Page 29 of To Winter at Wildsyde

Her voice broke and Matilda got to her feet and put her arms about Jemima as she tried to steady herself.

“Forgive me,” she said, tugging a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiping her eyes with brisk, efficient movements.

“There’s nothing to forgive. Oh, Jem, I’m so sorry. I know how close you were, but….”

Matilda hesitated once more, knowing she ought to be more careful. It just made her heart ache to know one of her friends was in need. She had so much. Her brother’s generosity—not to mention his guilt—had made her a very wealthy woman. If only Jemima would not see it as charity, she would have happily shared that wealth with her friend.

“Oh, come now, Matilda,” said Jemima, her voice trembling with a mixture of laughter and tears. “Don’t shy at the fence now. You’ve come this far.”

Matilda laughed and sat down again, drawing her chair closer to Jemima. “Oh, I’m a wretched busybody, Jem, there’s no denying it, but you once confided to me that your aunt kept you and now….”

“It has been… difficult,” Jemima said with a smile before her gaze slid away from Matilda’s. She focused instead on the remains of a bread roll, absently picking bits from it as she spoke. “But as it happens, it appears my aunt has put aside a nice little nest egg for me. I only had to hold on for a short time whilst all the boring legal issues were sorted out. This time next week, I… I shall be very nicely settled. So, you must not worry for me any longer.”

“Oh,” Matilda said, letting out a breath and wondering what it was about Jemima’s words that hadn’t quite eased her mind. “Well, I am relieved to hear it. Will you still have that same dear little house?”

“Oh, n-no….” Jemima said, her delicate blonde brows knitting. “I’ve decided the bustle of the city is not for me. I’m going to buy a house in the countryside. A dear little cottage, with roses around the door,” she added with a tinkling laugh, which did not reassure Matilda in the least.

“In the countryside?” she said, astonished. “But surely you’ll be here for the season? You’re young and beautiful and, if you have a little money set aside….”

“Oh, I have no plans to marry, Tilda, dear,” Jemima said, smiling far too brightly. “Why ever should I? I have a nice little pot of money and I’ll have my own home, so I don’t need to bother with getting myself a husband, do I?”

Matilda watched her uncertainly. She did not believe a woman needed a man to be happy. Indeed, some women would be far better off without the dreadful men they were saddled with, and the life Jemima described was not without a certain appeal. It was a life Matilda could well end up living herself. Nonetheless, something about Jemima’s too-bright smile and the whole situation had Matilda’s maternal instincts all on end.

“Well, I am relieved to know that everything has worked out so delightfully,” she said, trying to smooth down her prickling senses. “But I do hope that you will remain here for as long as you wish. I have been so looking forward to your company.”

“Of course I will,” Jemima exclaimed, her smile warm and genuine now. “Though, I must inform you that I have an ulterior motive. I have been advanced some funds whilst… whilst all my aunt’s affairs are set in order, and I am, as you can see, in desperate need of a new wardrobe. Will you help me, Tilda, dear? You have such an eye for fashion.”

“Oh!” Matilda said laughed. “My dear young woman. Nothing in the world would give me greater pleasure.”

***

Minerva sighed happily as she stared down at the longed-for invitation. The date was still a few weeks off, yet the urge to squeal with excitement was hard to resist. Instead, she contented herself with pressing the invitation to her lips. Though she was hardly the usual sort of guest invited to Joseph Banks’ scientific conversazione at his home in Soho Square, Minerva had secured herself—and guest—an invitation via means not too dissimilar to blackmail.

She bristled a little at the idea but could not entirely dismiss it out of hand. Mr Inigo de Beauvoir had been so unsettled by the idea she might try to gain entry to one of his lectures at Somerset House—and undoubtedly cause a scene—that he’d decided this was the lesser of two evils. Of course, he had made that reasoning plain, underscoring the fact that there was no romance at all in the invitation with heavy black pen.

Minerva smiled a little, imagining his irritation as he’d written the tersely worded note informing her that an invitation would follow. The poor man just did not know what to do with her, but then he barely remembered to eat from what Minerva could tell. He needed looking after and something about the irascible fellow brought out all of Minerva’s maternal instincts. Why, she could not fathom. He was not especially good-looking: immensely tall, but rather gaunt, with a hawk-like profile and black hair that was too long and unruly. He looked more like an exasperated crow than the kind of hero she’d sighed over in romantic novels. Yet, there was something utterly compelling about him.

She was not certain if it was simply that fierce intellect that blazed so intensely in his eyes or something else, but once Mr de Beauvoir fixed his attention on you it was akin to being skewered with a red hot poker. Though not entirely unpleasant—at least, Minerva had not found it so—it was disturbing.

“Well, my dearest, I simply must write and thank you for the lovely invitation,” she murmured, settling herself down at the little writing desk in her room and reaching for a clean sheet of paper.

Dear Mr de Beauvoir,

Thank you so much for inviting me to attend your lecture. I am beside myself with excitement. May I be so bold as to enquire what subject you intend to speak on? I should like to give myself some very basic information so that I might better understand what it is you are studying. I have no doubt that I will become lost in short order, but I should prefer not to appear a complete ninny. If you have any suggestions for reading matter ahead of your lecture, I should be most grateful.

I confess I have sighed most despondently over your assurances that you find nothing romantic in the invitation, but of course a man like yourself has more important things to think about than stolen kisses. I did steal that one after all, did I not? I cannot pretend otherwise. I am a thief and have fallen so far into my life of crime that I cannot be redeemed. So, you had best be on your guard and prepared to keep your assets under lock and key. There will be a villainess at large in Soho Square, and she intends to make a greater theft.

Your heart.

With admiration.

Yours,

Miss Minerva Butler.

Chapter 13

Miss Butler,