Anne Barbour (4 page)

Hester laughed, and Thorne was struck anew by the extraordinary combination of spinsterish severity and womanly softness displayed by this female who fancied herself a person of letters.

“If you like, I would be happy to provide you with a copy of that notable work, but I can also offer you selections by Scott, Miss Jane Austen, Jonathan Swift, Addison—or perhaps you would prefer poetry. Coleridge? Keats? Blake?”

“An eclectic group, to be sure,” replied the earl smoothly. “On the other hand,” he continued, “perhaps it would behoove me to become acquainted with the prose that has so stirred my ward.” He grinned. “Bring on the Apologia.”

Smiling, Hester left the room to return a few moments later with a small book. Placing it in his hands, she withdrew again from the room, informing him that the dinner hour would soon be upon them, and that a tray would be brought to him. With a soft rustle of skirts, she was gone, leaving, he thought, a faint scent of violets behind.

He glanced at the book. It was not intimidating, being slender and tastefully bound. Opening it at random, he waggled down into his pillows and began to read.

“Women are not inherently inferior to men in the matter of basic intelligence.”

Thorne lifted a slash of eyebrow. Oh, indeed, he thought in some amusement. And pigs have wings. On the other hand, he conceded, after a moment’s reflection, many of the women he knew were not unintelligent—although certainly none of them were capable of truly profound meditation. Women as a sex tended to clutter their minds with such a tangle of extraneous trivialities that there seemed little room for coherent thought. No, he mused judiciously, Miss Blayne, in claiming that female intelligence was on a par with that of their male counterparts, was sadly off the mark. He continued.

“Unfortunately, the female mind is constricted from birth. Like the feet of Chinese women, it is not allowed to fulfill its normal potential. Only certain narrow pursuits are allowed us. We must limit our mental resources to finding a suitable mate, bearing and raising his children, and providing for his comfort. Included in this category are fashion (we must attract the beast), food (the beast must be fed), domestic arrangements (we must keep the beast comfortable), and morality, all defined in the narrowest sense (we must keep ourselves and our daughters chaste in order to meet the beast’s admittedly one-sided view of proper behavior).”

Whew! thought the earl, both brows lifting into his hairline.

“Girl children are not allowed education in matters of import, as are young men. Thus, our nation deprives itself of a great resource, the not inconsiderable brain power of half its citizens.”

Education for women? thought Thorne incredulously. What the devil for? Did Miss Blayne really believe that the nation required women who could speak Greek or discuss the philosophy of Descartes? Good God, they’d soon be getting above themselves. Next thing one knew they’d be wanting to vote—and who would wish to marry any of ‘em? Not that he wished to marry any of ‘em anyway, of course. Women were nice little creatures, but marriage seemed like such an encumbrance.

He smiled muzzily. His thoughts were getting muddled—no doubt as a result of the laudanum the doctor had given him. He settled more comfortably into his nest of pillows and quilts and closed his eyes. His formidable Aunt Augusta intruded into his thoughts. Mm. With a proper education she could no doubt qualify as prime minister. He chuckled. Or, how about Miss Blayne? Her writing displayed passion enough for a true statesman—stateswoman? Was that passion, he wondered, confined to her writing? Certainly her austere exterior did not indicate fires banked beneath. Not, of course, that he was interested in Miss Blayne’s interior, austere or otherwise.

Contentedly, he breathed in the lavender scent of fresh linen and listened to the breeze that whispered through starched white curtains. The book slipped from his fingers and his breathing deepened as he sank into a dreamless slumber.

Downstairs, the plain Miss Blayne sat in her parlor with Miss Larkin and Miss Chloe Venable. Chloe still wore her servant’s gown and looked somewhat incongruous sipping tea from Hester’s finest Spode.

“I am so sorry,” she said, the militant spark in her eyes belying her words. “I know I should not have deceived you, but I could not just fold my hands and wait for deliverance, after all. It was the best plan I could come up with. I would have revealed myself in—in the fullness of time.”

Hester grinned to herself. If she were not mistaken, the girl’s inadequacy as a servant would have been revealed the first time she was asked to peel a potato.

“You just do not know how wretched I have been!” continued Chloe, her voice throbbing dramatically. “I am watched constantly. My friends are chosen for me, and I am told how to speak, how to dress, how to comport myself, how to—” She paused. “Well, you see what I mean. But, the very worst part is John Wery.”

“John Wery?” asked Hester and Miss Larkin in unison.

“The man my guardian has chosen for me,” replied Chloe bitterly.

“He is distasteful to you?” asked Hester.

Chloe shuddered. “Oh, yes. He is so—so insipid. His hair is thin and brown and he talks of nothing but his estate in Hertfordshire and his animals and his crops. He does not share my passion for righting the wrongs of our country. Would you believe that he simply does not care that women have no rights? That we are merely chattel, subject to our husband’s every whim? We have nothing in common! I have told Uncle Thorne that I refuse to be shackled to a man who would treat me so, but all he does is tell me to go away and stop sulking.”

“How old is this John Wery?” Miss Larkin’s spectacles glittered. “I suppose he is not really two-and-eighty as Lord Bythorne said.”

“No,” muttered Chloe through clenched teeth. “I think he is six-and-twenty. But he might as well be an old man for all the boring information he spouts on draining his marshes, or his everlasting sheep or—” She twisted suddenly to face Hester. “Oh, Miss Blayne, you are so independent. You do not know how it is to be obliged to bow to the wishes of an unfeeling tyrant. I cannot bear the idea of spending my life in thrall to such a man. Please help me.”

Hester blinked. “My dear,” she said at last in a gentle tone. “I do sympathize with your plight. And I do know what it is to live with men who strive to rule every facet of one’s life. But, I am afraid that there is nothing I can do. I can offer advice, but that is all.”

“Advice!” Chloe sprang to her feet. “It is not for advice that I crept from my home in the middle of the night. I had to bribe one of the footmen to procure a ticket for me to Guildford—for one must be listed on the waybill before being allowed to board the stage. I had to bribe him further to find a hackney for me, and I rode through town—with no one to attend me—to the White Horse Cellars in Piccadilly. In Guildford, I had to pay a wagoner to take me to Overcross, and he kept looking at me in a way I did not like at all.” Tears sprang to Chloe’s eyes, clustering in a silky profusion of lashes. “It was a dreadful ordeal, but I kept my goal before me, for I was sure I would find succor with you. And now—” Golden curls were tossed in disdain as Chloe reached the climax of her peroration. “And now, you wish to offer me advice! Oh!” She sank down again in the settee. “It is all too much!”

Hester exchanged an amused glance with Miss Larkin before rising from her own chair to sit beside Chloe. “Miss Venable,” she began, taking a slim hand in her own, “your guardian has complete authority over you. I cannot shield you from him. I will agree with you that he is a difficult person with whom to deal, but you must do so. Now, here is my advice. I do not, of course, insist that you take it, but at least consider my words.

“If a match between you and John Wery is truly repugnant, you must convince Lord Bythorne of this.” She held up a hand as Chloe opened her mouth indignantly. “Expressing your unhappiness in long, loud melodramatic periods is not the way to convince him. I am sure that his lordship does not actively wish to persecute you, and if he thought he was acting contrary to your true interests, he would modify his goals for you. The earl is obviously not used to dealing with young persons of an, er, excitable temperament, and such a display only sets his back up.”

Hester drew a long breath. From the expression in Miss Venable’s eyes, it was rather doubtful that her words were having any effect, but she plowed on.

“You must see, Miss Venable, that—

“Oh, do please call me Chloe,” the girl interrupted.

“Very well—Chloe, you must see that by indulging in these mad starts—making wild speeches and running away—you achieve precisely the opposite effect than that which you desire. You are convincing him that you are just another flighty female, with more hair than wit.”

“But, how can I sit demurely by, whispering, ‘Yes, Uncle Thorne— no, Uncle Thorne,’ when he does nothing but order me about?” Chloe fairly bounced in her chair with indignation.

“Have you no other relatives besides your uncle?” asked Hester, a sense of desperation creeping over her.

“Uncle?” Chloe’s delicate brows rose in puzzlement. “Oh, he is not really my uncle. He was Papa’s best friend— Papa saved his life at Waterloo, and according to an agreement they made, I was put in his care when Papa died a little over a year ago.” Her mouth trembled. “Mama died giving birth to me—I have no brothers or sisters. Nor any aunts or uncles. Oh, I do miss Papa so!” Tears glistened in her eyes once more. “He was so kind—so understanding. He would not dream of pressing me into a loveless marriage!”

“Yes,” replied Hester, her ready sympathy touched. “It must be dreadfully difficult for you. But, about John Wery. Have you told him that you do not wish to marry him?”

“Well, he has not asked me yet—precisely. But Uncle Thorne has been so obvious in his desire for us to marry— and Mr. Wery—well, I know he’s working up to a proposal.”

“Do you discourage him?”

“Do you mean do I refuse to see him—or spill tea in his lap when he comes to call?” asked Chloe in a serious tone. “No, I have not taken that tack. And, he never does anything that would require discouraging. He never tries to hold my hand, or tell me that I am pretty—or anything like that. He simply proses at me about sheep!”

Hester refrained from glancing at Larkie and she firmly suppressed the bubble of laughter that rose within her. “I see,” she said simply. “Well, perhaps you could endeavor to give him a dislike of you. When he—proses about sheep, turn the conversation to books—or feminism, or something else that you feel would not interest him. That has certainly worked for me,” she concluded with a smile.

“Well,” said Chloe, “I might try it.” She sighed gustily. “But even if it does, Uncle Thorne will just turn up another candidate for my hand. He knows every family in London, and if there’s an unattached son or nephew lying about with a respectable portion to his name, he will hear of it.”

“Have you no friends who share your views?” asked Hester curiously. “Young people who might lend you moral support?”

“Pooh,” Chloe snorted. “Every girl I know is simply panting to marry well. All they think about is balls and routs and Almack’s. Except for Sarah, of course.”

“Sarah?”

“Sarah Wendover. We went to school together and she is my best friend in the world. She shares my passion for justice for women.”  Chloe lifted her hand in a theatrical gesture. “And she, too, is being persecuted by her family. Just last month her parents betrothed her to Lord Bascombe, who is three-and-thirty and rides to hounds every day that he can.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes, she pleaded and cried, but to no avail. I encouraged her to run away, but she is somewhat poor-spirited. Her family lives near Bythorne Park, but I have not seen her since they left London last month—right after the betrothal. I have written to her frequently since then, and am hopeful she will take my advice.”

“As I hope you will take mine,” said Hester with a smile. She rose and smoothed her skirts. “Larkie, we must see about dinner.”

“Oh!” Chloe jumped up. “Do let me help.”

Miss Larkin stiffened. “Bui of course you will not. You are our guest, Miss—Chloe, and—”

“Oh no,” replied Chloe with a laugh. She glanced down at her dark muslin gown. “I am your new servant. At least—if I had not hoaxed you, you would have a real servant now.”

Miss Larkin opened her mouth to protest, but Hester spoke first. “Thank you, my dear, your assistance would be welcome.”

Thus, when the Earl of Bythorne was wakened sometime later from his slumbers by a gentle scratch on his door, he roused himself to greet his ward. She carried a precariously balanced tray laden with dishes, and her face was flushed from her exertions.

“There!” she said, plumping die tray on his bed with a triumphant air. “Here is a lovely dinner for you. And I helped!”

“You?” asked the earl, his lips curving in a smile of disbelief.

“Yes, indeed. Do look at the green beans. I prepared those.”

“Did you?” His amused skepticism remained undiminished.

“I washed them, and strung them and sliced them up. Miss Larkin actually cooked them,” she added magnanimously. “I helped baste the chicken, too. I must say, I never realized that cooking is such fun.”

“Ah, perhaps we should put you to work in the kitchen when we return home.” Thorne held his breath for a moment, awaiting his ward’s reaction to what she might well view as a deliberately provocative speech.

Indeed, Chloe stiffened at his words and opened her lips as though to protest, but the next moment, as though thinking better of her attitude, she smiled.

“Well, perhaps I should not wish to go so far, but I think I would like to learn how to bake. Miss Blayne says every woman, no matter what her station in life, should know how to perform the most menial tasks in her household.”

“Really?” returned the earl. “You surprise me.”

“Of course,” added Chloe, “she also thinks men should acquire the same skills.”

“Now, that, somehow, does not surprise me.”

She glanced uncertainly at him. “I shall leave you to your meal, Uncle. Enjoy it—especially the beans—and I shall return for your tray presently.”