Chapter Nine
The following day, Henry sat alone with the duchess while awaiting Lucy’s appearance downstairs. He suspected her delay was entirely meant to punish him. Her tardiness, however, provided him a moment of privacy to express his deep doubt to the duchess and perhaps seek a path of escape from his moral quagmire.
“When you presented this challenge to me,” he said, “I felt the task was too tall. I am happy to inform you that my first inclination was incorrect.”
She smiled, apparently pleased with his assessment.
He then added, “I now believe the task to be impossible.”
Her pleasure faded and she grew somber. “We must succeed. We simply must. For I have already arranged a test two weeks hence.”
Dismay struck him. “Test? What sort of test?”
“A small dinner party of hand-selected individuals to assess Lucy’s progress. Nothing more.”
He blinked slowly. “You have invited members of Society to meet Lady Margaret? In two weeks? At a dinner party? That she will host?”
“Yes. The plan is already indelibly in motion and we cannot fail.”
Henry shuddered involuntarily. Images of social disaster careened through his head as he considered how badly his association with such a farce would damage his already unremarkable reputation. Furthermore, he did not wish to see Lucy suffer such an indignity. Despite her seeming hatred for him, she deserved better. As he began formulating an argument to break the agreement, the duchess correctly perceived his thoughts.
“I will double your pay, Mr. Beaumont.”
He paused, considering. She grew impatient.
“Triple. I will triple your pay.”
He exhaled and leaned back into his chair. The sum offered by the duchess would greatly improve his financial situation. He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck while attempting to muster the strength to decline. While doing so, an image of Lucy flashed through his mind like a brief, flickering flame. Her remarkable eyes as she cornered him like helpless quarry. Her lilting smile as she bound him with unbreakable logic. Her slender hands as she dismissed his arguments like so much nonsense. Surprisingly, he found that he did not wish to bid her farewell. Not yet, anyway.
“Very well. As you wish, Your Grace.”
“Do I still have your best?”
He replied, more certain than before. “Yes, you have my best. Nothing less stands a prayer of succeeding.”
…
The ensuing days progressed for Lucy as a descent into Dante’s nine circles of hell, level by miserable level. The frustrated duchess and Henry played the role of Virgil, shoving Lucy forcibly through the torture of learning the most superficial of social behaviors.
Level one of Lucy’s hell proved physically taxing and left her aching and exhausted. For an entire afternoon, her guides forced her to curtsy repeatedly, with a pause between for them to offer correction. Afterward, for hours on end, Henry and the duchess watched her sit down properly, sit still properly, and stand up properly. The second day consisted of eight hours of Lucy walking—walking up the stairs, walking down the stairs, entering a room, exiting a room, and generally attempting to glide across the floor as if on skates.
The next circle was comprised of endless drilling on proper introductions and the maintenance of emotional control.
“Mr. Beaumont. I am so pleased that you have come.”
“Again, Lady Margaret, but with more feeling.”
“What if I am not pleased?”
“More feeling nevertheless.”
“I am so pleased that you have come.”
“Lady Margaret! Not that sort of feeling. Affectionate feeling.”
“Are you telling me to lie?”
“Yes.”
“I am so pleased that you have come.”
“I nearly believed you that time. Much better.”
“Thank you. My ability to lie has improved greatly under your tutelage, sir.”
As Henry schooled her in the art of leveling one’s emotions, she quickly became aware that he was searching for emotional wounds that he might exploit in order to prod her into an outburst.
“Is it true, Lady Margaret, that country maidens enhance their complexion using sheep dung smear?”
“I have never heard of such.”
“My mistake, then. When first we met, your dark facial smudges and distinct odor led me to think the rumor true.”
“Is that so? Then let me share my first impression of you!”
“I am listening.”
Pause. Pause.
“So, Mr. Beaumont. Would you call the color of your cravat the green of nasal drip or the green of cat vomit? I cannot decide.”
Deep sigh.
“Definitely cat vomit.”
Small talk and the boundaries between appropriate and inappropriate subjects comprised the next circle of torture. It soon became obvious to Lucy that in the vast realm of appropriate versus inappropriate subjects, the latter far outnumbered the former. In fact, virtually all Lucy knew about informal conversation appeared to be wrong.
“Can I compliment a woman’s dress, Mr. Beaumont?”
“No. The remark might be misconstrued.”
“How does one misconstrue a compliment?”
“People of Society often use insincere compliments to offend and ridicule. A form of sarcasm, as it were.”
“Why would they do that? Such behavior is cruel and untruthful.”
Pause. Pause.
“I do not know. Just refrain from doing so.”
In short, Lucy learned that any remark about a person’s appearance was off-limits, as was any question of a personal nature, anything that might be deemed gossip, or anything relating to shocking or evil behavior.
“So, then, Mr. Beaumont. You are telling me that conversation is largely limited to the weather, the quality of the food, and my thoughts on needlework.”
“More or less.”
“And you find this sort of social function interesting?”
Pause. Pause.
“No. I find most dinner parties to be an incredible bore.”
“That pleases me. It provides evidence of a brain inside your skull.”
The schooling continued for four days to a point where Lucy thought she might just survive the grueling education. However, a disclosure from the duchess destroyed even that illusion. Shortly after Henry had left the house, agitated and mumbling one afternoon, Lucy and the duchess sat down for what she hoped would prove an unremarkable supper.
“Lucy, dear,” said older woman. “In your opinion, how does your training progress?”
She swallowed an overly large bite. “Well, I believe that although Mr. Beaumont is a particularly odious taskmaster, I am learning.”
“That assessment delights me. It gives me hope for the outcome of the event.”
Lucy began to retrieve another bite but froze. “Event? What event?”
The duchess’s eyes widened with seeming unease. She took a sip of wine and averted her gaze. “Nothing, really. Just a simple dinner party with a small number of individuals who may help assess your readiness for Society. My oldest friends.”
Panic welled within Lucy. “When?”
“Ten days hence.”
She rose from her chair in reaction to the blow. “A dinner party in ten days? With me on display? Are you daft?”
The face of the duchess grew stony. “Sit down, Lucy! Your current behavior undoes every effort of the past four days.”
She sat down but her brows remained knotted with restrained anger. “Does Henry know about this?”
“Yes.”
“And he did not deem it reasonable to tell me?”
“I forbade him from doing so.”
Lucy gritted her teeth as she clenched the tablecloth between her fingers. Disdain for Henry filled her senses. He probably took great pleasure in her coming humiliation, an event that would justify his lack of faith in her. The despicable nature of his subterfuge left her angry and bitter. She spoke to the duchess with as much restraint as she could muster.
“How will I be able to do this?”
The woman smiled empathetically. “Mr. Beaumont will walk alongside to guide you.”
“The great Mr. Beaumont!” she said with dripping sarcasm. “That makes all well.”
The duchess remained calm. “Sarcasm is unladylike, my dear. Please refrain from such a tone.”
“Another rule, then?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Lucy stood from the table and executed a much-improved but imperfect curtsy. “If it pleases Your Grace, may I be excused from supper to consider this new rule appropriately, as well as my impending humiliation?”
The duchess frowned but nodded. Lucy hurried to her room, forgetting every rule of posture. She definitely did not skate along the way. Once behind the door of her chambers, she threw her body onto the bed. How she hated this cage of rules! And how she despised Henry for his part in confining her to that cage! She cried for a time, considering yet again how she might escape the house.
An hour passed and her tears dried. The memory of her noble father came to her from that dark day at the Thames. To run away would be to ignore his final words to her—to take courage. Deep in the night, she came to a firm decision. She would stay. She would fight. And she would find a way not only to survive, but to win this game where every rule conspired against her.
…
Henry had worked with Lucy over the course of the first four days with mounting frustration. His efforts to teach the maddening woman had met a stiff wall of resistance that shifted between passivity and aggression. Even in the throes of conflict, however, he could not dismiss how he’d come alive in her presence. Her frank and impassioned speech had blown through him like a spring gale, withering in its force but cleansing in its sweep. And every time his frustration had reached a breaking point, she’d flashed him a radiant smile, he had sighed, and pressed on. If for no other reason than self-defense, then, he’d decided to make a game of the contest by prodding her into inevitable outbursts. Each time he’d pushed her to the verge of an eruption, though, she’d pulled back and even found the wherewithal to mock him. He’d withstood the mocking admirably…until the fourth day.
“You frankly cannot ask a man how many affairs he has had,” Henry explained. “Such things are simply not done.”
Lucy crossed her arms. “And yet a woman must be a virgin before marriage, and may even be subjected to a test of that condition? That hardly seems equitable.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Of course, the situation is not equitable. It is the solemn duty of fathers and brothers to protect their daughters and sisters from scandal until such time as…”
“They can sell them in marriage for the financial improvement of the family, even if said improvement involves a union with a disgusting old man who rattles when he breathes.” Henry began to disagree, but she plowed through his response. “I recall you have a sister. What price does the daughter of a country earl fetch in the backwaters of Northumberland? A pair of cows? A pack of hunting dogs? A slightly used phaeton?”
Henry’s ire rose. He stood from his chair so abruptly that it fell backward. Her eyes grew wide.
“Do not ever speak of my sister that way again,” he said with a growl. “She possesses a quality of character you will likely never reach, let alone understand. If such disrespect for her crosses your lips again, I will be done with this. And with you.”
He braced for what would surely be a hot outburst from Lucy. Instead, she gazed at him with astonishment. Then her eyes softened, and a warm smile curled her lips.
“Why, Mr. Beaumont,” she said sweetly. “I thought hysteria was more the realm of weak women than of strong men? Clearly, I was mistaken.”
He stormed from the room without another word. Before long, he was on the street and walking swiftly, mumbling with annoyance as would a madman. Words rumbled through his mind of how he might explain to the duchess that he was rejecting her money and abandoning the job. After a time though, his flush of anger began to fade. A single word found his lips.
“Hysteria.”
He chuckled softly as he recalled what Lucy had said to send him racing from her presence. Truthfully, her clever retort had been amusing. He considered how this entire situation must appear to her. One day, she was living a secluded life as the prisoner of a criminal, and the next day she was an heiress in a world she did not remotely understand. Despite the challenge, she possessed a keen ability to cut through the clutter of regulations to the absurdity beneath. Reluctantly, he admitted admiration for that quality.
When Henry finally returned to his quarters, he had already recommitted to his task. Abandoning his mission would only chip away at his already sullied character. He could not live with such a feeble outcome. Despite Lucy’s resistance, the likely failure of the charade, and his ongoing participation in covering up a crime, he decided to pursue the next ten days with every fiber of his resolve. He was stubborn that way. Besides, a loyal Friday would never abandon his Robinson Crusoe in a time of need, even if that Crusoe was an enticing honeypot that had become the source of his moral unraveling.