Transmuted (19 page)

The fragile shape of her mouth, always thin but now almost colorless, eased into a gentle smile. “My dear Mr. Fortescue passed early in our marriage. Back then, the rules were somewhat softer. I was not beholden to a lifetime of mourning, as an older matron might.”

“Was it a matter of Society’s strictures, then?”

“Oh, no,” she demurred, warmth bolstering the somewhat reedy quality her voice had taken on in recent years. Her mending eased to her lap. “Truth be told, I would have remained in mourning for the whole of my life, were it up to me.”

Of the various stages expected of a widow, only half-mourning tended to last beyond reasonable regard—and this only if the widow were too old to marry again. Fanny’s palette tended towards dark blues, grays, various hues of heliotrope, and each was appropriate for halfmourning.

However she was not so stringent as to remove all other colors from herself, either.

“When I was employed to care for a wayward child,” she said, earning my startled regard, “I felt that such outward signs of mourning might be too dreary an atmosphere for her.” Fanny’s light blue eyes brimmed with warmth. “I had no desire to constrain the poor dear to any more rigid stricture than required by her termagant behavior.”

My lips softened into a helpless smile. “And there was much required,” I teased.

“Bosh,” she replied, a hint of tart to her gentility. “You were as wild a thing as I’d ever seen, fit to hiss like a cat. You needed a firm hand and a warm home.” Again, her needle flashed. “But I am pleased, my dove. You are a fine woman.”

This did for me what all the posturing in the world could not. My face warmed, my eyes filled with tears that had nothing at all to do with sorrow. “I had a fine tutor,” I said, my voice not entirely even.

Fanny cleared her throat. It was so mild a sound that I pretended not to hear, as I was sure she’d hoped. “Now, then. What is your purpose in Society?”

I hesitated.

A sharpness entered her eye, punctuated by the point of the needle she tugged into place. “Please don’t make of me a senile old fool just yet.”

My smile deepened, and with it, my heart seemed fit to burst. “My apologies, Fanny.” I quickly outlined the briefest of intentions; to wit, that I had hopes to find this villain before he disappeared entirely.

She listened in silence, and at the end, made a thoughtful hum that relieved me. I had expected argument.

Fanny did not seem inclined to deliver.

“If you are so restrained,” she mused, “then you would be forced to hope this villain comes to you in your mourning estate. Are you so positive that your worth is that much to him?”

“No,” I admitted. I rose from my chair, the fabric of my skirt rustling as I crossed the small room to study the shape of the window, and the abysmal dreariness behind it. “Worse, if this villain already enacts a plan, I may provide less a lure if I am locked away.”

Fanny’s sigh came long and drawn. “I hesitate to suggest such a thing,” she said to my back, “however it may be in your best interests to continue playing the role of madman’s daughter.”

I flinched, turning, but Fanny lifted one hand, the mending pooled on her lap.

“There is no need to offer any words on the subject,” she said firmly. “I have long been aware of Society’s labels upon you, my dove, and always, I have had faith that you would overcome.”

I had hardly done that. Guilt struck me between the shoulders. “I am sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Fanny rose with care, always graceful despite the ailments that had come to afflict her. She joined me at the window, mending left upon her chair, and companionably laced her arm with mine. “As I said,” she continued, “you are a fine woman, and the pride of my life.”

I laced my hands with hers. That mine remained ungloved no longer earned a sharp comment.

“Although,” she added a touch ruefully, “matters may have taken a rather more peculiar path than I had hoped.”

I rested my cheek against Fanny’s. A breath filled my nose with lavender, a whiff of the fine powder she wore with its delicate fragrances. “’Tis all thanks to you,” I told her, “that I am so capable. You have done me no wrongs.”

Her eyes clouded, but her hands squeezed mine.

“Now, then,” she said briskly, stepping back to survey me at arm’s length. “You must make a bold statement. ’Tis true that there are some less rigid demands upon younger widows. Rather than full isolation, a young widow such as yourself might be allowed to attend social functions in her widow’s weeds.”

“Is that so?”

“While manners may counsel tolerance,” Fanny cautioned, “Society may not always agree. However, given your need, I suggest we include a ball gown in your list.”

That surprised me greatly. I stared at her. “What? You’re serious?”

“Quite.” Her smile was a fierce thing, though it retained those elements of severity I had come to associate with my companion’s strength of character. “There is one avenue you have not considered.”

How did I not realize the extents of my chaperone’s deviance? “Do tell.”

“You do so,” she said, drawing me once more to her writing desk, and the materials within, “by scribing a note of inquiry. Begin thusly,” Fanny ordered, imperious as only dictation demanded. “Addressed to the Earl of Compton, Lord Compton, but begin the missive socially.”

I scribed as quickly as I dared, though I maintained as much neatness as Fanny’s lengthy years of tutelage provided. Social inquiry might demand I call him by title, but Lord Piers and I had formed between us a certain understanding. So it was that my missive began with a much more familiar “Dear Lord Piers.”

I wondered what thoughts would cross the earl’s mind when he received my letter.

My late husband would no doubt lend every effort to talking me out of such a thing as Fanny proposed, but his younger brother had always been somewhat more wild in nature—the sort who gallivanted about the stews, made of a Negro girl his mistress, and in the end, came to a measure of accord with the woman his brother had married and died for.

I sealed the letter inside an envelope and called for Booth to see it delivered.

Fanny’s expression held equal parts concern and assurance. “There, now,” she said, squeezing it out on a sigh as though it pained her to do so. She clasped her hands at her bosom. “Make of yourself a blot in Society’s ledger, and I have little doubt your villain will see it as remarkable opportunity to strike.”

“Breaking the stricture of mourning will be a terrible grievance,” I noted.

She nodded. “Just so. However, it would also allow you the appearance of reprehensibility. A necessary matter if you intend to be seen in public.”

“After all,” I said, finishing her thought with no small amount of admiration for my chaperone’s sudden turn of deviousness, “if I bring this upon myself, then who will bother to strive to protect a misbehaving countess?”

“Oh,” my dear Fanny mused; an absent tone that salved the telltale truth of it not even a little, “I could name one or two.”

Curse the color that surged to my cheeks.

***

The earl replied promptly. That it came on a pithy note did not soften the tinge of laughter—and no doubt of mild resignation—I detected within.

I await your calamities. Yours, P.

How nice to be a gentleman, son of a marquess, and thus quite nearly above reproach. Whatever aid he’d lend to my endeavors, it would not be Lord Piers that suffered the sting.

However, I made note to assure Lady Rutledge of his cooperation in the matter. Surely a little fond regard from agents of the Crown would not go amiss.

Events moved rapidly. With the help of a mysterious employee I colloquially termed as Ashmore’s man—for my tutor had many such sources, of either sex, and each ensconced in the damnedest of places—my readiness was ensured. The activity that overtook Fanny’s home reminded me of those years when such things were a matter of rote. How often Betsy, my maid and friend, had fussed over me, fixing the accursed lilies into my hair or some form of floaty feather.

I was left with little enough to do but remain out of the way.

I did not see Hawke again. It pleased me to imagine him sulking in Baker company, for no doubt he fumed greatly at my fit of pique.

Of course, I was not entirely blameless in the matter. A lady did not punctuate her values with violence.

I did, but I oughtn’t.

Not even Ashmore had spent overly long speaking with me, and while I believed his concerns mildly softened by the fact that he would be my escort, he did not much care for any situation that placed me in danger.

I no longer assumed it was his vow that forced this. His affections, like mine, were enough.

That Society would no doubt paint him as my lover, thereby consigning me to the reviled role of inappropriate widow, was a thing we would expect. Such were the inner workings of the gossip mill, and all those who breathed such matters as though starving for oxygen.

As for our unwitting guest, it was decided—with much relish on Zylphia’s part—that Zhànzhàn would remain under watch. She was not to go out, nor receive visitors, and if that seemed rather more like a prison than comfortable, at least she was fed well and given decent company in the form of those I called family.

Soon enough, after a fitful evening’s rest and the flutters of nervousness had been quelled by strong black tea, I was dressed most carefully in such apparel as befitted a widow still required to be in deep mourning. The corset Zylphia wrestled into place was much more rigid than I was accustomed to, and the fit of the jacket and blouse structured to within an inch of my life. The material chosen was crape, of course, for such a cloth was heavy and utterly lacking in luster.

It also smelled musty by nature. No powder would ever take away such stale odors.

My petticoats were all threaded through with black ribbon at the hem, so that were I to step in such a way as to show the ruffles beneath the heavy crape skirt, the gleam of white would be softened by the dreariness of mourning. My hair was tamed and pinned into place, contained by a black net without accessory. Over it, a widow’s cap—the bane of this entire farce. A heavy weeping veil was pinned in place, designed in such a way as to hang over the face and mask the tears every widow would be expected to shed.

I had shed my tears long and hard already, and hunted down the man responsible for my husband’s untimely demise. The tears I had left were for the living.

In the end, while I felt terribly weighted down by the heavy black fabric and the expectations thereof, I did not give in to the need to hide my face. The veil was pulled back, pinned in such a way as to frame my head in a halo of jet black.

It was a style reserved for second mourning, but I’d be bolloxed if I intended to muddle about half-blind from the residue crape shed through wear.

To compliment my appearance would be the very height of impropriety, so Ashmore deferred to our roles and said nothing—though I was certain a wink in his eye belied the seriousness of his features.

We traveled first by coach, and then by hired gondola, each arranged by one of Ashmore’s mysterious and efficient underlings. Once ensconced within the latter, Ashmore’s silence broke. “As inappropriate as it is, all that black makes your hair glow like an Indian ruby.”

I looked down at my unadorned apparel. One hand, gloved as it must be for such matters, patted at the swept-back rolls of my hair. Zylphia had made of the heavy curls a lovely frame for the cap, and the net that confined the rest.

The whole was heavy. I could already feel the tension creeping into my neck.

“It smells awful,” I said flatly. Ashmore’s chuckle muffled behind his own gloved hand. “To think that a woman be confined in this dreadful stuff for three years.”

“Two,” he corrected. He always had kept a keener eye on such things. “And a few months.”

“Close enough as to make no difference.”

He tipped his head, his hair now mostly tamed back with a pomade that gave it an unusual luster. I was so accustomed to seeing him in his ordinary brown togs that I could not quite grasp how I felt about the fit of his gentlemanly attire. To be certain, his trousers fit his long legs very well, and the nature of his gray sack coat—gaining prominence among the wellheeled for its stylishly tailored fit and narrow lapels—lent more than an assumption of elegance. His slender blue necktie, tied into a bow, added to his general appearance of wealth and charm.

He looked a proper gentleman. And handsome.

“Be cautious in how you present yourself,” he warned, adjusting the set of his top hat. This too had seen some alterations in the scarce year since I’d attended functions. It was gray, and not nearly so tall as the prescribed top hat of days past. That it occupied quite a rakish angle was no doubt deliberate.

When the meaning of his warning set in, I offered little more than a
harrumph
.

His mouth twitched. “You are entirely too young to be mimicking your elders, minx.”

I wrinkled my nose at him. “Regardless of what I do, I shall be marked as a reckless, illmannered widow.”

“Likely.” Ashmore tugged aside the curtain masking the window framed in the space between us. A seam of brighter light than usual peered through. “However, there is a difference between the appearance you wish to give and grave insult to the memory of the late Lord Compton. Be cautious.”

Of course I would.

And yet, my hands balled in my lap. I could think of nothing to say that would moderate his concerns, or my own. Instead, I followed his lead and watched the fog break around us.

After so long away from the raised tiers of London’s gilded heights, the sight that greeted me was almost too blinding.

Our gondolier, skilled but hardly at the level expected of a master, guided the boat to the surface of the drift that tossed and roiled within the canals formed by each raised district. The pinging sound of the engines affixed to the front and rear eased, as though the climb had been a source of strain.

How ironic that a rise to the fresher air above also forced a painful knot of anxiety in my belly.