Frederica and the Viscountess, page 1
Frederica
and the
Viscountess
The Adve nture s of
Murde ring Me g
Barbara Davies
Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company * Fairfi eld, California
© 2010 Barbara Davies
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.
978-1-934452-50-9 ebook
978-1-934452-48-6 paperback
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010908316
Cover art
by
C.A. Casey
with apologies to C. E. Block
Nuance Books
a division of
Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company
Fairfield, California
http://bedazzledink.com/books/nuance-books/
With respectful thanks to Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer for many hours of enjoyment.
Frederica
and the
Viscountess
CHAPTER 1
A fair head peered round the breakfast parlour door. “You will never guess what Edmund Lynton is telling Mama and Papa.”
Frederica looked up from her needlework and smiled at her younger sister. “And why should I even attempt it, since you are clearly longing to tell me.”
Amelia closed the door and came to sit next to her. “She,”
she said, in tones of deep signifi cance, “is coming to stay at Thornbury Park.”
Frederica bit off the thread and regarded her sampler with satisfaction. “She?”
“Edmund’s sister, of course.”
“Viscountess Norland?” She blinked. “But I thought she was in Greece, or was it Venice?” The Viscountess’s travels on the Continent had long been a favourite topic of discussion among the younger members of the Bertram family, though her activities seemed to have been less outrageous of late. A moment’s reflection made Frederica realise her error. “Ah, she returned to Paris last year, did she not?”
Amelia nodded.
“No doubt Napoleon’s army made it too dangerous to remain.”
News from across the Channel was not good. Rumour had it that the Duke had suffered a defeat.
“She is coming to visit her brother,” continued Amelia.
“Very sisterly of her,” said Frederica, determined to give the Viscountess the benefi t of the doubt. “And very heartening to know that even she has family feelings.” She put the sampler aside.
“Hah! I daresay nowhere else is willing to accept her. As for family feelings, have you forgotten?” Amelia rose to her feet and began to pace. “She deserted her husband and son.”
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Barbara Davies
“No,” said Frederica quietly. “I have not forgotten.”
Amelia came to a stop and turned to face Frederica, her arms akimbo. “You are missing the point, as always. If Viscountess Norland is to be at Thornbury Park, what will become of our visits there?”
“Why, nothing, I daresay. We shall go on as always.”
“And risk meeting her?”
“I would have thought you would be eager to meet a woman as notorious as one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s characters.”
Amelia looked intrigued. “I had not considered it in those terms. You are right, Frederica. Her presence at Thornbury Park should provide some entertainment at least. Can you imagine the upset it will cause in the village?” She sighed. “Thank heavens!
Sometimes, you know—in particular when Mr. Smith is here—I could scream from boredom.”
Poor Mr. Smith, thought Frederica. The son of the clergyman adored her sister, but since Herbert was neither handsome nor rich, nor wore a red coat, the sentiment was not returned.
Fortunately—or should that be unfortunately?—the amiable young man was also not very bright, and had yet to realise his suit was hopeless.
“Meeting the Viscountess is not very desirable, to be sure.
But since we have no idea of the length of her stay, and she will no doubt have much to keep her occupied, I see no reason why matters between Chawleigh and Thornbury Park need alter in any way.”
“But—”
What Amelia had been about to say was lost forever as the breakfast parlour door opened and a maid appeared.
“Your father wishes to speak to you both.”
Frederica exchanged a look with her sister, and they made their way to the drawing room.
Mr. Bertram, hands clasped behind his back, was standing in front of the drawing room window, gazing out at the June sunshine and the rider in the blue coat cantering away from the house.
Frederica and the Viscountess
11
“There you are.” He turned to regard his two daughters as they took their seats on the sofa next to their mother. “I have something to say to you concerning Thornbury Park. Though”—
his gaze fell on Amelia, and a small smile curved his lips—“you have likely already heard the news.”
Amelia coloured at being caught eavesdropping but said nothing.
“It seems there is to be a new arrival there. Mr. Lynton informed me that Viscountess Norland—”
A muffl ed exclamation stopped him mid-sentence, and he turned to regard his wife. “Yes, my dear?”
“It is very hard,” said Mrs. Bertram, “very hard indeed, to have that woman staying in the neighbourhood. It lowers the tone a great deal.”
“She is our neighbour’s sister,” he said a touch sharply. “And he has been kind enough to give us advance notice.” He turned to his two daughters. “Frederica. What is your opinion on this matter? You are the one most affected by this development.”
She blinked. “Am I?”
“Now, now.” His eyes twinkled. “Do not play the coy miss with me. You know I am referring to your talks with Mr.
Dunster.”
Frederica’s cheeks warmed. “Yes, Papa.”
At twenty-seven, she was well on her way to spinsterhood, and all too aware of it. Several offers had been made for her hand, but she had found good reason to reject them—to her own satisfaction if not to her family’s. Her parents were now pinning their fading hopes on Edmund Lynton’s brother-in-law. Chaloner Dunster had recently inherited Symond Hall and its four hundred acres in Norfolk, and was staying with the Lyntons while renovations were made to the run-down property.
A moderately wealthy man, now in active pursuit of a wife, was not to be sneezed at, and Chaloner had shown an interest in Frederica. She knew that her parents were counting on her to bring him to the point of making an offer. She also knew her duty.
Four children had been a signifi cant drain on her father’s resources, though things were easier now that her two brothers were married.
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Barbara Davies
But the thought of such a future was, as always, lowering, so she pushed it away and returned to the matter at hand.
“May we not continue as before?” she suggested. “It would be only good manners to behave amicably towards the Lyntons and the Dunsters. Should they be made to suffer for what is, after all, in the Viscountess’s past? Besides, we do not as yet know how long she will be staying.”
Mr. Bertram gave her an approving nod and opened his mouth to speak.
“Really, Frederica!” Mrs. Bertram was incensed. “How can you suggest such a thing? As if you should even be in the same house as that odious woman!”
Frederica’s father raised an eyebrow at the interruption, but said mildly enough, “I trust our daughters are sensible enough not to be irrevocably harmed by her company, Mrs. Bertram.”
Frederica was not so certain—Amelia could be a hoyden at times—but she held her peace.
“I was for cutting them all at first, Papa,” said her sister piously, “but Frederica changed my opinion. Besides, it would be very tedious not to be able to visit Thornbury Park. I should miss playing with the dear children so.”
He gave Amelia an indulgent smile. “Indeed you would. And,”
he looked meaningfully at his wife, “it would be unfortunate if Mr. Dunster were to forget all about Frederica, which he may very well do if she does not visit at least once a week.”
“You could invite him here,” said Mrs. Bertram. “Would that not serve?”
But his face had assumed the stony expression that Frederica knew well. “Viscountess or no Viscountess, we shall continue our friendly relations with those at Thornbury Park.” He turned to regard his daughters. “And you two will behave in a manner that will give me no cause to regret my decision.”
“Yes, Papa,” chorused Frederica and Amelia.
“Thank you, Papa,” added Amelia.
“Well! I am sure no good will come of it.” Mrs. Bertram shook her head, and looked grave. “But I can see your mind is quite made up, Mr. Bertram, so I will say no more about it.”
CHAPTER 2
The sound of curtains being drawn back woke Viscountess Norland. Normally she would have grumbled at her abigail’s lack of consideration, but today the disturbance was welcome.
She had been dreaming she was back in the Bois de Bologne, staring down the barrel of de Livry’s pistol in the pale, dawn light.
She massaged her shoulder. The scar still ached sometimes, when the weather was damp. “Good morning, Dorothea.” She sat up and yawned. “Any news?”
“Rumours only.” The plump woman thrust a folded n ewspaper at her and plonked the breakfast tray on the bedside table, slopping the hot chocolate over the rolls and kippers. Her lips were pressed tightly together.
“You are cross,” observed Joanna. “With me?”
“No more than usual, your ladyship.” Dorothea fl ounced over to the wardrobe and took out the green evening dress Joanna had worn last night—she had thought it best not to court scandal by wearing male attire the instant she was back in London. She tutted at the ripped seam, took it to the window seat, and reached for her sewing basket.
While Dorothea sewed, Joanna sipped her hot chocolate, buttered a roll and ate it, and picked at her kippers. Her hearty appetite of yesterday had deserted her, and she knew the reason why. She glanced at the newspaper then away again. She wasn’t delaying reading the Gazette, she told herself, merely gathering her strength.
“It’s not that I mind being poor,” said Dorothea, after a moment. “Lord knows, that is nothing new. It’s just that your ladyship said there would be no more wagering.” She bit off the 14
Barbara Davies
thread, discovered another ripped seam, and bent her head to her work once more.
“The Exchange isn’t wagering.” A pointed look told Joanna what Dorothea thought of that notion. “Well, perhaps it is. But I am certain my faith in the Duke will prove correct.” As least, she hoped so.
It was no wonder Dorothea was vexed with her, she refl ected ruefully. She was vexed with herself. What had yesterday seemed a racing certainty, after a good night’s sleep felt like a very risky enterprise. Plunging herself in debt to a money-lender, buying up the shares that every sensible person was selling—the City was in a panic that Wellington’s defeat was imminent . . . It would either make her or break her. She was no longer sure which.
“And to go to the Jews for the credit!” blurted her abigail.
“They will hound us even on the Continent.”
“Well, I could hardly approach Coutts or Drummond’s.”
Joanna had grown tired of defending her actions. Dorothea was very dear to her but did occasionally overstep the mark. “What’s done is done,” she said shortly. “And for good or ill, I must live with the consequences.”
“And so must I.”
She chose to ignore her abigail’s impertinence and instead turned her attention to the Gazette. “Are the rumours very bad?”
When no reply was forthcoming, she took a deep breath, shook out the paper, and turned the pages to the despatch from Belgium.
The news, if such it could be called, was anything but reassuring. There had been actions at Ligny and Quatre-Bras—
Boney had taken the Duke by surprise. Cavalry skirmishes at Genappe had followed. The Prussians were badly mauled, and there was even a rumour that Blücher had been killed. Her heart sank then she rallied herself. These were mere rumours.
She glanced at the still brooding Dorothea. “This morning’s breakfast was a good deal better than yesterday’s,” she offered. “I take it you have now made friends with the servants?”
The furrowed brow smoothed a little. “Yes, your ladyship. I Frederica and the Viscountess
15
have the run of The George’s kitchens.” Dorothea sniffed. “Very provincial they are too, for all the owner’s airs and graces.”
Joanna smiled. “Did you spin your new friends a pretty yarn about our recent travels?”
An affaire de coeur had delayed Joanna from joining her countrymen in the headlong rout to the Channel, and Dorothea, faithful as always, would not leave her side. By the time Joanna was ready—she had parted from Marie easily enough in the end; perhaps her heart had not been engaged by the diminutive actress after all—bribes were the order of the day, and the price of horses had become so exorbitant as to make them out of the question.
But she had always relished a challenge. They made their way from Paris cross-country, over fi elds and ditches, sleeping in barns and hayricks when no better accommodation was forthcoming, bypassing soldiers and roadblocks on the way. Such an adventure would have taxed most women to their limits, but they took it in their stride. Joanna’s height and male attire, plus judicious use of her pistols, had kept trouble at bay, as had her almost perfect command of French.
Dorothea’s gaze had become distant as she remembered, and now a smile curved her mouth. Joanna breathed a sigh of relief.
Life was always much more congenial when her abigail was in a sunny mood.
“Cook opened her mouth so wide during the tale,” said Dorothea, chuckling, “I was tempted to pop something in it.”
She set aside the evening dress, crossed to the basin and pitcher, and poured out some water for her mistress.
Joanna stretched the kinks from her shoulders. They had arrived back in England only two days ago, and she was still feeling the effects of her recent exertions. “It will be very pleasant to relax at my brother’s house in the country.”
Dorothea gave her a knowing glance. “You will be bored within a se’nnight.”
“I shall not.”
Joanna fl ung back the sheets and got out of bed. She stripped off her nightgown and began to wash herself. Dorothea folded the discarded garment and handed her a towel. While she dried 16
Barbara Davies
herself, the abigail brought her underthings and walking dress to her.
“You will miss the attractions of a pretty face and a fi ne pair of eyes,” predicted Dorothea.
Joanna pulled on her drawers and stockings. “You know me too well.” She let herself be eased into a chemise and petticoat, demanded the stays be but lightly laced, and waited for Dorothea to button up the dress.
After that, the abigail turned her attention to Joanna’s hair.
Joanna preferred to leave her hair loose or tied back in a no nonsense queue, but Dorothea had other ideas. She swept back Joanna’s hair into a bun then reached for the curling tongs that she had set to heat in the fi re and tested them against a wet thumb.
When they were ready, she set to work on the cluster of ringlets over each ear that was the latest fashion.
Joanna twiddled her thumbs, sang a saucy song she had learned from Marie—in the original French, but Dorothea still understood enough to tut loudly at some parts—and glanced at her abigail.
“Who is to say there will not be a pretty face and a fi ne pair of eyes at Thornbury Park? The women there can’t all be antidotes.”
Dorothea’s lips thinned. “Think of your brother, your ladyship. To set the cat among the pigeons in his own back yard—”
“Is very tempting,” interposed Joanna, unable to resist. She laughed at Dorothea’s expression. “I was only teasing. I am not so inconsiderate a person as I once was.” She felt a moment’s doubt. “Am I?”
“No indeed.” The abigail set aside the curling tongs and scrutinised her efforts. “There. All done.” She gave Joanna’s arm a reassuring pat and stood back.
Joanna checked her appearance in the mirror and nodded her thanks. “Well,” she said, pulling on her half boots and donning the matching pelisse, hat, and kid gloves, “since we are confi ned to town until there is more defi nite news, and there is no point my sitting here with a fi t of the dismals, I shall take the air. No doubt Frederica and the Viscountess
17
London has changed since I was last here. I shall investigate and report.”
“As you wish, your ladyship,” said Dorothea. “Dinner will be waiting for you when you return.”
London had indeed changed in the fi ve years Joanna had been away, both for the better and the worse. It smelled a great deal better than Paris, she decided, as she walked past St. Paul’s and down Ludgate Hill; it was pleasant not to have to step over stinking gutters running with fi lth.
As she walked, she took the opportunity to eye the young ladies, both to admire their looks and appraise their clothes—
Parisiennes wore their waists higher, their skirts wider. She glanced down at her scuffed half boots and faded pelisse. If her shares increased, she would buy new clothes—for herself and Dorothea. And hire a town coach to take her to Thornbury Park; it would be amusing to arrive in style. Then she would search for a place to rent. Would a town house or a country house be preferable? Perhaps Dorothea was right, and the country would be too stultifying. Perhaps she should fi rst see how she fared at her brother’s—
