemed to come out of nowhere. Rosalind stared about herself in momentary confusion before she realized she stood beside the open door of a small library. It was a chilly room, as it contained no fireplace, but the curtains were thrown open to make the most of the winter sun. Map cases as well as bookcases lined the walls. Sturdy, practical tables took up most of the remaining space, waiting for the occupant to spread out papers and plans so they could be examined in detail. Lord Blanchard was in the act of rolling up one such set of plans as she entered.

Rosalind was struck afresh by how tall Lord Blanchard was. His shaggy gray hair gave him an eccentric, almost absentminded appearance, but one glance at his sharp eyes put any such idea to rest. This was a man who might be distant, but he would never be absent.

“This is a sad, hard business, Miss Thorne,” he said, deftly knotting the black ribbons around his roll of papers. “I'm sorry you were drawn into it.”

“Thank you, Lord Blanchard. But you needn't worry for me.” She paused, and then decided to dare a remark. “I'm only sorry Jasper would have to meet with such a strange accident. His family will be devastated.”

“Yes, yes. Aimesworth is many things, but he's never been the strongest of men. And Lady Edmund . . . well.” Lord Blanchard pulled a ring of keys from his waistcoat pocket, unlocked one of the cabinets, and laid the roll of papers inside. He then settled into the wingback chair beside the room's small writing table and gestured for her to take one of the stools beside the table.

“I trust . . .” He stopped. “No. Let me begin again. I very much
hope, Miss Thorne, you will be here to help Jane through this. She needs a friend by her, I think even more than she realizes. I would hate to find that you could not because some hard feeling exists between us.”

Rosalind kept her gaze level and her face calm. Despite her close connection with his wife, she and Lord Blanchard had never been friends. She'd often wondered if the viscount ever had financial dealings with her father, and if he'd lost money, but she was never able to find out for certain.

“Lord Blanchard, all that happened between us was perfectly comprehensible. My father broke into your house in a drunken state. He demanded money of you and created an unforgivable scene.”
Among other things.

Rosalind could still see Father clearly, lurching forward across the front hall, stinking of gin, rumpled and unshaven and leering.

I know what you're doing, keeping my girl in your house, you old satyr
, he'd growled to Lord Blanchard
. Well, b'ghad, if you're going to have her, you're going to pay the one that owns her!

“You were perfectly right to request that I leave,” she continued. “I would have done so in any case. If there are any apologies to be made, I am the one who should make them.”

They'd never told Lady Blanchard about their last conversation, either of them. She would have refused to let Rosalind go if she'd known Lord Blanchard had ordered her goddaughter out, even with such causes as he had. Rosalind did not like secrets, but she also could not stay with her godparents when Father might return at any moment. Better she should face that possibility in an obscure house in an obscure street than somewhere the world might find out, and tear the last of her reputation to shreds.

Lord Blanchard waved her words away. A thought occurred
to Rosalind then. “Lord Blanchard, may I ask a question? White's Club keeps a betting book, I believe?”

“Famous for it.” Among the rules of society's sporting men, a bet not only had to be made, but had to be witnessed. There should also be an opportunity for friends to make their own side wagers on the outcome of whatever question was to be settled. Thus the excitement, and chance for gain, was spread as widely as possible. To this end, many clubs kept a ledger of bets entered into between the members.

“If, as you suggested, Mr. Aimesworth was at Almack's because of some wager—”

“He may have entered it into the book!” cried Lord Blanchard. “Of course. I should have thought of that myself. I'll go have a look at once.” He pulled on the bell to summon the footman. “Thank you, Miss Thorne. I knew you would not let Jane down.” He shook his shaggy head. “The truth is Almack's has been more of a burden than a help, to us both. I admit, I badgered her into it. That was a mistake. Jane's an admirable woman. The consummate hostess. Man couldn't ask for better. But she's not really ambitious, do you see? At least, not in that way. I sometimes think she'd be just as content in a Shropshire cottage having the vicar and his wife to supper on Wednesdays, as long as she could pull it off neatly.”

“I think you may be right, sir.”

“What she can't bear is shabbiness. Can't stand to sink below standard, and thinks nothing at all of those who do. And, by Harry, she's always managed it, come stormwrack or strife. She keeps her head and her house all above water. But this . . . this may finally be too much. Still, it's important for her, and for us as a family, that her exit be well managed. Have to leave all in good order for our return. We need the world to be looking forward to it, you understand?”

A slow chill spread over Rosalind as Lord Blanchard spoke his carefully chosen words. She did understand, although she also desperately wished she didn't. There was only one reason Lord Blanchard would talk to her about managing both his retreat and his return. He was not being given this new posting because of his personal merits or because he'd requested the transfer.

Lord Blanchard was being gotten out of town.