A Lady in Disguise (18 page)

“It seems to me,” Lillian said, “that the wealthier a person is, the less likely they are to part with any of their... er ... brass.” By now aware that Mr. Grenshaw could not be described as “gentry,” she thought he would be more likely to continue talking, if she tuned her words to match his own. Actually, except for their appearance and that she never had any doubts of her father’s integrity, Mr. Canfield and Mr. Grenshaw were quite similar. Indeed, listening to Mr. Grenshaw nearly made her homesick for her father.

“You’ve struck it exactly! Being in your situation, you’d know all about that, eh? I’ll wager you’ve worked in places where the gold plate lies thick on the table, and you lucky to get a look-in at five pounds from year to year. Not that you can have been a governess long, by the looks of you.”

“It has sometimes seemed much longer than it has actually been.”

“I daresay, I daresay. But didn’t it gall you to think of all that good blunt going into someone else’s pocket? Someone who ain’t... isn’t half so learned as you? And why? ‘Cause they was born to it, that’s all, just an accident of nature ... and there they are with the stuff in sacks and you working day to day with nothing to show for it.”

“Mr. Everard seems very generous.”

Mr. Grenshaw hastened to say, “I’m not speaking of Thorpe; he’s a good sort. When Emily was alive, it was all ask and have. No meanness. If there’s one kind of fellow I bar, it’s one that won’t spare a farthing to buy a friend a glass of beer. Thorpe’s always done right by us, even since that sad time, but there’s no denying it troubles me to ask for it. If I could only get this plan in motion ... but there, it’s as you say. The richer the fellow, the less he wants to take a risk. Not that our enterprise could be called risky! No, I assure you. Your money’s safe as houses ... safer! Rent don’t make you fifty percent return per annum on your money!”

“Fifty percent per year, Mr. Grenshaw?”

“At the least! The very least! Profits can only go up!”

“It sounds most interesting, sir. Regrettably, I have no savings to invest in any venture, no matter how lucrative.” Lillian remembered her father kicking a similar rogue out of doors and coming back to say, “You deal the same, Lillian, with anyone that offers you more than seven and a half on any investment. All monies returned by third year, my ... foot! Taking me for a sap-skull. Me!”

Mr. Grenshaw came to sit quite close to Lillian. She slid a trifle farther down the window seat, and he leaned forward to fill in the intervening space. His breath smelled of stale tobacco. “I know you haven’t any money to speak of, Miss Cole. How should you have? But you know plenty that do. A word from you—someone they know and have trusted with their children.”

“I hardly think—”

“Just write ‘em a note, saying how you met a gentleman with an investment scheme, and how you’d invest yourself if you had it. They’d be happy to send you what you ask. And you wouldn’t need but one hundred pounds each from ten different people. Maybe your friends can write to their friends, and such like.”

“A thousand pounds, Mr. Grenshaw?”

“A hundred pounds apiece isn’t nothing to get in on the kind of blunt we’ll be making this time next year. One of the partners had to back out of the scheme, owing to an unforeseen circumstance, and the others can only hold his space open for so long. A mere thousand and we’re in like a greased pig!”

“I don’t know....” Lillian said, drawing out the words in a way designed to force Mr. Grenshaw to fill in the pause.

“ ‘Course we needn’t tell your friends what the true profits are. We’ll tell ‘em twenty-five percent per year, and the rest goes right into your little pocket!” He tried to pat her leg. Lillian moved it out of reach just in time.

“Perhaps if I knew more about what you have in mind.”

Mr. Grenshaw looked instinctively over his shoulder, though he could have seen nothing but the open sky beyond the window. He apparently decided to take the risk. “Some acquaintances of mine have the chance to sell supplies to the army and the navy. With the war going the way it is, it could be years of big profits before peace is made. And after that... well, there’s always a war going on someplace, isn’t there?”

“Regrettably.” To make profits even half of what Mr. Grenshaw promised, the supplies must be as rotten as the hearts of the speculators. She wondered if the “unforeseen circumstance” which prevented one of them from investing was a sudden jail stay, or something worse.

“I don’t know if my former employers would listen to me on such a subject, Mr. Grenshaw.”

“They might, they might. You never know when it comes to money. Why not take up your pen again, and write ‘em today?” He was obviously struggling to keep the avuncular tone in his voice. “It’ll only take a couple minutes of your time, and think of the money. Miss Cole! Your own house. No more working for other people. You could marry. Start your own family, like.”

Lillian gathered up her paper and pen and rose to her feet. “I cannot give you an answer just now, Mr. Grenshaw. Allow me to think on it for a day or two.”

“There’s no time,” he said, making a grab for her hand and missing. Sweat stood out on his brow. “My partners will hold the place for me if they believe I can raise the wind. They’re waiting to hear.”

“I’m so sorry. I’ll give you my answer later.” Lillian hurried from the room. Silently, she tiptoed back to steal a glance at Mr. Grenshaw.

Rising to look out the window, he struck his fist into his hand. “Blast ‘er, Claude. Slipped through yer fingers. I hope Ursula has better luck.” He fell silent.

Ursula apparently hadn’t. Lillian was standing on the stairs when Thorpe entered with Mrs. Grenshaw and Nora trailing behind him. He walked quite fast, but not quickly enough to outpace Mrs. Grenshaw’s whine. “If you only knew what it meant to us, I’m sure you’d not begrudge us. Emily—”

“I fear,” Thorpe said, “that if you do not hurry, you will not have time to dress before my guests arrive. It would have been better to let the coachman choose his own pace, instead of slowing him to a crawl. Till this evening, ladies.” He bowed and walked away.

Lillian saw Mrs. Grenshaw pinch Nora’s arm. The girl bit her lip but did not cry out. “Couldn’t you have said something to turn him up sweet?” the older woman hissed. “My Emily would have had him handing us the money on a silver tray, petting him and telling him what a bountiful fellow he was. But you! Shrunk over in the corner without a word to say for yourself. And after sitting in his pocket this whole week, practically! You should have gotten us that money by now!”

“I’m sorry, Aunt—”

“ ‘Sorry’ butters no parsnips!” Mrs. Grenshaw seemed to master her anger. “See you do better tonight! Now, you’ll need to bathe and wash your hair. Did you lay out that gown, as I told you?”

“No, Aunt. We were in such a push to leave this morning, I hadn’t time!”

“Do you want to ruin everything? Get upstairs and do it now, or it’ll have to be pressed and the servants will talk and spoil everything. Go on, what are you waiting for?”

Lillian shrank back as Mrs. Grenshaw pointed upwards. Nora dropped a curtsy and ran for the stairs. Mrs. Grenshaw waddled away, possibly to report failure to her husband. As Nora passed on the stairs, Lillian threw out a hand. “My dear...” she said, then halted, hardly knowing how to go on.

“Oh! Miss Cole. I didn’t see you.”

“I’m not surprised. You have many worries just now. You see, I heard everything your aunt had to say. I cannot claim to envy you your relations.”

“I—I love my aunt dearly.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, of course. She’s ... they’ve been very good to me and my family. My father’s dead. Without Uncle Grenshaw, we should have starved.”

“But do you think it right to sell yourself into marriage for their sakes? That is what they mean to do, is it not? To persuade Thorpe that you are Emily re-created, so that he will once more fall in love with her. Thus, giving themselves free access to the funds Emily made available when Thorpe’s         adoration for her blinded his better instincts. Am I not correct?”

The girl before her blanched and swayed. Lillian touched Nora to steady her. The staircase was perhaps not the best venue for a conversation of this type.

But Nora recoiled from Lillian’s hand. “No! No, you’re completely wrong! Aunt Grenshaw says you’re in love with him yourself, which is why you are talking like this! I— I... adore Mr. Everard. Anyone who marries him must be the luckiest girl in the world!” So saying, Nora flew away up the stairs and down the corridor, her breath coming in great gasps, as though she were about to cry.

Lillian wished her pity for the girl had not brought her to speak. Nora obviously had little will of her own left, and whatever faint remnants might remain were lost to a sense of family duty. She would not summon enough resolve to refuse Thorpe if he asked her to be his. If necessary, Lillian would reveal her true identity to Nora and offer her protection and money. This she would do despite the danger of Mr. and Mrs. Grenshaw’s upsetting a butter boat over her and the fear of being despised by Thorpe for her deceptions. She knew full well what it was like to be pressured into marriage because of someone else’s ambitions.

* * * *

Rarely had Lillian felt less like enjoying herself than this evening. Nevertheless, she dressed with some care in the gown that had so mysteriously entered her wardrobe. The deep blue brought out of the clarity of her skin, while the silver strands woven into the material seemed at once to darken her lashes as well as to lighten her hair. She couldn’t help wondering if the dress became her so well because Thorpe had not only purchased it for her but also would see her in it tonight.

Suddenly feeling much better, Lillian stood on tiptoe to see more of herself in the tiny glass propped on the worktable. She pinched her cheeks to bring up color and rubbed her lips to make them a deeper shade of pink.

She could not resist the temptation to draw her sapphires from their hiding place. Holding them to her throat, she could believe that the past eight days were no more than a curious dream invented between a fete champetre and a morning reception. Looking about her at the mismatched furnishings of the governess’s room, Lillian smiled. This was by no leap of the imagination her own rose-colored bedchamber in her father’s London home.

Someone rapped at the door. Lillian fumbled the jewels into the basket and was composedly gazing out the window when Lady Genevieve entered. “Ah, my dear child, how charming! That way of putting up your hair is most becoming. Most becoming.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Lillian said. “May I say that you quite dazzle me?”

“You certainly may. One never grows tired of compliments, even if they are not so much for oneself as for what one wears. You young girls need never add jewelry to make yourselves fascinating.” Lady Genevieve stroked the jewels that lay against the matte black of her gown. Magnificent diamonds, giving back light like the glitter of sunlight on snow, encircled her throat, hung on her wrists, and weighted her fingers.

“Most young girls have no such jewelry to wear.” Lillian now thought without regret of her own gems. It was as well she could not wear them, for beside Lady Genevieve’s treasure, who would notice any mere sapphires?

“Which reminds me of my errand. Please me by taking these.” Lady Genevieve held out a strand of silver beads. “I thought you might weave them into your hair or wear them as a necklace.” Lillian hesitated, for she did not want to accept any further gifts from Lady Genevieve under false pretenses. “Call them a loan, rather than a gift,” the older woman continued.

“In that case, my lady, I accept them gratefully. Which do you think would do better?” she asked, lifting them to the neckline of her gown and then raising them to gleam against the soft arrangement of her brunette locks.

“It is a pity to disarrange your hair, but I really do think that is the place for them. If—if you’ll permit me?”

“Please,” she said, handing her hairbrush to Lady Genevieve as she seated herself on a low stool.

* * * *

People had been arriving for quite an hour before Lillian dared to steal down the stairs into the ballroom. Considering that she’d entered countless such rooms during her two Seasons, and many more as the guest of various county families, Lillian felt oddly uncomfortable. Perhaps it was only that she was finding her way alone, when usually she had a male escort and female friends clustered about her. That her gown had not been created for her expressly, nor had it cost anywhere near a hundred guineas, did not matter in the slightest. Lillian did, however, confess to herself that she missed her favorite perfume, her hothouse flowers, and her silver-spangled fan.

Then she glimpsed Thorpe, and all such vain longings departed from her heart and mind. As if she had called to him, he glanced up and saw her, hesitating on the steps. She saw him smile a farewell to the brightly clad women flocking about him and make his way across the crowded floor. Lillian knew she need not move, that he would come to her, yet she advanced to meet him. If what she felt was not love, then it was as near to that emotion as she had ever come.

“What do you think?” he asked, waving so as to take in all the splendor about him.

“Considering that I helped, I think the staff made a splendid effort in the little time allotted.”

“Is that a reproach?”

‘Three days was perhaps a trifle less notice than one might have wished.”

“Many great events take but little time. Empires have been overthrown. People have fallen in love in less than three days,” Thorpe said, smiling down at her.

Lillian’s heart thumped strangely, and she greatly feared she’d changed complexion. Yet she managed to say, “I have not seen Mrs. Grenshaw or Nora.”

“They’re here somewhere, or so I imagine. Tell me, Miss Cole, do you dance as well as you do everything else?”

“I don’t know how to answer that. It is a more difficult question than it seems.”

“Why not answer by demonstration?” He held out his gloved hand, palm up. Though it was a common gesture, made by other men at least a thousand times to her alone, Lillian felt there was something irrevocable in placing her hand in his.