Page 30 of Venus in Disguise

“So it is, but misbehaving leads to a life of full of wickedness and shame,” Mrs Harris replied crisply. “Does it not, my lord?” she asked him, her voice pleasant enough, though Pip was well aware she was making a point.

“Indeed, it does, Mrs Harris. So much wickedness.” Though he did not know quite what had got into him, he lingered a little over the last word, holding her gaze, just for the hell of it.

Rather to his delight, her colour rose.

“Quite,” she said sharply. “Come, Tilly. You must wash and change if you want to have any supper.”

Groaning, Tilly went to her, hearing the voice of command as clearly as Pip did. A moment later, they were gone.

Well, he thought, amused. Mrs Harris really was a conundrum, but perhaps that icy exterior was not quite as impenetrable as he had thought.

Chapter 9

Dear Diary,

I have taken to my bed and pleaded illness, though I am not ill, only so very shaken, and shocked and beside myself at my good fortune.

I know what I did was wicked. Blackmailing Lady Narcissa to keep quiet about her private meeting with Mr Anson was a terrible, terrible thing to do and I know I must atone for such abhorrent behaviour. Yet I find it hard to regret the outcome.

Mr Anson was not at all what I expected, and his treatment of me was beyond anything I might have believed possible. I knew he would be well within his rights to give me a dressing down – and he did, but not in the way I expected. He was unexpectedly kind despite his harsh words, and I find myself at a loss to account for such behaviour. Though I still believe Narcissa would be a fool to throw everything away because of her feelings for a man who will bring her nothing but trouble, I find I have some sympathy with her, and can understand what tempted her to do such a reckless thing.

―Excerpt of a diary entry by Miss Maud Pinkerton.

19th February 1850, Kemble House, Mayfair, London.

Narcissa looked up from the cup of chocolate she was nursing, surprised to see Maud walking into the breakfast parlour. She had kept to her room ever since her meeting with Mr Anson, and Narcissa had seen nothing of her. Mrs Chandler had told her Maud was suffering one of her megrims, with a little curl of her lip that showed what she thought of that.

For once, Narcissa felt some accord with Mrs Chandler’s impatience. She did not believe for a moment that Maud was unwell, only that the horrid creature was too ashamed to face her. This suspicion was born out as she glared furiously at Maud across the table, but the lady continually avoided her eye.

“I hope you are feeling better?” Narcissa enquired, keeping her voice sweet, determined that the wretched woman acknowledge her. “I was so sorry to hear you were unwell. Megrims are such a debilitating illness. I’m sure you do not deserve to be in such dreadful pain, but sadly, life is seldom fair. Is it, Maud?”

“Indeed, no,” Maud replied, still avoiding her eye and buttering a slice of toast with quick, nervous swipes of her knife. “It rarely is, but I am much better now. Thank you, Narcissa, you… you have always been so very kind, and I do not think I have ever told you how… how grateful I am for that.”

Narcissa’s eyebrows shot up. Her words had sounded entirely sincere, so much so that she almost demanded to know what the devil Maud meant by them. Settling into anxious silence, Narcissa watched the woman curiously. Had she come up with another way to make Narcissa’s life a misery?

Not that it was a round of laughter and giddy happiness at present, or anything close. Though she had hoped Mr Anson might change his mind in time, Narcissa had known it was a foolish wish. She had not seen or heard anything of him since that day at the gallery. According to Delia, whatever event Narcissa was attending, he had either just left as she arrived, or he was attending another soiree elsewhere. Though Narcissa had not confided in her, Delia knew she had a partiality for Mr Anson, and so did not find it amazing that she seemed despondent if he was not around.

Finally, breakfast was done. Narcissa had just got to her feet when Maud surprised her once more.

“Lud, but the rain has finally ceased. I thought we must build an ark if it carried on any longer. Would you care to take a turn about the garden with me, my lady? If we keep to the paths, we shall be quite dry, and you are looking for a little pale. Some fresh air will put the bloom back into your cheeks.”

Narcissa struggled to keep the scowl from her face, aware Mrs Chandler was watching the exchange with interest. Her cousin was self-absorbed for the most part, but she was not a fool. If she sensed there was a dispute between them, something interesting that she could stick her nose into, she would not rest until she knew what it was about.

“That does sound like a good idea,” Narcissa replied carefully. “Though we had best make haste, for I do not think it will be long before the next shower.”

Having got her way, Maud nodded and hurried off. Less than ten minutes later, the two women found themselves in the high walled back garden of Kemble House. The few daffodils and spring bulbs that had dared make an appearance in the dreadful weather hung their heads, looking as dispirited as Narcissa felt.

“Thank you for coming,” Maud said, her expression uneasy.

“What do you want, Maud?” Narcissa replied curtly. “If it’s more money, then—”

“No! No, not that,” Maud replied, colour rising to her cheeks. “I wanted to apologise and… and to explain.”

“Apologise?” Narcissa said in disgust. “You think that is all it takes to be forgiven for what you did? You ruined everything!”

She sucked in a sharp breath, aware that her voice had trembled but too proud to allow Maud to see how very wretched she was. Though Narcissa hardly believed her eyes, a fat tear rolled down Maud’s cheek.

“Oh, my dear. I… I’m so sorry. I beg you will believe that. I know it is no excuse, but you do not know what it is to be growing old, alone and with no one to protect me. You do not know what it is to wonder if I shall end my days in the poorhouse when Mrs Chandler finally grows tired of me, and my own pitiful savings run out. I know what I did was very, very wrong, and your Mr Anson, he—”