The Lie and the Lady (33 page)

“You are hardly one for country life. You sneeze at every passing flower. I'm surprised you didn't go into spasms when you walked into my mill. And you're selfish, and stubborn. So focused on what you want you'll sacrifice what you need to get it.

“And I'm not suddenly going to turn into a prince or a duke. I'm a miller, Letty. I will spend my life turning grain into flour. I don't have the time to sit around writing poetry to your hair, nor the talent for it. I am as plain as they come. I cannot afford a wife who wants to take trips to London every year for the fashions—”

He stopped himself and sighed deep. “But for all that, I loved you from the moment we met. Because you make me feel alive. Life without you was thrown into sharp relief when you stepped out of the door at your sister's house and smiled directly at me.

“And when you're with me . . . I think you're closer to being yourself than even you know.” He stepped close to her and risked everything to reach out his hand and cup the side of her face. “When you are yourself? Messy, and honest? You're dazzling.”

The heat of his hand on her cheek stole her breath, sped her heart. She closed her eyes, soaked in the warmth.

Stay, she found herself thinking. Willing. Don't speak. Don't act. Just stay here in this moment.

Because when she did speak, did act . . . the moment would end.

And it had to end.

She opened her eyes. He was watching her, sad. Because he knew too that this moment must end.

She had to be the one to do it. There was no other way.

All it took was one step. If she stepped forward . . . if she closed the small distance between them . . . life would change irrevocably.

But instead, she stepped back.

The world rushed back to them. The chirping birds, the breeze. The bells of St. Stephen's. Everything she had to do today filled her mind again—the calls to pay and receive, the dinners to organize, the letters to write. The ease of a minute life.

The banns to be read.

“The banns. I . . . I have to go.” Her eyes fell to the grass beneath their feet. Another step back. More grass. “We've been gone too long. They will notice.”

She couldn't risk looking up at his face. She would lose her resolve if she did so. But she could picture his expression perfectly: his eyes becoming hard again, inscrutable. His mouth pressing into a thin line. And no other outward sign that anything was amiss.

She had to do the same thing. Two deep breaths, rolling her shoulders back and pulling herself upright by that invisible string attached to the top of her head. And suddenly, she could see clearly again. She could meet his gaze. And was not surprised by what she saw.

His mask was back up and in place, as firmly as hers. His hands had gone behind his back, his posture stiff. Contained.

“Of course,” he said, with a bow. “Please make my excuses to my mother.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Good day, Mr. Turner.”

And she turned and walked into the church. Toward her future.

She did not look back.

18

I
n the days following Turner's declaration of love, Leticia came to understand a simple truth that many a bride before her had found to be bedrock:

It would have been better to elope.

Her wedding was a week away. Palmer Blackwell's ball in her honor was to be on Thursday. There were a dozen things to do in any given minute.

Aside from what was becoming the usual stream of ladies paying calls, calls to be returned, and shopping on market day, Leticia had daily meetings with Cook, planning the wedding breakfast—which would be held at Bluestone Manor directly after the service next Sunday, and the entirety of Helmsley would be in attendance. Sir Barty was allowing her to expand the menu beyond pork, and had promised not to goggle should a bowl of oranges be produced. Add to that Rebecca, who had been hired to do the cake, coming around almost every day with samples, trying to find the most perfect one for the new Lady Babcock, whom she dearly wished to impress.

Cook mentioned more than once that it should be her being impressed, since she had a say in all cooking staff hires. But it was notable that she took to those cake samples with a gluttonous glee. She even mentioned the idea of having Rebecca do some tarts for the breakfast as well.

Then Leticia and Mrs. Dillon (who was equally enamored of Rebecca's handiwork) made decisions about decorations. Which was not easily done.

“Flowers should be everywhere!” Mrs. Dillon cried.

“Not unless you want the bride sneezing and her eyes watering throughout the breakfast,” Leticia answered, quelling the housekeeper's enthusiasm. “I was thinking we could use the lace tablecloth, with a runner of lavender underneath it.”

“But you cannot have a wedding breakfast without flowers,” Mrs. Dillon said, dejected. The woman was usually most practical, but the business of planning a party had sent her into an opinionated spiral of glee. It had been quite some time since there had been a party at Bluestone, after all. “Miss Babcock, what is your opinion?”

And she was clever about it too. Because Mrs. Dillon had hit upon the one part of planning a party that Margaret might have some interest in.

“There are some delphiniums in the east garden that would make lovely cuttings. I could go out right now and show you . . .”

“Regardless,” Leticia said firmly as Margaret and Mrs. Dillon began to enthusiastically debate which flowers would be best (and forcing a glum Margaret back into her seat), “they will have to be placed far away from me. Any flowers will have to be restrained flowers. Yes, Molly? What is it?”

The new lady's maid rushed into the room, carrying a number of parcels under her arm.

“Oh, my lady!” she exclaimed. “I just couldn't wait. These were delivered for you from Mrs. Robertson!”

“It must be the wedding dress!” Mrs. Dillon trilled with excitement. Leticia smiled weakly. She should have been excited as well. But somehow she felt numb at the thought of seeing her gown.

“We simply must open it!” Mrs. Dillon turned to her with shining eyes. “To . . . inspect it, of course. Make certain there are no flaws.”

Mrs. Dillon and Molly both nodded fervently. Even Margaret looked mildly interested.

“All right,” Leticia said, waving her hand. “Go ahead.”

Molly had the restraint to not tear at the packaging, instead reverently unfolding the brown paper and pulling back the layers of tissue.

“Ohhh . . .” she sighed. “It's the finest thing I've ever seen.” With the tips of her fingers, she picked the gown up by the shoulders and held it up for everyone to see.

It was a beautiful piece of work. A warm creamy lace fell over a silk skirt that was almost gold, but lighter, like sunshine overlaid by wisps of clouds. The bodice, in the same buttery silk, was cut in two long V-shaped layers, which would frame her elegant neck perfectly. And the sleeves were barely wisps of fabric, edged with the same lace, but underneath, peeking out from the silk.

It was a perfect amalgam of the polish of town life and the whimsy of the country.

And Leticia felt nothing when she saw it.

“It is indeed beautiful,” she said, covering up her feelings, or lack thereof. “Mrs. Robertson does excellent work.”

“I can't believe I get to touch something so lovely. Wendra is going to be so jealous,” Molly said with relish. Then, remembering herself, she turned with wide eyes to Leticia. “I mean, my lady, Wendra would be jealous, if I told her about it. Which I absolutely will not be doing.”

“It's all right, Molly,” Leticia said, half smiling. “You can mention the dress to Wendra.” Let the gossiping maid take her information back to Mrs. Emory. Letting her know they were pleased with Mrs. Robertson's work could harm them in no way. In fact, maybe it would soften up the recalcitrant Mrs. Emory to the new order in Helmsley.

“What's that?” Margaret asked, nodding toward the other packages that Molly had laid on the chair.

“I assume that the smaller one is the stockings and gloves that go with the wedding dress,” Leticia answered. Then, after exchanging a look with Mrs. Dillon, took a deep breath. “And the last package is for you.”

“For me?” Margaret replied, her brow coming down. “But I didn't order anything.”

“I know, but when I had Mrs. Robertson measure me for my wedding gown, I ordered something for you as well.”

“I told you, I have no wish for a new gown! My Sunday dress will do very well, I am sure.”

“For the wedding, yes, but this is for—”

But Margaret, for all her recent going-along, had apparently found a sticking point. For the past week or so, she had done her best to fit herself into the mold Leticia had tried to impart—gently—that she could not bend any further.

“Could you please, please leave one thing well enough alone? I've gone along with everything else.” She took the package that Leticia held out to her, swiping it away without any of the reverence Molly had displayed.

Molly squeaked in protest.

“I'm not permitted to tie up my skirts to work, I have to pay calls with you, and agree with everything you say when we are out and I haven't the foggiest idea why! We now have vegetables with our meals, which granted, isn't a bad thing, but it's different.”

Margaret tore at the packaging, pulling back the wrapping and tissue paper, again causing Molly to squeak.

“I wish you would listen to me just once! Because I meant it when I said I didn't want another—”

But Margaret's vehemence came to an abrupt halt when she reached into the package and pulled out . . .

“Trousers?” she asked, confused.

“Hmm,” Leticia said. “So it would seem.”

“You got me trousers?” She fingered the thick brown wool—perfect for hard labor, Leticia had been assured.

“For when you garden. You cannot tie up your skirts, it's far too unseemly, but neither does your smock let you kneel and dig in the dirt as you need to. These will allow you to work freely.”

“Ladies don't wear trousers,” Margaret said, still staring at them in wonder.

But she simply waved that away. “Margaret, you are a lady. Nothing you do will ever take that away. So if you wear trousers, then yes, a lady does wear trousers.”

“Still . . .you said certain things are expected . . .”

“Yes,” Leticia said gently. “Certain things are expected. But perhaps, what's expected of you isn't always what is right for you.”

Margaret looked up from the trousers, her eyes suspiciously shiny.

“Now, they are only for when you are working, mind. And never to be worn when we are entertaining,” Leticia warned. Margaret nodded fervently. Then she sniffled.

“I thought . . . I thought you were going to force me to wear something new for the wedding, or Mr. Blackwell's ball.”

Leticia sent a look to Mrs. Dillon, whose eyes were suspiciously shiny as well.

“As you said, your Sunday dress will do very well for the wedding,” she replied, keeping her voice even. “And for Mr. Blackwell's ball . . . there's your blue gown, isn't there?”

“It's too short,” Margaret replied, suffocating another sniffle.

“Well,” Mrs. Dillon said, taking her cue. “Perhaps that can be fixed. Molly?”

“Oh yes!” Molly said. “We only need a few inches of ribbon to be sewn around the hem. I saw a lovely aqua ribbon at Mrs. Robertson's shop on market day.”

Leticia held her breath. Mrs. Dillon did too.

“I suppose . . .” Margaret said, her eyes falling back to her new trousers, “that would work.”

Leticia's face broke into a wide smile. “Excellent. Molly, you can have the gown ready by Thursday?”

Molly nodded fervently. Mrs. Dillon winked at Leticia. “But we shan't waste any time. Come along, Molly.” Mrs. Dillon picked up the package with the wedding gown in it and brought Molly along in her wake. The words
perhaps don't tell Wendra about the trousers
were whispered to a continually nodding Molly.

Said trousers were still in Margaret's hands, her fingers still running over the twill of the wool.

“In that blue gown,” Leticia said, “I think you'll be surprised by the number of young gentlemen who ask you to dance.”

“I'm already surprised to be dancing with Mr. Blackwell,” Margaret answered. Her brow came down. “Do you think Mr. Turner will ask me to dance as well?”

Turner. Just the mention of his name sent a frisson of attention through her. Its weight sat on her chest, threatening to suffocate her.

“I have no doubt,” she said, hiding her reaction with a deep breath. “Margaret, I have to ask . . . are you still reconsidering your philosophy of attraction? Do you still feel that you blush in Mr. Turner's presence or . . . or other people's?”

Leticia hoped that Margaret would say something that would confirm her suspicions about her lack of blushing at Mr. Blackwell. Or something that would mean the girl's heart wouldn't break when Mr. Turner invariably did not return her interest. Because he could not.