Brenda Joyce (21 page)

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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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“What is that?” Violette asked.
“A lady never leaves a fete or soiree, or a ball, with a gentleman. Not even a widow like yourself.”
Violette tensed. “Blake sent me outside with Lord Farrow.”
“That was incorrect. It was also incorrect of him, and you, Violette, to adjourn to the gardens alone together.”
Violette blushed, recalling Blake’s stunning kiss. Something twisted inside of her, hurtfully. And with the stabbing came fear. What if she had no chance to win Blake’s love? What if her determination were not enough?
“Violette.” Catherine’s voice was kind, her eyes soft and sympathetic. “You must never allow a gentleman to kiss you, unless you wish to give him the impression that you are not really a lady and you are eager to be with him in a most unladylike fashion.”
Violette bit her lip, nodding.
“The only exception, I believe, is if you love him and are marrying him.”
Violette’s pulse leapt. “I see.”
“Good. Now, we shall share breakfast, but correctly.” Catherine
smiled. “A lady does not wear her hat to breakfast, Violette, but of course you did not know we would share breakfast today, so it is acceptable for you to leave it on.” For a moment, Catherine studied Violette’s bonnet, and she sighed. “We shall discuss fashion later. Now, you must wear a bonnet whenever you leave the house, and certainly you leave it on when dinner is taken outside the home, or at an afternoon tea. Gloves are
not
worn at breakfast, but they are worn at
all other times,
including at dinner and teas, outside the home. Inside the home, of course, you must always wear gloves, even for supper. You do know, of course, that you must expect to change your gloves six times a day.” Catherine smiled. “A lady should own eighteen pairs of gloves, a dozen white kid, a half dozen white silk.”
“Eighteen pairs,” Violette cried, already confused.
“That allows time for laundering. A lady
never
wears dirty gloves, and a good rule to follow is this: If you are spending a day out of doors, a pair should be changed every three hours, in which case you will change your gloves more than six times that day.”
“More than six times,” Violette said, amazed. How could she remember all the rules about gloves? What if there were as many rules about everything else?
“And at a ball like the one last night,” Catherine was cheerful, “you must have a pair to change into sometime before midnight. Dusty gloves are exceedingly unattractive, Violette. They are inelegant and unfashionable.” Catherine’s gaze strayed again to Violette’s hat. Violette had the feeling that she did not particularly like it.
“I didn’t have no idea,” she said slowly.
“I know. And although we shall have our speech lessons later, it is ’any,’ not ‘no.’
I did not have any idea.
Please don’t contract words like do and not.”
Violette nodded, worried. “How can I remember all this?”
“Don’t worry,” Catherine said, patting her back. They walked over to the sideboard. “We shall go over everything again and again. You may take notes if you wish.”
Violette hesitated. “I can’t write.”
Catherine whirled, eyes wide.
“I’m sorry,” Violette whispered, shrinking a little inside. Blake had had the very same reaction—as if not being able to write were the most terrible crime.
Catherine recovered. “I am hiring a tutor. You shall have a
professional teacher to instruct you in speech and writing.” She hesitated. “Can you read?”
“No,” Violette whispered, flushed. “Catherine, I … I don’t think I have enough money … ,” she began.
“A lady
never
discusses her finances,” Catherine said firmly. “And the word ‘money’ is not a part of a lady’s vocabulary. The word does not exist.”
Violette nodded, her pulse hammering. “Then how am I going to pay for a teacher?”
“Violette, you are discussing finances!” Catherine then hugged her. “Never again. I shall arrange everything. Because we are friends.”
Violette blinked; amazed. “You would do that for me?”
Catherine smiled and looked at the floor. “Perhaps I am a romantic fool, but, yes, I would, and I will.”
Violette stared. Tears filled her eyes. Catherine was the kindest, nicest, most wonderful human being she had ever met. And then Violette decided that she had to succeed in what was beginning to seem like an impossible task. She had never wanted anything more, and she was not going to disappoint Catherine. Violette was determined.
And then, of course, there was Blake.
VIOLETTE’S
lesson took place early in the mornings, so she could continue her employment at Lady Allister’s. She not only had an instructor who was teaching her speech, reading, and writing, Catherine had also hired a dance instructor for her. Now the strains of a waltz filled the salon where Catherine played the pianoforte. Violette whirled about the salon in the arms of the slim, gray-haired Frenchman who had been teaching her the various dances every lady ought to know. For the first time since she had begun her lessons over a week ago, Violette was becoming relaxed. Dancing, she realized, was fun, once one stopped worrying about what to do and stepping on one’s partner’s toes.
Monsieur Montrail swirled Violette about and then the waltz ended. They stood together breathlessly in the center of the salon. Catherine slid around on the piano bench and, beaming, she applauded. “That was wonderful,” she cried.
Violette slowly smiled. Her pulse was still racing from the physical exertion of the dance and the pleasure of having done it well.
“Madame Goodwin,” Monsieur Montrail said, smiling very slightly under his iron-gray moustache. “You have outdone yourself. Today I am pleased.”
“Thank you,” Violette said, still breathless.
Montrail bowed at Violette and at Catherine. “Until tomorrow. And I think our lessons shall soon end.”
Catherine rose, her daffodil yellow silk gown belling about her. “I believe you are correct, Monsieur,” she said happily.
As Montrail left, Violette faced Catherine. “Do you mean that I have learned to dance adequately?” she asked.
“You were beautiful, Violette. Very graceful and you did not miss a step.”
Violette beamed with pleasure. “I do like dancing, Catherine.”
Catherine touched her arm. “You have been a brilliant pupil, dear. I had no idea our lessons would go this well.”
“Really?” Violette was hopeful. Blake’s image, always in her mind, loomed more strongly there.
“You can pass as a lady. No one would ever suspect otherwise.”
Violette wasn’t as confident as Catherine, for she did not feel like a lady, and she knew who she was. She would never forget growing up hungry, cold, dirty, and homeless in St. Giles. It remained an effort to walk and talk correctly, and she had to think carefully about all the etiquette she had thus far learned. Sometimes she could not remember a rule. And while she had mastered the alphabet, while she could now write her own name, she could not read, nor could she pen anything else. Perhaps my true colors will always show, Violette thought.
“What is wrong?” Catherine asked. “You should be thrilled to death, on top of the world.”
Violette smiled briefly. “I might appear to be a lady, but the truth will never change, now will it?”
Catherine stared. “I am not sure of that,” she finally said.
Violette sighed, walking away, her pale lavender skirts, trimmed only with a darker purple embroidery at the hem, floating about her as she moved. Catherine had done far more than teach her fashion, she had redesigned Violette’s wardrobe, removing lace and beads, flowers and embroidery, and all sorts of trim from every garment Violette owned.
She stared out of the window at the street outside. A few coaches, carriages, and horsemen were passing by. It had begun to drizzle, and the single gentleman pedestrian had opened a black umbrella. “Blake will always know the truth,” Violette said quietly without turning to face Catherine.
Catherine was silent for a moment. “Yes, he will.”
Violette turned. “But you think that I can win him, anyway?” She desperately needed reassurance.
Catherine hesitated. “I think that when a woman has the kind of feelings for a man that you have for Blake, she must do everything in her power to win his love—or forever ask herself, what if.”
Violette folded her arms across her bosom. “If this doesn’t work, nothing will. This is my last chance.”
Catherine was somber. “I would probably agree.”
Oh, God, Violette thought, but she did not voice her unladylike thoughts aloud.
“You will have your first opportunity to impress Blake this Thursday night. Lord Pierce is having a dinner dance, and you are invited,” Catherine said.
Violette stared, rigid. She finally inhaled hard and walked back to the window. She had never been more afraid of the future in her life.
 
Blake could not help himself. All week long he had wondered about what was going on at the Dearfield town house. He knew about Catherine’s wild scheme. Every time he had seen her since the ball, she smiled serenely at him, as if she were keeping a huge secret to herself. It was Jon who had told Blake about the lessons.
He told himself he should stay away. What Violette Goodwin did or did not do was not his concern, but he failed to follow his own advice. That afternoon Blake’s phaeton stopped in front of the Dearfields’ London residence. As he stepped down onto the curb and quickly strode up the walk to the five-story brick town house, he had the distinct feeling that he was no longer in control of himself or his life. He told himself that he was being overly imaginative, a fool.
The butler met him in the foyer and told him that the Ladies Dearfield and Goodwin were in the salon. Blake thanked him, and, because he was almost family, he preceded Thompson to his destination.
But before Blake had crossed the threshold of the salon he
saw them and stopped, reaching out to silence the butler. Neither Catherine nor Violette, sharing a quiet tea, had heard him approach.
He signaled the servant to leave, staring at the two women. What a pretty picture they made. Catherine was beautiful in a bright yellow gown, Violette striking in lavender. In fact, his first glimpse of Violette had made him feel very much like he was being kicked in the chest by a donkey. He had forgotten just how lovely she was, or had she somehow grown lovelier?
Blake almost turned around to leave, but the women were animated, talking and laughing together, and he could not move. The day’s earlier drizzle had passed and the sun was attempting to break through the clouds, rays of sunshine streaking through the windows upon them both. Violette said, “Lady Dearfield, you do tell the most amusing tales! Might I pour you another cup of tea?”
Blake’s mouth dropped open. Her enunciation had been almost perfect. She certainly did not sound like, or appear to be, a shopgirl who had managed to marry far above herself.
“Thank you, Lady Goodwin,” Catherine replied.
Blake watched Violette lift Catherine’s cup and saucer and then the silver teapot. She gracefully poured the brew, set the teapot down on the silver server without spilling a drop or making any noise, and then she smiled at Catherine. “Sugar, Lady Dearfield? A single spoon, I believe?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Violette added the spoonful of sugar. She placed the cup and saucer down on the table in front of Catherine, who thanked her. She then poured tea for herself.
Blake was frozen. He had to shake himself out of his amazement. Violette’s diction was amazing, her manners quite flawless. In fact, now he noticed how elegant she appeared in her lavender silk gown. It was not cluttered with lace, ribbons, bows, fur, flowers, or any other of that horrible frippery she had so adorned herself with previously. Was this the same woman he had met in the York countryside? Or were his eyes and ears deceiving him?
Blake recovered with great effort, but he felt very uneasy and disturbed, though he could not understand why. He continued to stare, reminding himself that this was Violette Goodwin, not an impossibly beautiful noblewoman. She was an impostor—a terribly vulnerable yet clever young woman, one whom he was genuinely fond of and yet must remain distant from.
He sauntered into the room. Both women ceased conversation at once. Violette, in the midst of lifting the cup of tea to her mouth, set it down noisily in its saucer, spilling the liquid as she did so. Her blue eyes were wide, riveted on him.
And Blake felt an odd, savage satisfaction that he had disturbed her as much as she had disturbed him. “Good afternoon, ladies.” He bowed.
Catherine stood, but Violette, correctly, remained seated. “Why Blake, how wonderful to see you,” Catherine said, but she was quite anxious now and he knew her well enough to remark it.
Blake kissed her gloved hand and faced Violette, whose face was now flooded with hot color. She remained silent. “Lady Goodwin? This is a surprise. I did not expect to find you here,” he said, a white lie.
Violette wet her lips. “I … I am delighted to see you, Lord Blake.”
He could not help being amazed yet again. And, perversely, he was dismayed that this odd twist of fate was transforming her before his very eyes into a graceful lady—the kind of lady who would reign supreme this Season if Catherine gained her an entrée into their world, the kind of lady who could, just possibly, steal the heart of a rake like Robert Farrow. “May I join you?” Blake inquired.
“Of course,” Catherine said quickly. “Thompson, please bring a fresh pot of tea, more cakes, and two more cups and saucers.” ,
Blake looked at Violette’s saucer, which was filled with the tea he had caused her to spill. Violette followed his gaze. Her hands, he saw, were clenched tightly in her lap. This was the very first time her gloves had been so pristinely white. More uneasy than before, Blake turned and pulled a third chair up to the small table. He sat down. His gaze shifted to Violette. She had become as still as a statue, as if afraid to move. Then he realized that he was as rigid.
It was completely inappropriate, but he suddenly recalled the torrid kiss they had shared at his mother’s ball.
While they waited for Thompson to return, Catherine said, interrupting his thoughts, “I suppose you have heard about our lessons?”
“Actually, I do believe Jon mentioned something along those lines to me.”
Catherine’s smile was fleeting. Anxious. “Violette is a wonderful pupil. She has worked very hard,” Catherine said, smiling. “She has been tireless, as I am sure you can see.”
Blake eyed Violette, who was staring at him. He did not want to praise her, but he said, very low, “Yes, I can see.”
Violette flushed with pleasure.
Catherine said in a rush, giving him an odd glance, “You should have seen her waltzing yesterday. Violette is one of the most graceful women I have ever known.”
Blake would not be surprised. “Indeed?” He knew he was staring at Violette. It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest that they share a dance together at the next fête they both attended, but he refrained. That would be far too dangerous. This entire transformation was far too dangerous.
Violette gazed at him earnestly. “I’m learning to talk like a lady, to walk like a lady, even to dress like a lady. And I’m learning how to read and write.” Her eyes were wide, searching. She did not smile. “I know the entire alphabet. I can write my name.”
His heart flipped over. A part of him wanted to embrace her, hold her. It was painfully clear that his approval mattered to her, yet he did not want to be in this position. Yet how could he not approve? He had made a mistake, he should not have come. “What you have done is very admirable,” he said carefully.
“Do you truly think so … my lord?”
Their gazes locked. Blake had to nod.
To break the tension, he faced Catherine. “Shall we ride tomorrow morning in the park?”
Catherine smiled at him. “Only if Violette can join us.”
Violette gazed at Blake, her eyes shining. She was so hopeful.
Blake regarded her, hating himself. He was making matters worse. “Has Violette learned to ride as well?” he asked. If the answer was yes, he would not be all that surprised.
“No, Violette has not yet taken riding lessons. Blake is a superb rider,” Catherine remarked, looking from Blake to Violette. “But I have a wonderful idea. Blake, why don’t you teach Violette how to ride?”
Violette tensed, her gaze shooting to his face. He saw the expectation written all over it. It was on the tip of his tongue to agree, yet how could he? Especially since he was so damnably
attracted to her? Various scenarios flashed through his mind, none of which had anything to do with horseback riding. “My schedule will not allow it.”
Violette’s face fell. Under the table, Catherine actually kicked him, hard, in the shin. He managed not to grunt.
“Violette has been invited to Lord Pierce’s tomorrow evening,” Catherine spoke into the suddenly strained silence. “Isn’t that wonderful? It shall be her debut, so to speak.”
“And how did you arrange that?” Blake asked. He would not go to the Pierces’, even though he had been invited himself. Oh no.
Violette stared.
“I suggested it,” Catherine said, a trifle annoyed.
“I suppose that you will next give her a letter of introduction?” Blake asked, feeling quite annoyed himself. With a letter of introduction from Catherine, the toniest doors in London would open to Violette. He did not like this, he did not like it at all.

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