Wrapped (19 page)

Mother closed her eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through her nose before opening her eyes and looking at me kindly. “Enough of that, my love. And don’t speak of it to Julia. Boasting of a match before it’s announced just isn’t done,” she said, smiling in a way that made me know she ached to gloat to Mrs. Overton.

“Yes, Mother,” I whispered as the door opened and the Overtons’ downstairs maid admitted us inside.

“Agnes!” Julia rose from the settee as we entered the drawing room, and took my arm.

“Hello, Julia,” I said, kissing her cheek. I turned to her mother and curtsied quickly. “Ma’am.”

“Oh, there’s the girl who’s stolen the heart of London’s most eligible fellow,” Mrs. Overton squealed.

I shot a look at Mother, who managed to look satisfied and surprised all at once.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

Mrs. Overton repositioned her wide hips in the wing chair. “Rightly said, dear girl. Rightly said.” She leaned forward and winked. “Don’t want to jinx it now, do we?”

The Overtons were new money, having made a fortune in trade and essentially purchased their way into the world that had once been the exclusive domain of men like my father. They’d spent years trying to make everyone forget that they’d come from nameless families in the north, but now and again Mrs. Overton would pop off a remark that undid all her pretending.

Not that I cared. I adored Julia.

Mother took her place in the chair next to our hostess. I joined Julia on the settee. We spoke of the weather and the next ball until the tea arrived, and then Julia began whispering to me behind her cup while Mother entertained Mrs. Overton with news of David’s visit.

“He really has set his cap for you,” Julia said.

“It’s utterly ridiculous,” I said. “I’ve hardly spoken ten words together to the man.”

“Perhaps he’s less interested in your conversation than he is in your other attributes.” Julia giggled. “Whatever has captured his interest, I should think it only fitting that the most eligible man in London should be caught with such unprecedented speed. I’d expect nothing less in a season as eventful as ours has already proven.”

“You heard about what happened at our house, then?”

“No thanks to you,” she teased. “Truly, the fact that I have to learn of the break-in from the servants and not from you is almost unforgivable.”

I was glad to have sidestepped the subject of Lord Showalter for the moment. And even more glad to let my mind spin through the rest of the adventure. And I didn’t think I could keep myself from smiling. Julia knew me well enough that she’d suspect more. “Speaking of hired help, what news of your chaperone’s attempts to make you a Wilkins?”

Julia shifted in her seat and glanced at her mother. “I believe she and Mother have abandoned that scheme. Emmaline is convinced his heart belongs to another,” she whispered.

“Who?” I asked, though the pieces were beginning to come together in my mind.

Julia shrugged as she bit into a triangle of shortbread. “Didn’t say. I’m not sure I’m entirely disappointed. Honestly, I was more excited about the prospect of being your sister than I was about being Rupert’s wife. And that is no reason to marry the man, even if he wanted me.” Her voice sounded braver than her eyes looked.

I wished I could reassure her of my brother’s affection, wished I could somehow salve the pain of the rejection. But more than that, I itched to ask her if she’d any evidence of some attachment between my brother and her chaperone. Because if Lady Perkins was indeed the Emmaline referenced in Rupert’s little book, the scandal that might erupt would be sensational. Perhaps even so great as to dwarf all this business with the mummy.

But Julia didn’t need public insult added to the sting of losing my brother, no matter how lucky she was to be rid of him. So I simply took her hand and said, “You’ve always been the nearest I’ve known to a sister. And always will be, marriage or no.”

Julia nodded, eyes shining. We said nothing for a moment, my mind wandering to Caedmon and the museum and the jackal’s head.

“Agnes, have you been angry with me?”

I turned to her, spilling tea on my skirts in alarm. “Of course not!”

“It’s just that you’ve been so silent since the party. I rather hoped we’d spend some more time together before you are whisked away to marriage.”

“I’m sorry, Julia. I’ve just been busy is all,” I offered lamely. “With the fittings and David’s surprise visit home, the days simply aren’t long enough. I’ve not even been reading lately.”

“Oh!” Julia said, my neglect forgotten. “I’ve finished your
Sense and Sensibility
.” She popped up from the settee and fetched the book from the mantelpiece. Her mother noted her movement.

“Ooh, I rather liked that one too,” she admitted. “Have you read it, Lady Wilkins?”

Mother shook her head and grimaced. “No. But Agnes has quoted it with such frequency, and in so many languages,”—she threw a teasing look my way—“to make me believe I have.”

“I’m quite taken with that A Lady,” Mrs. Overton continued.

“As is Agnes,” Mother said. “When she was thirteen, do you know that she tried to convince her father to exploit his connections to discover the author’s true identity?”

It was true. Father had laughed at my obsession. That was the summer that Julia and I had concocted scheme after scheme to try and suss out exactly who A Lady was.

“Well, do you know what I heard?” Mrs. Overton leaned forward in her chair, lips pulled to one side of her face, eyes begging me to ask the question.

“Mother,” Julia said, rolling her eyes, “that’s idle gossip.”

“The best kind,” her mother rejoined. “I heard from my cousin over in Bath that A Lady is really a Miss Austen. Spinster daughter of a parson!”

I laughed. “Preposterous! A spinster could not invent the passion of
Pride and Prejudice
or the heartache of the Misses Dashwood!”

Mrs. Overton shrugged. “Perhaps not. But wouldn’t it be lovely if she could? Wouldn’t it be lovely if a lady really could invent whole new lives for herself on the page, ones she’d never hoped of living? Just by scrawling them down?”

The room fell silent, four women wondering just what it might be like to make decisions entirely their own, even if they were only in fiction.

“Lovely,” I murmured, and reached for the teapot, filling up the cups and trying to shake the cloud that had settled over the parlor.

“I am only bothered by a bit of cramping,” I said to Mother. We’d left the Overtons’ at half past two, and I’d been dozing in my room since. I was supposed to be dressing for dinner and the opera now.

She felt my forehead, placed her hand across my belly. “Is it your time?”

I shrugged. “Nearly. But just because I am unwell doesn’t mean you should miss it. Rossini is your favorite. And I hear that
L’inganno felice
is wonderful.”

“Lord Showalter will be so disappointed,” she worried.

“But even more so if I am unfit to visit the museum with him tomorrow,” I said.

Mother considered this. “You are right,” she said at last. “He might take it poorly if you cannot step out with him tomorrow, as he’s made special arrangements—”

“I’ll be fine by morning,” I said, clutching my abdomen for good measure.

“I suppose you’re right,” Mother said, patting my hand.

“But do take Aunt Rachel along in my place, won’t you?”

Mother looked confused. “She’s quite hard of hearing, Agnes.”

“But she so loves the spectacle,” I said, hoping it was true.

Mother hesitated. “Very well, I suppose she’s due for some entertainment, as you leave her behind at
every
opportunity.”

I forced a smile. Mother leaned in to kiss my forehead. “I’ll have Mrs. Brewster send up some broth,” she said, gliding from the room in a rustle of silk and crinoline.

Now all that was left was to evade the servants. A few minutes later Clarisse brought a tray laden with the broth and a bit of bread—Mother’s preferred remedy for female trouble. But when I found my time coming, I wanted little more than to be left alone with half a rack of bacon.

“Thank you,” I said.

She placed the tray on the table near the fireplace. “Will that be all, miss?”

I nodded, trying to look pathetic as I sat up in bed.

Clarisse rolled her eyes. “You may have fooled Madame,” she said, “but I know you better.”

I froze. “Pardon?”

“You are not unwell,” she said.

“Clarisse, I—”

“I thought you were slinking off to meet Lord Showalter when you left so early the other morning,” she said. There was mischief in her voice and eyes.

“I—”

“But tonight,
ma cherie
, you hide away from an opportunity to be with him,” she went on.

“My stomach—”

She waved me off and barreled on. “And still you have that same look about you,” she said, wagging a finger at me.

I opened my mouth to protest but found the words would not come.

“If you force me to guess, I would say you are waiting now for me to leave so you can sneak away again.”

“This is—,” I began, rising to my feet.

She wouldn’t let me finish. “You
are
meeting someone, Miss Agnes,” she said triumphantly, adding in a whisper, “but not Lord Showalter.”

I looked at her. At the smile she fought to suppress. And suddenly I found myself smiling back.

“It’s not quite what you think,” I said finally.

She clapped her hands to her chest and rushed to my side. “You have a secret
amour
!”

I let her lead me to the settee and sat down beside her. Perhaps this was a blessing after all. I did have a secret, though perhaps not a love to go with it. All the same, I
was
going to go and meet a handsome young man, even if it was not for the reasons Clarisse had guessed. I could take her into my confidence without having to tell her the whole truth, particularly since she’d already been so good as to deliver a suitable alternative, ready-made for the purpose.

“You cannot tell Mother,” I said finally. “Or anyone. You must promise.”

“Mon Dieu, non!”
she whispered. “What good is a secret lover if your mother knows?” she teased in a way that made me wonder exactly how many secret lovers Clarisse had entertained over the years.

“We are to meet tonight,” I whispered, aware that I was barely able to keep myself from wishing Clarisse’s notions were correct.

Clarisse squealed. “Where?”

“That matters not. But I could use your help,” I begged.

She sat forward eagerly, making me wonder why I hadn’t thought of relying on Clarisse even earlier. I knew I could count on her to be discreet. She was as romantic in her notions as the most starry-eyed of A Lady’s creations. Worse by half than a Marianne Dashwood or a Lydia Bennet.

“At least tell me who he is!” she demanded.

“Truly, the less you know the less you’ll have to own to should I be discovered,” I reasoned.

She considered this. My parents might dismiss her if I was caught and they realized she’d assisted me. “Very well,” she said finally, “but his name at least!”

I started to protest. Started to try and convince her that even that information was too much.

But I realized I didn’t want to. I wanted to say his name to someone.

“Caedmon,” I whispered, unable to keep from smiling.

Clarisse gave a little sigh, shoulders softening, eyes growing dreamy.
“C’est parfait,”
she moaned, repeating his name. “Caedmon.”

I felt giddy at saying his name out loud and hearing it echoed back in Clarisse’s wonderful accented speech.

“He is poor?” Clarisse asked.

I nodded.

“And handsome?”

I nodded again.

“And kind?”

I nodded a third time.

She sat up straighter, as if he had met some set of qualifications. “What can I do to help?”

I relaxed for the first time in days. “I have a plan. I need you only to make sure that none of the other servants see me go. And if you can keep Mother from checking on me when she returns from the opera . . .”

Her eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. “How long will you be gone?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I cannot say. But I will be back by morning. Can you give me that much time?”

She nodded. “
Oui.
But are you sure you cannot tell me more? Are you sure there is not more I can do?”

I shook my head. “It would be best if you went downstairs and told the other servants to leave me be for the night.” I reached for the tray. “And take this—they’ll be even more convinced when they see I haven’t eaten any of it.”

She collected the tray, then looked at me. “You will tell me all someday soon, will you not, miss?”

I squeezed her arm. “I’d like nothing better.” And suddenly I realized I had two stories now in need of sharing. The one I had to tell Father, and the one I
wanted
to tell Clarisse.

Satisfied, she went to the door. Balancing the tray on one hand, she grasped the knob with the other, then paused. “Be careful, mademoiselle.”