Lady Windermere's Lover (9 page)

“I enjoyed meeting your cousins,” she said.

“Did you? I always thought them a dull pair.”

“I understand he is your second cousin.”

“My father had only sisters, which is why George is next in line for the earldom.”

She felt on treacherous ground here. Having a discussion that touched on begetting an heir in the very place that heirs were commonly begotten seemed fraught with peril. “He seems a very worthy man.”

“There’s not an ounce of harm in George.” She waited nervously for him to say something about the topic that hung over her like a thundercloud. When once again he said nothing, she wondered if her uncle had been wrong when he said Windermere was desperate for a son. He didn’t behave like a man intent on procreation.

“You had no brothers, and I never knew you had a sister either until the steward at Beaulieu told me. I don’t know if she was older or younger.”

“Amelia? Did I never mention her?”

“You told me very little at Beaulieu, and most of that in French.”

“We were twins.”

Her heart caught. “As an only child I have no experience of such a relationship, but it seems to me that twins must be especially close.” She touched his arm timidly. “Will you tell me about her?”

“What do you want to know?”

Everything!
she wanted to cry, but his expression and voice were distant and bleak, and she had to draw him in gently, not drive him away.

“Did you look alike?”

“People said so. Our coloring was the same but I couldn’t see the resemblance myself. She was just Amelia to me.”

“Do you have a portrait of her? I should like to see it.”

She held her breath, waiting for him to deny her request, or retreat into his shell of reserve. Without saying a word he rose and went through to the earl’s chamber. Her heart almost burst with relief when he returned, bearing an oval miniature in a pearl-encrusted frame.

“Here.”

She looked at her husband, who was returning to bed, and back at the portrait, comparing points of similarity, including the turned-up edges of the mouth. There could be no question of their relationship. Amelia was a feminine version of her twin, and even as a young girl gave promise of ravishing beauty. “Those who said you looked alike were right. I like her smile. She looks humorous.”

“She was always laughing, like my mother.”

“And your father?”

“He was more serious.”

“Like you.”

“When I was with Mama and Amelia I laughed.”

Cynthia’s attention was drawn to the technique of the portrait. “It’s painted on ivory, isn’t it? The creamy surface lends a lovely glow to the colors. Who was the artist?”

“My mother.”

“Truly?” She looked closer, running a fingertip around the pearl border. “She had a real talent!”

“Painting was her passion. She took lessons from excellent masters.”

“I believe there are some of her watercolors at Beaulieu. A series of studies of country folk: farm laborers, a dairymaid, and so forth. I recognize her style.”

“You have a good eye.”

“I’m surprised they remained in the house after your family sold it.” She held her breath. Beaulieu meant so much to her husband that he’d married her for it. But part of the story—how it came into Joseph Chorley’s meaty hands—was missing.

He did not bite. “I’m glad to have them back” was all he said.

“Did your sister paint too?”

“She had no facility with pencil or brush, but she played the pianoforte and sang like an angel.”

As they relapsed into silence Cynthia could sense the strength of his emotion. Last year Windermere had possessed her body, briefly, every night for almost two weeks, yet she’d felt progressively more estranged. Now, reclining side by side in bed, not touching, she felt an intimacy growing between them, delicate tendrils of mutual knowledge that had the potential to meet, entwine, and form a stronger bond. If only she didn’t say the wrong thing and destroy the tenuous connection.

“Do you play?” she asked.

“Not a single note.” The words were humorous, the tone grim.

“Will you tell me what happened to Amelia? Unless it’s too painful.”

“There’s nothing much to tell. She died in the same outbreak of measles as my mother. Half the village of Amblethorpe was affected and more than a dozen succumbed.”

“You were spared.”

“I was safe at school. I left for Eton at the end of the summer without the slightest notion that I’d never see them again. Three months later I received the letter from my father telling me that Mama and Amelia were both dead.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“I’m sorry.” She hesitated to talk about herself. Yet there was no chance their marriage could improve if they did not speak of important matters, her own as well as his. “We have that in common. My father and mother also perished of an epidemic disease when I was ten.” Speaking of her loss always made her feel lonely.

“What happened to you?”

“When the influenza came to our village, my parents sent me to Birmingham to Uncle Chorley while they nursed the sick of my father’s parish. They caught the illness themselves. I never saw them again. At least you and your father had each other. You must have been a great comfort to him.”

“Perhaps.”

He looked as bleak as she felt. Cynthia had the urge to embrace him and tell him that he was not alone, he had her. And she had him. Ridiculous, since he’d never given any indication that he cared.

“I am sorry. It is sad to have neither family nor friends, as I know. Thank goodness for Caro. I’ve never had a better friend than her. From what she has told me, you were a regular member of Robert’s set in the old days.”

He’d been relaxed against the pillows as they conversed. Now he stiffened, very much the reserved diplomat despite being clad only in a nightshirt. Still she pressed on, wanting to know about this aspect of his past. “Whatever the reason your friendship ended, it must have been a wrench.”

“It was all for the best,” he said briskly. “Taking up with Julian and Robert at Oxford was a mistake, and my only excuse is that I was a little maddened by grief for Mama and Amelia. The time I spent with them was the folly of youth, sowing my wild oats. I have other friends now, men of substance and ambition who, like me, lead a useful life.” He sounded as pompous as his cousin George Lewis. He clearly wasn’t going to fulfill her curiosity about his quarrel with Julian. “Although much of the last seven years has been spend abroad, I have many acquaintances in London, especially in government circles. You will remember that we spoke of how you would aid me in my diplomatic duties.”

“
Bien sûr, monsieur
,” she said, wishing she could drop a curtsey. The chilly, arrogant man she’d married had returned.

“I had expected to join you at Beaulieu for Christmas, but since you are in town we may as well stay here. Sir Richard and Lady Belinda Radcliffe are giving a dinner on Christmas Day. Sir Richard has been my patron in the service and they are particular friends.”

“I see,” she said, trying not to show her disappointment that their first appearance together as a married couple should be at the house of his mistress. “Are you sure you can trust me not to disgrace you?”

“Do you possess a suitable gown for a formal occasion attended by members of the highest government circles?”

“I believe so, but not having soared to such rarefied levels, I cannot be sure. You are welcome to inspect my wardrobe.”

“I trust you, my lady. Your style of adornment is in perfect taste.”

“You do me too much honor. I hope Denford will be invited to this event. I’d feel more comfortable with a familiar face.”

She’d flirted with Julian this evening, hoping to awaken jealousy in her husband. Since that had clearly failed, she would go back to using Denford to annoy him. Windermere was too well-bred to grind his teeth but she could tell he wanted to. She welcomed his display of emotion and her own ability to detect it.

Chapter 8

A
visit to Bow’s Silk Warehouse, repository of glorious bolts of brocades, twills, calicos, and chintzes, was the perfect antidote to the turmoil of life with her husband. The careful examination of velvet samples for my lord’s bed hangings was so much easier than puzzling out the meaning of his continued presence in her bed. Then, since Cynthia hadn’t expected to be in London before Christmas, she indulged herself in a little seasonal shopping.

Usually thrifty with her pin money, the only income over which she had absolute discretion, she loosened her purse strings when tempted by the Oxford Street merchants, especially the sellers of toys. Her servants and other dependents needed practical gifts, she kept reminding herself. Then she’d find the very thing to bring a smile to the face of a particular child and she couldn’t resist. She might have no children of her own to spoil, but she had a little household of families who depended on her, and she hadn’t seen them in weeks. Tom would love this cup and ball, and Nancy this doll. A set of toy bricks were perfect for little Pudding.

Before she headed east to distribute her largesse, a twinge of guilt reminded her of the man who, unknowingly, provided the means to look after her band of waifs. Ordering her carriage to Bond Street, she wandered into the more elegant emporia there, looking for something for her husband, in vain.

She couldn’t locate the perfect gift for a man she barely knew, but she did buy a lace cap for baby Hannah. It was utterly impractical and completely adorable and she couldn’t wait to see her in it. She had an especially soft spot for Hannah and her mother, Aggie, the first girl Cynthia rescued.

Postponing the decision about a Christmas present for Damian, she made the journey through the City of London to Spitalfields in the East End and a house in Flowers Street. Cynthia feared the return of Windermere meant she would no longer be able to maintain the house. Judging by his comments about the Spitalfields Acts and the factory workers at dinner the previous night, she didn’t expect him to be sympathetic. She was quite sure he’d be even less so if he ever discovered the ruse she’d concocted to raise money.

Her coachman, who had first taken this route under protest, now knew the way. Most of the inhabitants would be at work, but the children would be there. She knocked at the door, expecting the usual excited youthful chatter, punctuated by infant wails. Instead the widow who presided over the household greeted her with a grave face.

“My lady,” Mrs. Finsbury said. “I’m glad to see you. We have another. Meggie turned up here last night. Her father threw her out of the house.”

Behind her stood a girl, thin, pale, and obviously with child. Dark rings around reddened eyes testified to her distress. “It’s all right, Meggie,” Mrs. Finsbury said. “Her Ladyship is here now and she won’t let you starve.

Another mouth—and eventually two—to feed.

Several months earlier

C
ynthia had been looking at materials to replace the faded drawing room curtains at Beaulieu when a young woman was shown in staggering under the weight of a hamper. As she shoved it up onto Mrs. Bow’s counter, her meager cloak fell open.

“Are you quite well?” Cynthia asked. “Should you be lifting things in your condition?” She looked enviously at the girl’s noticeable belly. She’d never even reached that stage.

The woman—or girl rather—flashed a look of alarm between Cynthia and Mrs. Bow and hastily rearranged her garment to cover the evidence. “I ain’t in no condition,” she said. “I’m strong enough to work. The master said to bring over these swatches and be sure to bring them all back. I’ll wait outside.”

“Go and sit down in the back room,” Mrs. Bow said. “No need to be out in the cold.”

As she examined the gorgeous products of the Finch Street Silk Weavers, Cynthia found herself haunted by the sunken eyes and pale, moist skin of the mother-to-be, who couldn’t be more than fifteen. Later, stepping out to her carriage, Cynthia caught sight of her, once more awkwardly burdened by the basketwork hamper, and saw her stumble. Samples poured out into the gutter and the girl scrambled to rescue them, emitting soft wails of distress.

“Help her,” Cynthia ordered her footman. Most of the delicate silks were unharmed, but a couple of the swatches were soiled. The girl started to cry in earnest.

“Load the basket into the carriage, John,” Cynthia told her servant. “We will deliver the girl and her merchandise home. She isn’t strong enough to walk all the way herself.”

The girl, who introduced herself as Aggie Smith, seemed quite overwhelmed by the luxurious carriage. Cynthia, who wasn’t so far removed from a much simpler life, understood her awe.

“Would you like a bonbon?” She let Aggie suck on the lemon sweet for the length of a street or two before raising the delicate topic. “You shouldn’t be working so hard when you are with child. You’ll hurt yourself and the baby. Why does your husband allow it?”

Not that the great Earl of Windermere had done anything to see to
his
pregnant wife’s needs. Women had to help each other, even if she was a countess and Aggie a messenger for a factory. The least she could do was save this overburdened urchin from a long walk in the rain.

Aggie shrank into her corner of the seat, wrapping her thin arms about her. “I’m not wed, m’lady,” she muttered.

“I see.” A blow, though not entirely unexpected. “There must be a father. Will he not take responsibility?” The terror and despair on Aggie’s features were answer enough. The wretch must have abandoned her. “Alone or not, you must look after yourself and you should not be carrying that heavy basket. I shall speak to your master and tell him it is his fault you dropped it.”

“Please, my lady. Don’t do that. If he finds out I’m expecting I’ll lose my job.”

“That’s unfair.” Even as she said it, she knew the statement was a foolish one. A female always took the greater blame for loss of virtue. One of the maids at her school had been dismissed, even though everyone knew that the school porter was responsible. The porter was too valuable a servant to lose and he was wise enough to confine his seductions to those of the laboring classes. “What about your own family, Aggie?”

“I’m an orphan. The babe’ll have to go to the Foundling Hospital but if I keep it a secret I can maybe keep the job after. The silk places pay good wages.” Aggie spoke with a bleak resolution that broke Cynthia’s heart.

“Do you want to give up your child?” she said softly.

“Want ain’t got nothing to do with it.”

Cynthia had desperately wanted her child, and lost it. She was determined that Aggie would not so suffer. She had an idea how to persuade the owner of the Finch Street factory to keep Aggie on, and to provide her with easier work until after her child was born. She herself was a prospective customer worth a handsome sum. If Mrs. Bow, whom she knew to be a decent woman who treated her employees kindly, would join her in threatening to withhold her custom, the man might relent.

“I shall help you, I promise. I shall make your master change his mind.”

“He never will, not that one. Ask any of the girls.”

“What do you mean? He has dismissed others in the same state as yourself?” Cynthia felt a prickling of apprehension at the back of her neck. “Tell me the truth, Aggie.”

“He’s the one that did it. We try to avoid him but it’s hard.”

“Why do you all stay then?” She didn’t need Aggie’s look of incredulous impatience to know the answer. “Good wages.”

“And times are hard. There ain’t too many places to go.”

Confronting this violator of innocents was the boldest thing Cynthia had ever attempted. On arrival at the premises of Finch Street Silk Weavers, a surprisingly wide and expansive edifice stretching several hundred feet on the narrow thoroughfare, she sent in her bewigged and liveried footman to announce to the owner that the Countess of Windermere wished for an audience. That should impress the man. A respectable-looking clerk showed her the way. The premises were neat and clean and exuded an air of purposeful industry, belying the immoral cruelty of its overseer.

Heart racing, she went through the door that the clerk opened with a slight bow. She stopped on the threshold, her hand covering her mouth at the sight of a man she knew well. Aggie’s attacker was her uncle’s London partner. That meant that Finch Street Silk Weavers was part of the Chorley fortune, producer of the wealth that had bought her an earl for a husband and was paying Mrs. Bow’s extortionate bills.

“My dear Cynthia. Or Lady Windermere, I suppose I should call you. Such condescension for you to call at my humble offices.” Wilfred Maxwell’s grating tones sent a frisson of disgust over her skin. He arose from behind the desk, a man of overweening self-confidence whom many would call handsome. No more than thirty-five years old, he had dark hair untinged by gray. His powerful body would have no difficulty overcoming the resistance of any woman.

Cynthia had always found him utterly repulsive. Maxwell had made it clear he wanted to wed his senior partner’s niece, and she had been terrified that her uncle would approve the match. Whatever her complaints against Windermere, however impossible her marriage sometimes seemed, at least she wasn’t wed to this disgusting creature.

“Mr. Maxwell,” she said faintly. “I was not expecting to see you here.”

The horrid man had the nerve to take her hand. She withdrew it quickly, thanking the Lord for gloves. A sneer twisted Maxwell’s fleshy lips. “Too good for me now, Your Ladyship?” he said.

“Pleased as I am, of course, to see an associate of my uncle’s,” she said, “my present errand is not a happy one. I come from Mrs. Bow’s warehouse.”

“Do you have some complaint about the samples I sent over? Even had I known that the good Mrs. Bow’s customer was the illustrious Countess of Windermere, I could not have provided better.”

“My contention does not concern the product but the messenger.”

“Aggie Smith!” he roared, brown eyes bulging as though he might have an apoplexy. “The girl can’t be trusted with the simplest task.” He pushed past Cynthia to the door. Grateful again for the protection of fine kid gloves, she grabbed his meaty arm with both hands.

“Don’t you dare,” she said, wondering how she dared herself. “I know what you did to her. And to others too. I shall write to my uncle and tell him what kind of a man he calls partner.”

Maxwell stopped, his muscles tense beneath her fingers. Then he relaxed and let out a deep belly laugh. “You go ahead and write to Uncle Joseph. You are sadly mistaken if you think Joseph Chorley and his partners in business give a damn what kind of a man runs his factories, as long as the money flows in the right direction, and plenty of it. This and every other mill under my rule turns a handsome profit. As long as that keeps up, Uncle Joseph isn’t going to concern himself if I take my pleasure with human dross. I can always find plenty more like Aggie Smith. Better-looking girls, and better workers.”

A moment’s consideration told Cynthia the truth behind Maxwell’s bluster. Sad to say, Joseph Chorley was a man without principles or morals.

Maxwell hadn’t finished. “Go, my fine lady. You may think yourself too fine for the likes of me, but remember this. I intended to wed you and become the heir to the old Chorley’s fortune but he sold you instead to Windermere. Windermere gets money while Chorley gets your fancy earl’s support in Parliament. Don’t think you’re worth more to them than Aggie Smith. You are just dressed finer, that’s all.”

Cynthia stalked out, her face burning with impotent rage. Then a new determination kindled. She might be a meaningless pawn in the games played by men. Such was the fate of women. But she would find a way to save Aggie Smith and others like her.