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* * *
She was as aware of him and the people he came into contact with as she would be a pebble in her shoe, Madelyn thought resentfully as she struggled to find something harmless to talk about. Jack Ransome always seemed to be at the edge of her vision, even as she concentrated on memorising the names of the pleasant group Louisa had introduced her to.
There was that attractive brunette who had brushed against him and then pressed close when he turned to apologise, the pair of giggling debutantes—he had dodged neatly behind a large woman in a turban to escape them—and then that good-looking young man with the sneer. She had thought for a moment that something was wrong there, Jack had seemed suddenly formidable somehow and the other man was clearly annoyed. Then that stocky man who looked as though he’d be happier on a horse than in a ballroom had intervened and now he and Jack were laughing—had she ever heard him laugh before?—and leaving. Leaving?
She should be pleased—it was not pleasant trying to conform to his expectations while under that deceptively lazy scrutiny. But she felt safe when he was there, as though he was a link to the Castle, to where she could be herself and not this out-of-place awkward creature that people pretended not to stare at.
‘Madelyn, dear?’
That was Louisa, indicating yet another new acquaintance. She had Louisa, of course, she reminded herself as she went through the ritual of smiles and handshakes and polite responses to the same questions yet again. Yes, that castle in Kent. No, she was nothing like the scholar her father had be
en, unless it was of garden history. She received an unobtrusive nudge from Louisa for that—young ladies were not supposed to be scholars of anything, even something as feminine as flowers.
Madelyn had expected to feel afraid of this new world and had thought that lifelong habits of obedience would somehow get her through. She had followed her father’s wishes and proposed to a man, after all, and that had been terrifying enough. Now there were still those moments of panic and dizziness, although she was learning to disguise those. But what she had not expected to feel was anger. Anger with these so-polite people who could barely disguise the fact that they thought her an oddity. Anger with Jack for expecting her to adapt and conform and lose her real self so entirely. Anger with herself for not fighting back.
That at least she could control and she did not care how dizzy with panic it made her feel. Madelyn smiled at Lady Brondesbury, who had observed that she must find so many aspects of modern life vastly superior to existing in the Middle Ages. ‘Only one, ma’am.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘The modern privies are so much less draughty, I find.’
Beside her Lady Fairfield made a sound that might have been a gasp of laughter or, more likely, horror. Lady Brondesbury said, ‘Draughty?’
‘Yes. You know those little projections from castle turrets, like tiny lean-to buildings? Well, they overhang the moat, you see. Those are garderobes, or privies. They are called garderobes because the fumes keep the moths away,’ she added helpfully, ignoring sounds of real anguish from Louisa.
‘And you observed antique modes of living so accurately? I had no idea.’
‘Naturally I followed my father’s wishes,’ Madelyn said, attempting to look demure. It was amusing to tease her ladyship and not reveal her mother’s insistence on modern closets.
‘Most dutiful,’ Lady Brondesbury said faintly. She seemed uncertain whether to be appalled or approving as she left them.
‘Madelyn, you really should not talk of such matters,’ Louisa whispered. ‘Privies! Fumes!’
‘I do not care, they think me odd anyway. Have we stayed long enough, do you think? I want to review the work the decorators have done before they start again tomorrow.’
‘Yes, I think so. It will be assumed we are going on to another reception.’ Louisa looked as though she was glad to be able to escape, Madelyn thought, feeling more cheerful than she had in days.
* * *
‘Your post, my lord.’ Eight days after the Dalesford soirée, Tanfield, his manservant, placed a small salver beside Jack’s breakfast plate. ‘More coffee, my lord?’
‘No, thank you.’ Jack reached out and flicked over the letters. Most were addressed to Mr Jack Ransome but a few had Lord Dersington above the address. It felt very strange. Lord Dersington had been his grandfather, then his father. Not his brother, though: Roderick had held the title for such a short time that it had never seemed to be his.
But now it was Jack’s and, after a long discussion with Charlie Truscott, and the best part of a bottle of brandy between them, he was using it and the word was spreading, along with the news that he was to marry Miss Aylmer.
In the past week Tanfield had mentioned it to all the tradesmen and told his fellow valets and menservants in the club-like public house they patronised in the back streets of Mayfair. That would reach their masters by the first cup of coffee the next morning. Charlie had promised to gossip in all his clubs and at Tatt’s, and it had not taken long for the less stodgy newspapers to pick it up.
Jack glanced at the Morning Post, which always ran a hotchpotch of gossip beneath its formal Court and Society items.
A collision occurred on St James’s Street at midnight on Wednesday, when two young gentlemen of title, in a condition of elevated spirits owing to intoxication, attempted to roll in barrels down the hill towards the Palace. It is understood that three broken limbs ensued and that the casualties were removed to the nearest Watch House.
It appears that the Earl of D—n has finally resolved to pick up the burden of the coronet that fell from the hands of his late brother after so tragically short a time and has resumed the title amid much speculation.
Large sums were wagered and lost on Mr Percival Bromidge in a hotly contested foot race against Maurice ‘The Footpad’ Jennings over ten miles in Newmarket yesterday. The favourite...
So, he rated more highly than a foot race, but was apparently of less interest than drunken antics in St James’s Street. After that, however, the news would most definitely be all over town.
The post included two pages of moralising on the Duties Owed to Your Position, from his Great-Aunt Hermione, who expressed herself thankful that he had come to his senses at last, and several invitations from hostesses who had in the past either taken little interest in him, or had cut him comprehensively. Apparently his lack of lands and wealth was slightly mitigated by the title. He found their hypocrisy did little for his dark mood.
