Born of Persuasion (9 page)

Four days later, I braced myself in a swaying carriage as sobbing wind and great sheets of rain assaulted it. Elizabeth glumly watched trails of water cascading down the window while Mrs. Windham mouthed words, making graceful waves of her hand and elegant head nods as she continued to practice my introduction to Lady Foxmore. All week I’d endured Mrs. Windham’s fluttering handkerchief as she declared herself a fit of nerves over my introduction.

For my own part, I sat quiet despite my screaming thoughts. It had been three weeks since I first arrived at Am Meer. I hadn’t much longer before I’d be shipped to Scotland. If Edward failed to make an appearance tonight, I had no recourse.

At the crunch of gravel, I leaned forward, anxious to view Edward’s childhood home. It might seem odd that I’d never glimpsed Auburn Manor, given our relationship, but the residence was gated, and as a rule, Mama’s prejudice steered her clear of all titled gentry. Edward likewise kept our trysts far from his parents’ land, lest through discovery our hopes be destroyed.

The house stood at the end of a row of chestnut trees. Welcoming lights poured from mullioned windows and glimmered over the wet grounds. Enthralled, I touched the coach window. It was lovelier than I’d imagined.

“Do not ruffle me.” Mrs. Windham batted me from the window with her closed fan as the carriage stopped. “If my gown wrinkles, my entire evening will be ruined.”

“And here I thought you in such a state that tonight was spoiled, with or without a crinkled gown,” Elizabeth replied moodily. “Let her look if she wants.”

“Don’t be impertinent, or I shall send you both home.”

“What, and defy her ladyship’s orders?”

Mrs. Windham gathered her ballooning skirts, ignoring Elizabeth. “Julia, you mustn’t oppose Lady Foxmore’s opinion, no matter what nonsense she utters. I daresay, she shall be in her fault-finding humor, but do as she bids. Why are we not moving?” She shuffled forward, treading on our dresses.

The carriage rocked as Harry jumped from the box seat. After several minutes, he opened the door. Rain plastered hair to his forehead and dripped off his nose. “Lady Foxmore’s carriage is parked under th’ covered terrace. Her man has instructions not to move it.”

“All evening?” Elizabeth asked.

“Begging yer pardon, miss, but he dinna say when she planned on leaving.”

“Oh, honestly.” Elizabeth pounded her lap. “Just once, I’d like to openly defy her ladyship.”

For a moment it appeared Mrs. Windham might do so. She said nothing as water poured from the roof of the carriage and fell in loud splashes to the puddles beneath us, before finally saying, “Well, standing here accomplishes nothing. Fetch an umbrella, Harry.” She pulled the hood of her mantle over her hair as Elizabeth grimaced in disgust.

“We shall have to dash for it, girls.” Mrs. Windham looked over her shoulder. “Such a shame too, the very idea of the gentlemen seeing mud over your petticoats.”

“I have no intention of the gentlemen viewing my petticoats, with mud or otherwise.” Elizabeth leaned backwards to accommodate her mother readying her skirts. “Honestly, if Lady Foxmore wishes to end our acquaintance, why does she not discontinue her invitations, rather than insisting upon humiliating us?”

She received no answer. The manservant returned with an umbrella and assisted Mrs. Windham first. In her absence, the carriage became a sanctuary. Elizabeth smoothed her skirts, while I felt my hair, ensuring the style held. To Nancy’s credit,
the curls she’d toiled over remained. When Harry next opened the door, he offered his hand to Elizabeth.

Alone, I picked at the hole in the fourth finger of my glove, recalling how I’d once hoped to arrive at Auburn Manor garbed in bridal attire and received as a daughter. It seemed ridiculous compared to arriving in the rain, an unwelcome guest in threadbare clothing.

When the carriage door opened again, Harry’s nose was red. “Here, miss.” He offered his drenched hand. “Watch yer step. Best take me arm. Me apologies it’s wet. Wait, that water’s deeper than it ’pears.”

Soggy leaves bogged around my foot as the manservant extended the umbrella over my head. Rain pounded on the silk canopy as I edged toward the house.

Inside, a well-lit hall with burnished floors stretched beneath amber lanterns. Above, dark beams were braced by intricately carved corbels. Light spilled over the polished hall floor from behind closed doors, tempting me to explore. A smile tugged my lips as I wondered whether this was the hall in which, as Edward had once confessed, he and Henry played King Arthur and Lancelot. It was easy to picture two boys holding up wooden swords, declaring the suits of armor their captives.

“Julia, do not straggle.” Mrs. Windham frantically waved me to follow the retreating butler.

When I was a child, there was a certain fairy tale Mama sometimes told as she tucked me into bed. In it, a young lady had fallen deeply in love with a foreign dignitary who was soon to return to his native country. The girl had one last opportunity in which to win his affections, for he planned a ball the night before his departure.

Lovesick, she spent every cent she had to commission a resplendent gown. Here, Mama always paused before finishing. The day of the ball there was a great storm, which toppled trees and made roads impassable—therefore the gown never arrived.
The girl, desperate to see her beloved, borrowed a second-rate dress.

At the ball, she was forced to watch as the dignitary danced with only the most beautifully dressed ladies—one after the other. That night he became enraptured with a girl whose love for him was but a shadow compared to the heroine’s.

Here, Mama would end the story, kiss my forehead, and then, wearing a hardened expression, lift the taper and leave.

I used to lie awake long afterwards and imagine the unfinished part—the following morning when the gown finally arrived. How it must have felt to open the box and see golden layers of satin and tulle, knowing her plan might have worked. I used to wonder whether she could still admire the gown’s beauty, or did it crush her?

I learned, that evening, it was neither.

DARK VELVET DRAPERIES muffled the sound of rain and absorbed the candlelight emitted by the ivory tapers. Polished woodwork stood out against settees and sofas upholstered in colors of ocher and scarlet, making their indoor autumn friendlier than the one outdoors, as three people turned to greet us.

I hadn’t realized the hope I’d placed on seeing Edward until I noted his absence. Mrs. Windham marched to the center of the room, where she curtsied to our hosts in a great sweeping motion. Elizabeth, still holding my hand, followed.


No one wishes to look upon his greatest loss—a burned-out cottage, a drowned team of oxen, one’s child in a coffin. Such scenes are approached with eyes averted, faces turned. I was no different. To stand inside Edward’s home and greet his parents, knowing I should have been their daughter, was as agonizing as it would have been for Mama’s fairy-tale girl to have explored every tuck and frill of lace on her gown.

In desperation, my gaze travelled to the only object in the room not associated with Edward. I distinguished Lady Foxmore immediately.

An old woman, a clinging remnant of the previous generation, she sat with her hands clasped over her walking stick. White powder caked her face and wrinkles. In stark contrast, streaks of rouge smeared her cheeks while a darkening element had been applied to her thin eyebrows. Even her hoary hair, styled in standing rolls, was powdered. Though she sat near the flame, a mantle of ermine covered her shoulders, over which heavy pearl necklaces drooped.

She stared at me for an eternity, and then from deep within, raspy chuckles broke through, though she kept her lips pressed together. She rested her forehead on her hands as her shoulders shook with silent mirth.

Mrs. Windham finished her greetings to Lord and Lady Auburn in a tremulous voice. Every time Lady Foxmore regarded me, she laughed anew. At length, Mrs. Windham led me to the grand dame.

“No, Edith.” Lady Foxmore waved her back, and though she was tiny, her voice rang with authority. “I am in no mood to tolerate hysterics tonight. Take that seat there by the door, and for mercy’s sake, bite your tongue. Elizabeth, make our introductions.”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed but she dutifully took my side. “Miss Elliston, allow me to introduce you to Lady Foxmore.”

“Tell me—” Lady Foxmore gripped her cane—“did she purposefully dress like that to annoy me, Beth?”

Elizabeth’s eyes clouded, for she hated being called Beth. “No, ma’am. She’s in mourning.”

“Humph. Is it now fashionable to wear rags as well as black?” Lady Foxmore’s eyes screwed as she peered through her lorgnette. “Child, why not parade about in sackcloth with ashes smeared over your face? If you’re going to be dramatic, you may as well do so fully.”

There was a pause, a hollow expectation for me to fashion some manner of reply. I kept my face insolent.

“If her dress seems thread-worn,” Elizabeth filled in for me, “it’s because she’s been in mourning for a very long—”

“Oh, hush!” Lady Foxmore lifted a hand to her ear. “You grow as cackling as your mother. Leave. Go take a seat by her. Try not to speak. If you manage it, perhaps I shall send my footman over in the morning with a seedcake as reward.”

Every muscle in Elizabeth’s face tightened, but she gave a low curtsy and withdrew.

“Just what we lacked,” Lady Foxmore muttered, watching her, “another magpie.” She rapped her walking stick, demonstrating her foul humor, and then focused on me. “Sit down, child. I desire to study you. No, not there. Here, at my feet, where I can best view you.”

She indicated a footstool that had been fashioned for a child. I considered walking straight from the room, back to the carriage, and waiting out the evening there. Yet four days of hoping to gain her ladyship’s favor held me fast. I sat, my dress billowing up around my knees.

“Now—” Lady Foxmore lifted her lorgnette, the crow’s-feet deepening about her eyes—“tell me for whom you mourn, and I shall determine whether it’s worth walking about looking as you do.”

Though my head was bent, I looked up enough to give her a long cool gaze.

“Nonsense. Is that how you wish to form our acquaintance? You dislike me, no doubt, for being richer and prettier, but is that any way to treat your betters?”

My face must have looked as tight as Elizabeth’s as I smoothed my skirts. “No, ma’am,” I finally decided on. “I am simply hoping to earn one of your seedcakes.”

Amusement twinkled in her eye, but her mouth turned downwards. “Humph. If I thought you’d eat them, I’d send you a box.” She poked my shoulder with the end of her lorgnette. “You lack substance. Let us hope it doesn’t carry over to your
mental faculties. But come now, my patience wears thin. Tell me for whom you mourn.”

“My mother,” I said, recognizing she’d not relent. I had no desire for her to apply to Mrs. Windham. The less said by her, the better.

“Your
maman
?” Lady Foxmore gave an approving nod. “Good. William doesn’t deserve anyone’s tears. His temper was too uncontrolled.”

Hearing my father’s first name, I gave her a surprised look.

She leaned back and surveyed me with a slight smile. “You didn’t think I knew whose daughter was lurking in my parish?”

The door banged, giving me an excuse to turn. A gentleman dipped his head as he entered, yet still his shoulders barely missed scraping the lintel. From the way Mrs. Windham caught my attention and pointed urgently to him, I understood him to be Mr. Greenham.

Never had I seen such a person. Were I to take the population of London, I doubted more than a handful of men would have been his equal in height. He was not only the tallest gentleman I’d ever seen, but also the most dapper. Compared to his, my garments were rags. Though it rained, his shoes were dry without a speck of dirt. His every hair was in place. His coat was made of choice wool; his waistcoat, rich, full brocade. At his collar, a large diamond pin sparkled as it held no less than two cravats.

“John,” Lady Foxmore cried, lifting her voice, “do come here. I wish to introduce you. This is the darling creature I desired to meet tonight.”

He glared but obeyed.

She chuckled. “Well, John, give us your opinion of her.”

There was no time for embarrassment. While he gave me a long, fixed look, I gawked as though he were a jinni who suddenly appeared out of thin air. When his eyes finally met mine, I read pity. He cast Lady Foxmore a silencing look, then slumped in the nearest armchair.

“He’s charmed,” Lady Foxmore said to me.

“Mr. Greenham,” Mrs. Windham cried as a second set of footsteps rang in the hall, “do I hear Mr. Macy approaching? Stand, Elizabeth. Smile!”

Mr. Greenham pinched the bridge of his nose.

“If you don’t answer,” Lady Foxmore said, “she’ll continue talking.”

“It is not.” Mr. Greenham’s voice was weary. He shut his eyes, as if experiencing a headache. “Mr. Macy awayed this morning on business. I’m to beg excuses.”

“But if it’s not Mr. Macy,” Mrs. Windham persisted, “who is it?”

Mr. Greenham opened one eye. “How the devil should I know?”