Duchess Quartet - A Wild Pursuit Part 29

Marchioness Bonnington was having a most unusual sensation. It took Honoratia quite a while to identify precisely what it was: not an incipient warning of gout, not an attack of indigestion, not a premonition that rain would soon fall. It wasn't until the gentlemen had retired to take port and the ladies to take tea in Lady Rawlings's private sitting room that Sebastian's mother knew exactly why she had a queasy feeling in the back of her stomach. There was a chance-a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless-that she was Making a Mistake.

An odd sensation, Honoratia considered. One with which she, for obvious reasons, had very little familiarity.

Mistakes seemed to generate an oddly bilious sensation in her middle section. She had it every time she looked at Lady Rawlings, who had joined them for supper on the first occasion since her child was born. She was astonishingly beautiful, that girl. Her skin had a magnolia creaminess to it. The ripeness on those lips didn't come from a bottle. Overall, though, the marchioness thought that Esme Rawlings probably gained most of her appeal from her nature, from those clever, laughing remarks of hers. From the way her eyes lit up with pleasure when she mentioned her baby.

f.a.n.n.y clearly did not approve of her daughter's nature. She visibly stiffened every time Lady Rawlings laughed. "Modulate your voice, my dear," Honoratia had heard her snap during dinner. "A lady finds little to laugh at in a strident fashion."

"I'm sorry, Mother," Lady Rawlings had said instantly. She was trying so hard to make this reconciliation a success. But Honoratia thought the chances were slim.

"I find that dress rather unappealingly low in the chest," f.a.n.n.y announced as soon as the ladies seated themselves.

Lady Rawlings gave the bodice of her gown an uneasy little tug. "It's only because my bosom is enhanced by the situation."

"Yes, you have gained some flesh," f.a.n.n.y said, eyeing her up and down. "Perhaps a brisk walk every morning. A diet of cuc.u.mbers and vinegar can be efficacious. Dear Mr. Brummell confided in me that even he has occasionally undertaken a slimming project."

"Oh, I couldn't do that," her daughter said with a smile. "Mama, may I give you a lemon tartlet?"

"Absolutely not. I never partake of sweets in the evening. And I certainly hope you won't take one yourself."

Honoratia swallowed a smile as Lady Rawlings quickly transferred the tartlet she was about to put on her own plate to that of Lady G.o.dwin.

"Why should you not try a cuc.u.mber diet?" f.a.n.n.y insisted. "I judge you to be in rather desperate need of a slimming plan."

"It's not advisable for nursing mothers to undertake such a drastic step."

Lady Bonnington had always counted herself dear friends with f.a.n.n.y, but as it happened, this was the first time they had encountered each other at the same house party. It was a bit demoralizing to realize that after a mere two days, she already recognized the thin white lines that were appearing next to f.a.n.n.y's mouth as a sign of temper.

"Helene, did I understand you to say that you are leaving us?" Lady Rawlings said, turning to Lady G.o.dwin.

"I'm afraid I must," Lady G.o.dwin said quickly, demonstrating that she too had come to understand the signs that indicated f.a.n.n.y's impending attack of temper. "Gina, the d.u.c.h.ess of Girton, writes me that she is expecting a child and she would be grateful for companionship. I am planning to take a carriage in two days, if you have no immediate need for my presence."

"Nursing mother? That must be some sort of witticism you thought up to horrify me," f.a.n.n.y said acidly, ignoring her daughter's diversionary tactics. "My stomach is positively turning at the very thought." And she looked it. Honoratia thought there was a fair chance that f.a.n.n.y would lose her supper.

"Mama, perhaps we could discuss this at a later time," Lady Rawlings said pleadingly, putting her arm on her mother's sleeve.

She shook it off. "I shall not be fobbed off. And I am certain that these ladies are as repulsed by what you said as I am!"

Honoratia took a sip of her tea. When Lady Rawlings first demanded to nurse her baby, she had been repulsed, certainly. The very idea of allowing a child to munch from one's private parts was instinctively revolting. But then she had been in the nursery yesterday while Esme nursed William, and it was hard to reconcile that experience with her own repulsion.

"While I am quite glad to have utilized a nursemaid myself," she announced, "I do not find Lady Rawlings's actions distasteful."

f.a.n.n.y flashed her a hostile look that had Honoratia stiffening. Didn't f.a.n.n.y realize that she was of far lower rank than she, Marchioness Bonnington? Why, it was pure kindness on her part that kept the friendship intact.

"Be that as it may," f.a.n.n.y said with frigid severity, "the majority of the polite world agrees with me. Axe you telling me that the fleshy expanse of chest that you are exposing to the world is due to this unsavory practice, Esme?"

Lady Rawlings sipped her tea quietly. "Yes it is, Mama."

Honoratia had to admit, Esme Rawlings had backbone.

"Had I ever been blessed by a child, I hope I would have had the courage to be as excellent a mother as is Esme," Arabella put in.

Her sister turned to her with the lowering look of a striking serpent. "It was the will of G.o.d that you not be given children, and no more than you deserve!"

Arabella went pure white, rose from her chair and walked out. There was no sound other than a faint swish of silk and then the click of the door shutting behind her.

"That was most unkind," Lady Rawlings said, looking straight at her mother. "It was unworthy of you."

"I spoke the truth as I saw it."

"I would urge you to apologize to Aunt Arabella. She has a forgiving soul, and if you make haste, she may overlook your unkindness."

f.a.n.n.y merely took a sip of tea. There was a suppressed air of triumph about her. "Now," she said brightly, "you must all forgive us for this unwarranted display of poor judgement. I a.s.sure you that our family is not generally so rag-mannered!"

But her daughter was standing up. "You will have to forgive me," she said to the company at large. "Mama, I know you will act as a hostess in my absence. I shall speak to my aunt." And she was gone.

f.a.n.n.y turned to Lady Beatrix Lennox. "As my sister's dame de compagnie," she said with a sapient smile, "perhaps you would like to join her, given that my daughter seems to think that Lady Withers might be distressed?"

Lady Beatrix gave her a stony look and stood up, curtsying. "I can think of little that would give me greater pleasure."

"Now we can be cozy," f.a.n.n.y said, once the door closed again. "I find the presence of impure women to be extremely trying on my nerves. One has such an impulse to help, and yet no help is ever enough. Once lost, a woman's reputation can never be recovered." She shook her head. "I fear it is all a question of nature. Clearly, my daughter inherited my sister's disposition."

That was the moment when Lady Bonnington discovered what it felt like to have Made a Mistake. She accepted a tart from f.a.n.n.y while she thought about it.

Countess G.o.dwin was a lovely, if rather pale, woman. Yet when she leaned forward, Honoratia caught her breath. In profile, the countess looked like an accusing angel, a stone statue of Saint Michael standing at the gates of Paradise with a sword. "I wish you to be the first to know," she said, speaking with great precision.

"Oh?" f.a.n.n.y said, looking a bit uneasy.

"I am having an affair with your daughter's fiance, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy. We enjoy each other in ecstatic union every night."

f.a.n.n.y gasped. "What a thing to say to me!" she said shrilly.

"If it be sin to love Mr. Fairfax-Lacy... well, then sin I!" retorted Lady G.o.dwin. She stood up. "I expect my presence will make you uncomfortable, so I shall leave."

Honoratia raised her eyebrows. There was something distinctly odd about the phrasing of Lady G.o.dwin's parting shot. And as someone who'd watched many a marriage and many a sinful union, she doubted that Lady G.o.dwin had ever experienced ecstatic union. Still, loyalty was an admirable quality, and Lady G.o.dwin had it in spades.

f.a.n.n.y had stopped looking horror-struck and was eating one of those lemon tartlets that she never consumed in the evening. They were left alone, two hardened old harridans with shining reputations and naught much else. Neither of them had had an illicit proposal in years.

f.a.n.n.y patted her mouth delicately. "I wonder that you chose this house to retire from the season, dear Honoratia," she said. "I leave tomorrow at dawn to return to Lady Pindlethorp's house. I told Esme as much this morning, and now my mind is made up. You would be more than welcome to join me."

"Wouldn't you rather stay and make further acquaintance with your grandson?"

"It's far, far too painful. My daughter has no understanding of the grief I still bear every time I think of my dear departed son. And I am very much afraid that my initial qualms about my daughter's rehabilitation are entirely correct. I admire your generous nature, my dear, but you are far too optimistic. Are you aware that my daughter has no real idea whose child she birthed?"

"Certainly not!" Honoratia replied in her most quelling tone of voice. Surely-surely-Esme's own mother wouldn't repeat such a vicious piece of gossip about her own daughter.

f.a.n.n.y took a bite of tartlet. "I queried her on the matter, most discreetly, you understand, through the post. She did not respond to my query, which speaks for itself, does it not? This tea is quite cold." She rang the bell. "As I said, I would be more than welcome for your company tomorrow morning."

Honoratia stood up. f.a.n.n.y looked up, startled. Honoratia thumped her stick, and, sure enough, f.a.n.n.y quailed with as much fear as any lazy housemaid. "You will not say a word to anyone about your grandson's patrimony," she ordered.

"Well, naturally, I-" f.a.n.n.y said, fl.u.s.tered. "I only tell you as you are a very close friend!"

"From this moment, we are not close friends," Honoratia said, pulling herself even straighter. "In fact, we are not friends at all. If I ever hear a breath of scandal about your daughter or your grandson that has begun at your lips, f.a.n.n.y, I shall ruin you."

f.a.n.n.y stared up at her, faded eyes wide.

"Do I make myself clear?"

f.a.n.n.y jumped but said nothing.

"Do I make myself clear?" Honoratia said, with the snap of a carnivorous turtle.

f.a.n.n.y twittered. "I can't imagine why you would think that I would ever do something as ill-bred as gossip about my daughter's debased circ.u.mstances." Then she faltered, seeing Honoratia's expression. "I shall not!" she said shrilly.

Honoratia didn't bother with a reply. She just stumped over to the door and left f.a.n.n.y there among the crumbs of lemon tarts and cooling cups of tea.

Chapter 37.

Nights of Ecstatic Union.

"And then I said that we spend every night in ecstatic union with each other!" "Ecstatic what?" Esme asked. "Ecstatic union. It was the only thing that came to mind. It is a rather odd phrase, is it not? And then I quoted a bit of the poetry Bea lent me, the part being a sin to love. Your mother was quite horrified, Esme." Helene looked triumphant.

Esme choked with laughter. She was sitting on her aunt's bed, arm wound around her aunt's neck.

Helene was standing before them like a militant, raging angel. Bea was curled up on the little armchair to the side.

"You didn't have to do that," Arabella said damply, blotting a last few tears with a handkerchief. "Drat!

I've taken off all my facepaint. I must look a veritable hag."

"You look beautiful," her niece said, giving her a squeeze.

"f.a.n.n.y really doesn't mean to be so horrible," Arabella said. "She's had a most difficult life."

"Yes she does," Helene said firmly. "I'm sorry, Lady Withers, but your sister is a truly poisonous woman.

And I'm sorry for you, too, Esme."

Esme looked up with a rueful smile. "And what a dreadful thing in a daughter to agree with you." But she

didn't disagree either. Arabella gave a last sniff. "I haven't cried for years," she said, "so I suppose I was due for a bout of tears. f.a.n.n.y's comments generally don't distress me very much. But Robbie and I did so want children. I thought perhaps when he died... well, I didn't have my flux for months. And I thought that perhaps I carried a bit of Robbie with me." She gave another sniff. "But finally the doctor said that it must have been due to grief." She wiped away some tears. "What a wet blanket I've become!"

"You're not a wet blanket," Esme said. "You're one of the bravest people I know." Arabella chuckled damply. "Well, that's a new compliment for me. Thank you, my dear." Esme's own smile wavered. "And the dearest as well. No mother could have helped me more than you have, Arabella, nor a sister more than you, Helene." She met their eyes, and now they were all a little teary.

"I couldn't have loved a child more than I love you, dearest," Arabella said.

Helene sat down hard on Arabella's dressing table stool. "Do you still feel a great deal of grief due to not having a child, Lady Withers? If you don't mind my asking?"

Arabella gave her an unsteady smile. "It is not terrible, no. But it is a sadness to me, since I would have been delighted to be a mother. Yet just having the chance to be with William is very healing in that respect."

Helene pressed her lips together. "I want you all to know that I am going to have a child."

Unexpectedly, Bea, who'd been sitting silently to the side, yelped, "What? " And then clapped her hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry! It's none of my business."

"My dissipated husband returned to London still refusing to divorce me, and I have decided to have a child irrespective of my marital situation. If Rees wishes to divorce me after the fact, on the ground of adultery, I truly don't give a bean."

"Would you then marry Mr. Fairfax-Lacy?" Bea asked. The strain in her voice made all three women look at her.

"Stephen? No!" Helene said. "Stephen has no aspirations to my hand. Or bed, for that matter, although he was kind enough to pretend so before my husband." There was a pause. "Are you going to marry him?"

Bea swallowed and then looked to Esme. "Lady Rawlings has precedence."

Esme laughed. "I surrender my claim."

"Then I am," Bea said sedately. A smile was dawning on her face. "I am going to marry him."

"Bravo!" Arabella said, tossing her handkerchief onto her dressing table. "I knew the man was good marrying material. Didn't I tell you so, dear?" she said to Esme.

"I merely have to ask him," Bea put in.

Helene blinked at her. "Hasn't he asked you?"

"Not in so many words. He wishes to be wooed."

"What an extraordinary thing," Helene said slowly. "Do you know, I am coming to have an entirely different idea of how to behave around men?" Arabella nodded. "If you wish to have a child, you will need to move decisively. That's why I married so quickly after Robbie died. I wasn't in love, wasn't even in my right head, I think now. But I wanted a child. Mind you, it didn't work for me, but it might well for you."

Helene nodded. "You may not wish to acknowledge me in the future," she said, looking at Esme. "I will create a tremendous scandal by having a child. Everyone in the polite world knows that I have no contact whatsoever with my husband."

Esme stood up and gave her a fierce hug. "You never deserted me, and I would never desert you. What would I have done without you and Arabella these past few months? Besides, I do believe I shall give up some of my aspirations to respectability."

"Thank goodness!" Arabella said, with a world of meaning in her voice.

Helene turned to Bea. "I trust you don't mind my saying that you are very inspiring. I mean to copy down that poem, if you don't mind. Perhaps I shall have use for it another day."

Bea grinned. "As long as you are not planning to direct your invitation to Mr. Fairfax-Lacy, you may use it as you please."