AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Then, within twenty-four hours, the trouble started, at which point they all remembered that their own Zoe Octavia was the problem child.
“I don’t want to be rid of her,” Priscilla cried. “I’m sure I don’t, Papa. But we haven’t any choice.”
“You most certainly do,” said Papa. “You can act with courage. You can hold up your head and ignore this foolishness. If we do not feed the rumor mills by hiding and denying, the world will soon find something else to make a fuss about.”
“Papa, I wish I could believe that—”
“If it were an ordinary sort of scandal, naturally, that would be the case—”
“But this is like nothing that’s happened before.”
“It isn’t like a political scandal—”
“Or even a crim con case or a divorce.”
“A Harem Girl, Papa! When was the last time London had a Harem Girl?”
“They might as well call her Jezebel.”
“Some of the newspapers have called her that—and other names a lady must not utter.”
“If she goes into any public place—a shop or park or theater—everyone will stare and whisper.”
“She won’t have a moment’s peace, nor will anybody near her.”
“Those dreadful journalist persons will follow wherever she goes.”
“She cannot live a normal life, nor can we, while she is by.”
“Not in London, certainly.”
“But if she were to go away, to a quiet place in the country—”
“Dear Cousin Horatio’s, for instance—”
“May he rest in peace, poor man.”
“And if she lived there under a different name—”
“Ooooh,” Mama said faintly. She covered her face with her handkerchief.
“Go away?” said her father. “Change her name? But she’s hardly come back!” Papa turned to face them, and Zoe was shocked to see the grief in his face. “My little girl. Twelve years I’ve spent trying to get her back. Twelve years I’ve prayed and worried and kicked myself a thousand times for my folly. Twelve years I’ve raged at myself for not taking better care of her.” He met her gaze then. “I shall never forgive myself, child, for what you’ve suffered. I shall never forgive myself for all the time we’ve lost and can never recover.”
“I’m truly sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you, Papa,” she said. “I’m sorry for causing everyone so much trouble this time.” She closed the book of fashion plates and folded her hands on top of it. “If there’s no other way to make it right than for me to go away, then I shall go away.”
Her sisters’ eyes began to dry. Mama took the handkerchief off her face and sat up a little straighter.
“Well, I’m glad you’ve decided to be reasonable,” said Augusta.
“I shall go to Paris,” Zoe said.
Her sisters screamed.
“Or Venice,” Zoe said. “I’ve lived shut away from the world for twelve years. I cannot bear to do that again. But these are cities. They have shops and theaters and parks and such. I shall feel alive again.”
“She can’t live in Paris!”
“What will people say?”
“She has no notion what she’s proposing.”
“No morals, you see. No notion of what is fitting.”
“No notion of what is practical, I should say. What will she live on?”
“Where will she live? Who’ll look after her?”
“I’m sure these thoughts never cross her mind.”
“She always was the most heedless creature.”
Papa said nothing, but he was studying her face. He’d always understood her far better than any of her siblings had. He waited, leaving it to her.
She took courage from his trust in her. “I shall take my jewels and take a different name, as has been suggested,” she said.
“Jewels?”
“What jewels?”
“She never mentioned jewels.”
“She means some trumpery gewgaws from the bazaar.”
“I mean rubies and diamonds and pearls and emeralds and sapphires,” Zoe said.
The sisters stilled. Priscilla froze with a piece of cake halfway to her mouth. Gertrude set down her cup.
“Gold and silver bracelets and necklaces,” Zoe went on. “Jewels is the correct word, is it not? Karim was fond of me, and he was most generous. I thought I must sell all of my treasures to pay for my return home, but it was not nearly as costly as I had supposed. I was glad of that, because I had hoped to share my possessions with the women of my family. But if it is troublesome for me to remain here, the jewelry will allow me to live in another place. I was told that Paris and Venice were not as expensive as London.”
Her sisters were looking at one another.
When it came to jewelry, women the world over were the same. If her future and everything for which she’d risked her li
fe had not been at stake, she’d have laughed, because her sisters behaved exactly like the harem women they scorned.
She kept her expression serene. “I would rather stay here,” she said.
The silence continued while the sisters mulled this over.
Sometimes the wisest course was simply to offer others a strong motive to solve the problem.
“I don’t see how it could be arranged,” said Augusta after a moment.
“Even if one were to reeducate her—”
“It won’t matter what she does or how she behaves. All everyone will see is the Harem Girl.”
“How could one persuade a hostess to have her?”
“No one will have us while she’s about.”
“I doubt the Prince Regent himself could make her welcome in the Beau Monde.”
“Unless he married her.”
Bitter laughter at this.
“But he’s already married, whether he likes it or not.”
“One of the royal dukes, then?”
“You’re dreaming, Priscilla. They must marry princesses.”
“The daughter of a duke is the very lowest they might consider.”
“But for Zoe…Suppose the gentleman was of exceedingly high rank—”
“If he ranked high enough, the hostesses would not risk offending him. They must accept his wife.”
“To offend certain gentlemen is to commit social suicide. Someone like Mr. Brummell is required: a truly fashionable gentleman whose appearance—even if it is only for ten minutes—determines the success of a gathering.”
Silence again while the sisters pondered.
A moment later:
“Still, he must stand very high. Lady Holland is not invited anywhere because she’s a divorcée.”
“Lord Holland is a baron. Not nearly high enough.”
“How high must the rank be?” said Zoe.
“It’s out of the question,” Augusta said impatiently. “We waste our time cudgeling our brains. Of the few noblemen of sufficiently high rank, nearly all are married.”
“How many are not?” Zoe said.
Dorothea counted on her plump, be-ringed fingers. “Three dukes. No, four.”
“One marquess,” said Priscilla. “That is not counting the courtesy titles. Ought we to count those?”
