Allison Lane (22 page)

“Tomorrow we attack Society, then.”  Smiling, he placed a gentle kiss on her hand that left it tingling as she hurried upstairs.  But questions increasingly niggled at her mind.  There was something odd about Mr. Randolph, though she couldn’t quite bring the details into focus.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Randolph returned the last of Elizabeth’s books to the shelf and frowned.  No matter how many times he added the figures, they remained the same.  Her collection was worth a small fortune.  It was another Ravenswood mystery and painted a disturbing picture of secrecy in all the Fosdale men, hinting that the Fosdale women had been deliberately relegated to seclusion for at least half a century.  No wonder Elizabeth had such a low opinion of men.

Yet she had cared deeply for her grandfather – and he for her, if this inheritance was any indication.

He scanned the titles one last time.  Few of these volumes had changed hands within the last ten years, as he knew quite well, for all were books he would have considered for his own collection.  In fact, his agent had bid on two of these, losing only because the price had passed his limit.

He paced the room as his mind sifted facts, arranging them to form a new picture.  While it was possible that Elizabeth’s grandfather had owned some of these books before losing his inheritance, he had likely purchased the bulk of them in the twenty years that followed.  Which meant that Ravenswood was more profitable than either Fosdale would admit. 

He nodded.  He had never liked his earlier speculation that the elder Fosdale had accrued large debts.  Surely both Whitfield and Elizabeth would have heard rumors of it.  So the apparent lack of funds had arisen because Fosdale had invested most of his profits in rare books.

And Elizabeth had offered an explanation, he realized as he gathered his notes and glanced over his report:  the late Lady Fosdale.  The woman had been a squire’s daughter.  Elizabeth believed that Fosdale had been unable to find a better match, but that wasn’t true.  If all he had wanted was an heir, he could have approached any number of girls from his own class on his return from France.  News of his reduced circumstances would have arrived later, particularly to families not in London.  Or he could have repaired his fortune by wedding a wealthy mushroom.  Even fifty years ago, there had been girls who used enormous dowries to buy a spot in Society.  Lady Jersey’s grandfather had been a banker.

Fosdale had done neither, eschewing both fortune and breeding.  So he must have wed the girl for love.  But that would not have endeared him to his fellow lords.  Even today, unequal unions were looked at askance.  Fifty years ago, maintaining proper bloodlines had been even more important.  She would never have been accepted by Society.

It fit.  Fosdale had protected his wife from snubs by exaggerating his poverty to keep them at home.  He had protected her from guilt by never revealing that he had deliberately eschewed Society.  Only when his son neared his majority did he increase the boy’s allowance. 

But by then, the lad had probably demonstrated a deep hatred for his father’s youthful blunder by denigrating the man’s character and eschewing everything he enjoyed, so the elder Fosdale had kept his valuable collection a secret. 

What euphemism had covered new purchases in the estate books?  The easiest would have been to feign new gaming losses, which would have increased the son’s disdain and added to his own secrecy.  And the son had reacted to his improved position by concealing the change and amassing as much cash as possible to guard against the return of lean times.  When his reticence marked him as a fortune hunter during his pursuit of an heiress, he had turned his back on Society, choosing an impoverished wife because a lady accustomed to thrift and country living would make fewer demands on his purse.

Perhaps it was the son’s growing parsimony that prompted the elder Fosdale to leave his books to Elizabeth.  At least she would appreciate them.  And he may have known that she would need to finance an escape one day.

Yet he had never hinted at the collection’s value. 

Randolph frowned.

Had he vilified Whitfield unnecessarily?  The duke had suggested Elizabeth as a bride, but his real purpose may have been to divulge the value of her inheritance.  That fit the kind of secrecy her grandfather seemed to have espoused.

This was getting too involved, and the truth was irrelevant anyway.  He was obligated to far more than appraising a few books.

* * * *

Elizabeth stretched her cramped fingers as she reread the final page of the clear copy.  It was good.

Her body thrummed with excitement, as it always did when she completed a manuscript.  After ringing for Letty, she rapidly penned a letter to her publisher.  Between her fortnight with Aunt Constance and the extra work engendered by Symington’s visit, she had been hard-pressed to complete it on time. 

“Enter,” she called when the rap sounded on the door.

“I finished my appraisal of your library,” said Mr. Randolph without preamble.

She whirled at the sound of his voice, one hand automatically seeking to cover her manuscript.  “Damnation!” she snapped as papers scattered across the floor.  She scrambled after them.

“Forgive me for startling you.”  He stooped to help.

“Leave it!” 

But it was too late.  He stared at the letter in his hand, then shifted his eyes to the other pages.  “You are Mary Selkirk?”

She covered her flaming cheeks, muttering curses until she exhausted her extensive repertoire – twice.  Exposed – and by the very man who already represented the greatest danger to her plans.

Rustling papers belied her impression of eyes boring into her back.  “Leave the mess,” she begged.

“All done.  Look at me, Elizabeth.”

She never wanted to see him again, but her head lifted on its own.  He had set the pages in order and placed the manuscript at her elbow.  Swirling thoughts fed her growing terror.  What was she to do now?  Fosdale would be furious, and he might appropriate her savings.  Whether he had the legal power to do so would not matter.  How was she to escape?

“I admire your books, Elizabeth,” he said quietly, pinning her with his gaze.

She snorted.

“Since I praised Mary Selkirk at dinner the other night, you can hardly accuse me of false flattery,” he protested.

Letty appeared in the doorway, only the briefest blink betraying her surprise at finding a gentleman in Elizabeth’s sitting room.

“Wrap it and send it, Letty,” she ordered, nodding toward the writing desk.

Mr. Randolph nodded soothingly when she caught his eye.  She was so upset that it took a moment to realize that she had silently asked if he had checked the page numbers.  She shivered.

The silence stretched until Letty had left.  Mr. Randolph shut the door.

“You are a talented writer,” he stated, taking a seat.

“Thank you,” she managed.

“Does she take your packages into the village for you?”

“Actually, her brother carries them to Keswick.  His employer allows him to come home once a month to check on his family.  He will return to work tomorrow.”

“No one knows, do they?”

She shook her head.

“Why?”

She shrugged.

“I can guess at some of your reasons,” he continued calmly.  “The highest sticklers look askance at intellectual activities.  That did not stop Lord Byron, of course.  And only last year, Lord Bridgeport admitted that he was the celebrated poet Thornton.  But they are men.  A lady would face more condemnation and less acceptance.”

“I care nothing for what Society thinks,” she vowed, stung into a response.

“So you claim.”  A raised hand prevented her protest.  “You said something similar when your father was insisting on marriage.  So why the secrecy?  Do you fear your family’s reaction?  Your father has little use for things literary.”

“In part.”  His calm acceptance had mitigated that initial flash of terror.  “But it extends beyond that.  How can I condemn Cecilia’s obsession with romances when I write them myself?”

“An interesting conundrum,” he agreed.  “Though as I pointed out at table, your work has little in common with the gothic tales she finds so enthralling.  Your foundation in reality is less likely to lead impressionable girls astray.”

“Hardly.  For the sake of money, I willingly create dreams just as unrealistic as those I deride.  What do I know of life in the upper classes?  My own experience is hardly typical.”  She could not keep the bitterness from her voice.

Randolph remained silent for several minutes.  Elizabeth was rubbing her temples to assuage what was probably a raging headache, and he needed time to order his thoughts.  If he misjudged her thinking, he would lose her.  He would never get another chance like this one.  Catching her off guard in an activity she had kept secret for years had breached her barriers.  But she would rebuild them when he left, stronger than ever.

He had made a huge mistake in believing that secrecy afflicted only the men of this family, he conceded in a rueful aside.  Elizabeth didn’t realize it, but she was following in her father’s footsteps by amassing her own nest egg.

So what did she truly want?  She claimed to despise marriage, citing a wife’s lack of control over her life.  And she was right from a legal point of view.  Women had no power.  Their husbands decided where and how they lived and whom they could see.  Everything they owned reverted to their husbands upon marriage, including the clothes on their backs and any money they might have saved.

There were ways around those restrictions, of course.  A caring father included details of pin money, living arrangements, widow’s portion, and settlements on any progeny when negotiating the marriage contract.  And it was possible – though far from common – to set up trusts that would place a woman’s assets beyond a husband’s reach.  But many a husband resented such restrictions, taking petty revenges in response.

A better way of assuring her contentment was to find a husband who respected her.  Elizabeth’s planning had ignored the possibility of forming an emotional attachment, though he doubted that this was the most propitious time to reveal that he was falling in love with her.  But at least he could give her the same understanding and support she had offered him outside the hermit’s cave.

“Is money so important, then?” he asked when her hands dropped back into her lap.

“Not in itself, but without it, I can never achieve my goals.”  She shrugged.

“I know you wish to avoid marriage,” he said, forcing calm into the words.  “What are your other goals?”

“Independence.  I must escape Fosdale’s tyranny.  He would force me into a life I abhor,” she said bluntly.

He grimaced, though the answer was hardly a surprise. 

“Not all of his reasoning is selfish,” he pointed out.  “The world in which we both must live expects ladies to wed.  You can hardly condemn a father for wanting his offspring to achieve success.  Much as you may decry it, that translates to marriage for both daughters and heirs.”

“Meaning you.”  She glared.

“It is true that I will inherit my father’s estate,” he said carefully.  “I accepted long ago that I must one day wed, but you are the first lady I have met who would make a comfortable wife.”

“Me?  Comfortable?”

“Quite.  I cannot abide stupidity, nor can I accept disdain for learning.  And you already know that I disapprove the devotion to frivolity and inanity that characterizes Society.”

She stared speechlessly.

“But what of you?  What sort of life do you envision ten or twenty years from now?”

“I-I have not thought that far ahead,” she admitted.

Good.
  He could use that later.  “Then what are your immediate goals?”

“A home of my own, where I can be my own master.  But Fosdale would never agree, so I must support myself.  Hence my writing.”

“Writing will hardly support you.”

“Not yet,” she conceded.  “But it will do so eventually.”

“You claim to be realistic, yet you blind yourself to the reality of the world in which you live.”  He met her renewed glare.  “The unfortunate truth is that your income will never rise much above what it is now.  No matter how popular your books become, no matter how much your publisher earns from your work, you will never receive more – because you are a female.”

She shuddered, but the flicker in her eyes proved that she had feared just such a future.

“You could probably escape Ravenswood, but your earnings would cover only a tiny cottage in a remote location.”  He held her gaze.  “Without servants, you would have to do everything for yourself – cook, clean, plant and tend your garden, make and care for your clothing, and so much more.  There would be no horse, no carriage, no social life with your own class, suspicion from the lower classes…”  She was hurting more with every word, but he had to spell it out.  In her way, she was just as unrealistic as Cecilia.  “When would you find time to write?” he added softly.

A tear leaked from the corner of an eye.

“I know it is unfair,” he continued gently.  “But you cannot change that basic truth.”

“Then what am I to do?”  Her lips quivered.

“You could supplement your income by accepting fees for your healing.”

She shook her head.  “Those who are most desperate for help cannot afford payment.  Those with money would never call in a female.”  The bitterness was back.

“Then why did you choose writing?  If you are determined to abandon your heritage, you could do far better by opening a shop or starting a school – though succeeding as a headmistress must wait until you acquire a more sober age.  Few parents would consider you sufficiently stern to trust their daughters to your care.”

She sighed.  “The obvious reason is that neither of those activities can be profitably begun here, and I have no way of supporting myself elsewhere until the venture succeeds.  But in truth, I have to write.  Even if I had no publisher, there is something in me that demands I set words to paper.”

He had suspected something of the sort, for most of the creative people he had met shared a similar compulsion.  “Then why do you say your stories contain ideas you abhor?  In my experience, creative minds can conjure fabulous tales, but the core philosophy is real – has to be if the plot is to work.”  He again met her glare.  “Love and marriage are the primary goals of every character in your books.”