Beware of Virtuous Women (12 page)

And she was the hostess. That meant she was in charge of at least beginning the conversation. Or so she thought.

"My lady, are you comfortable?" Miranda Phelps asked nervously. "Perhaps you're cool? Or warm?Yes, it is warm, isn't it? I believe you left your fan in the coach, but I could go and—"

"Miranda, please stifle yourself," the countess said in a lazy voice. "If I should require my fan, my woman will fetch it." Then she turned to Eleanor. "We have two other engagements this evening, Mrs. Eastwood. You will be serving soon?"

Eleanor might have been flustered at first, but she did not much care for the way the countess treated her sister-in-law, and cared less for the crushed look on the latter woman's homely face. "Perhaps, my lady, if you felt yourself overencumbered with social engagements you should have cried off from our small party? I'll call my husband over here and explain your difficulty."

"Oh, no," Miranda Phelps said, looking panicked. "You can't do that, Helen. Harris distinctly told me that we had to come because his lordship wanted to see— that is..." She looked around rather wildly before her sympathetic gaze landed on Eleanor. "I believe they're going to pass an hour playing at cards after dinner, at Mr. Eastwood's invitation."

"Really," the countess replied, her voice dripping venom. "Is your husband an idiot then, Mrs. Eastwood? Or just so deep in the pocket he doesn't mind losing to my husband, arguably the best player in London?"

"Is he, indeed?" Eleanor responded, her chin lifted slightly. "I assure you, I wouldn't know, having always considered my husband to be quite proficient at... games."

"Do you play, Mrs. Eastwood?"

"No, Mrs. Phelps, I do not," Eleanor answered, smiling at the woman who had begun to perspire visibly. "My accomplishments, I'm afraid, run more to the ordinary. Embroidery, watercolors. Singing. Do you sing, Mrs. Phelps? I would think you have a lovely singing voice."

Thankfully, Mrs. Phelps hadn't needed more than that one question to set her off into a long, rambling, stultifyingly boring recitation of some of her favorite songs, songs she and her sister used to sing for their papa on cold dark nights in Lincolnshire.

From there she went on—with the countess yawning into her hand—to say that she, too, dabbled in water-colors, although not well. "But now that we reside for months of the year at Chelfham Hall, I'm encouraged to better myself, as the prospects and vistas there are lovely and I long to do them credit."

"A fruitless yearning, alas, as I've been forced to view your renderings," her ladyship slid in, then snapped her fingers twice above her head, an action that—remarkably—had his lordship scurrying to her side like an obedient puppy. "I've yet to be holding a glass, Rawley."

The earl took hold of her upraised hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her fingertips one by one. "A thousand pardons, my darling. I'm afraid we were talking."

"Miranda was also talking, Rawley. You know how her inane prattling fatigues me."

And so it went. Throughout the uncomfortably lengthy minutes before Treacle called them to supper, throughout the five courses of the meal, and without a moment's break once the ladies left the men to their cigars and cards.

Helen Maddox, Countess of Chelfham was, in a word, nasty. She bullied her sister-in-law, badgered her husband, and after one particularly uncomfortable interlude where she positively
stared
at her, totally ignored Eleanor.

Which, when she thought about it, pleased Eleanor straight down to the ground, especially after the one time the countess
did
speak to her, and that was only to say, "Oh, you're a cripple. Rawley didn't tell me or I should certainly have begged off. I loathe infirmities, they make me queasy. I'll lie down, now. Miranda, fetch my woman."

And so, while the mantel clock seemed to have stuck on the quarter hour, the countess reclined on one of the couches, her summoned maid standing behind the couch wielding an ivory-sticked fan and looking daggers at Miranda each time she opened her mouth to speak.

Eleanor and Miranda retired to the music room to look through the song sheets shelved there.

"She isn't really mean, you know," Miranda told Eleanor as she sat with a stack of song sheets in her lap. "I mean, she is, usually, but I think that's because she's not happy. I mean, not that she's not thrilled to be a countess. Lord knows anyone would be delighted, I know I would, but she can't quite care for his lordship, you understand."

"She seems to have no trouble ruling his lordship," Eleanor said, hoping to keep the conversation alive and on point even as Mrs. Phelps's candor surprised her.

"Oh, yes, definitely. Harris says that's because she's going to give him an heir."

"The countess is pregnant?" Eleanor felt suddenly ill herself, knowing she and Jack, one way or the other, were probably going to make this unborn child fatherless.

Miranda leaned closer to Eleanor, who sat beside her on the small couch. "Harris says he wonders whose baby it is, because his sister was rather...rather wild when she first made her debut last season. Oh, I know I shouldn't say such things, but I cannot like her, and as we're residing with them, I'm always in her company. I've begged Harris to leave London, take us home to Surrey, but he refuses. Too busy, he says. I don't see how he could be busy. All he does is to go off without me to gamble all night and then sleep until two in the afternoon. Oh, I'm doing it again! Mrs. Eastwood, forgive me. I shouldn't have had that second glass of wine. Harris says my tongue runs on wheels when I imbibe."

"Shall I ring for the tea tray? It's rather early, but you might feel better with some nice hot tea and cakes." Eleanor figuratively patted herself on the back for her offer, as she'd much rather press another glass of wine into that pudgy little hand.

"Oh, no, no thank you. No more cakes for me for a while. Helen gives me her castoffs, you understand, and I simply must be able to wedge myself into the green velvet by Christmastime. I've already planned to use the extra material for a lovely shawl—she's so much taller than me, you understand. But I am thirsty, so perhaps just one teeny, tiny bit more wine?"

Eleanor rang for a servant and within moments, it seemed, Miranda Phelps was swallowing down a full glass of wine as if it were water, fresh and cold from the pump.

With a look toward the hallway, Eleanor decided to dare more questions. "Your husband and the countess are brother and sister. Were he and the earl acquainted before the marriage?"

Miranda frowned, thinking back, or just trying to think clearly. "Harris and his lordship? No." She leaned closer, as she'd done earlier, with the air of one imparting something important. "We were poor as church mice before his lordship clapped eyes on Helen. I'm not saying we're swimming all that deep in the gravy boat now, but things have most definitely been better for us since their marriage." She rolled her eyes. "Except for Helen being even more toplofty now than she was, thinking herself better than anyone else."

"Well, she
is
a countess," Eleanor pointed out, then dug in a little deeper. "But I must say she doesn't treat you very nicely, does she?"

"Ha! If you knew the half of it, dear, kind Mrs. Eastwood! I know why Harris married me, for my father's money, certainly not because he...well, the miller's daughter can't be choosey, can she? Especially one who looks like me."

"I sure he cares for you. Deeply." Eleanor hoped she sounded sincere.

"No, he used my small dowry for Helen's Come-out last Season, figuring she was the way to our fortune. We'd still be hiding from creditors if it weren't for Helen and her advantageous marriage, as she constantly reminds us.
Her
sacrifice, she says it was, as if she hasn't benefited mightily from the marriage.
And
the title. Lording over us, over me." She lifted Eleanor's own untouched glass in a sort of mock salute, then drained that, as well. "Here's to a painful labor and breech birth for
her ladyship."

Then Miranda blinked, hiccupped, and made a valiant but vain grab for the song sheets that began sliding off her lap and onto the floor. "Oh! Look what I've done!"

"Don't worry, Mrs. Phelps," Eleanor assured her, going to her knees on the carpet. "You just sit and compose yourself while I gather these. No harm done."

"Thank you, Mrs. Eastwood," Miranda said, then made a not quite straight line toward the drinks table and the wine decanter Treacle had deposited there.

Eleanor sat back on her haunches and sighed as she watched the woman navigate the music room, full glass in hand, picking up figurines, running her fingertips across the silk panel draperies, nearly knocking over a music stand...bending to pick up Eleanor's large leather portfolio of watercolors.

"Here," Eleanor said, hastily getting to her feet, the song sheets fluttering to the floor once more. "Let me take that for you, Mrs. Phelps."

"No, no, that's all right. Is this yours? You did say you paint watercolors, didn't you? Or was that me? I think I said something of the sort. That I paint watercolors. But I'm sadly ham-fisted when I pick up a brush. Let's see what you do, shall we?"

Eleanor may not have been in society for more than a few days, but she was fairly certain that physically wresting her portfolio out of Miranda Phelps's hands would not be considered polite.

Polite, however, was for those who had nothing to hide.

"Mrs. Phelps, forgive me, but I'm afraid I must insist," Eleanor said, taking hold of the portfolio with both hands—one more than Miranda had, as she wasn't about to give up her wineglass. "I'm a terrible artist and cannot bear to think of anyone else seeing my poor efforts."

"Very well," Miranda said with a shrug, giving up the battle without a blink. "Oh, and look, still that mess on the floor. Shame on me." Her features crumpled and she began to cry. "I can't do anything right. Harris says so, and he's right."

Now Eleanor was exasperated. Really, the woman was a total loss, wasn't she? Sad, spineless. And tipsy into the bargain. "There, there, Mrs. Phelps," she said through gritted teeth. "I'm sure that's not true."

Miranda sniffed, brightened as she made another grab for the portfolio. "Then I can see your paintings?"

Eleanor's mouth dropped open. Why, the conniving woman—in her own way she was as bad as the countess, except she used pity to get what she wanted. "No, I'm afraid not. I really don't feel comfortable showing my watercolors to anyone."

"Gracious, wife, what's been going on in here? The floor looks as if there's been a snowfall."

Eleanor turned about to see Jack walking into the room, stopping when he encountered the mess of song sheets scattered over the carpet. "Jack," she said, hoping she didn't sound too desperately happy to see him. "I had a slight accident, that's all."

"Ha!" Miranda Phelps shouted, successfully grabbing the portfolio from Eleanor's relaxed fingers. "Now I've got it! You're too modest, Mrs. Eastwood. You'd made me so curious, I
must
see your watercolors."

Eleanor nearly slapped the woman's hand, but she restrained herself. She'd only ever seen men drunk, never a female, and she wasn't sure how to handle the woman. But slapping her held enormous appeal. "Mrs. Phelps, I said no," she said evenly, in a tone that would have warned her siblings to stop what they were doing or else Eleanor would be disappointed in them. Miranda Phelps, however, didn't seem to be worried about her disappointment.

"Here, I'll take that," Jack said, neatly stepping in and removing the portfolio from the grasp of both women. "Eleanor, Treacle has brought out the tea tray but the countess has decided she'd rather forgo the niceties and push on to their next engagement."

"Really," Eleanor said, thinking she'd like to slap the countess, too, as long as she was in the mood. "Then we shan't keep her, shall we?"

"I know I don't want to," Jack said quietly, winking at Eleanor as he handed her the portfolio, then took Miranda's arm, carefully maneuvering her past the spill of song sheets and out of the room.

Leaving Eleanor to tuck her portfolio back where it was, propped against the side of a chair, then take a deep, steadying breath and steel herself to remain civil until their guests had departed.

And never had an exodus been accomplished so quickly, as Miranda was fairly roughly grabbed at the elbow by her husband and dragged out onto the landing behind a red-faced Earl of Chelfham and his now smugly smiling countess.

Only Sir Gilbert tarried long enough to bow over Eleanor's hand. Then, with a slight, almost awed nod to Jack, he, too, was gone.

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