Born of Persuasion (11 page)

THE NEXT MORNING, Nancy pounced on my bed before sunrise.

“Be it true?” she demanded, her cap slipping off her head. “Lady Foxmore is sponsoring thee?”

I pulled the covers up to my chin and groaned, too mired in sleep to upbraid her. She grabbed a copper pitcher and skipped over to my washstand, where she poured steaming water. “Cook says with her, thou’ll be married before a month’s end.”

I said nothing, surprised at the hurt I felt at the idea. The previous evening, Mrs. Windham returned home wild over her success. She’d gone to bed, prattling about how she convinced Lady Foxmore to take me off her hands.

I swung my feet out of bed and plodded to the washbasin, realizing why Mrs. Windham lived in terror of servants’ gossip, if news spread so quickly. “What else have you heard about last night?”

“That th’ reverend is wick with love over thee.”

I dried my hands on a towel, shoving aside the stab of pain
and wondering how far the rumors had gotten. Deciding to test it, I asked, “Why do they think that?”

She hurried over to the wardrobe and shook out my second-best dress. Glancing back over her shoulder, a stupid look suddenly stole across her features, making her appear a dullard. “Think what, m’lady?”

I swallowed my smile, but in truth her ability to appear so daft amazed me. I dried my face, determined to remember the trick if I got sent to Scotland.

By the time I made my way to the dining room, it was nearing ten. Sun spread over the table as I dropped to my seat. Mrs. Windham nodded. Elizabeth chewed toast thoughtfully, but gave me a nod. The window sat open, affording a cool breeze with a tang of smoke.

“Did you oversleep, dear?” Mrs. Windham asked.

I nodded, though it wasn’t true. After Nancy left, I’d remained in my bedchamber until the homey clatter of dishes, clink of silverware, and scent of buttery scones cajoled me to join them.

“This arrived.” Mrs. Windham laid a missive beside my plate, and I saw with discomfort it was Lady Foxmore’s stationery.

“Don’t open it.” Elizabeth set aside her toast. “Burn it. Disembowel it. Drown it. Anything except open it.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Windham said. “Go on, Julia.”

Frowning, I turned over the creamy paper and broke the wax seal. Lady Foxmore’s handwriting was fine lace.

“I’m invited for tea. She wishes to discuss her requirements before sponsoring me.” Then, hating the idea of appearing before this woman again, I appealed to Elizabeth. “Come with me?”

“Was I invited?” Elizabeth extended her hand for the letter. “I thought she swore no Windham should ever set foot inside her estate.”

I tucked the page beneath the table. If her ladyship could disregard the rules, so could I. “You’re invited.”

That afternoon the sun shone high in the cold sky as we hastened through the orchard shortcut. The ruined harvest had a profound effect on the parish. As we trampled over the rutted ground, men stopped their work and glared at us with crabbed expressions. No hats were doffed, no knuckles scraped against foreheads.

Elizabeth avoided looking at them, keeping her determined gaze straight ahead, but at a proper distance, I stripped off my veil and continued my study of the men. During my past visits, the workers had been merry. Legs had dangled over tree branches, swinging in rhythm as men sang songs. Boys ate tawny, dripping fruit on their breaks, while girls hauled pails of drinking water and shyly hinted at upcoming dances.

Elizabeth seemed to guess what had upset the parish, but I did not inquire, fearing to learn that it was Edward’s strictness that caused their great unhappiness.

My reservations increased when Lady Foxmore’s house loomed into view. The gravel walks and manicured boxwoods leading to her doorstep seemed a world apart from the pastures starred with cosmos.

Inside, the butler took our wraps and left us in the antechamber. A French king could not have ordered a grander entrance. Apricot walls painted with exotic parrots and long-beaked birds contrasted against scrolling chairs and marble busts. Leaf-green portieres blocked all other views of the house. I eyed the space with satisfaction, recalling how my parish vicar said God would punish me by bringing me to the meanest level of society unless I repented. How I longed for him to see me standing here.

“Welcome, child.” Head bobbing, Lady Foxmore stepped from behind a curtain. No mischief twinkled in her eyes; no mockery curved her mouth. Anyone meeting her for the first time might have been fooled into thinking her a kindhearted, snowy-haired matron.

Expressionless, she stared at Elizabeth. “I had forgotten how deep attachments run between young girls. Next time, I shall invite your friend, so you need not impose on me. I would question your upbringing, Julia, had I not already found it inadequate.”

With a slight touch on my arm, she indicated for me to follow and turned down a passage. Despite not having been received, Elizabeth accompanied me into the dragon’s lair. At the end of the hall, Lady Foxmore opened the door to a room attired in white. Sheer window panels filtered daylight into the airy space. The walls were bone-colored, the upholstery cream. Tea was laid over a tablecloth of Brussels lace. The color scheme carried to the food. Whipped meringue shells with ivory rose petals and custards with curls of coconut had been arranged on delicate dishes.

Lady Foxmore pulled an embroidered bell cord, then invited us to take a seat. A uniformed maid brought the teapot. Lady Foxmore motioned toward the service. “Julia, show me your serving skills.”

Mama and I rarely entertained; therefore I was unpracticed. When tea dripped over the spout, staining the lace, Lady Foxmore’s mouth creased. “I see I shall have to find you a husband who has no disposition for tea.”

“Or she could practice,” Elizabeth said with an edge in her voice as I pressed a linen napkin into the stain. “Perhaps you’d best leave Julia to her own devices.”

Lady Foxmore chuckled. “There is hope for you yet, Elizabeth. By and by, I may learn to forgive you your choice of mother.”

I tucked the stained linen under the silver tray, feeling discomposed. Beneath Lady Foxmore’s friendly facade, I sensed she was disgruntled, like a tiger eyeing us through the bars of her metal cage.

None of us drank our tea, and Elizabeth and I dared not risk blowing on it, so we sat silent for several minutes.

“I suppose,” Lady Foxmore eventually said over the ticking clock, “you are wondering why such a crabby, eccentric woman would take on the challenge of finding you a husband?” Her eyes narrowed. “No, I see the thought never crossed your mind. Then I perceive you are only interested in what I might do for you. Find a wealthy husband; is that not so, child?”

I set my cup in its saucer, ready to counter the thought.

Lady Foxmore held up her hand. “Say nothing, Miss Elliston. It would shatter everything I like about you, were you to deny it, and there is precious little I like about you now. I owe this favor to your mother. Did you know I was well acquainted with her when she was your age?”

“My mother!” My amazement was so complete, I sat forward. “That’s not possible. She never mentioned you.”

“Nor would I have expected her to.” Lady Foxmore cooled her tea, her expression smug. “And it was just as well. She had no right to claim status with me. Had she tried to call on me, I should not have received her.”

“But—”

“After the death of her family in that fire,” she continued over me, “your mother spent the following summer with my niece Isabella in Bath. I chaperoned them to numerous balls and assemblies. She was a great favorite of mine, though stubborn as the year is long. Had she trusted me, she wouldn’t have married as low as she did and to such a dreadfully tempered man.”

Mama never spoke of the past—never, not to anyone. I learned only a year ago, when I’d appealed to Sarah about my maternal grandparents, that her family had died in a fire. Sarah’s face paled as she apprised me of their fate, telling me never to mention it, as it would upset Mama.

Finding a link to Mama’s past in Lady Foxmore was so overwhelming, I had no response. Lady Foxmore moved in the highest spheres. It didn’t seem possible that Mama had once belonged there. Suddenly, I wondered who else of consequence
was connected to her past. Why that thought made me feel ill, I could not have said, but it did.

My face must have hinted at my nausea, for Lady Foxmore gave me a strange look. I sipped tea to distract her, burning my tongue.

“Did you . . . did you ever write my mother?” I asked, envisioning the slew of letters that drove her to suicide. “During this past year, perhaps—or know someone who might have?”

Lady Foxmore shut her eyes as if I’d blundered. “Gracious, no. After her marriage she was no longer acknowledged by society. Had she married higher, perhaps . . .” Lady Foxmore studied my face. “With her good looks, I have not a doubt she could have captured a very wealthy husband. I have far better expectations for you.”

I looked down, still wrestling with the thought that Mama had known Lady Foxmore. All those visits to Am Meer, and all the times we’d listened to stories involving her ladyship, Mama kept their acquaintance hidden, usually ushering Elizabeth and me from the room, stating gossip wasn’t suitable for young ears.

I looked at Elizabeth, but it was as if Lady Foxmore and I were two actors on stage and she had no role.

“Now, child—” Lady Foxmore set aside her teacup—“against my better judgment, I have agreed to find you a husband. But we still need to discuss my terms.”

“Terms?” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, giving me a warning look.

Had not my stomach felt as though my body had been pulled to dizzying heights, I might have admitted I was taken aback as well.

“Naturally. This is not the first time I’ve been paid to introduce a young lady, though generally the idea is to arrange wealth with title.” Lady Foxmore clutched the crook of her walking stick. “First thing is first. My usual fee for finding one a husband—”

A firm knock sounded on the door, and Lady Foxmore gave a
gasp of annoyance before calling over her shoulder, “Come in, John. I know it’s you.”

Mr. Greenham opened the door. “Would I be interrupting?”

“Nonsense. Were you truly concerned, you wouldn’t have disturbed us in the first place.” Lady Foxmore struck her walking stick against the floor, then gestured to me with her heavily jewelled hand to pour him a cup. “Come. I can see you are as curious about this girl as I am.”

Greenham’s entry was as meticulous as his attire. His movements were genteel, his feet scarcely making a sound. He moved a chair near us, then studied me unabashedly. The way he slowly scrutinized my every feature drew a nervous response. Though the tea would taste bitter having brewed too long, I hastily poured a cup and handed it to him.

“Now,” Lady Foxmore said, “my usual fee for introducing an upstart to society is one thousand pounds. Generally the hope is to crossbreed money with gentry, but in your case . . .” She made a gesturing wave over my dress. “My fee for you shall be two thousand pounds, which you shall agree to pay within a year of the wedding.”

Elizabeth made a scoffing noise, then seeming to find the conversation too ludicrous, collapsed against the back of her chair and turned her face to the window.

Lady Foxmore smiled, stirring her tea. “Are we agreed upon my first condition, Miss Elliston?”

Mr. Greenham’s stare remained fastened upon me as I focused on the pool of brown in my cup. The number was astronomical. Even were I not fated to be a lady’s companion, which offered no wages, but say a governess, it would take me seventy years to pay such a sum. Yet she hadn’t said I’d owe her money unless I wed. She’d want her money, so surely she’d work to find me a rich husband—but that still left the problem of explaining after the ceremony, to my still-unknown husband, that he owed her two thousand pounds.

“Will . . .” I took a breath. “What I mean is, if this person is unwilling to pay such a sum, would you accept jewelry, or perhaps an article worth that amount?”

Lady Foxmore burst into laughter, clapping her hands. “Good gracious, John. She’s already planning to rob her new household.” She laughed again. “Yes, I daresay, child, I’ll accept payment in kind. Though I hope to marry you to a more generous husband than that. Consider the two thousand pounds my personal revenge for his using me as a matchmaker.” Here, Mr. Greenham stirred in his chair, giving her an evil look. “So, are we agreed?”