Crossed Quills (22 page)

 “I cannot tell you, Millie, so be a dear and do not press me. I repeat, Pippa is not Valentine Dred. Oh, Millie, do but look at the signs in the window of this shop! ‘Guineas taken with delight; Shillings quite welcome; Halfpence will not be refused.’“

 “‘Half sovereigns taken with avidity,’“ Millie read, “‘Crowns hailed with pleasure; Farthings rather than nothing.’ It quite makes one want to go in and buy something, only I cannot see anything I need. That beaded reticule is quite pretty, but I have spent nearly all my pin-money for the week.”

 Fashion regained its usual preeminence in her chatter. Kitty was able to persuade herself that the nonsensical notion of Pippa having written naughty romances had flown from her companion’s head as swiftly as it had entered.

* * * *

 Meanwhile, Wynn and Miss Lisle had each called upon the leaders of the society circulating the petition against the employment of climbing boys to clean chimneys. By prior arrangement, they met in Charles Street in the ladies’ sitting room to discuss their findings.

 Before he knocked on the open door, Wynn paused on the threshold. His beloved sat at the writing table, one slender, shapely hand reaching out to dip her quill in the inkpot, her delicate profile framed against the window. In the north light her pale skin was translucent, her dark, smooth hair sleek.

Wynn had a sudden, almost irresistible desire to pull out all her hairpins and see her cloaked in those silken tresses.

 Had he really once told Gil Chubb she was plain?

 As if she felt his gaze, she turned, her face lighting in a smile which at once gave way to anguish. “Oh, it is perfectly horrible!” she cried, casting down her pen.

 “I ought not to have let you go,” Wynn said grimly, striding forward to take her hands in his. Not pretty? She was beautiful in her passion! Finding his mind drifting to how her face would look under the influence of a different sort of passion, he sternly called himself to order. “I had not imagined such painful stories, I confess.”

 “How could anyone imagine such inhumanity? Those little boys driven up chimneys, often so narrow they can barely pass, sometimes hot enough to burn, at best scraping and bruising themselves, and suffocated by falling soot. And then, if they come down alive—which they do not always—forced to carry heavy bags of soot, and beaten; never washed and frequently not fed....”

 “Small wonder many turn to begging and some to stealing, but that some people believe the solution is to send them to Sunday school is incredible!”

 “Is it not? If they do not die of burns, or suffocation, or beatings, they may cough and choke and wheeze as they please provided their morals are good, and live on stunted and deformed.”

 “To die later of ‘chimney-sweeps’ cancer.’“

 “Such little boys, Wynn,” she said, tears in her eyes, “as young as four!”

 He yearned to kiss away the tears. For the first time, she had called him Wynn, but he must not read too much into the mark of intimacy. It had probably slipped out unintentionally. After all, she constantly heard his sisters calling him by his Christian name.

 Letting go of her hands, he sat down. “The official minimum age is eight, but as long as the law is not enforced, destitute parents will sell younger children to the master sweeps for a guinea or two.”

 “Some sweeps send their own children up the chimneys,” Pippa said with incredulous abhorrence.

 “And some buy boys kidnapped for the purpose. Did Mr Montgomery tell you about the child rescued by a Yorkshire family?”

 “The Stricklands? Yes.” She gestured at the papers on the desk. “I have been trying to work out the best way to make that story the centrepiece of your speech. Surely any responsible, loving parent hearing it must instantly wish to free all climbing boys, if only for fear of their own sons suffering a like fate! But I have not enough information. I should like to question the Stricklands, to meet the child if possible, only Mama would never let me travel so far. Lord Selworth, do you suppose you—?”

 “I do.” To see the hope in her hazel eyes turn to warm approval, Wynn would have travelled a great deal farther than to Yorkshire—if it were not that he must leave her behind. “Montgomery gave me their direction in case I wished to correspond, but you are right, a personal interview will be much more useful.”

 “I believe so.”

 “What we want is details, is it not, to flesh out the story? How they happened to rescue him, what made them suspect he came from an affluent home, anything he recalls of his abduction?”

 “Exactly. Doubtless you will have a better idea of just what to ask once you have spoken to them.”

 “I shall leave in the morning.”
Will you miss me?

 “I wish I might go too. How long do you think you will be away?”

 “Two or three days each way. Say three: Kymford is not far off the Great North Road so I may as well spend a night at home in each direction. It will not delay me much.”

 “Oh yes, you should take the opportunity to see your family. Two, perhaps three days in Yorkshire. Ten days in all, or less, not so very long.” Pippa’s sigh, though slight, did not go unnoticed, but she returned at once to business. “While you are gone I shall put my notes in order—you brought yours?”

 “Yes, here, I copied them from my pocket-book for you.” Wynn retrieved the papers from his pocket and handed them over.

 “Thank you. I should be able to bring the speech into some sort of shape, ready to insert the child’s story. I do believe this will be a truly splendid speech. I only wish such horrors did not exist for you to speak about.”

 “We are doing what we can to put a stop to them,” Wynn consoled her, “but if brooding over the misery throws you into the dismals, you must let the speech wait until I come back to cheer you up. Promise?”

 “I promise not to fall into a decline,” she said with a faint smile.

* * * *

 It was two days after Lord Selworth’s departure that Pippa first noticed the cold looks. Mrs Drummond Burrell, haughtiest of Almack’s patronesses and usually distantly condescending towards the Lisles, actually turned her back when they entered a room.

 Then, in the course of a single evening, Pippa was invited to dance by three gentlemen of decidedly rakish reputation who had never before noticed her existence. All three made sly remarks she could only interpret as improper. One actually suggested that they should retire together to a small salon near the ballroom where he knew they would not be disturbed. When Pippa frostily refused, he muttered something about “whited sepulchres,” but to her relief he did not persist.

 Rather than repeat the unpleasant experience, she told her mama she was a little tired and would sit out the rest of the evening. She need not have troubled. Not one of Kitty’s court, her usual partners, asked her to stand up.

 In fact, their numbers were considerably diminished, and Kitty herself sat out three sets for the first time since their arrival in Town.

 The next morning, Bina asked Pippa to join her in her sitting room. When Pippa arrived, her friend thrust a pile of notes into her hands. “Read these.”

 Every one was from a hostess requesting that Mrs Debenham not bring the Lisles with her to her entertainment.

 “What is going on?” Bina asked, troubled.

 “I have not the least notion.” Pippa described the insulting behaviour of her partners last night. “Surely discovery of my political interests would not lead to that particular form of disrespect,” she said helplessly. “I cannot imagine what I have done to earn it.”

 “Nothing!” Bina was furious. “Some scandalmonger has invented a story about you for want of anything better to do. Now that Princess Charlotte is safely married, people can no longer employ themselves in wondering whether she will shy off at the eleventh hour! Believe me, if you are not welcome at these parties, you may be sure I shall not attend.”

 “But you must, Bina. It is not fair that Millicent’s Season should be ruined because someone is slandering me. Poor Kitty! Perhaps if I go home to Buckinghamshire, people will forget and accept her again.”

 “No, I shall not let you run away, if only for Wynn’s sake. It might be just as well, though,” Bina said thoughtfully, “if I continue to take Millie about so as to have the opportunity to try and find out what is being said. One cannot fight a rumour one has not heard. For a start, we shall call on every notable gossip in Town.”

 But one notable gossip called on the Lisles while Bina and Millicent were out. Lady Jersey, an elegant and influential lady of about thirty years, came straight to the point.

 “I fear you are sailing in troubled waters, ma’am,” she said bluntly to Mrs Lisle. “I regret to say that, in view of Jersey’s association with your late husband, I have been deputed by my fellow-Patronesses to request that you no longer attend Almack’s.”

 Kitty gasped. Aching for her, Pippa took her hand.

 “Why?” asked Mrs Lisle, matching Lady Jersey’s bluntness.

 Her ladyship’s delicate eyebrows rose. “Surely you can guess.”

 “Indeed I cannot! To my knowledge, neither I nor my daughters has done anything to deserve the way we are being treated.”

 “Can it be, ma’am, you are unaware of your elder daughter’s authorship?”

 Pippa felt cold inside. Was it indeed her writing which had brought down disgrace upon her family? She had expected to be laughed at if it became known, not spurned.

 Kitty was frowning. Mrs Lisle, visibly disturbed, demanded, “Authorship? What exactly is Philippa accused of writing, Lady Jersey?”

 “Why,
The Masked Marauder
, of course,” said the countess with a tinkling laugh. “A delicious book, certainly, but far too titillating for its author to lay any claim to the innocence Society demands of young ladies.”

 Stunned, Pippa burst out, “But I am not its author! I assure you, ma’am, I did not write
The Masked Marauder
, nor anything remotely similar.”

 “My daughter is not a novelist,” Mrs Lisle supported her. “She could not possibly have concealed it from me in our small cottage. I beg of you, ma’am, do what you can to contradict this calumny. It is utterly without foundation.”

 Lady Jersey looked from Mrs Lisle to Pippa and back, her gaze shrewd and not unkindly. “Well, well, I believe you, and I will do what I can.”

 “Thank you, Lady Jersey!”

 “However, I must warn you that many will refuse to credit the word of Miss Lisle and her family—it is only what you might be expected to say, after all. I fear the book’s popularity makes the on-dit too toothsome a morsel to be easily abandoned. Your best hope is that the real author will come forward.”

 “He surely cannot like to see someone else credited with his work,” said Kitty hopefully.

 “So we will hope, Miss Catherine. In the meantime, I must advise you all not to appear at Almack’s. I should hate to see you suffer the same sort of reception as Lord Byron’s last year.”

 With that bitter remark, Lady Jersey took her leave.

 “What happened to Lord Byron?” Kitty enquired.

 “Ask Albinia,” her mother advised absently. “I am very much afraid Lady Jersey is correct, and no denials from us will bear any weight.”

 “Mama, if I went home—”

 “Certainly not! Your papa would never permit you to concede defeat. I shall go up to the sitting room at once and write to Lady Stanborough and one or two others of those I have come to regard—perhaps mistakenly—as friends.” She went out.

 “I am sorry, Kitty,” Pippa said miserably.

 Kitty flung her arms around her and gave her a hug. “Pippa darling, it is not your fault. I have a very good notion whose fault it is, only I am not perfectly sure what to do about it.”

 Pippa scarcely heard her. It was Lord Selworth’s fault, of course, for writing those shocking books. Why could he not have been satisfied with stories which were thrilling and funny, without also making them titillating?

 Lady Jersey thought only exposure of the real author would save the Lisles’ reputation. Pippa could expose him, but—if she was believed—his political career would be nipped in the bud.

Even if she could bring herself to do that to him, what of all the good he might be expected to do in the future to right the miseries of the world?

 “I have the headache, Kitty. I believe I shall go and lie down for a little while.”

 “Let me make you a tisane!”

 “No, it is not bad,” said Pippa, wanting nothing so much as to be alone with her megrims. “You had best stay here in case anyone is brave enough to call. Send for me or Mama if any gentleman comes.”

 Left alone, Kitty crossed to the window and stood, half hidden by the brocade curtains, gazing down into the street. Normally at this time of day the phaetons, curricles and gigs of her admirers would be thronging there, joined by the barouches and landaus of visiting ladies.

 It was some slight comfort that Millicent also would undoubtedly suffer from the dearth. How could she do this to Pippa?

 A barouche approached along Charles Street, a gentleman riding alongside. Kitty recognized the Pendrells. Her heart leapt: at least some friends did not believe the slander, and would not let the censure of the rest of the Ton influence their conduct!

 The barouche rolled on without slowing, the Misses Pendrell pointing out the Debenhams’ house to the two unknown young ladies in the carriage with them. Vanessa Pendrell said something to her brother, and he laughed.

 Chagrined, Kitty turned from the window and dropped onto a nearby sofa. They were all the same. She did not care if she never again saw any of the so-called gentlemen who claimed to adore her. All she wanted was to go home to Buckinghamshire and live the rest of her life peacefully in the cottage with Mama and Pippa—but what about Pippa?

 Pippa must be vindicated, if only Kitty could work out how to do it.

 “Mr Chubb, miss.”

 Startled, Kitty jumped up.

 “Didn’t mean to take you by surprise, Miss Kitty,” Mr Chubb apologized, bowing.

 “Do you not know we are in disgrace?” she demanded bitterly.

 “Yes. That is, heard stories. Wouldn’t have credited them anyway, of course, but as it happens I know the truth.”