Fallen Angel (43 page)

Maddie had not been back in London for more than a fortnight before it was borne in upon her that she was with child. It was the little chambermaid who cleaned out the grates, a girl of no more than thirteen summers, who revealed what she had only begun to suspect.

Libby was as bright as a button and a bit of a chatterbox. She was also new to domestic service and had yet to acquire that impassive and wooden countenance which was so indispensable to those who wished to take up service in the stately homes of the Upper Ten Thousand.

She stopped in her labours as she heard Maddie retching behind the ornate silk screen. She sat back on her heels and wiped her grimy hands on a cloth which was tucked into the waistband of her bib-front apron.

Maddie appeared and groped her way to the bed. "I'll be as right as a trivet in a moment," she said, noting the small frown of concern which furrowed Libby's normally smooth brow. "A few mouthfuls of barley water usually settles my stomach," and with a small grimace of distaste she drank greedily from a glass which had been set on her bedside table.

"That's three days in a row," said Libby.

"Longer than that," corrected Maddie. She sat down on the edge of the bed and pinched her cheeks to bring back the colour. "My digestive system seems to be in a bit of an uproar. I can't fathom what could be wrong." She grinned at Libby to divest her next remark of any real malice. "England must not agree with me."

"If yer were m' ma, I'd say yer was in the family way," said Libby with characteristic forthrightness, and turned back to the empty grate to continue with the tedious task of blackening the iron grilles. She missed the sudden bloom of colour which flamed in Maddie's cheeks.

Maddie watched the maid's vigorous movements for some few moments. When she thought that the colour in her complexion had faded, she said carefully, "Libby, do you have many brothers and sisters?"

"There be eight little 'uns after me," said Libby without turning.

"Oh, you must know all that there is to know about having babies from watching your mother."

"I would say so."

Silence.

"I don't know anything at all, and I'm much older than you," said Maddie cautiously, striving for a neutral tone.

Libby's head swivelled round. She gazed at Maddie's slightly pink cheeks for a long considering moment. Comprehension slowly dawned. Her little flat chest puffed with self-importance. Brushes were downed and she settled herself to give the older girl the benefit of her superior knowledge.

"Arsk away," she said, and grinned like the cat that had just swallowed the canary.

"How does a woman know when she's in the family way?" asked Maddie without further encouragement.

"That's easy. First she gets sick somethin' awful; then she get's to wearin' a special dress; then she gets as round as a barrel."

"A special dress?" asked Maddie in some confusion.

"Yer can always tell," nodded Libby. "Next ter bein' sick, it's the best sign. Me ma always wears 'er blue dimity. That's why a'm 'ere now in service." She saw Maddie's blank look and said by way of explanation, "Last time she put it on, I said, 'Eer, we're not havin' another young 'un in the 'ouse are we? A'm sick an' tired of havin' babies ter look after.' Well, that did it. Me ma said 'twer time I was out an' earnin' a livin'. Now me younger sister stays 'ome an' 'elps take care o' the young 'uns."

"What if your mother didn't want to have babies. How would she go about it?"

"Yer can't
not
'ave babies if yer a married lady," said Libby in a superior tone, much in the manner of Maddie's tutor when his pupil was proving to be particularly obtuse. "Only if yer
not
married, and me ma told me afore I came into service 'ow ter keep meself from gettin' in the family way."

"How?" asked Maddie without prevarication.

Libby's voice dropped an octave, and she said slowly and deliberately, "Yer must never let a lad put 'is 'and on yer knee!"

"What?"

"It's what me ma told me," said Libby sagely. "He can 'old yer 'and, but yer must never let 'im put 'is 'and on yer knee."

Maddie regarded Libby's wise little face and said at length, "That's excellent advice, Libby. See that you follow it and no harm will come to you."

"Don't worry, miss, I will," averred Libby fervently. A sudden thought struck her. "'Ere, miss! You didn't let a lad put 'is 'and on
yer
knee, did yer?"

"Oh no, Libby," she answered, not quite truthfully, "never on my knee."

Libby nodded her silent approval. "Well then, yer all right, ain't yer?" and she went back to her blacking.

Maddie was only a little the wiser until she made a call in Berkley Square to confer with young Lady Rutherston about the paper on which they were collaborating for the next gathering of the Bluestocking Brigade.

"You're very good with the language, but I suppose you know that," said Catherine, slanting an admiring look at Maddie. "I'm going to feel like a fraud taking credit when you're the one who has done all the work."

"Think nothing of it," responded Maddie, idly polite, her thoughts grappling with the problem of how to introduce a subject which was of far more immediate importance to her. "You have children. You have other things to do with your time."

"It's nice of you to say so, but, as we both know, one can always find the time to do what one really wants to. I suppose I've developed other interests."

"And you're expecting another child," said Maddie, doggedly following the scent which interested her. "Nausea is no laughing matter."

"What? Oh, I see. No, that's long since over. It only lasts for two or three weeks in the second month or so. I'm five months now."

Maddie's eyes surreptitiously swept over Lady Rutherston's slender figure.

"I see that surprises you," said Catherine. "That makes me feel so much better, especially since I've had to drag out this old thing to disguise my blooming proportions." She fingered a green silk frock with a rather full gored skirt which Maddie thought must be in the height of fashion. "I'll be tired to death of it before my confinement is upon me, and though I have others, they're all of them instantly recognizable."

Lord Rutherston chose that moment to put in an appearance. He intimated that he was on his way to Tattersal's in Hyde Park to look over some horseflesh. A few pleasantries were exchanged. He was more than politely interested when Catherine explained the reason for
Maddie
's visit.

"Miss Sinclair has come up with an interesting shade of meaning on some words which throws an unusual light on
Medea"
his wife told him.

"I'd like to stay and hear what you have to say," he said, turning his grey eyes upon Maddie. "Unfortunately, I'm bidding on some horses, and can't delay. Perhaps some other time?"

"That would be lovely," said Maddie, knowing intuitively that his words had not been uttered as a matter of form.

He bent his dark head and brushed Catherine's cheek with his lips. Maddie barely caught his murmured, "Your gown is very becoming. Now where have I seen it before?"

Lady Rutherston's reply was indistinct, but it startled a wicked bark of laughter from her husband.

When the marquess had taken his leave of the two ladies, Lady Rutherston turned back to Maddie and spoke in a musing tone. "You know, we could do it together."

"I beg your pardon?"

"This paper that I'm to present at our next meeting. We could do it together. How would it be if I gave a general perspective and you concentrated on
Medea
in particular?"

"I don't think that would be wise," Maddie prevaricated.

"Are you afraid to nail your colours to the mast?" asked Lady Rutherston quietly.

"What?"

"I think you know what I mean, Maddie. You're afraid to let it become general knowledge that you're an intelligent, educated young woman with a scholarly bent. I quite understand if that's what makes you hesitate."

"Oh no," she quickly denied, then considered Lady Rutherston's words more carefully. After a moment's quiet reflection, she looked up and said with a rueful grin, "D'you know, I think you're right. That's exactly what I'm afraid of. I don't think the world is ready yet to accept our breed of woman."

"It never will be until women themselves are willing to fly their true colours. It takes courage, I know."

Her look was so full of understanding and so expectant, that the words, "I'll do it," were out of Maddie's mouth before she could stop them.

"Good girl. And you're not wholly right about the world, you know. Some of it has already been converted. Take my husband, for instance."

Maddie gave the matter some thought as she made the short walk to her grandfather's house on Curzon Street. The Marquess of Rutherston must be an exception indeed if he did not find clever women an abomination. She wondered about Deveryn's father, the Earl of Rossmere. All the Verney women were clever, so Deveryn had once told her. She remembered that his tone had been faintly disparaging, conveying, to her ears, that amused masculine tolerance which she found so obnoxious. She did not think his father shared his sentiments, else his own daughters would have been raised as intelligent widgeons, which Lady Mary and Lady Sophie certainly were not. Her own daughters, she quickly resolved, would have the benefit of their mother's tutoring, whatever their father might have to say on the subject.

This proved to be an unhappy train of thought, for it was by no means certain that she'd decided to acknowledge the father of her unborn child. She'd scarcely had time to consider the implications of her momentous discovery, and the future was something she preferred not to think about. She did a quick calculation and reckoned that she was about two months gone. Prevarication was a luxury she could no longer afford. One way or another, she had to make a decision about Deveryn.

She'd thought, when she'd left Dunsdale, that nothing on God's earth could ever induce her to come within hailing distance of him again. On that last morning, moments before she'd stepped into the carriage which was to take her back to London, he'd descended the front steps of the house and had mingled with the departing guests. She'd been shocked to see one side of his handsome face disfigured by deep scratches which puckered his skin from eyebrow to jawbone. Her own bruises were artfully covered by a silk scarf which she'd tied securely under her chin. But she'd felt self-conscious when she'd heard the ribald laughter of some of the gentlemen as they conversed in undertones as they had clapped him on the shoulder with something like amused envy. It was an acid remark from Lady Caro which had put her wise. His friends assumed that the scratches were the result of a wild night of carousing and wenching in the fleshpots of Oxford. The insight had done nothing to improve her temper. Her leave taking of the viscount was as chilly as she could make it, and he had not lingered by her side.

On the long carriage drive home, there had been plenty of time for reflection. His professions of love, she'd decided, were next to worthless in light of his subsequent actions. And she'd damned herself for a fool for allowing herself to succumb to his powerful attraction. Try as she might, she had not been able to prevent herself from dwelling on the intimacies they had shared as lovers. From there, it had been only a step away to imagining him sharing the same intimacies with the nameless, faceless women to whom he had gone in Oxford for his pleasure. She supposed, since they were women of experience, that he'd found her own artless responses somewhat lacking in comparison. Her thoughts had been torture to her. They still were.

Jealousy, she'd discovered, was the demon of all emotions, capable of afflicting its victims with a pain that was almost palpable. Deveryn was a devil. It was in his nature to have a roving eye. Women looked at him boldly and he returned their stares. She'd seen it at Drumoak with Cynthia. She'd observed the same phenomenon at Dunsdale with Lady Elizabeth. Even Lady Caro had not been averse to flirting with the rakish viscount. Flirting was one thing, thought Maddie, but she'd be damned before she'd put up with a "husband" who came to her with the scent of other women on his
skin.

She'd made up her mind, on the long drive home from Oxford to London, that one way or another, she'd root him out of her heart. She'd tried to convince herself that she never wanted to see him again and hoped that their so-called "marriage" would be invalidated. She dwelt at length on all his iniquities, beginning with the fact that he'd cuckolded her father and given her home to his erstwhile mistress. She discovered that she hated him with a passion, but even that could not eclipse her love. She'd thought herself then the unhappiest and most ill-starred of women. That thought came back to torment her as she turned into Curzon Street. Pregnancy was a complication on which she had not counted.