Seated in a prim light-blue day dress in the drawing room, I waited nervously. Mama had declared it most inopportune of him but set Marie to polishing the silverware and dusting every surface and dispatched Dobbie to the finest patisserie in the city. She had the table set with her gold-rimmed tea service with the deposed emperor’s initials, which she’d bought at one of her auctions; she claimed it had once belonged to Eugénie.
When I heard him enter the foyer, I sat so erect that Clarita shot me a warning look. Mama accompanied him into the drawing room, engaging in pleasantries as if nothing untoward had occurred. The very sight of him, after a year of absence, stifled my breath.
He wore a fitted gray suit, his coat buttoned at the top to display his patterned vest, a white gardenia in his lapel. His mustache seemed larger than before, but maybe that was because his face was thinner. When his gaze reached across the room to me, my welcoming smile felt taut on my lips. He looked despondent.
The tea was excruciating. He spoke without his habitual wit, imparting the news that he was due to take his oath for Parliament after having spent a month in Ireland caring for a dying aunt, and that his fourth sister, Anne, had recently wed. All expected familial matters, but at the mention of his sister’s marriage, he shifted his eyes to me and I had to look away.
Just when I thought I couldn’t bear another moment, Mama rang her bell for the service to be cleared and said, “If you like, Randolph, you may take Jennie out for a carriage ride. Dobbie will accompany you. I’m certain you must have much to discuss.”
Clarita nudged me under the table. Quickly fetching my bonnet and wrap, I found myself beside him in the carriage on our way to Parc Monceau.
Dobbie followed us at a distance while we walked the paths, passing but not admiring the displaced Renaissance archway by the pond with its swans, the magnificent elms that had somehow survived the siege, and lichen-stained statues standing guard over shaded groves.
He lit a cigarette, trailing smoke in his wake. Unable to abide his silence now that we were alone, I said, “Will you persist in saying nothing?”
He turned to me. “I think you must speak first, seeing as you never answered my letters.”
“I most certainly did. I had to resort to bribery to send my private letter to you. The expected courtesy would have been to acknowledge its receipt. Or did you not receive it?”
“Oh, I did.” His sudden chuckle outraged me. “Your letter bristled with indignation, though I assured you in my response that I had no part in that situation, other than to defend you and your father most strenuously. And you had to resort to bribery, you say?”
“You think it amusing? Clarita paid our maid, Marie, to dispatch it to you.”
“Well, then it seems we were put to the test.” He glanced at Dobbie. “I cannot say I wasn’t warned. You told me in Cowes that your mother’s trust wasn’t easily won.”
“What does Mama have to do with it?”
“She oversees who receives letters in her house, doesn’t she? I wrote to you at once, protesting the accusation. You may blame my brother’s odious wife for that particular imbroglio. Albertha delighted in spreading gossip during the season that my father and I were on the outs over my American penchant.” He drew on his cigarette. “And while matters between my father and I have never been easy, our disagreement was greatly embellished by those who ought to keep their stupidity to themselves. I also did tell you my family are frightful snobs.”
I clenched my hands as he went on. “But you couldn’t have known any of it because Mrs. Jerome withheld my letters. Like I said, a test. For all this bother over who’s unsuitable to marry whom, in the final say our families are far more alike than they care to admit. While my father requested a period of reflection, your mother instituted it. And here we are.”
Fury surged in me. Now that he explained it, it made perfect sense. Mama had kept his letters from me because he was a mistake that must be erased.
“I feel like such a fool,” I said through my teeth.
“Then you understand how I’ve felt this past year. Letter after letter without any answer, imploring you to remember how much I care for you. But when your father withdrew his approval, you didn’t pine too harshly over my loss.”
I came to a halt. “Meaning what?”
“You went on to enjoy yourself. At your mother’s salon and elsewhere. The Jerome sisters are the toast of Paris, which comes as no surprise to me.”
“That’s very unfair. I was miserable for months and months. I thought I’d never see you again. I thought”—my voice fractured—“I thought you’d forsaken me.”
“Never.” He reached for my hand. I wanted to resist, but I again succumbed to that sensation of slipping into a warm sea. “I came to see you because I can’t forget you for a moment, though the entire world stands against us. I feared you might no longer love me.”
I hesitated. I’d never said it aloud and wondered now if I should. Our engagement was over. How could it serve either of us to declare our love?
“I . . . I do,” I whispered. “But there are conditions your father has imposed and my father cannot accept. How can we hope to marry?”
“Yes, I’m afraid the conditions are a sore contention, and both our families have dug in their heels. It’s rather tiresome, arguing over who will get what upon whose death, but things have been done the same way in every Spencer-Churchill marriage since the cornerstone was set at Blenheim.” He chuckled once more. “We could elope and damn the consequences. You can play the piano for sous while I give revolutionary speeches in the hamlet square.”
I shook my head in disbelief at his levity, even as I couldn’t contain my own laughter. “We’d perish within the month. Our clothing expenditures alone would drown us.”
“True.” He let go of my hand to light another cigarette. “Yet I cannot believe either of our families wants us to be perfectly attired and miserable for the rest of our lives.”
We resumed our walk, closer now, our arms brushing against each other. “I could write to Papa,” I said at length. “I might be able to persuade him.”
Randolph nodded. “Should he relent somewhat, my father may feel obliged to do the same, though there’s no certainty of it.”
I didn’t know why it suddenly occurred to me. It wasn’t a solution I should ever have considered. I had no knowledge, let alone experience, to embark on such a path. Even as I contemplated it, my entire being quailed. But we were in love. We’d suffered enough. We deserved some happiness, and, I reasoned, it would happen anyway, sooner or later, and sooner would guarantee success. There could be no way forward should our families refuse to meet each other halfway. But if we tipped the scales in our favor, everything must fall into place. And we’d have a moment all our own, dictated by us. All of a sudden, I wanted this more than anything. I longed to seize charge of our destiny and no longer be battered by forces beyond our control. I wanted him on my own terms.
“Could we—?” I swallowed, still incapable of uttering the words aloud.
He stopped. He didn’t look at me, but he must have understood my intent, for he said quietly, “Jennie, I would leap at the chance. But it’s a terrible risk, especially for you.”
“Forget the risk. Could we?” I heard myself say, to my astonishment. It was as if a stranger spoke through me, someone brazen I didn’t know. “Clarita will help us if she can.”
He went silent for a moment. “My hotel wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“There must be inappropriate places in Paris,” I replied.
He nodded. “There must be. Are you quite sure?”
“Are you?”
He took another moment before he said, “I suppose we must indeed do something.”
MAMA HAD GRANTED me this time alone with Randolph only as an unavoidable concession to his visit. She wasn’t about to allow us another such liberty. The subterfuge required to meet him in secret seemed insurmountable, yet once I confided in her, my sister plunged eagerly into the ploy.
I didn’t reveal my full intent; I merely told her we needed to meet again in private, to determine if we were resolved to wed. She’d seen how down-in-the-mouth Randolph was and had weathered my own misery, so she assured me that together, we must connive a way.
“We could go riding,” she said. “As long as we’re seen mounting and dismounting at the stables, Mama won’t suspect a thing. Why not meet there? You could have as much time as you need while I make myself scarce.”
It was a sound plan I was hard-pressed to reject. But the bois was miles from any hotel, disreputable or otherwise. “He hurt his leg in Ireland. He can’t ride until it heals.”
My excuse sounded as lame as I claimed he was, but my sister only sighed. “That’s unfortunate.” She toyed with her plait as we sat in our shared bedroom. “What about a shopping excursion?”
“Dobbie always goes with us on those.” I shuddered at the thought of attempting to hoodwink our nanny. “I could never elude her.”
Clarita frowned. “Doesn’t he have any idea how to accomplish it?”
“He suggested a café in the Marais.” I had no choice other than to say something in order to direct our conversation toward his designated vicinity.
“The Marais? But it’s so unsuitable, full of drunkards and students. Not at all where a lady ought to be seen . . .” As I felt my breath stall in my chest, she added, to my relief, “Of course, it’s also the ideal place not to be seen by anyone of standing, as he must know.”
I nodded. “But to actually get there . . .”
“It’ll be quite the endeavor, but worth it, if you and he can reach mutual accord. He’s come all this way, after all. He must be desperate.” She considered. “You could take an omnibus. Not that we ever have, but people do.”
“What excuse could I devise for taking an omnibus?” I paused. “Unless . . . We do have that piano recital next week at Madame de Chambard’s salon.”
“We’re not taking an omnibus there. Mama will hire a carriage for us.”
“Yes, but Mama isn’t going. She’s attending an auction and told me Dobbie will accompany her because she may acquire something and only trusts Dobbie to take care of it. Marie will escort us to the salon, instead.”
“Marie can’t be bribed to look the other way while you board an omnibus. A secret letter or two, yes. Not this.”
“What about the carriage we take to the salon? I can . . . I don’t know—excuse myself early. Say something didn’t agree with me and I must return home.”
“Marie will insist on going with you.”
“But she’ll not want to leave you behind. I’ll convince her to let me take the carriage alone and send it back for you, while you keep up the Chopin for as long as you can. No one will doubt my departure due to an unfortunate indisposition.”
Clarita gnawed at her lip. “Marie will still feel obliged to inform Mama that you left the salon early, and our butler will certainly know you never arrived home.”
I went quiet, turning it over in my head. “What if I claim I suddenly felt better? I could then return to the salon after seeing Randolph to fetch you and Marie.”
“Can you meet with him and return so quickly?” she asked.
“I’ll have to manage it. Providing I’m not gone too long, what is there to question?”
“Plenty,” said Clarita, her eyes bright with excitement. “Still, it might work.”
“If it doesn’t,” I said, “and Mama finds out, providing she hears we’re firm in our resolve to marry, she’ll have more pressing concerns than how we managed to meet in private.”
BY THE TIME I reached the café in the Marais where Randolph sat at one of the outside tables, I was certain the entire city would soon be apprised of my flagrant disregard for the rules set in place to prevent exactly these types of transgressions. I’d feigned a stomachache at the salon, refusing the immediate offer of a bed upstairs and a variety of soothing tinctures, pulling on my mantle, and making my way to the carriage. The hired driver gave me a look when I told him the directions but made no comment, though he must have surmised I was up to no good.
Randolph stood at once. With his hand at my elbow, he guided me into the labyrinthine district, untouched by any renovations and given over to the wretched forced out of their homes in other parts of the city under refurbishment after the siege.
At a pitted entryway into a soot-stained building that I could scarcely believe qualified as an establishment, reputable or otherwise, he paused.
“Jennie, there’s still time. We can find another way.”
I lifted my chin, even as I felt my heart pounding so hard I wondered he didn’t hear it. “Mama will move heaven itself to see us wed, once she hears what we’ve done.”
“More like hell itself,” he said. “She’ll think me a villainous knave.”
“She will. And once we’re married, she’ll put it out of her mind.”
He’d already booked the room; the haggard woman at the reception desk didn’t bother to look up when she handed over the key. “Not a minute more,” she called out as we climbed a staircase that felt unsteady under my feet. “This is a decent establishment.”
“Decent, indeed,” muttered Randolph, jiggling the key in the misshapen lock.
The room was small and airless, furnished with the necessities—a sagging bed that looked none too clean, a washstand with a pewter basin, a wardrobe without doors.
Sensing my dismay, Randolph said, “It doesn’t get more disreputable than rooms that rent by the hour. No one can vouch we were here.”
“It is . . .” Words failed me.
I tried not to think of how he knew of such places. I wasn’t entirely ignorant of what came next. One afternoon in London, perusing Fanny’s library for something new to read, I’d happened upon a slim volume tucked behind others on the shelf. When I opened it, a cascade of engravings spilled out. As I gathered them in a panic, I’d glimpsed depictions of men and women in a variety of compromising positions, and could still recall the heat that flared in my cheeks. In my haste to return the illicit trove to its hiding spot, I hadn’t examined them too closely, just enough to understand, more or less, what I was seeing.
“Dreadful.” Randolph broke into my silence. “Not the sort of tale we can ever hope to share with our children.”
I smiled weakly, removing my mantle to drape it over the bed’s threadbare cover. Of all the things that might have concerned me, a louse infestation came first to my mind.
He unfastened his cravat. That one gesture froze me in place. I’d chosen my simplest gown, with a minimum of accessories, to Mama’s consternation, until I whispered my monthly time was on me and she drew back as if I were contagious. Still, I wore a corset, layers of petticoats, and padding for my bustle. The realization that I’d have to either request his assistance or allow him to rummage past my attire mortified me.
I had envisioned something entirely different. Or so I told myself, though in truth the subterfuge required to reach this point hadn’t left me much time for contemplating the actual event. Now here I was, with the man I loved, and no idea what to do next.
Randolph paused, taking in my frozen stance. “Please, allow me.”
His fingers were deft; again, I tried not to consider how he’d learned to navigate the intricacies of feminine attire. As he began to undo my corset, I stepped away, feeling too exposed in my knee-length camisole, under which I wore the split-legged bloomers that revealed more than I’d ever shown anyone except Dobbie.
“Yes,” he said. “That ought to be sufficient.”
He started to undress himself. To my surprise, I saw that men had their share of discomforts as well. Braces for their stockings and trousers, and—
“A corset!” I exclaimed, as he paused in his unfastening of the item encasing his waist.
“Why, yes.” He looked discomfited. “It’s required, is it not?”
His obvious embarrassment at my delight that we were similarly confined dispelled our tension. I helped him remove the corset; beneath, he wore a light cotton undersuit with a convenient row of cloth-covered hooks down its front.
“I prefer yours,” I said, motioning to my rigid undergarments.
“Yes, well. This does make using the chamber pot less arduous.” He undid the hooks; as I caught sight of his narrow torso—he didn’t require a corset; he was so lean—I turned to the bed.
Lying upon it, I closed my eyes.
I heard him search within his clothing, then the creak of his tread on the plank floor followed by his voice at to my ear. “Don’t move. This will hurt a little.”
His hands slipped between my thighs, nudging them apart. I suddenly felt faint from lack of air as his hands were replaced by something stiff and bulbous, with a slippery pliancy to it. Despite my resolve not to look, I couldn’t help glancing down. His erect member was sheathed in an odd device, affixed at its base by a ribbon, like an odd waxen sock.
“I’m told these contraptions can prevent complications,” he explained when I lifted my bewildered gaze to him. “I’ve never actually employed one.”
“Is it uncomfortable?” I thought it must be.
“It’s made of boiled sheep gut, so you can imagine. But again, required.”
He kissed me slowly, rousing that sensation of a warm sea. As his hands roved over me, I finally succumbed to my pent-up desire. I forgot we were in a room rented for an hour, on a bed that was none too clean. I forgot that I’d abandoned my sister at a musical recital to trek across the city to meet a man to whom I wasn’t officially engaged anymore.
I forgot that what we were doing could cast me into ruin.
His lips seared mine at the same time as his encased member probed between my thighs. “Jennie,” he breathed in my mouth, “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too,” I whispered back, for the first time. And my release of the words incited his passion. He thrust into me, a sharp jab. I couldn’t contain my gasp. Behind my eyelids, I saw images of those stylized engravings scattered on the library carpet, the artifice of them that bore no resemblance to the awkwardness of two bodies that didn’t know how to fit together.
“Wait,” I said. He went still, arched over me on his elbows.
“Does it hurt very much? I can—”
“Let me.” I smiled to ease his concern and rocked up my hips. As the pain subsided and his eyes widened to feel himself slip deeper inside, I felt a sudden, exquisite wave that peeled a stifled moan from me. He bucked eagerly a few times, his body quivering, then withdrew so fast that I feared I’d done something to dissuade him, though my sole intent had been to increase our pleasure. Maybe women weren’t supposed to enjoy this?
Then he said, “Oh, no.” I followed his gaze to see the sheath was no longer there.
“Where did it go?” I asked.
To my dismay, he gingerly reached inside me to extract it.
“I’m not sure.” He peered at the crumpled object as if it required a diagnosis. “I think . . . You’d best wash yourself in case. One hopes that jug by the basin has fresh water in it.”
“That’s it?” I couldn’t believe it. It had taken less than five minutes.
He faltered. “For now. I’m afraid I was too excited. It happens.”
“Oh. Does it happen often?”
“I sincerely hope not,” he said drily.
An unwitting peal of laughter escaped me. He was kneeling before me, that shred dangling from his fingertips, looking appalled, before he, too, started to grin.
“Some lover I turned out to be,” he said, and I had to wipe tears of mirth from my face as I sat up and kissed his lips.
“We have much to make up for on our honeymoon. But now, it is done.”
“Indeed.” He went to fetch the jug. “Time to face the consequences.”
HE WANTED TO accompany me to fetch Clarita at the salon, then escort us both home at once to present himself to Mama and suffer her wrath. I refused. I hadn’t exceeded the time to draw suspicion to my absence, so it was best, I told him, for me to go on alone and arrange an invitation for him to tea so we could inform Mama together.
“I’ll write first thing in the morning,” I said. “Will you be at your hotel?”
“Only for three more days.” He shot a censorious glare at the driver that scuttled the man onto his seat to take up the reins. “After that, I must return to London.”
He remained by the street as my carriage departed. Within it, I winced at the throb in my loins. I had bled, requiring him to fetch water from the proprietress, as the jug contained only a scummy film. Even now, I felt wetness seeping out of me. My mantle was dark, so the stain wouldn’t show, but when I entered the salon, where Clarita was already bidding our hostess farewell, I thought my degradation must be plain to see.
On the ride home, Marie frowned as Clarita asked breathlessly in English, which our maid didn’t speak, “Tell me everything. Are you still very much in love?”
I nodded. “We are.”
“Oh, Jennie. Mama will be beside herself, but if you and he are determined, she can’t do anything else but consent, after she states all her objections again, of course.”
We arrived to find the flat blazing with candlelight. Clarita lost her fervor when she realized Mama had already returned. “She might have decided to join us at the salon,” she hissed as we entered the foyer. “What on earth would I have told her?”
“Girls.” Mama’s voice issued from the drawing room. “Please, come here.”
I went in behind my sister, wishing every lamp in the room wasn’t lit even as I told myself nothing could be read by my person, much as I might fear it.
Mama sat on her settee, her embroidery hoop in her hands. “How was Madame de Chambard? Did you remember to give her my regrets? I wish I could have accompanied you, but I’d been assured the auction would feature a set of porcelains from the Tuileries.”
“Did it?” I asked, and I bit my lip. Feigning interest in something I hadn’t shown any interest in before could appear suspicious.
“No. All the items were fake. I didn’t recognize a single one, so I decided to return here. You must have played your entire repertoire. I expected you over an hour ago.”
“Madame and her friends were so charmed by our talents!” Clarita said, in a voice that was much too shrill. “I thought they’d keep us at the piano all night.”
“Is that so?” Mama pricked her needle through the hoop. “How strange. I sent a note once I arrived, thinking you’d indeed forget to convey my regrets. Madame replied that she hoped Jennie was feeling better. It seems she was indisposed. A stomachache, I believe?”
Clarita stammered, “Mama, it—it’s not—”
“Go at once to your room.” She didn’t look up, but as I started to follow my sister, Mama intoned, “Not you, Jennie. I still have words for you.”
A tense silence ensued, broken only by the hiss of her needle slicing through cloth.
“Where were you?” she finally said. “You most assuredly did not come here.”
I saw no reason to equivocate. It wasn’t how Randolph and I had planned it, but I’d rather she vented her fury on me first. By the time she saw him, she’d be obliged to contain the worst of it. “I was with Randolph. Mama, we had to—”
She slapped her embroidery aside. “How dare you? I was indulgent past any obligation on my part. I allowed him into my house, endured his mournful eyes and dispirited conversation, though he had the poor taste to mention his sister’s marriage after his father broke off your engagement—”
“His father did not break it off. Papa refused to consent to the duke’s terms. Had he agreed,” I said, as she stared at me in disbelief, “we’d be planning our wedding now, not stealing away to meet in secret.”
“You will never do so again.” She lifted a hand to her throat, as if she were short of air. “I forbid it.”
I swallowed. “It’s too late to forbid us anything.”
Her color drained. “God in heaven . . . What have you done?”
As I returned her stare, she let out a desolate sigh. “You’ve gone beyond forgiveness. I will carry your disgrace to my grave.”
“Only he and I know. No one else.”
“Not Clarita? Or did you mislead her, too?”
“She only thinks we met at a café to talk.”
“Then I suppose we must be grateful for that mercy.” She shut the drawing room doors, then paced to the decanter of brandy on the sideboard for her guests. Pouring a precise measure into a glass, she thrust it at me. “Drink this. Though I highly doubt your nerve requires further fortification.”
I gulped, coughing at its potency.
“Well.” She arranged herself back on her settee, her anger evaporating as quickly as it had flared. “You’ve obtained what you desired.” When I looked up, she said, “Your father would have surrendered in time; he never could refuse you anything. I was the one who insisted we must stay firm. The duke would see you bound as chattel to his son, without any say over your financial affairs should something untoward occur. I had no wish to put a daughter of mine in such a precarious state. Life will upend us if we don’t have the foresight to prevent it—something you’ve clearly yet to learn.”
I finished the brandy, feeling sick to my stomach. “And now?”
“Now we must abide by their terms.” She gave me a severe look. “You’ve foregone the security I sought for you by taking matters into your own hands. Randolph will receive an annuity income from his father’s estate for as long as the duke lives, but your dowry payments will not revert to you should Randolph die. I can only hope he’ll be worth the sacrifice.”
“He is,” I said quickly. “We love each other.”
Her mouth pursed. “Believe me, without money, love doesn’t fill the larder.” She sighed. “What is done can’t be undone. I’ll cable Leonard in the morning to inform him I’ve had a change of heart. Go and take your rest. You look dreadful.”
I went to the drawing room doors and paused. Before I could open my mouth, she cut me off. “Do not think to thank me. Marriage, you will discover, can be for a very long time.”
THE CEREMONY WAS set for April in the chapel of the British embassy in Paris. My gown by Worth had lace-covered sleeves and a cloud of rosebud-embroidered veiling. Papa brought me a stunning pearl choker, which Dobbie promptly insisted I keep stored away, lest I take it into my head to wear it before I married. I had other jewels as well, sent by Randolph’s mother, the duchess; he presented them to me at our engagement dinner, along with a letter from Lady Frances, detailing the jewels’ provenance and every late duchess who’d worn them before. Randolph whispered to me, “She kept these for you from a recent auction of our Marlborough gems”—an unsettling remark that, coupled with the letter, made me feel as if the jewels might be better displayed in a museum. When Dobbie saw them, she stated as much herself, indicating her time in Paris acting as our ladies’ maid had not gone to waste.
That night in our bedchamber, Clarita likewise sniffed when I showed her the antique case containing the necklace and bracelet. “Dobbie’s right. No one has worn settings like that in ages, though the gems look real enough.”
“Burmese rubies and Indian diamonds. Randolph assures me they’re of considerable value.”
“Then they’ll need new settings. Valuable or not, as they are now, they’re fit only for Madame de Chambard’s salon.”
I closed the case. “Oh, Clarita.” I gazed about our room, where we’d spent so many nights plotting my future. “This is the last time I’ll sleep here as I am. Tomorrow, I shall become Lady Randolph and Jennie Jerome will no longer exist.”
“I should hope so. I’m counting on Lady Randolph to introduce me in London’s society.”
“Our house in London won’t be ready for several months,” I reminded her. “It requires extensive renovation, so after our honeymoon, we’ll be staying at Blenheim.”
“A palace. Who would have thought? The girl who recited Baudelaire and whose family wasn’t deemed fit to join the Four Hundred will now be the wife of a duke’s son.”
“And she’ll reside in a palace with only one working water closet, according to the duke’s son. How do they manage it? Do they queue up every morning?”
“What does it matter?” She flung herself across her bed. “You’ll be married, received everywhere. Once you have your home in London, I’ll have to remind you every day that your sister was instrumental in helping you become so terribly important.”
I spread out beside her, and we lay looking together out the window into the spring night.
“Do you think it odd that his parents won’t attend the wedding?” I asked.
“Perhaps it’s how they do these things in their family. They did send their regrets, and his brother the Marquess of Blandford is here in their stead.”
“Yes, and have you seen how George stands aside and leers, as if he’s in on a joke no one knows? He’s so different from Randolph, I can scarcely believe they’re brothers.”
“But you liked his parents well enough when they came to visit us?”
I nudged her. “I barely got a word in edgewise, with Mama commanding all the attention.” As Clarita giggled, I recalled the way Lady Frances’s hazel-green gaze (Randolph had her eyes) had scrutinized Mama’s drawing room and gown, which was more current than the one she wore. While the duchess’s smile never slipped, I thought I’d glimpsed disdain in her appraisal and her slight wince when Mama made a point of displaying her painted fan with the comment that it was a personal gift from the empress.
Or was it envy?
“The duke was very distinguished,” said Clarita. “Though I expected him to be taller. Randolph has his mustachios. His Grace’s put a walrus to shame.”
“Yes, he was cordial with me.” I felt a sudden chill, reached up to shut the window. “Even if he didn’t say much.”
“How could he? Mama did all the talking!” Clarita started to laugh, then went quiet as she took in my expression. “Surely you’re not afraid of them?”
“Of course not,” I said at once, but as I looked away, she tightened her hold on my hand.
“You mustn’t be, Jennie. There will be a period of adjustment, but what’s most important now is how you conduct yourselves in your marriage.”
I tried to smile. “I don’t know anything about being an English lady.”
“Don’t let Mama hear you say that. She’s spent our entire lives preparing us to be ladies. In French society, perhaps, but it can’t be so different. You’ll be the most celebrated hostess in London. I have no doubt.”
I met her eyes. “Do you truly think so?”
“Silly goose.” She embraced me. “You’d better not disappoint me. If you fail to become the undisputed belle of British society, how can I possibly hope to marry above you?”