Maddy stared. “I wanted to sink through the floor!” Alathea wailed. “Whatever can Adrian think of us? I suppose that he will never speak to me again, and Kenelm is entirely to blame.”
Maddy privately thought that Kenelm’s thoughts concerning Captain Huard were a great deal more to the point, and probably better justified, but kept these reflections to herself. “Why did he do such a thing?”
“He said Adrian’s attentions were a great deal too particular!” Alathea obviously did not agree. “But no one, not even Kenelm, can stop me from seeing Adrian again!” She glanced at Maddy through lowered lashes. “It’s my circumstances that have prompted Kenelm to behave so odiously, but Kenelm is mistaken in thinking Adrian is a fortune-hunter.” She assumed a demure look. “Adrian greatly feels the difference in our fortunes, and understands why Kenelm views him with distrust. But there it is. I mean to have Adrian, and Kenelm will have to become resigned.”
“Has Captain Huard asked to pay his addresses to you?” Maddy approved Kenelm’s actions, and believed they had been taken not a moment too soon. Alathea was just the sort of cork-brained young female who would consider it a great adventure to run off to Gretna Green.
“Not exactly,” Alathea murmured, with a coyness of manner that made Maddy wonder precisely what intentions Captain Huard harbored. For the first time, she began to take Alathea’s romance seriously.
“I hope,” she said carefully, “that you are not contemplating anything foolish. Just think how your family would suffer as a result.”
Alathea shrugged. “Mama quite agrees with me. It is unfair that Adrian should be considered ineligible simply because his fortune does not match my own. His birth is unexceptionable, his manners of the most refined.”
“But it remains that you cannot marry without your family’s consent.” Alathea’s raptures struck Maddy as excessive, and the unhappy topic of conversation reminded her uncomfortably of her own lot. It was disconcerting to realize that she fell into the same category as the conniving Captain Huard.
“So you may think,” Alathea retorted, with a look of insufferable smugness. “Mama is furious with Kenelm, and it is her opinion that matters, after all. She was positively faint and I thought we should have to leave, but then she saw you with Wilmington. Her revival was almost miraculous.” Alathea shot Maddy a malicious glance. “I suppose I should not be surprised that she would place your welfare before my own, for she has always thought that you would be the most difficult to get off.”
Maddy hoped her expression did not betray her outrage. How dare Alathea imply that her assets were much more considerable than Maddy’s own? Maddy found herself hoping that the plump and unappealing Alathea would contrive to land herself in the devil of a scrape. “I do not think,” she murmured, “that these are matters you should discuss with me.”
Alathea flounced off the bed. “I might have known you would prove unsympathetic!” she cried. “Mama has often said that your upbringing was not what it should have been. I will leave you, then. No doubt you have matters of more importance to exercise your mind.” On this Parthian shot, she departed. Maddy, who now could add a severe headache to her other concerns, returned her attention to Lady Henrietta’s note. She was not to be left to scan this missive in peace; Motley, wearing an expression of the severest censure, slipped into the room.
Motley was not best pleased with the progression of events, and her current role afforded her neither the leisure nor the opportunity to play the chaperon. Her lot was not as hard as that of the little housemaid, an orphan from the foundling home whose final duty each night was to carry cans of hot water to the various bedrooms, but neither was it as pleasant as her companionship to Lady Henrietta had been, despite that household’s straitened circumstances. Motley was not accustomed to being confined to the servants’ hall.
Nor were Maddy’s fortunes improving as she had hoped they might. Motley had been privileged to view Lord Chesterfield, who had called to most properly request permission to take Maddy for a drive, and thought, despite his stiffness, that Lionel would be the perfect person for Maddy to wed. That headstrong miss, however, showed little inclination to bring the young Marquess to the speaking point. Motley suspected that Maddy, pleased enough to be seen in Lionel’s company, meant to ensnare Wilmington. The puzzle of the matter was that the Earl appeared to permit the game.
“Motley.” Maddy frowned at her letter, unaware that Motley was remorselessly consigning her latest admirer to perdition. “It is the strangest thing, but Mama’s pearls have disappeared.”
Motley, who had a decided notion as to the probable fate of those gems, did not answer, having other, more pressing, matters in mind. She strode to Maddy’s side and wordlessly held out a much-creased note. “What is this?” Maddy inquired, and glanced at the paper. “I see.” She quickly folded it again.
“It was given to me by a young lady,” Motley replied, “who accosted me as I was returning with the ribbon for your dress. She begged that I give it to you, and even swore me to secrecy.”
“Oh, dear,” said Maddy, who well knew that wooden tone of voice. She treated her governess to a beseeching look. “And you cannot approve?”
“No,” retorted Motley, “I cannot. You must know that clandestine correspondence is not something which I can countenance.” She had little liking for this censorious role, but play it she must. “I doubt that your aunt would be any more pleased, were she to learn of this.”
“Motley!” Maddy flew from her chair to engage her governess in an artless embrace. “Dear, understanding Motley, promise me that you won’t tell her!”
“Just as I thought.” Motley disentangled herself. “You are engaged in some prank, Maddy, and I shudder to think what may come of it. I had hoped that you would comport yourself with decorum, at least while under your aunt’s roof.”
“Oh, I shall!” Maddy promised, with no intention whatsoever that this should prove to be the case. “I shan’t get into trouble, honestly. I cannot explain now, because someone else is involved, but I will make a clean breast of the whole as soon as I possibly may. Please trust me, Motley. You know I would never do anything that was dishonorable.”
Motley, who had more than a passing acquaintance with the de Villiers notion of honor, experienced an unpleasant premonition, but told herself she was indulging in a spinster’s foolishness. “I already gave my word,” she said gruffly, “to the other young lady, and although I already regret my action, I will not go back on it.”
“Motley, you are an angel!”
“I might add,” Motley interrupted, “that I am not so great a ninny as you seem to think.”
Maddy’s eyes opened wide. “What can you mean?”
“Simply,” retorted Motley dourly, “that I am in full possession of my faculties.” Maddy’s expression was one of guilt. “The young lady has not changed out of all recognition, even though I have not laid eyes on her for several months.”
* * * *
“Ma cocotte!”
cried Clemence, and offered Maddy a delicately scented cheek. “I protest, it has been an age since we met.”
Maddy surveyed her friend and thought that Clemence was not at her best. Her fine features were pinched, and her blue eyes almost feverishly bright. She cast an anxious glance at Motley, whose rigid spine was indicative of disapproval. Maddy could spare little thought for her governess’s sentiments at overseeing a surreptitious meeting in a public park, or for Motley’s undoubted wrath were she to learn that Clem was now an actress. They were pressed for time.
“Tell me quickly,” Maddy insisted, drawing Clemence farther into the leafy copse, “what has happened. I might tell you that I was utterly dumbfounded to see you upon the stage.” Her voice was low.
“It’s a simple tale.” Clem’s elegant attire was, on closer inspection, shabby. “My future was well on the way to being settled when the family fortunes were discovered to be nonexistent. A matter of careless management and an untrustworthy steward, I believe, though I was not considered of sufficient maturity to be trusted with the whole.”
“Clem!” Maddy was aghast. “That’s disaster, indeed. But how can your family countenance your present profession?”
“Let sleeping dogs lie,” retorted the actress. “Suffice it to say that they neither know of my current whereabouts nor, I suspect, do they particularly care.” She noticed her friend’s expression. “They sent me as companion to my Great-Aunt Beatrix! Can you imagine me in that gloomy house? I was expected to read to her from dreary old books and walk those beastly dogs.”
Maddy could sympathize, having been privileged to meet this ancient, who mixed religious mania with a more practical passion for raising Pomeranians, which were invariably as ill tempered as their mistress. “I could not bear such a dreary existence,” Clem added with a grimace. “My aunt made it clear that I was an object of charity—even the servants ranked higher than I! And 1 was considered a failure because I remained unwed.” She grimaced. “Whom could I marry, pray? Some hayseed, a farmer’s son? Never! So, I ran away.” Clem surveyed Maddy with a hint of her old mischievousness. “And do not frown at me so severely, for you would not have stayed with Aunt Beatrix, either! Were your situation similar, you would be far more likely to follow me upon the primrose path.”
Maddy did not think it the time to inform her friend that their situations were far more similar than might be imagined. She murmured sympathetically.
“Now,” Clem sighed, “it seems that I have a very large problem, but not one that you can help me with. I should not tell you, I suppose, lest I besmirch your innocence.”
“Fudge!” retorted Maddy. “I apprehend that you are having difficulty choosing among the aspirants to your hand.”
Clem smiled wryly. “My hand?” she repeated. “Would that their intentions were so honorable!”
Maddy experienced a tingle of shock, not unmixed with envy. “Clem!” She had equated the actress’s other admirers with Kenelm, who would allow no improper word concerning his goddess to pass his lips. “You cannot mean to become someone’s
mistress!”
She whispered the word, with a wary glance at Motley, but that stony-faced sentinel appeared to have been stricken both deaf and dumb.
“That,” Clem retorted, “is exactly what I want!” She did not appear particularly happy about this fate. “Or rather, it is the best for which I can hope. What do you think happens to actresses, my friend? Or why do you think I chose this course? It is the only way I can hope to continue in the style to which I have become accustomed, and is a great deal better than being consigned to tend someone’s passel of brats!”
“That may be, but surely there must be some other way.” Maddy’s notions of the ramifications of such a relationship were vague, and gleaned primarily from those romances wherein young ladies so daring invariably met with tragic fates. Her curiosity concerning such matters had greatly increased since the advent of the Earl. Unaccountably, she blushed.
“Do you not think I have considered the alternatives?” Clem inquired tartly. “If there was any other way open to me, I would surely leap at it, but the fact remains that there is not.”
“We will surely hit on something,” Maddy insisted, “if we just set our minds to it. Were matters different, you could live with me.”
“An actress?” Clem mocked. “Think how your credit would suffer! I would not bring you down with me. You’ve been too dear a friend for that.”
Maddy was more shocked by this bitterness than by anything Clem had previously said, for it was entirely foreign to the girl she’d known. “I’ve no great notion of my talents,” Clem added. “My popularity arises only from my novelty on the stage, for I am known to be of good birth. I must make a decision—and soon, as my employer so constantly reminds me. I suspect that his insistence arises from the fact that my future protector will reward him handsomely—and I suspect that he has already been bribed, for he mentions Alastair Bechard’s name in every other breath. Paugh!” Her expression conveyed extreme distaste. “I cannot abide the man.”
“Lord Bechard!” Maddy’s spirits plummeted at the thought of that gentleman as her friend’s paramour. “It will not do, Clem! Even my mother warns that he is an extremely dangerous man.”
“The Lady Henrietta,” said Clem cryptically, “may have cause to know.”
“Would it not be preferable to remain on the stage?”
“Not,” retorted Clem, “when my chastity would bring the equivalent of several years’ work treading the boards!” She regarded her friend with sympathy. “Poor Maddy, I strongly exacerbate your sensibilities. At first, I thought the stage a fairy-tale place, but I quickly learned otherwise. I have ruined myself, can you not see? Did I but think I could rise to fame, I would pursue the profession, but I suspect my best acting is done off the stage.”
“Oh Clem,” said Maddy helplessly.
“It has not been so bad,” Clem replied quickly. “If it comes to the worst, I can always find employment at the music halls.”
Maddy, never having been privileged to visit such an establishment, could only guess the significance of her friend’s presence there, but the thought was not heartening. “There must be some alternative,” she argued stubbornly. “Hush, and let me think.”
Clem obediently fell silent. Since she had left her home, she had learned a great deal, the greater part of which she would have given much to forget. She had seen the slum houses in the great rookeries, the decaying piles of tenements in the shabbier parts of central London, the worst of which was possibly Seven Dials, where the theatrical company had their lodgings. Tall crazy houses lined the dark, dilapidated streets; entire buildings frequently collapsed, causing countless unmourned deaths. Children played in the filthy gutters.
Maddy thought frantically, determined to save Clem from the fate that she had so blithely chosen. If only she were already established, she could easily make provision for her friend; but Maddy’s funds were as well as nonexistent, and she dared not send Clem to Lady Henrietta while Claude was in residence.
Clem had little hope that Maddy would hit upon a scheme that would extract her from her difficulties, which were in actuality worse than she’d intimated to her friend. She was safe enough for the moment; the master of her troupe, whom she considered an oily scaly snake, would see that she came to no great harm as long as he thought that he could profit; but this unctuous individual was coming to the end of his short patience, and Clem did not imagine that she would long survive on her own, particularly penniless and resented as she was by the other members of the troupe. She could not even seek shelter at a padding-ken, filthy and disgusting as such places were. Nor could she eke out a living begging, as others did. Many burned their bodies with a mixture of acids and gunpowder to achieve the effect of a grievous accident, or applied strong acids to wounds previously punctured with pins, so that they appeared a mass of sores. To become a rich man’s mistress, no matter how temporarily, seemed paradise in comparison.