A Lady's Point of View (20 page)

Ironically it was not Lady Darnet
who succeeded in creating trouble for Angela. It was, unintentionally, Helen.

She was deeply fond of her young
cousins, who were visiting the Cockerell household, but Rachel at age twelve
had developed an obsession with society and its ways. The child pestered Helen
from morning till night with questions. When could she toss aside her round
kerseymere frocks for satin and sarcenet? Did she have to wait until eighteen
to have her come-out? The youngster whined and pleaded for consent to try on
Helen’s clothes, or chattered for hours about the fashions in
La Belle
Assemblée
and
The Lady’s Magazine
.

The house contained only one room
into which the girl was not permitted to follow her, and that was Edward’s
study. So, when he was from home, Helen developed the custom of retreating
there to write her letters and read novels. She was careful to remove all her
possessions each time, and Edward gave no sign of noticing.

It was in the study that Helen
took refuge on Monday when she received an unusually long letter from Meg, and
sat digesting its contents with growing amazement. Meg mistaken for a governess,
and by Lord Bryn! What a delightful, if shocking, story. Helen had never before
had a friend half so interesting.

She was pleased to see that her
bosom bow was coming back to London. How unfortunate that Meg’s gowns had been
made over for Angela; of course Helen would be glad to spare some.

At this point, the butler rapped
politely on the door and informed her of visitors in the morning room.

Helen tucked the letter into her
book, and then realised the problem. If she placed it downstairs in the house,
Rachel would discover it. She had a bad habit of reading Helen’s letters, and
repeated scoldings had no effect.

Not wanting to keep her guests
waiting while she ran up to her bedchamber, Helen laid the volume on one of the
low bookshelves, where it would go unnoticed and she could reclaim it later.
What she failed to observe, as she hurried out of the room, was that the hem of
her skirt brushed against the book, tumbling it onto the carpet so that the
letter fell free.

There it lay when Edward returned
home a quarter of an hour later. He made a point of avoiding the morning room,
as his marriage preparations left scant time for idle chitchat. In fact, he had
just come from discussing the arrangements with Lady Mary. She planned an
engagement ball at her home at week’s end, and had informed him happily that
almost all of the invitations were accepted. For his part, Edward would have
been gravely offended had his friends declined.

They had also dealt,
perfunctorily, with the matter of the marriage portion and Angela’s dowry. She
had a respectable if not overlarge one, left in trust by her grandfather before
the war raised prices. Fortunately Edward didn’t need the money; it was only
that a girl of good family was expected to bring into marriage some funds of
her own.

The ceremony was to take place in
two weeks’ time, allowing for the banns to be read. Edward hadn’t been pleased
to learn that the elder sister was returning to London, but he had been assured
that she would remain a demure figure in the background.

He wished, as he pushed open the
door to his study, that there did not remain one niggling doubt. It derived
from the conviction learned in childhood that one’s duty and one’s happiness
rarely coincided. It did not seem possible that he could both marry the
charming, lovely, sweet Angela, and meet his familial obligations. But what
could be wrong?

Edward’s eye fell upon the
displaced book and the letter. He frowned, and then stooped to investigate.

The novel, he saw from the title,
must be Helen’s. As for the sheets of paper covered with writing, they might
have blown onto the floor from his desk. Perhaps one of the maids had opened
the window while cleaning.

Edward picked up the letter.
Phrases leaped up at him. “Mistaken for a governess... this deception... return
to London.” And the signature. “Meg Linley.”

With a sensation of dread, Edward
sank onto a chair and began to read.

Lady Darnet was in a foul mood,
and she saw no reason to moderate her temper in the presence of her cousin.

“The ball can mean only one
thing!” She kicked viciously at the leg of a Chippendale chair. “They plan to
announce their betrothal!”

Sir Manfred was none too
gladdened by this observation, for his own reasons. “I cannot credit it,
Cynthia. The chit has gone riding with me half a dozen times. I saw no sign of
any courtship by Mr. Cockerell, although he did visit with his sister.”

“Nevertheless, a marriage is
afoot. Why did you not expose her sooner, you green goose?” The countess glared
daggers at him.

“Expose? Ah, yes.” The baronet
had almost forgotten their original scheme to place Angela in a humiliating
situation. It began to appeal to him again. Had she not placed
him
in a
position of some embarrassment, accepting his attentions while setting her cap
for another man?

“You must contrive something.”
Anger turned Lady Darnet’s features into a hard mask. “At once! While there is
still time for Edward to call it off.”

“I shall consider the matter.”
Sir Manfred poured himself a sherry. He was not given to rapid action, particularly
when one might contemplate one’s course over a drink.

“Merely consider it?” She smashed
her fist upon a mahogany tea table, clattering the cups and saucers. When
Cynthia was angry, the furniture and china suffered. “Today, I tell you! It
must be done immediately.”

“We have no assurance the fellow
will throw himself at your head, even if he calls it off with Angela.” The
baronet waited cautiously to see if his cousin were about to launch another
assault upon some hapless piece of the woodworker’s art.

Lady Darnet confined her response
to a rather nasty smile. “I know how to bring a gentleman round. Or force his
hand if necessary. See that you do the same with that girl.”

This was outside of enough, Sir
Manfred reflected as he finished his sherry. He might have told Cynthia to
shake her skirts elsewhere but for his annoyance with Angela. He could not bear
to be made a fool.

“I shall call upon her now.” He
set aside his glass. “And I expect you, dear cousin, to arrive half an hour
later.”

Angela was surprised but happy to
learn that her fiancé had returned scarcely more than an hour after he
departed.

She flew past the butler on her
way to the parlour and burst in, her face glowing with welcome. “Edward! What a
delightful surprise!” Only then did she notice the scowl that lay heavily
across his fair features. “Whatever is the matter?”

In response, he held out a
letter. Angela took it, trying to quiet the trembling in her hands. She
recognized the handwriting at once. Meg’s. A letter to Helen.

It took only a swift perusal to
confirm what she feared. “Edward—”

“Did you know of this?” he
demanded.

“She wrote to us only this week.”
Angela hesitated. “I know it seems scandalous, but—”

He spoke as if he hadn’t heard.
“Leaving aside the indiscretions that no one of good breeding should
countenance, is your family so badly dipped that they cannot afford gowns for
both sisters at once, and she must go begging to her friends?”

Angela felt the blood drain from
her face. “We are not so well off as some might think, but my dowry is intact.”

“There was a rumour—a lie, I’d
thought—that you were wearing your sister’s made-over gown to the Opera.”
Edward might have been carved from stone for all the note he took of her
distress. “Fool that I am, I defended you. So outrageous did I think the story
that I lied to Lady Jersey, and told her Helen had accompanied you to the
dressmaker.”

“I regret you were put in such a
position.” Angela didn’t know how to reach him; she could only wait while the
storm played itself out, and wonder about the reference to a lack of breeding.
Surely he could not have meant that as it sounded.

“I find that I have been cheated
and deceived,” Edward continued. “The woman I took for an innocent young girl
is revealed as a schemer, interested in my money rather than my person.”

“Edward!” Angela’s hand flew to
her mouth. “That’s not true!”

“You are unsuitable to be my wife
and to live with my family. I can only attribute Helen’s complicity to the
undue influence you and your sister wield over her.”

“Helen has a kind heart!” Angela
cried. “And as for you, Mr. Cockerell, you are seeing plots where none exist.”

“You’re an artful liar,” he
pressed on. “You persuaded me, in spite of the evidence of my own eyes, that
your sister was blameless in the matter of Mr. Brummell.”

“She was!”

“And in the question of Lord
Bryn, as well?” He stood his ground, unmoved and unmoving. “I will be
interested to hear how you excuse her intolerable behaviour. Your entire family
is a disgrace.”

She could bear it no longer. This
pompous swell was insulting not only Angela, but also the mother and sister she
loved. “Get out! Our engagement is at an end.”

“Indeed it is.” He nodded in grim
satisfaction. “Your schemes have been found out, and you play the righteous
lady. Well, I will do this much for you, Miss Angela. Because my sister’s
reputation might also be harmed, I will say nothing of this. How fortunate that
the invitations made no mention of an engagement. And now, good day to you.”

He picked up his hat and
departed.

Angela glared after his
retreating back, her fury abating only when she heard his phaeton moving away
in the street.

He was gone. The man she loved
did not, in the end, love her. She’d been a mere convenience, and he had cast
her off without a second thought.

Angela sank onto the sofa, a
heavy weight settling on her chest. The ball. They couldn’t call it off now
without revealing the truth. They’d have to go ahead with it, pretending they
never had any motive but to entertain friends. She would have to smile and
dance and chat, aware that a hundred eyes examined her for any sign of
heartache. Worse yet, Lady Mary couldn’t afford the expense, and Angela
suspected her mother planned to sell the few jewels that remained to pay the
costs.

Why had Meg engaged in such a mad
business? Why, oh why, had she written about it to Helen?

But that wasn’t the heart of the
problem. It was Edward. He cared nothing for her, nor ever had. Perhaps it was
better to suffer this way now, than to spend a lifetime yearning for the love
he was unable to offer. Now if only she could persuade her heart to agree with
her reasoning.

A carriage halted in the street
outside. Hastily Angela dabbed a kerchief to her eyes, wishing her mother were
home, but Lady Mary had gone calling and wouldn’t return back for hours. She
would have to keep up a front as best she could.

When Sir Manfred entered, he was
pleased to find Angela alone. She should not entertain a gentleman in this
fashion, but she clearly gave the matter no importance. Doubtless their
frequent rides together had led to this increased intimacy, which suited his
purpose well.

“My dearest Angela.” He swept
across the room to take her hands in his. “How well you look.” Although in fact
she seemed a trifle strained.

“Thank you.” She gestured to the
sofa. “Would you care for some refreshment?”

He was on the point of saying he
would like a drop of brandy when he recalled that a glass might prove a
handicap. “No, no, not necessary, my dear.”

They took their seats politely.
Seeming recalled to propriety, Angela gazed about nervously. “I... I think I
should summon a maid. For appearances’ sake.”

“Of course, but first let me say
how glad I am to hear that your dear sister is returning to London.”

This conversational dodge
effectively distracted her. “Yes, she arrives tomorrow.”

“Then she’ll attend the ball.”
Sir Manfred noted how the girl grew ashen and wondered whatever was the matter.
He could scarcely ask her point-blank. “I never could understand that business
at Almack’s. Danced with her myself that night, and she behaved splendidly.”

“Meg is always splendid,” Angela
agreed, perking up.

Seeing where her weak point lay,
Sir Manfred continued to praise the absent Meg, and noted with gratification
that there was no further mention of summoning a maid. He estimated that
another quarter of an hour would elapse before Cynthia arrived. He mustn’t play
his cards too soon.

“May I know the colour of your
gown?” Meeting a puzzled expression, he added, “For the ball. So that I might
send flowers.”

“Oh. It’s yellow.”

She made no mention of an
engagement, he noticed. Why should it be kept a secret, if in fact it existed?
Perhaps Cynthia was mistaken. But in any event, he had decided upon his course,
and planned to pursue it to the end.

“That should suit you
splendidly.” Sir Manfred saw his chance to move nearer the young lady. “Are you
aware that some colours flatter one’s skin and others detract?”

This gave Angela pause. “Well, I
don’t suppose I had considered it. Although I do observe that some ladies
appear to advantage in black or dark blue, and others look finest in pale
shades.”

“Precisely. Hold out your hand.”

Before Angela could respond, Sir
Manfred moved from the sofa to kneel beside her chair. He laid a fold of the
girl’s creamy muslin skirt across her hand, and, with a rapid motion, untied
his snow-white cravat and laid it down as well.

“Sir Manfred!” the girl
protested.

“I am merely proving a point,” he
said in a mildly offended tone. “See how your gown flatters your skin, whereas
were you to wear stark white, it is quite another matter.”