The Baron and the Bluestocking (11 page)

“Do you think so?” For some reason the idea of meeting the man’s mama made her quake. No doubt the woman shared her son’s view that she was a troublesome bit of baggage.

“Definitely.”

They first made calls on two of the women who helped the duchess in the soup kitchen, and talked mainly of scheduling matters. When the Season was over, it became harder to find volunteers.

Finally they approached Lady Shrewsbury’s home. “Does the baron live with her?”

“No. He rents a separate establishment when he is in town. This is the home he inherited with the estate, but he is of the opinion that he and his mother remain better friends when they do not live on top of one another. It must be a sound philosophy, for they get along famously.”

The duchess was right. Lady Shrewsbury was delighted to meet Hélène.

“Oh, my dear girl, you have discomfited my son no end. It is so good for him!”

Hélène took a seat in the French-styled parlor with its delicate gilt furniture. “I agree that I have made him uncomfortable, my lady. He and I disagree on many subjects.”

“He thinks he knows best about everything, but sometimes he misses what is right under his nose, apparently. I have had hopes of him lately, but he is uncommonly slow.”

Hélène saw the duchess exchange a knowing glance with the baroness, and knew she was speaking of Lady Virginia. Looking down at her lap, Hélène intertwined her fingers.

“I understand,” continued the baroness, “that you are making a very great success of your teaching.”

“I hope so. I think it is my true vocation,” Hélène said. “I have never been to London before, and am thankful that Lady Clarice has brought me, but I am anxious about my pupils in my absence. We were just beginning to establish a rapport.”

“Tell me about your family, dear,” the baroness invited.

She was in the middle of complying with the baroness’s request when the doors to the French parlor flew open and Baron Shrewsbury entered. Startled, he surveyed the company.

“Pardon me, Mama. I let myself in the front door. Did not even see Sims, so I was not aware you had visitors.”

“You are pardoned, son. Please join us. Miss Whitcombe-Hodge was just telling me what a happy childhood she had in the vicarage. It made me wish yet again that you had not been an only child.”

Shrewsbury sat down. After greeting both guests, he said, “Excuse me, Miss Whitcombe-Hodge. Pray continue.”

Hélène knew the baron thought her childhood had been grim, and welcomed this opportunity. “My papa was a great scholar. He took a first in Classics at Oxford. And he was a gifted teacher. With eight of us, it was rather like he was holding tutorials. We read and discussed Homer, Aeschylus, Euripides, Plato, Socrates, and Aristotle. He made it like a game when we were little, and then, when we were older, he set up contests between the girls and the boys.” She looked at Shrewsbury and grinned. “Of course, the girls always won, being of a superior intellect.”

“Of course,” he said, his voice resigned.

“What did you read at Oxford, Lord Shrewsbury?” she asked.

“Modern Philosophy—the Enlightenment, principally.”

“Oh! I should so like to go there and study such a subject. But, of course, I know the real reason there are not any women at Oxford . . .”

“I suppose you think they would outshine the men.”

“I do!”

“My dear,” interjected the baroness, “most of us have not had the advantage of your education. I fear I would do abysmally at Oxford.”

“What do you enjoy, my lady?” Hélène asked

“Reading novels, I am sorry to say.”

“That is nothing to feel sorry about. You must know that the duchess, who is staying very mum, is one of your son’s favorite authors!”

The four of them discussed modern literature in a lively manner. Hélène completely forgot her place and interjected her strong opinions readily. No one objected, however. Not even Lord Shrewsbury.

Ultimately, however, it was time to take their leave. The baron walked the duchess and Hélène to the door.

“And what wild form of entertainment are you to indulge yourself in tonight, Miss Whitcombe-Hodge?” he asked.

“I am to go to Vauxhall Gardens,” she answered.

“Oh!” He sounded taken aback. “And who is to accompany you?”

“Lord Delacroix is taking his sister and mother and me. I am looking forward to the dancing. I have never danced with anyone but my brothers in the vicarage parlor with the rugs rolled back.”

Lord Shrewsbury’s face became devoid of expression—a stoic mask. “I hope you will have an enjoyable evening. But do not stray from your party. There are ruffians about who prey on women.”

“Oh, fustian!” she said. “You are just trying to ruin the evening for me. Why are you so disagreeable?”

Before he could answer, the duchess whisked her out the door. “For a prim schoolmistress, you are becoming quite a socialite,” she said. “I do not think Lord Shrewsbury likes it one bit. You are proving to be quite an enigma to the good baron.”

“Why is that?”

“He keeps trying to pigeonhole you, but you do not fit anywhere he puts you.”

“He pigeonholes people? What a rigid personality he must have!”

“Says the young woman who pigeonholes the entire male sex as ignorant and oppressive!”

Hélène considered this. “That is not very well-done of me. The duke certainly does not fit that description. But such men as the duke are rare, you must admit.”

“I freely admit it. He is a very enlightened gentleman.” The duchess smiled broadly. “And Lord Shrewsbury
is
very rigid, but I would not call him an ignorant man.”

They were near to Lady Clarice’s home now. Hélène said, “No, he is really quite well informed on a number of subjects. More so than most gentlemen of the
ton,
I fancy. And he is very generous and kind. We are simply a bad combination. I always push him to the edge of his temper. Sometimes, intentionally.”

“I am aware of that. Why is that, I wonder?”

She thought, but could not think of an answer. “I really do not know.”

*~*~*

Hélène took very great care with her appearance that evening. She wore a black evening gown with a square neck and short, puffed sleeves, trimmed in quantities of black sequins and shiny jet beads. It was made for dancing with its full skirt and suggestion of a train. Lady Clarice loaned her a hooded black velvet cloak to go over it. Looking at herself in the mirror she felt like a princess in a fairy tale. What a far cry from the schoolmistress she really was. This time next week, she would be wiping noses, teaching letters, and supervising bed times.

But tonight would be a night out of time. Like Cinderella’s. Without the glass slipper.

When the party arrived to whisk her away in the coach, she briefly wondered if they were going to a masquerade. Baron Delacroix seemed to be a parody of himself—dressed entirely in black, including his shirt and cravat.

He looks like the devil himself!

Once they were in the coach, Ginny chattered away like a magpie. “Oh, I am so excited! I have wanted to go to Vauxhall since I was a girl. Thank you so much, William, for taking us!”

Her mother, looking insignificant in an out-of-date purple frock, was scarcely less excited. “And thank you, dear, for including me! What you young things should want with an old woman is beyond me.”

“You are to lend us countenance, Mama,” her son said.

Hélène did think it kind that her children had included their mother in the outing, and could not help but wonder at it. Perhaps once there, the baron would wander off and leave Ginny and her to the baroness’s chaperonage.

The point came in their journey where they boarded a small boat and were rowed to the site of the gardens. As they came closer, Hélène saw the Chinese lanterns lighting the area, showing dense shrubbery and trees. They disembarked behind another party that appeared to be the worse for drink, laughing and staggering out of the boat, nearly landing themselves in the Thames.

Lord Delacroix leapt nimbly from the boat and reached for her gloved hand, which he held in a firm grip as she negotiated her way onto the shore. After assisting his mother and sister to alight, Delacroix then threaded her hand through the crook of his arm and rested it on his sleeve.

“This is the way,” he said, following the lanterns. Hélène heard distant strains of music.

Soon they came upon a huge gathering in an area cordoned off into boxes filled with elegantly clad party-goers. An orchestra was playing a waltz while dozens twirled about on a wooden dance floor.

Never having even been to a ball, Hélène was unexpectedly enchanted. Lord Delacroix looked down into her face with a half-smile and one elegantly raised eyebrow.

“What fun!” she said. Her earnest life at the orphanage seemed another life.

“Oh, William, you must give me a dance,” said Ginny. “I have dreamed of dancing at Vauxhall for years.”

“You shall have your dance, Ginny. Never fear.”

The baron led them to their box, and once they were seated he ordered champagne. Another first for Hélène. She had never tasted champagne.

Looking around her at the women in their silks and satins being courted assiduously by so many handsomely tailored men, Hélène thought that if she were in their shoes for more than this one night, it was very likely she would not spare a thought for the plight of the poor or the rights of women. What unusual men Lord Shrewsbury and the Duke of Ruisdell were to care for the causes they did!

Her attention was claimed by her present escort. “The suppers here are light. Vauxhall is particularly known for its finely shaved ham. Shall I order you some, with a bit of fruit and some pastries?”

“That sounds perfect,” she said.

After they ate the picnic-like meal, Lord Delacroix said, “Now, Miss Whitcombe-Hodge, would you do me the great honor of waltzing with me?”

“I will try,” she said, smiling. “But I must warn you, I have never danced in public before.”

“It is time you did, then.” His gaze upon her was speculative.
What is he wondering about?

Soon it did not matter, for she was lost in the exquisite pleasure of twirling about the dance floor. It was enchanting. Part way through the dance, her partner pulled her closer to him and said, “You are lightness itself, my dear. Made for the waltz. I cannot picture you in a dreary orphanage.”

Hélène was not comfortable being held so closely in the arms of someone she scarcely knew, and his words brought her back to reality.

“The orphanage is my real life, not this,” she said. “It is not dreary at all.”

“I was merely alluding to the fact that you are an extraordinarily beautiful woman.”

His eyes were intense with some emotion she could not read and with which she was not sure she was comfortable. She did not know what to reply. Her pleasure in the waltz was spoiled.

Seeming to sense this, he said, “That was a compliment.”

“Yes. Thank you. But do not try to flirt with me, please. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“I was not flirting. I was being absolutely truthful. You must know you are beautiful.”

To that, she could not find a reply, and only wished the dance would end. When at last it did, he led her back to their enclosure and requested the company of his mother for the minuet that was forming.

“You look vexed,” Ginny said. “Is anything amiss?”

She smiled at her friend. “Only that I am not used to compliments. Your brother’s were fulsome in the extreme.”

“Why? What did he say?” Ginny leaned forward, eyes large with curiosity.

Hélène batted her hand as though shooing away a gnat. “It is not worth repeating. I was just a bit overwhelmed. This is not really my world, you know.” Looking around at the groups of party-goers, many of them drunken, the place did not seem quite as magical as before.

“It could be,” her friend said.

“Ginny, I have not a sou to my name, and no relatives to give me succor or countenance. This week in London is likely to be my first and last.”

“But, Hélène, you are such a lovely, talented woman. You are certain to be married!”

Hélène held her tongue for once. She did not want to begin a debate on a women’s rights and her opposition to marriage as a way to give a woman an identity while they were in the present frivolous setting. Or so she told herself.

After Ginny had had her dance with her brother, she suggested that they stroll through the lanes where there were reputedly statuary and small temple-like structures that were said to be worth seeing. She immediately took her mother’s arm as they began their walk, leaving Hélène with Lord Delacroix. He linked her arm through his once more.

They followed a well-lit path, encountering other strollers. The baron asked her to tell him about the orphanage. Relief coursed through her. This was a subject she was comfortable discussing. As she spoke, her natural exuberance came to the fore.

“You are a very enthusiastic teacher. I imagine you are a good one. Your own children will be fortunate.”

Still carried away by her enthusiasm, she said, “The girls at the orphanage are the only children I am likely to have. They are enough.”

“You do not believe you will marry?”

“It is not likely. I am poor as the proverbial church mouse, the daughter of an unknown vicar, and living in Chipping Norton, I do not really have any opportunity to meet men of a like mind.”

“Have you thought of extending your stay in London? I should very much like to deepen our acquaintance.” He paused, and she let the astonishment she felt sink in. “Since your week is half-spent, I have no time to be subtle. You have captivated me.”

Hélène could not help but feel that his words had sounded curiously devoid of sentiment. Then she realized they had somehow lost sight of Ginny and her mother and had wandered down a path that was not as well-lit as the others. In fact, it was quite dark.

Her companion stopped and faced her, his hands on her shoulders. She could not even make out the expression on his face. Bringing his hand under her chin and tilting it upwards, he seemed to study her face. How could he even see it?