The Baron and the Bluestocking (9 page)

This knowledge sat ill with Hélène’s fish. Raising her chin, she changed her mind about her speech. She had planned to placate her listeners by downplaying her radical ideas. But perhaps she would please the duke and discomfit Shrewsbury by putting the cat among the pigeons. It sounded very much as though the duchess might back her up.

*~*~*

The party moved to the music room with its raised dais as soon as the gentlemen had finished their port. Hélène mounted the platform and sat in a winged chair, trying to radiate the impression that speaking before groups of
ton
luminaries was something to which she was accustomed. She wore her school uniform of long-sleeved black serge with a starched white cotton collar.

First Hélène gave a succinct account of the goals of the school. Then she talked about the progress they had made in a few short weeks. “We are training the girls to cleanliness, which was harder than we had imagined. After several weeks of nutritious food, their bodies are filling out and we are even able to see some pink cheeks bloom. They are making progress on their alphabet, which is the first step in their literacy training.”

“What is the purpose of teaching them to read if they are only to become workers in the woolen trade?” a gentleman asked.

“These are young women. In my view, women have a special place in society. Being literate will make their lives fuller and richer. They will be an asset in the community. And if, by chance, they should marry, they will make better wives and mothers. Their children, when taught to read, may have more advantages and upward mobility than they themselves had.”

This caused a spot of murmuring. Hélène heard the words, “Above their station” being muttered throughout the room. She straightened her back.

“I must say that I do not believe the poor were born to their station by a selective God. They are more in the nature of a test for those of us who have more material possessions. I was recently reminded by a very wise and noble man that it is the duty of those who have been blessed with much to share their bounty with those who have not been similarly blessed.”

A short, roly poly man seated next to the duke, elbowed him in the side. “Sounds like you Ruisdell. You will be an out and out Whig before long. We will run you out of White’s if you are not careful.”

The duke smiled comfortably. “Miss Whitcombe, suppose you tell us your views on the education of women. They have proved very enlightening to my mind.”

Her eyes shot immediately to Lord Shrewsbury who was seated next to Lady Virginia. He was smiling at her broadly, saying, “Hear, hear!”

Wetting her lips, she tried to gather her thoughts. Finally, she spoke, “I believe that certain women, among them Miss Jane Austen and the duchess of Ruisdell, have proven to have powerful intellects that can wrestle with any notions, political or otherwise. I further believe that we have a natural sensibility that men lack. We, as a sex, have a sort of sixth sense that allows us to see into people’s souls, to see what lies beyond their speech and their actions. Miss Austen has demonstrated this with her irony and wit. Many people read her books as mere romances, but they are actually satires, as Lord Shrewsbury mentioned to me not long ago.”

The room was dead silent. Hélène detected a narrow-eyed look on Lady Virginia’s face, as though she were thinking hard. Lord Shrewsbury clapped his hands, and soon other people joined in. Had she not used the very best honey?

The deep bellicose voice of Lord Kent, used to addressing the Lords, rang through the room. “But are these not the tenets put forth by that mad woman, Woolstonecraft? She gave into her sensibilities rather too far. Lived with a chap in France and had his child. Masqueraded as his wife and tried to commit suicide when he rejected her. Not a model for any young woman I would care to acknowledge!”

Hélène began to tremble. Indeed she had no defense against these charges. They were true. She had no choice but to speak of her own situation.

“Lord Kent, there is something I would say, though it is personal. It perhaps explains things I have come to know for myself that are true.”

Lord Shrewsbury looked thunderous. Eyeing him, Lady Virginia stood at once. “Miss Whitcombe-Hodge, there is absolutely no reason why you should feel the need to expose your own personal history to this group. You are clearly a lady of strong principles. Whatever faults Mary Woolstonecraft may have had, you do not share them, I am certain.”

Hélène took a long, steadying breath. “Thank you, Lady Virginia. I believe I have fulfilled my duty here.” The duke leapt up and handed her down from the dais. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “Kent is Whig leader in the Lords. He tends to speak his mind obstreperously. But you did very well.”

“I need to thank Lady Virginia.”

“Of course, but first, reacquaint yourself with Elise. I believe it has been several years since you last saw each other at the vicarage.”

The duchess held out her hand and pulled Hélène into an embrace. “My dear, you did very well. Do not let Kent deflate you. He is a man who, while quite worthy in many ways, is very adversarial. He generally only sets himself up against something in order to hear himself talk.”

“I would have delighted to have given him a set down!” Hélène said.

“Yes, my dear,” the duchess said. “But that would not have been wise. Lady Virginia has good instincts.”

Hélène ventured a query that concerned her to a surprising degree. “Is she engaged to Lord Shrewsbury, then?” She steeled herself against the answer.

“Not yet, my dear, though we do have hopes in that quarter. It is past time he was married.”

Hélène did not question the relief she felt. The duchess grasped her hands. “Now! How long are you to stay at Aunt Clarice’s?”

“She says we need rest for a week before we attempt the return journey. I wish it were not such a long time. Catherine Flynn is teaching my pupils, but I long to return to them!”

“That speaks well of you, my dear. I am so very glad you are in that post.”

“I understand you and the duke recommended me to Lady Clarice. Thank you very much.”

Lady Kent claimed the duchess’s attention at that moment, and Hélène took the opportunity to approach Lady Virginia, who stood several yards away conversing with Lord Shrewsbury. They turned to face her as she approached.

“Lady Virginia, how brave of you to stand up for me against the leader of the Whig party! You saved me from a very awkward situation. Thank you so very much.”

“I did not know his position or I might not have had the temerity to speak up,” she said. Lord Shrewsbury’s eyes were gentle as he looked at the lady.

Hélène felt an unwelcome pang in the region of her heart. She said, “Did I not use the best honey, my lord?”

He turned his gaze on her and laughed. “You did, indeed.”

Lady Virginia said, “For how long will you be visiting London, Miss Whitcombe, or is it Miss Whitcombe-Hodge?”

“The latter, if you please. And I will be here for a week.”

“Well, you must come to tea with my mother and me. I am certain she would like to meet you, and I should very much like to further our acquaintance.”

Hélène wondered at the invitation. Why would this obviously fashionable lady want her for a friend? Was it only kindness? And why was she second-guessing it? “I think that would be lovely,” Hélène said after a moment. They settled on the next day at three o’clock.

“And I should like to drive the two of you in the park,” said Lord Shrewsbury. “I will be the envy of every buck and fribble. Shall I call for you after tea tomorrow?”

“Yes, do!” exclaimed Lady Virginia. “But be warned. We shall be carrying placards saying ‘Education for Women.’”

He laughed. Lord Donald came up to them at that moment. “I say, my father was most awfully rude. I would offer my apologies on his behalf.”

“It is not necessary,” Hélène said. “Lady Virginia defended me quite ably, and now we are become friends.”

After a bit more conversation, Lord Donald offered his arm to Lady Virginia and led her away to meet his mother. Lord Shrewsbury turned to her with a twinkle in his eye. “You did very well, Miss Whitcombe-Hodge. I had no idea you were possessed of such tact.”

“Then you do not know me very well, my lord. When I am among my peers, I do not hold back, but I know which side my bread is buttered on, as they say. Is Lord Kent a patron?”

“Yes. He is.”

“Oh, dear.” She twisted her hands together. “I cannot lose this position, my lord.” The reality of poverty once again reared its Medusa head.

“You shall not. Ruisdell is by far the most powerful patron. He and I and Lord Deal would vote Kent down if it came to that.”

“I have not met Lord Deal,” she said, looking around the room.

“He lives abroad much of the time. He is married to Elise’s sister, Fanny. Neither of them care much for London society. I think they were traveling to Greece for the winter.”

“How lovely. I suppose it must be a very great thing to travel.” Then, fearing she sounded a bit too wistful, she said, “But I am content with my lot. I do not think a life of leisure would suit me.”

“Do you realize we have conversed a full five minutes without arguing?” Shrewsbury asked.

“We cannot have that!” Hélène said. “What did you think of Mr. Blakeley? Do you not think he will make a fine MP?”

“As to that, I cannot say. I have yet to hear him speak. Is he to be your mouthpiece?”

Hélène felt her temper rise. “Now you are goading me intentionally.”

“He said you share a close relationship. And you did engage me to dress him. I gather you have a particular interest there.” He feigned innocence, laying a hand over his heart and widening his eyes.

“What if I have? I cannot stand for Parliament myself!”

“A word of warning, my dear Miss Whitcombe-Hodge. He has no intention of taking up those issues dearest to your heart. He confided as much to me.”

“I do not believe you! Why would you want to make trouble between Mr. Blakeley and me?”

“Maybe because being civil to you is much too dangerous.” His eyes bore into hers with strange heat. All at once it seemed that they were the only ones in the room.

“I do not take your meaning,” she said, her heart pounding warmth into her face.

“And you are meant to have a first-class brain.”

Before she could reply, Lady Virginia was back at her side. Hélène hid her shaking hands in the folds of her skirt. As soon as civility allowed, she departed from their company and went to find Lady Clarice so that they might leave.

*~*~*

As Hélène lay upon her bed in Lady Clarice’s townhouse that night, she viewed in her mind the many faces of Lord Shrewsbury: the amused face with his lips smiling and his eyebrows raised; the angry face he had shown at Lord Kent’s comment, with his jaw set and his eyes hard; the weary but tolerant face he had shown the first time she met him. But the face that lingered was the last one she had seen. Those hot eyes had ignited a fire in her breast. Turning on her side, she felt it again. She could not ignore that there was something between them, but she was too inexperienced to know whether it went beyond mere flirtation. And what of Lady Virginia? Maybe tomorrow she would learn more of that relationship. Enough to cool this growing ardor inside her.

In order to banish those thoughts, she remembered the words he had spoken about Samuel. They could not be true, could they? Samuel could not be so duplicitous. But what would happen if she married him and found that they did not think alike on political ideas? She realized that then her whole rationale for marrying him would disappear. Clearly, there were some things she needed to get straight before she consented to be his wife. It was no longer a foregone conclusion that she would marry him.

Hélène did not rest easily that night.

{ 9 }

WHAT HAD HE BEEN THINKING of when he invited Lady Virginia
and
Miss Whitcombe-Hodge—possessor of that ridiculous name—to ride with him in the park, Shrewsbury wondered. Was it not enough that they were becoming bosom bows? If only the termagant goddess had stayed in the country where she belonged. Seeing her amidst the
ton
was making him forget the unfortunate station in her life that made her an unsuitable choice for a baron of the Realm.

Her clothes, for instance. Last night she had worn that horrible black schoolteacher’s uniform, a white collar at her neck and buttons down the front. What on earth would she have to wear in the park? Last night everyone had known her for a schoolteacher. But today in the park they would think he was bringing out some sort of Friday-faced poor relation.

No. That was not fair. She was not at all Friday-faced. Her face was lovely and more so in contrast with her plain garb. Let the
ton
make of it what they would. At least, they would not make the mistake of thinking he had any intentions toward her.

With these thoughts in his head, he was confounded when he met the two ladies at Rose House. He had no sooner greeted them than he exclaimed, “Where did you get that frock, Miss Whitcombe-Hodge?”

The schoolteacher looked like some model out of
La Belle Assemble.
Her dress was a burnt sienna color worsted, piped in black velvet. Its effect was to accent those smoky gray eyes and pick out reddish lights in her dark hair, which was no longer in a schoolteacher’s bun. It was arranged
à la mode
with glossy ringlets descending from an arrangement at the back of her head to lie over her shoulder. The cut of the walking gown showed her figure to advantage, pulling his gaze to her again and again, away from the buxom Lady Virginia.

“It was given to me by the duchess this morning. She said it did not suit her. Her footman brought a portmanteau filled with dresses, as a matter of fact. It seems quite strange to me to be out of my school uniform.”

“She looks enchanting, does she not?” Lady Virginia asked. He could not detect a trace of guile in her voice and liked her the better for it. “My maid, Sarah, arranged her hair, for we could not have her going about with that schoolteacher’s bun!”