Page 6 of Venus in Disguise

Maud sent Mr Anson a doubtful glance. “Oh. Umm… yes, well. Do come along, my dear. It doesn’t do to linger in the foyer. You meet all sorts of… of odd people here if you dally, you know.”

Narcissa winced and bit her lip as she dared a glance up at Mr Anson, dismayed to discover the mocking glint had returned to his eyes now.

“Yes, do run along, my lady. You never know what kind of fellow might importune you if you linger here unprotected,” he replied before giving a curt bow and stalking away.

“Oh, Maud!” Narcissa said as the woman towed her back up the stairs. She was surprisingly strong for such an apparently scrawny creature. “That was too bad of you. How could you be so rude.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Maud replied, her tone indignant. “You know very well you ought not to have run off alone, else Mrs Chandler would not have sent me after you.”

“That’s not the point. You were very impolite to Mr Anson, and he was good enough to look out for me when he’d no reason to do so.”

“Mr Anson is not a respectable chaperone, as I’m sure I need not tell you,” Maud replied doggedly. “And he’s not a proper gentleman.”

Narcissa scowled, wondering what on earth she could mean by that. She knew, of course, that some people thought less of him for his mixed blood, but she had not thought Maud could be so horribly judgemental. “His father is a viscount!”

“His father is in trade,” Maud hissed, her face the picture of disgust. “He owns warehouses all over the country.”

“He does?” Narcissa asked, interested now. That was a dreadfully scandalous thing for a nobleman to do. Admitting to working for a living was even more shocking than discovering a woman with a brain in her head. More ridiculous rules she could not understand. “Well, I don’t see why you should hold that against Mr Anson in any case.”

“Don’t be foolish, dear,” was all Maud would say in reply.

Narcissa felt a surge of irritation. “So what if his father is in trade? He’s dreadfully rich, isn’t he?”

Maud returned a look of pained incredulity and shook her head. “Money cannot buy lineage, dear.”

“But he’s a viscount, he has lineage and money,” she protested.

“He’s tainted it by engaging in trade,” Maud said firmly. “No gentleman would do such a thing.”

“So, he would do better to let his family starve than earn an honest living?”

Maud looked at her in surprise. “Obviously.”

Narcissa stared at her, baffled all over again, not only by the ton and its arbitrary rules, but by a woman like Maud agreeing with them. Maud had no money of her own, no means of supporting herself, and must therefore live on the charity of her family, yet she had the temerity to despise a man for having the courage and determination to make his own way and work for a living. The world was entirely mad. Narcissa had long ago concluded her father lived by a set of rules no sane person could consider normal, but he was a duke and, therefore—as far as Narcissa could tell—bred to live in a realm far removed from that of most other people. Maud, though? Surely, she could see this was madness.

“And that’s hardly the biggest problem, is it?” Maud hissed, glaring at her. “His mother is Indian. The Earl of Ulceby’s by-blow. His grandmother was an Indian servant! Can you imagine?”

It was hardly surprising to hear Mr Anson was Anglo-Indian. Narcissa had concluded as much from looking at him. Did he face this amount of prejudice from everyone, she wondered? Surely not, for he was popular and invited everywhere, but he must know there were some, like Maud, who looked down upon him. Was he too playing a part, acting unconcerned and at his ease in the face of people who secretly despised him? The thought made her reconsider the way he had acted toward her. Had he expected that treatment from her too? Her heart clenched at the idea.

“Can you imagine what your father would say if he’d seen you speaking to such a man?” Maud went on. “Good heavens. Do you want to be isolated at Hardacre for the rest of your days, like your sister?”

“What do you know of that?” Narcissa demanded sharply, for no one—not even Fidelia herself—would talk about what had befallen her.

Narcissa had only known that she had waved Fidelia off for a season in town, and then not seen her again for nigh on eighteen months. When she’d returned to Hardacre, her sister had been little more than a wraith, a frail shadow of the woman she had once been, shrouded in melancholy. Fidelia would never confide in her, only saying she had been unwell, a line repeated by their father. Weak-minded, he’d said of Fidelia, whilst fixing Narcissa with his steely glare and demanding to know if she was made of sterner stuff.

Of course, your grace, she had replied automatically. What else could she say? It felt like betraying Fidelia, who had never been weak-minded in Narcissa’s opinion, only far too biddable. She had always done what his grace had asked of her without question, whereas Narcissa had always tried to find a loophole, or a way of doing precisely what she wanted to do. If the duke demanded she practise her needlework when she wanted to be outside, she would do just as he asked—whilst perched halfway up a tree. If he demanded she practise the piano, she would do that too, choosing the bawdiest song she could think of, learned from the grooms with whom she was not supposed to associate. Despite this, and despite the way he ranted and raged at her, Narcissa was aware she was the favourite child. She had come to believe that he despised any show of weakness and, whilst her behaviour might drive him wild, he respected her for not bending to his will.

“Well?” Narcissa pressed, when Maud failed to reply. “What happened to Fidelia? What do you know?”

Maud turned, glaring at her, her voice brittle with irritation. “I know nothing. Good Lord, child. Do you think the family confides in me? I only know that Fidelia must have done something wrong. Did she really become overwhelmed and suffer a nervous collapse? Perhaps, for she was so terribly shy, it’s possible the season was simply too much for her. Or perhaps she went astray, perhaps she was ruined, perhaps, perhaps…” Maud threw up her hands, her thin cheeks flushed with colour. “What does it matter, other than to serve as a lesson to you? Your father will keep you a prisoner at Hardacre for the rest of your days if you do not marry well. I should consider that before you go tempting the likes of Mr Anson to take an interest in you. He’s a libertine, a man with a reputation for violence, and as far from an eligible husband as you are likely to get.”

Narcissa stared at the woman in astonishment. She had never heard Maud speak so passionately about anything, or even offer an opinion. Before this moment she had been a little grey mouse, terrified to irritate her charitable cousin, and in her terror, doing just that with her over polite anxiety and obsequiousness.

Maud stared back at her, chin up, eyes sparkling a little too brightly. “You think I would not have liked to marry, to have a home and family of my own? Do you think I chose this for myself?”

Narcissa shook her head, admitting silently and with a surge of shame that she had not thought about it at all.

“There are not so many chances in life for a woman, my lady. You have been blessed with beauty, position, and wealth, but even that won’t save you if you make a misstep. Tread carefully, and don’t go wanting something that does not fall within the boundaries of what your father will accept. It will lead to misery, that I promise you.”