Courtney Milan (9 page)

“Now,” Lady Patsworth was saying, “white ruffs might seem too much like livery, but—”

Mary adjusted her skirts, rescuing the paper from its place in her petticoats. She slid it into Lady Patsworth’s sewing basket and gestured for the woman to continue. But Lady Patsworth had stopped talking. She looked at the paper; she looked at Mary. She reached out and touched it with the edge of her fingertips, as if she were afraid it might reach up and bite her.

And then she gave Mary a brilliant smile.

Keep talking,
Mary mouthed, tilting her head toward the door behind which Sir Walter sat.

Lady Patsworth glanced in her husband’s direction and then picked up the paper.

“Of course,” she said loudly, “now that I’m designing my own gowns—”

She stopped again as she unfolded the pages. Sir Walter always read the news of the world while handing the middle page of fashion and gossip to his wife. But she was staring at the front page—not the fashion column.

“Now that I’m designing my own,” Lady Patsworth said more quietly, “I can do…anything I want?” Her voice raised in a question.

“Of course you can,” Mary soothed her.

Lady Patsworth’s hands were shaking. She turned the paper around.

Mary hadn’t had the chance to look at it yet. When John had given it over last night, it had been too dark to make out letters. If she’d tried to read it herself in daylight hours, she would have risked losing her contraband. So this was the first time that she’d seen the headline.

Queen Grants Royal Assent to Matrimonial Causes Act.

Mary drifted over, skimming paragraphs, trying to take it all in. No wonder Sir Walter had canceled his subscription. The gossip pages wouldn’t have been safe any longer. The new bill had created a civil court to hear cases of divorce, allowing anyone to bring suit. Anyone—not just those with access to Parliament. And when that court came into existence…oh, the gossip that the paper would print.

Mary raised her eyes to Lady Patsworth. The woman was staring at the words in confusion.

Mary tilted her head, reminding the other woman that her husband was near. “What sort of
gown
do you think you will make first?”

Lady Patsworth was staring at the black ink before her.

“I don’t think…” Her fingers plucked uselessly at the pages. “That is to say…” She let out a breath and shook her head. “I believe I will make the same sorts of gowns that I always have. Nothing has changed, really.”

How many years had Lady Patsworth suffered under her husband’s rule? More than Mary knew. She knew that the other woman hated his restrictions—but maybe, after all this time, she’d forgotten how to live without them.

“I think you should make a riding habit,” Mary said. “With divided skirts so you might be able to challenge anyone to race—and dash away quickly so that they might never catch you.”

The other woman’s eyes widened at those words. She stole another glance in the direction of her husband. “I…I couldn’t. I haven’t the slightest notion how to cut the cloth.”

It wasn’t
right
. The last few days, talking with John in friendship…they’d been a real balm for Mary. But John would leave, and when he did, Mary would find herself all the more aware of the bars that made up her cage. This was her chance to prove that she could
do
something besides wait to be released.

“Let me sketch you how it is done,” she said, reaching for a pencil. She wrote in tiny letters in the margin of the paper.

Would your brother help you?

Lady Patsworth bit her lip and took the pencil from her.
But how am I to get word to him? Even if he came—he did two years ago—Sir W will simply not let him on the property.

“With the right riding habit,” Mary said, “you might even take a horse over an obstacle. Just jump over it if it gets in your way.”

He has a pistol,
Lady Patsworth wrote.
I’m afraid he’ll use it.

They stared at those words and then Lady Patsworth turned away. “It’s a silly project.” She sniffed. “I don’t ride, I’m afraid. I haven’t since I was a girl. No sense in countenancing such waste.”

There must be some way to change matters,
Mary wrote. Her hands were shaking. If Lady Patsworth could break free, Mary might as well.

But the other woman shook her head vehemently.

“Make an evening gown, then,” Mary suggested. “One you might wear to an elegant party at a neighbor’s house.”

“Alas,” Lady Patsworth said coldly. “My health does not permit such excursions.”

We could make it happen,
Mary wrote.

Lady Patsworth looked at those words for a very long time before reaching for the pencil.
How?

Mary let out a breath of relief.

I have an idea.

Chapter Eight

“I
NEED TO TELL YOU
something.”

John had been meeting Mary for a half hour or so every night for more than a week, now. It was easy to be patient, to pretend to be her friend. It was easy to fall into their old camaraderie—so easy that most of the time he forgot that he was pretending. In fact, he’d stopped probing after the first days. He had time, he told himself, and it would go better if she trusted him…and he was enjoying himself.

He only remembered that he was lying to her at moments like this—when she looked at him with her eyes round and solemn, and he recalled that she had secrets he wanted to uncover.

There was a luster to her eyes, something more than the reflection of starlight. There was something about the way she looked at him that made his chest feel tight.

“I need another favor,” she said. “Two favors, this time, and rather larger. But in order for my requests to make any sense, you have to understand who—what—Sir Walter is.”

One confidence was good. It might lead to another, after all, the one that he truly desired. But that didn’t explain the warmth that filled him at the thought of her trust, the smile that he felt come onto his face.

“He’s an ass,” John said simply. “That much I can tell. But I’m sure you have specifics.”

“He has not let his wife be in company for six years. Not to go to church; not to visit the shops. The last time her brother came to see her, Sir Walter threw him off the property and threatened to shoot him if he returned.”

“What is his reasoning?”

Mary shook her head. “Does it matter? His reasoning is flawed. He says he wants to keep her safe. I think he’s afraid that she will be as unfaithful as he has been.”

It matched what little he’d seen of the man. Mary’s voice was scornful, but when he looked down, her hand was a little unsteady on his sleeve.

He set his own hand over hers, holding it in place. “And what has Sir Walter done to you?” His voice went low. And angry—how angry he felt in that moment.

“He withholds my salary,” Mary said. “I have no money—literally not a penny. I’m not allowed to speak to anyone. I live in fear that he’ll discover that I’m climbing out my window to talk with you at night. If he sends me away, I will have nothing, absolutely nothing. He made my world this small.” She held up her thumb and forefinger, indicating. “And I made myself fit into that space.”

He pressed her fingers into his arm. “I could strike him.”

“Don’t be too angry with him. I did it to myself,” she said. “I let him make me small. I
believed
him at first, when he said he knew what was best for my welfare. I gave up everything, because—”

She was shaking. His hand on hers was no longer enough; he reached and put his arm around her, pulling her close. She had always fit against him so well; she did so again, her body molding to his. The skin of her arms had broken out in gooseflesh, even on this warm night. So he held her and said nothing, held her until she grew warm.

“I let him,” she whispered in his ear, “because I thought I deserved it for what I had done.”

Here was the other half of the confession—the one he had waited for so patiently. So why didn’t he feel any triumph?

“Nobody deserves that,” he responded.

“I thought I did.” She took a deep breath. “You see, when I left Southampton, I went to Basingstoke. I had only a little money, and so much I needed to do. I asked the maids at the inn if there was a doctor who might help me with a private problem for the least amount of money. The maid I talked to suggested Dr. Clemmons. I should have known what I was asking for.”

John felt curiously calm, despite the words she was saying. As if all his emotion was just beyond his reach. “What did you need a doctor for?”

She looked into his lapels. “To falsify a certificate of death.”

His sense of calm grew. It was always thus when he became angry. He’d been right. She
had
been lying to him. Her father wasn’t dead; the money was still there. He should have been delighted to know there was something to recover, but all he felt was that ugly sense of betrayal.

His hands were still on her, gripping just a little too tightly. “You told me that your father was dead. That you’d watched him buried with your own eyes.”

“The fact of his death was not false.”

He took a breath of relief.

She looked up at him. “The day on the certificate and the cause, though, were lies. My father died in Southampton two days prior. I had to find a doctor willing to certify a lie, and Dr. Clemmons was that man.”

“Two days prior in Southampton? But that’s when we were last together. Why did you not tell us then that your father had passed away?”

“Because he killed himself.” Her voice shook. “He killed himself, and I found his body, and all I could think at the time was that if I somehow managed to get him a proper burial on hallowed ground, if I kept everyone from finding out—that maybe, maybe everything would not be ruined.”

“Oh, Mary,” he breathed. All his anger turned to cold ash. He didn’t let go of her, though. He couldn’t.

“And so I went to Dr. Clemmons. The only problem was that I didn’t have enough money to convince him to perjure himself on my behalf.”

Her breath was coming faster. And she was holding on to him, too, her grip even stronger than his.

“Did he help you?”

“He offered.” She put her forehead against his chest. “He offered to help, despite my lack of money. All I had to do was help him in return. It was such a little thing he asked for. It wouldn’t even risk pregnancy, he said.”

Oh, God. Had he been angry at her? He couldn’t even remember it, not in the rush of emotions that followed. Fury at the doctor, whoever Clemmons was. Anger at himself, for letting her go out into the world alone. But mostly, he felt sorrow that she’d discovered how vicious the world could be—and that he hadn’t been there to make it right.

He’d wondered how she had learned to think of her body as currency. Now he knew.

Mary drew another ragged breath. “He had pushed me to my knees and was undoing his buttons when I told him that I would tell the magistrate. I would spill the whole sordid story: I’d tell about my father’s suicide, and how he’d tried to take advantage of a distraught young lady. So I struck a new bargain—he could keep his reputation and not risk punishment, and in exchange, I’d have that certificate issued as I asked.”

“Thank God,” John said.

“And do you know why I did it?” she continued. “Not because I would have balked at that exchange, for the chance at my father’s eternal rest. I wasn’t above making the trade. It was because I knew that once he found he could obtain that sort of concession from me, he would not stop. He’d require more from me—more and more. There was no truth in his bargain. I didn’t stop because I refused to sell my body.” Her voice shook. “I stopped because I didn’t trust him to keep his word.”

“Shh.” He stroked her hair.

“And so I told myself I deserved what Sir Walter was doing to me. I was practically a whore, and the fact that he didn’t use me as one gave him the right to do everything else.”

“You don’t still believe that.” He set his hand against her hair, caressing the soft silk.

“No. But I’ve been so afraid—so angry with myself, with
everyone
.”

“You should be,” he said bitterly. “You should be angry with me, not yourself. I let you walk away from me in a fit of pique. I didn’t think what it might mean to you. And there you were, with…” He paused, the ramifications of what she had told him spilling through him. If her father had died in Southampton, and been buried in Basingstoke…

He stopped and remembered that great big steamer trunk that Mary had taken with her. At the time, he’d assumed it had been filled with clothing—petticoats and corsets and crinolines and gowns would have easily filled the available space.

“You hid your father’s body in your trunk,” he said.

“Yes.” Her emotion was beginning to leak out in ragged, rapid gasps of breath. “I had to. I couldn’t let everyone think he was a suicide on top of being a thief. At the time, I could think only of his reputation.”

“Oh, Mary.” There had been lies from her—of course there had been. But they’d come from pain and loyalty, not from deceit.