The Rake's Unconventional Mistress. Juliet Landon
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kind of thing, Mama?’ they had asked, innocently.
‘That kind of thing. Novels. Racy novels.’
‘Is it racy, Mama?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, dears. It looks racy to me. What’s it called? Waynethorpe Manor? Sure to be.’
‘So you haven’t read it, Mama?’
‘Me? Read such rubbish? Why, no, of course not.’
‘Then how can you judge it, Mama?’
‘Oh, I flicked through it when I was in Hatchards, and I could tell. I don’t see Letitia reading it unless it explains how to tell a Turner from a Reynolds, which I’m sure I don’t care about unless there’s a difference in the price.’
Meant to tease, the conversation veered predictably into areas about which Lady Boyce had strong views, but no knowledge. The twins smiled and took the book to Richmond, just the same.
Letitia picked up the brown paper package and opened it, finding the three volumes of brown leather tooled with gold lettering. She peeped at the title page of the first one.
Waynethorpe Manor
A Novel in Three Volumes by the Author of The Infidel
London
Printed for the Mercury Press, Leadenhall Street
1814
She closed it again, smiling. But seven faces could not conceal their curiosity. ‘May we read it, Miss Boyce? Please may I be the first? Is it the new one? The Infidel was so romantic. My mama told me I should not be reading it, but she read it. I know she did.’
Letitia chuckled. ‘Perhaps I shall look through it first, and, if I think it’s suitable, I’ll lend you my copy. I would not wish to offend your mamas. Now,’ she said, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, ‘it’s almost time for our accounting lesson. Mr Waverley will be arriving at any moment, and we must not keeping him waiting. Leave your paintings as they are, and we’ll come back to them after tea. Come, girls, into the parlour.’
Rewrapping the volumes, she carried them away to safety.
The Honourable Bartholomew Waverley was indeed arriving on foot as she spoke, to take the Friday lesson that would, in theory at least, initiate Miss Boyce’s pupils into the mysteries of household accounting that every good wife, wealthy or not, needed to know. It was the kind of thing Letitia included in her curriculum, which other seminaries did not, and so far there had been plenty of parents who agreed with her that it was essential learning. Mr Waverley had been a friend of Letitia’s since they had met at a lecture to which her father had taken her many years ago in London. By good fortune, he lived in a beautiful house that faced north-west across Richmond Green, and his willingness to become involved as escort, guide and tutor was one of the reasons why Letitia was sure she could take on such a responsibility. Their relationship was warm, but never more than that—more like that of brother and sister. They were both quite content to have it so.
Mr Waverley was not only a reliable friend, but also an excellent companion who saw nothing remarkable in Letitia’s exceptional interest in subjects deemed to be a man’s territory. They attended meetings and discussion groups together where his keen mind and knowledge of things scientific and mathematical balanced nicely against her preference for the arts subjects. He was, in fact, the perfect friend. He stood with his feet upon the fanlight’s semi-circular shadow that fell upon the Axminster. ‘I’m standing on your cheese segments.’ He grinned.
‘So that’s what I can smell. And, yes, you are invited to dinner. Come inside, Bart. The girls are in the parlour already.’
‘With Gaddy?’
‘Yes, Gaddy’s in there, too.’
Miss Gaddestone was Letitia’s cousin who lived with her by dint of a reciprocal arrangement whereby she received board and lodging for her services as chaperon whenever she was required. And since several of the tutors employed by Letitia were gentlemen, Miss Gaddestone was always there in a corner of the room for the sake of propriety and to keep an eye on good manners. She was kindly and well liked, a stickler for correctness who took her duties very seriously, sitting there with her basket of sewing, saying little, but hearing all.
The exchanged smile needed no explanation, for both of them were aware that one or two of the pupils harboured fantasies about Mr Waverley that had very little to do with accounting. He was tall and pleasant-faced, brown-haired and courteous with well-manicured hands, and eyes that smiled easily. He was also the son of a viscount, wealthy and unmarried, quite a catch for any woman, if he had shown the slightest interest. Naturally, the pupils were sure that he and Letitia were more than just good friends.
‘I’ll go in, then,’ he said.
‘Yes. The twins have been.’
‘Oh? Not Lady Boyce?’
‘No. They brought me something, Bart.’
He studied her laughing eyes, almost level with his. ‘Not the book? But you’ve already got your copies. Did you tell them?’
‘Heavens, no. Mama’s sure it’s not suitable reading.’
‘She’s probably right, dear heart.’ He smiled. ‘So do I get to read it now? Come on, that’s part of the bargain, remember.’
‘All right. You can take it home after dinner. Go on in.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
It was getting late by the time Mr Waverley left, though Letitia had not minded having the three boarders stay up for an extra hour or two of good conversation, since the morrow would be Saturday and free from lessons. Miss Gaddestone had contributed with hilarious tales of her childhood in rural Wales, and their next-door neighbour at Number 22, Mrs Quayle, with whom the three young ladies had their rooms, had connections with society women that made her a fount of fascinating information, mostly of a cautionary nature.
By the light of a single oil lamp, Letitia unlocked the drawer of her writing-desk and carefully lifted out a scuffed leather-bound book where the pages of the first half had grey well-thumbed edges, the second half still pristine. It seemed to open by itself at the last page of handwriting.
Unscrewing the silver top of her inkwell, she peered in to check the shine of liquid against the light, picked up her quill and studied its sharpened end. ‘Stop prevaricating,’ she whispered to it. ‘Go on, write it. It’s what you want to say. Write it, before you forget.’ Obediently, the quill dipped and began to describe.
He sat the huge bay gelding like a god, scowling at the sun until he was obliged to acknowledge her, though she did not wish it. His eyes she could not see, though she knew how they looked at her, how they refused to light, but scanned in one glance from head to toe, touching a nerve of her anger, making her fists clench, halting her breath. She said something ungracious that did not, as she had intended, make him smart, but dismiss her as too clever by half and not worth his time.
She felt her heart thudding, her eyes wanting, but not wanting, to take in more of him, his gloved hands on the reins, now reaching to pat the glossy neck before him, settling his mount as she wished he would settle her. She had never felt so unsettled. So overlooked. There are more interesting things, she told herself, to occupy your thoughts. Yet for the life of her she could not will them to return.
The quill was laid to rest as a shuddering sigh wafted across the page, and for several moments she stared at the words as if someone else had written them. But that was what writers must do to record every scrap of information that came their way, especially writers to whom such things came with exceptional rarity, as one had today. Was it worth recording? she asked herself, closing the book and returning it to the drawer. Yes, it was. Comfortable or not, she could hardly afford to let