Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley (3 page)

“I see,” said Maggie. Only, she didn’t really.

Hart had sent up her things. It was such a little gesture, yet strangely thoughtful. Did he mean anything by it? A hopeful warmth spread through her, and clung on as she washed lemonade out of her hair and dressed in a dry, clean gown.

She even took that warmth with her when she had her afternoon embroidery lesson with the prim Mrs Barton, one of the accomplished former students of Mrs Pawsey’s prestigious school of needlework. Mrs Barton was a punishing task-master, and prickly of temperament, but Maggie found that her skills at needlework more than made up for that.

Needlework was Maggie’s favourite accomplishment, and the only one she felt she was truly good at.

Her efforts on the pianoforte were undistinguished, her drawing unremarkable – but her embroidery had always felt like a true art. A way to express herself though complex patterns and silk thread. Needlework had always come easily to her, her fingers quickly mastering complex stitches, confident with the finest threads. She could embroider elaborate patterns and sew new gowns out of bolts of fabric she’d found in her mother’s stores. Over the years, she had accumulated four notebooks’ worth of various designs for the marvellous gowns she still wished to make. It was only a shame that rural England did not give her much opportunity for wearing them.

She was also very sorry that Lord Chenefelt did not see much worth in this. But at least Lady Compton had insisted that he secure only the very best instructress to improve Maggie’s skill, and for that Maggie was eternally grateful.

Under Mrs Barton’s sharp eye, Maggie and Cecile had improved in leaps and bounds, working miracles on gowns and trousseau linen alike. Secretly, Maggie had also made some rather daring adjustments to the gowns which had already been purchased for her upcoming Season, improving upon the fashion plates she’d glimpsed in the monthly women’s journals.

She could not wait to wear them.

This undertaking was a very closely kept secret: Lord Chenefelt disapproved of his daughter embroidering her own gowns almost as much as he disapproved of the latest fashions for fripperies, and so Maggie felt it best that he did not know of her newly improved wardrobe. Today, Maggie’s joy made her fingers quicker than ever as she expertly executed a fine pattern of vines, practicing the stitch Mrs Barton had taught her the previous week.

Seated opposite Maggie in a comfortable wingback, Cecile threw her a curious look over her own needlework, though she did not comment.

The bubble of happiness was still with Maggie hours later when Cecile helped her prepare for bed. Catching a glimpse of them in her cheval glass, Maggie was struck by the similarity in their colouring and build.

And yet they were very different.

There was a quiet elegance in Cecile’s movements, a beauty and confidence in her face, that Maggie could not find in her own appearance. Perhaps it was her ceaseless determination that gave her such confidence. Cecile had a great number of dreams and plans – she meant to save up what funds she could, become a
couturiere
and open her own shop.

“I would much rather be happy creating gowns then growing old in the sort of dreary, respectable marriage that is the common fate of a lady’s companion,” she’d once confided.

Cecile’s mother had been well born and had, in her youth, served as a court
modiste
to the late queen of France. Like many, the family had fallen on hard times during the grim years following the Reign of Terror and had been forced to flee to England. Cecile remembered little of her life in France, but she said that none of this was of any consequence. They had escaped – not everyone had been so fortunate.

Too impoverished to be able to provide their daughter with sufficient care and education, Cecile had been sent to Chenefelt to be Maggie’s companion after her own mother’s passing. The little girls became fast friends, bonded together by their tragic losses, and Cecile had stayed on with Maggie as they both grew into womanhood.

A lady’s companion was, by far, not the worst fate that awaited many impoverished young women, but Cecile was determined that life held more in store for her than even that.

Whenever she had the opportunity, Cecile read a great deal about Paris. She had always told Maggie that one day she would return there. Maggie had not doubted her friend’s assurance for a moment, though she had always been saddened at the thought of her dearest friend going so far away.

Another part of her had even longed to see Paris for herself – to explore the whole continent of Europe, and discover what treasures it held in store.

She knew, of course, that this could never be.

That night, as she drifted off to sleep, Maggie thought of her upcoming Season. Just as soon as her Aunt Verity deemed her ready, they would set out for town. Perhaps she and Cecile would both secure their happiness once they made their mark in London.

London, after all, could be every inch as wonderful as Paris.

It was thrilling and a little terrifying. She couldn’t wait to attend the dinners and the dances, to see for herself the wonders of the London Season and the originals who commanded the Season’s fashions.

She’d heard a great many stories from her aunt, anecdotes of people like the fierce Patronesses and of the glamorous escapades of the Duchess of Strathavon.

Surely, Hart would be unable to ignore her then, when she danced with dukes and exchanged clever banter with society’s sharpest wits.

Maggie awoke earlier than usual when Cecile came into with her morning cup of chocolate and a message from her father, looking every bit as sleepy as Maggie felt.

Lord Chenefelt demanded her presence in his study. Immediately. This was peculiar in itself: he never paid Maggie much heed unless she had done some mischief which he felt warranted a telling-off.

“I wonder what it is he wants of me,” she mused, while a maid helped her get dressed and Cecile looked thoughtfully out of the window at the wet grounds below. “Was he in a dudgeon?”

It was all most inconvenient. Maggie had planned to spend the morning finishing work on a dress she had been creating. She’d passed a whole afternoon in the village choosing the perfect length of cream lace for the trim, and she couldn’t wait to see it on the dress.

“I’m sure I couldn’t guess, but he looked somewhat thunderous.”

Maggie blurrily peered out of the window, trying to see what had caught Cecile’s attention, but there was nothing. The garden was shrouded in its customary morning fog.

“Doesn’t he always look thunderous?”

Maggie supposed that she might have considered the landscape ominous, only she had grown accustomed to it over the years.

She sighed. “The sun has barely risen. What a dismal hour to meet with papa. Was he very harried?”

“He seemed impatient, rather. It might be best to hurry.”

“Perhaps. It’s too much to hope he’ll forget about me, if he’s taken the trouble to send a
message
.”

Filled with an unmistakable sense of dread, Maggie made her way down the sweeping grand staircase to her father’s study on the ground floor.

She hesitated momentarily outside the study door, wondering if there was some way to sidestep whatever ordeal lay ahead, before resigning herself to knock.

The room was warmly appointed and cosy – a small fire crackled in the grate next to an inviting armchair, and the curtains were yet drawn against the gloom beyond. Maggie thought the room a very curious contrast to her father’s character, which could never be described as cosy.

Lord Chenefelt was already dressed for the day. He was an extremely tall man, with hair that was more grey than brown, and an expression of unmistakable displeasure across his face. His bearing cast him every inch a navy man, and he had always run his household like one of his fleets.

Lord Chenefelt regarded his only daughter with sharp, green eyes.

“Ah, there you are, Margaret. No doubt you dawdled on your way here? Even your brother has already had his breakfast and left for London. I expect he means to get involved in more scuffles and bring down the family name, which would certainly account for the urgency of his departure.”

“Good morning, papa,” Maggie said, refusing to let him draw her into a quarrel.

Lord Chenefelt was always querulous, especially where Frederick was concerned. Maggie was sorry she hadn’t been up to see her brother leave.

“Is it? We shall see. I have summoned you here for a reason.”

“And what may that be, papa?”

“Your upcoming nuptials, Margaret.”

Maggie blinked. “Nuptials? Is that not a little soon? I have not yet been launched. One would need a suitor before one could discuss
nuptials
.”

Lord Chenefelt smiled, looking particularly pleased with himself.

“Ah, but that is the beauty of it, my girl. Having endured the Season myself, I know exactly what a waste of time and resources it is. Upon further reflection, I have decided that I won’t hold with such unnecessary nonsense. I also know that, left to your own devices in society, you would only let your mouth run away with you and end a crusty old maid. That simply will not do. You must marry and marry you shall.”

“But London – ”

“Is out of the question. Besides which, daughter, keeping late London hours will certainly affect your health – and you will lose even your hearty complexion, which won’t be of any help in securing matrimony,” the admiral said briskly. “It is inefficient.”

Maggie felt the first stirrings of her temper, outraged at the admiral’s dismissal of her ability to find a husband. A beauty she might not be, but even she was not so utterly hopeless.

“I can hardly find a husband while sequestered at Chenefelt Park!” she argued, feeling her treasured Season slipping through her fingers before it had even had a chance to begin.

“Certainly not. I won’t have my daughter marrying the vicar. But that it not an issue – I have already selected your husband, and written him on the matter. He has been most agreeable in making a morning call, tomorrow.”

Maggie felt cold with shock and outrage. Her mind was in turmoil. She couldn’t find words to sufficiently convey her feelings on the matter. She struggled to control her breathing.

At last, she gained back some of her composure. “And may I have the name of this most suitable of gentlemen?” She couldn’t quite keep the dripping sarcasm out of her voice.

“That tone, daughter, is exactly what is most disagreeable in a wife, and I will not tolerate you speaking that way tomorrow. The gentleman I have chosen is none other than Kingsley Stanhope. He is a man of impeccable lineage, wealth and a distant cousin of ours. He happens to be in search of a new wife.”

“Kingsley Stanhope! But everyone knows that he is odious. And we have already ordered garments for my Season!” she barely managed to keep the horror out of her voice as she changed direction and tried to appeal to her father’s strict views on economy instead.

“I have told you, I see no reason to waste time on fripperies and cotillions. Let these gowns be part of your trousseau. You are not growing any younger, Margaret, nor any more genteel. And I will not hear you insult your cousin in such a ghastly manner. No one will tolerate an acerbic wife, as I have told you time and again. You will present yourself to Mr Stanhope tomorrow, and your conduct will be agreeable. You are dismissed.”

Lord Chenefelt evidently considered the matter closed as he picked up his morning paper, freshly delivered from London.

Maggie could perfectly recollect Kingsley Stanhope, though she had only met him a handful of times. He was one of her most loathed relations after the draconic Lady Dunwell, an elderly widow who spent a large portion of spare time writing letters about brimstone and hellfire to any relative who she felt needed advice and correction.

From what she had heard of Stanhope, and experienced for herself in their brief acquaintance, she was certain he received many more of these ‘educational’ letters than Maggie herself did.

She recalled him as loathly of character, with an oily smile, a ruddy complexion and pale blond hair. He was some years older than herself, and had a habit of making improper, lecherous remarks whenever her chaperone was out of earshot.

From what she knew, he had been widowed for a number of years and his four children were reputed to be the most spoilt bunch in all England, brought up to be every inch as unpleasant as their father.

Such a union was unthinkable.

“Why would you choose Kingsley Stanhope?” she asked bluntly.

Lord Chenefelt lowered his paper, looking at her as though he thought her a little slow.

“Because he was agreeable to the idea, and perfectly suitable, why else? Come now, Margaret, I don’t want to be bothered with this nonsense. You are a grown woman, and it is time you were established in your own house. The matter is settled.”

There was another knock on the door.

“Ah, that will be your aunt. After I have spoken with her, she will explain to you all the gowns and trousseaus and other such wedding particulars.”

Maggie turned to watch her aunt come into the study. Lady Compton took one look at her and correctly interpreted the mutinous look on Maggie’s face. She gave a subtle shake of her head.

“Maggie, my dear, I must speak to your father in private. Please wait for me in the parlour. I shall be along shortly.”

Flinging one last defiant look at her father, Maggie left the room.

She would not be so easily trampled.

*

With the uncanny way she had of being able to guess when Maggie was in distress, Cecile entered the parlour, bringing Maggie a warm shawl to stave off the slight chill of the morning.

Maggie thanked her, though she wasn’t cold.

No, she was
furious
. So much so that she was barely coherent. Not only had she lost her Season, her one opportunity to escape the confines of Chenefelt, but along with it had gone any chance of love or a happy union. What could she do?

Her father could not force her to marry anybody, but he could and would do his very best to bully her. Could she defy him indefinitely?

He could cut off her monthly allowance. She had the money her mama had left her, of course, but Maggie could hardly set up her own establishment in town. The notion was nothing short of scandalous, and she wouldn’t be received by any respectable persons following such an adventure.

For one desperately fanciful moment she imagined what it would be like for Hart to come galloping up to the house early the next morning, to rescue her from the clutches of the thoroughly vile Mr Stanhope. How grand it would be, to be swung up onto his horse, and carried off to a whole new life…

But Hart was already in London and Maggie would have to do all her own rescuing.

Unable to sit still or continue with the beading on the new dress because she would likely ruin her work in a fit of temper, she began pacing the parlour again.

She felt completely alone. There was no one she could ask for help, and yet she was equally unable to find a solution herself in her over-wrought state. She wished she could see Frederick. He would have helped her fight papa, and he would have come up with some clever way out of her miserable predicament.

She became aware that Cecile was still with her, looking on with concern. Cecile had always had a good head on her shoulders. Blood relation or not, she was the closest Maggie had to a sister.

Deciding to entrust Cecile with the greatest dilemma of her life, Maggie told her the whole story, voice trembling and eyes flashing.

“I cannot do it. What a bag of moonshine! I
will not
marry cousin Stanhope,” she finished at last, knowing this to be truer than anything she had ever said in her life.

“What other choice have you?” Cecile asked sympathetically, visibly uncertain of how much else she could say without making matters worse.

“I don’t know. I am not certain how I mean to go on yet. Only, I must think of something. I have my inheritance, and my mother’s jewellery, though I hope I shall not come to having to sell the diamonds.”

Before Cecile could reply, Maggie stopped her pacing.

“I may not be able to set up my own establishment here, in England, but I may just be able to take a house elsewhere. Scotland, perhaps. Only, it is so dreary and cold there… No. Paris is the place to go.”

“Paris?” Cecile was astonished.

Maggie looked out of the window, at the grey day beyond.

“Yes, marvellous Paris, where we don’t know a soul. There is one thing to be said for having had a series of French governesses: they impart a native command of that language. I couldn’t get on so well in Italy or Germany. It must be France and it must be Paris. I would miss Frederick, of course. And Hart… But who knows. Perhaps we shall meet again one day.”

She turned back to Cecile. “Oh, please do not look so despondent. I know that it is a dreadfully fast thing to do. But what other choice do I have? I won’t stay here to be bullied into marring the beastly Stanhope. No, it simply won’t answer to sit around this house and wait for my fate to happen to me. I shall think of it as a Grand Tour. I have always envied Frederick his, after all. And perhaps Papa will come to his senses while I am gone.”

Cecile shook her head. “You would be ruined.”

“Possibly. But which future is worse? There will be no love or joy in a union with Stanhope. And perhaps there won’t be a scandal after all. I am not well known in London and it is unlikely my own father will spread word of my flight. Very probably no one will know Miss Margaret Dacre ever existed at all.”

“Oh, surely not!”

“Yes! I have been little better than a ghost all these years. No more. Now I shall have a new name and a life of opportunity and adventure. It is time I saw the Continent. I think I would almost rather have that than even Lord Hartley. Oh, dear Cecile, please do not look so glum. You need not accompany me, of course. To aid in my flight, or to flee with me, would ruin your prospects of another position. I won’t incriminate you.”

Cecile looked undecided for a moment. Maggie did not blame her. After all, she really would have great trouble finding another post without references and with scandal following hot on her heels. But to go home to Paris…

“It would be a most uncertain future,” Cecile whispered. “I know I have always spoken about going back, but I have never
been
there and it would be starting entirely afresh.”

“Uncertain, yes. But a better future than awaits within these walls, where everything is
very
certain indeed. And much better than being leg-shackled to a puerile oaf for a husband. That may have been the fate of many before me, but it will not be mine.”