Chapter 3
Gloriana left for London the following day. If everyone, including Philippe de Bellechasse, saw it as a flight, so be it. In London, there was honest work for her, whereas in Lancashire, she would have to be polite until he left, after which she would most likely mope for a bit and then return to London anyway. Much as she loved her family, she preferred to mend her battered heart far from their amused or irritated eyes.
And also away from the lamentations of the elderly relation who acted as her chaperone in London. She wanted a fresh start on her own. “I’ve decided to dispense with Cousin Maria,” she told her brother. “She fusses and frets me to death. I’m old enough to do without.”
“Unwise,” he said. “People look askance at a single woman living alone.”
“Yes, and I have no patience with it,” she said. “As long as I don’t receive gentleman callers, why should there be any objection?”
“There shouldn’t,” Miles said, “but nevertheless there will be. And although I don’t anticipate any scurrilous gossip on Lord Hythwick’s part—he is not such a fool as that—the very fact that he did not ask you to marry him will give rise to talk.”
He was right, drat the man. She rolled her eyes. “And people just love talking about us. Honestly, the only difference between the Warrens and many other families is that we sow our wild oats in public. If they choose to think he decided against me because I sowed mine elsewhere, so be it.”
He couldn’t disagree. He’d created a huge scandal years earlier, as had Daisy, and their cousin Colin had been quite a rake before his marriage. Their ancestors had been much the same.
“Cousin Maria doesn’t do much chaperoning,” Gloriana went on. “She’s tired or unwell much of the time, so I have to go to balls and other entertainments with friends, such as Alice Stowe. I’ll continue to do so.”
“Nevertheless, it’s the appearance of having a female companion that counts,” he said. “Why not keep Cousin Maria for now but retire her at Christmastide? I daresay she’ll be happy to join her sister in Kent. By then, the talk should have died down, and you can reconsider this decision.”
He was a dear, protective brother and a dratted nuisance. “No, I want to get rid of her now. She’s in Kent for the summer. I shall simply write and tell her to stay there. I’m sure she’ll be relieved.”
Exasperated, he said, “I only want what’s best for you, love. It’s highly unpleasant being shunned, as Daisy and I can both attest.”
“But you both got your happy endings.” Whereas I never shall. “Society won’t shun me. I’ll tell everyone Cousin Maria was too unwell to remain in London, and that I am looking about me for a replacement. After a while, people will become accustomed to my living alone and think no more about it.”
“That’s wishful thinking, and you know it.” He gave an exasperated sigh. “I wish you had let me call Hythwick out. I would have made short work of him.” Miles had arrived just as the earl was climbing into his carriage. He would have dragged him right back out if Gloriana hadn’t got in the way, shouting to the coachman to drive off.
“After which you would have to flee the country? Don’t be absurd. What about Melinda and the children? And don’t say Julian Kerr could just as well have called him out, for he and Daisy are about to marry! I refuse to let my unfortunate experience with Hythwick cause harm to anyone in my family.”
“Philippe looked as if he would have been happy to finish the job.”
She felt herself redden. Seriously annoyed now, she retorted, “He had half-killed him already.”
“Rightly so,” Miles said, “but now we shall all be obliged to pretend that nothing happened. How do you propose to behave when you meet Hythwick in public?”
She thought about it. “I suppose that depends on him. He will mostly likely be distant and polite, since he is obsessed with propriety—”
Miles made a rude noise.
“The appearance of propriety, then, and won’t want to risk arousing my family’s enmity any more than he already has. I come off far worse in this situation, for everyone will see me as a rejected spinster.” Better than a ruined one, which would be the result of a duel and the ensuing scandal. “If I can tolerate that, then so must you.”
He grunted reluctant acknowledgement, and she hugged him.
What a pity she couldn’t escape Elspeth as well. God only knew why her maid was in such a foul mood. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she seemed subdued. In any other woman, Gloriana would have suspected a hearty bout of tears, but Elspeth never wept.
“For God’s sake, cheer up,” she told the maid. “I need comfort, not surliness. I should leave you here in Lancashire.”
“As you wish, Miss Gloriana,” Elspeth said in a wooden voice. Gloriana stared, realizing that Elspeth wouldn’t at all mind staying behind. Being addressed as Gloriana rather than Glow was particularly ominous.
“I don’t wish to leave you here,” Gloriana protested. “It’s just that we have a long way to go, and it’s easier with a pleasant traveling companion.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Gloriana,” Elspeth said, “but it is beyond me to be pleasant just now.” She spread a gown on the bed and folded it methodically.
“Why? You’re not the one who was almost violated. You’re not the one who drove away the only man you ever loved.”
Elspeth’s lip wobbled. Something must have seriously upset her, for ordinarily she would scold Gloriana about her mistreatment of Philippe. She’d done it often enough in the past.
“Is something wrong? Because if it is, just tell me and get it over with.”
“Nothing is wrong, miss.” She set the gown in a trunk and proceeded to fold another.
“Nonsense,” Gloriana said. “Your eyes are red, and you’re in a horrible mood. Why won’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”
“Because I don’t wish to. It’s none of your business, miss, and that’s all I have to say.” Elspeth shut and locked the first trunk and began packing another.
“But . . . but surely it is my business,” Gloriana said. “You’re my servant, and therefore I am responsible for your well-being.”
“My physical well-being, miss, which is perfectly fine.” Elspeth turned away, firmly stowing several nightdresses.
Gloriana set about packing her jewelry. She was accustomed to confiding all her troubles to Elspeth. She thought of her as a friend, not a mere servant. Seemingly, Elspeth didn’t return the sentiment.
Servants are like children and will succumb to hysteria over nothing, said her mother’s voice in Gloriana’s mind. She was sorely tempted to dismiss Elspeth’s bad temper as folly.
No, for Elspeth was never foolish. “But surely there’s something I can do.”
Elspeth rounded on her. “It’s too late for that, miss. You could have behaved like a lady should. You could have treated the marquis with kindness and understanding for the past several years. If you had, you would have been married to him by now, and happy.”
Her heart sank. Maybe this was true. If only she’d been patient . . .
“But you didn’t.” Elspeth shook out a chemise with a snap. “You could have evaded Lord Hythwick rather than encouraging him, just for the sake of playing a foolish prank.”
Shame washed over her. “You don’t understand. That’s not why I—”
Elspeth’s voice rose with fury. “And you could have stayed away from here this morning, but instead you ruined everything.”
“I ruined everything?”
Elspeth slammed the half-filled trunk shut. “If you intend to dismiss me, get on with it so I can pack my things.”
An impertinent servant is not to be borne. If Gloriana had been her mother, she would have sacked the maid immediately. But Mama would never have considered a servant her friend.
“Don’t be absurd, Elspeth. I don’t know how I would go on without you.”
Elspeth didn’t respond, and Gloriana sighed, trying to understand. Yes, she had made a mull of everything, but it wouldn’t affect Elspeth’s life, which would go on much as before. Why was she so upset?
She glanced at the maid’s stiff back and knew no comfort or help would come from there.
Feeling more bereft than ever, Gloriana crossed to the shelves for the Book of Hours but drew her hand back at the last moment. She’d broken her vow. She didn’t deserve sympathy, nor the comfort the book bestowed. She still cringed, recalling the words she’d spoken aloud to Philippe. I never loved you.
What a horrid lie. Five years ago, she had vowed to love him forever, and she had stuck to her vow. After that night at the summerhouse when her plan had gone awry, she had composed a new scene in her mind. If Philippe still loved her, he would understand how much he had hurt her. Stricken with remorse, he would go down on bended knee and apologize, professing his undying love.
On the contrary. The next time they’d met, his gaze had conveyed nothing but disdain. She still loved him, but pride would not allow her to show it. Her new persona—the haughty aristocrat—showed Philippe how much she despised him and his revolutionary views. Until he realized the error of his ways, she would continue to play her role, while cherishing in her heart of hearts the belief that he did love her, and that love would prevail in the end.
But it hadn’t.
Maybe Elspeth was right, and she’d handled it all wrong.
But he should have understood how much he’d hurt her. If he’d truly loved her, he would have.
She glanced at Elspeth, who would certainly disagree with this. He’s not a mind reader, the maid would say, and Gloriana was forced to admit, if only to herself, that this was true. But she and Philippe had discussed his ideals when they’d first met, particularly with regard to education of the lower classes, and she’d applauded every one of them. How could he believe she had suddenly changed her mind? Why hadn’t he said something? He could have tried to win her over. But he hadn’t.
She finished packing her jewelry, took up her sketchbook and pencil, and drew Philippe as she’d last seen him—his eyes chilly with disgust and his handsome face distorted by a sneer. Usually, she drew to comfort and console herself, but not this time. She made herself look at the drawing over and over, dwelling on this unlovable aspect of him in the hope that it would help her forget him.
It didn’t work. On the long journey south, she reviewed their latest encounter over and over. She’d got her lines entirely wrong.
She should have given him a piece of her mind. How dare he imagine she would try to trap Hythwick into marriage? She’d never approved of such stupid tricks. She should have berated him for such a crude, vulgar suggestion, unworthy of an aristocrat.
No, no, that was what Mama might have said. Best not to mention aristocrats in connection with Philippe. Not that she had anything against the nobility. She believed in the principle of noblesse oblige. Those of birth, wealth, and authority had an obligation to help those in lesser circumstances. But Philippe went farther. He had supported the revolution in France. He disapproved of class distinctions and probably considered it his right to behave like a dustman if he so chose. Regardless, a polite, well-bred lady wouldn’t taunt him for being an aristocrat, nor for wishing he wasn’t one.
No sarcastic tone of voice, either, she reminded herself. She didn’t love him anymore, so there was no reason for bitter mockery to combat his.
Very well, how about this?
It’s most chivalrous of you to stay to guard me, kind sir, but I couldn’t bear to inconvenience you.
No more stalking away in high dudgeon. She should have glided, or perhaps floated—Mama had tutored her in ladylike grace—downstairs to order Lord Hythwick’s coach. That would have been far preferable to spending five minutes in the privy, fuming and waiting for Philippe’s descending footsteps. When she gave up and unbolted the door, she’d found him sitting on the steps just above the landing, waiting for her.
Thank God she hadn’t succumbed to a bout of tears in the water closet, for he would have heard. But in spite of the painful twisting of her heart, she’d been unable to cry.
She had almost thrown up, though. Shock, perhaps, although whether from being attacked by one man or rejected by the other, she wasn’t sure. She made her way down the stairs, still queasy, to where Elspeth waited. Philippe didn’t follow to see how she fared.
Why would he? He’d only come to look at the Book of Hours, as Elspeth later told her. Gloriana was perfectly safe in the kitchen, and besides that, he didn’t love her.
Doesn’t love you, never loved you, the carriage wheels said again and again and again on the long ride south. By the time they reached London, Gloriana had stopped listening to the wheels. She was done with dreaming up reconciliation scenes. She thought about Philippe only a couple of dozen times a day. He would become a tedious memory before long. Till then, she would simply avoid him.
Bright and early the next morning, on a sweltering day even for London, she ordered her carriage and made a visit to the school for orphaned boys in Islington.
It was her school—her secret.
Well, not entirely secret. Elspeth knew, of course, and so, entirely by accident, did her most serious suitor, Mr. Bridge. At first, she had supported the school entirely with the income from a legacy from her aunt, who had died several months after her mother, but one day her suitor had driven past on a journey north and spied her on the doorstep of the school. He’d ordered the coachman to stop, jumped out to greet her, and that was the end of her secret.
A good end to it, though, for Mr. Bridge contributed regularly to the school’s upkeep. He’d even donated a mare and rented stabling in the nearby mews, so that the boys could be taught to ride. He had advised her to find other patrons, but she’d refused. “I don’t want the whole world to know.”
“Dash it all, Miss Warren,” he’d said. “There’s no shame in funding a school for orphan boys.”
“I’m not ashamed,” she retorted, “but I’d rather keep it a secret all the same.” She wasn’t about to explain why. Mr. Bridge, being extremely polite, neither insisted nor pried. Besides Philippe, he was the only man she’d seriously considered marrying. But apart from that vow she’d made, she didn’t love Mr. Bridge—he was merely a good, kind, tolerant friend.
Tolerant being the operative word. He deserved a much more agreeable wife than Gloriana would ever be.
Today, she stepped down from the carriage and sent it round to the stable at the Angel Inn. She dug in her reticule for the key to the front door of the pretty brick house she’d bought for the school.
“Mademoiselle Glow!”
She’d chosen her nickname as a pseudonym. No one at the school but Eric Alexander, the headmaster, knew her true identity, and he was sworn to secrecy.
Gloriana turned, her foot on the bottom step, as two boys and a girl pelted along the pavement toward her. One boy, Thomas Walters, was one of her school’s orphans, while the other two children were the offspring of Madame Brun, a widowed Frenchwoman who had emigrated to England during the revolution in France. Gloriana greeted the children with hugs and smiled at Madame Brun, who lived in a similar house a few doors down. “Good day, Madame!”
“How lovely to see you in London so soon.” Madame Brun was an exotic-looking brunette with a mischievous air and a warm heart. “I thought you were fixed in the country until autumn.”
So had Gloriana, until Philippe—
No. She would not think about him. “I intend to spend more time at the school.” Now that she had no elderly chaperone fretting over her, she could do precisely as she pleased, when she pleased, without upsetting anyone. She found great joy in sketching and drawing, so maybe she could teach it, if any of the boys showed aptitude. “My work here feels so much more worthwhile than anything I can do in the North. My brother and his wife are so good to their dependents, neighbors, and tenants, that I am superfluous, while here in London, there is never enough help to go around.”
“True,” Madame Brun sighed. “Mr. Alexander recently acquired two more boys for the school, but one ran away the very next day.”
This was only to be expected. Mr. Alexander, formerly the vicar of an impoverished parish, was a good judge of which boys to choose, but street ragamuffins sometimes valued their independence more than the promise of regular food and education. She didn’t blame them. They were used to broken promises, and in their experience, enticing offers usually proved more costly than they were worth.
She reminded herself that Philippe, too, was a promise-breaker. He had sworn he loved her, and then he’d shown precisely the opposite by running away when she’d given him the chance to prove it. She’d tried to make excuses for him over the years but without success. Why had she continued to love such a man? Maybe Elspeth was right, and God would forgive her for breaking her vow.
“Thomas is making great progress in French.” Madame Brun turned to the boy. “Show Miss Glow.”
Thomas, who had come to her two years earlier, foul-mouthed and louse-ridden, stood forward and gave a jerky bow. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Comment allez-vous?”
“Très bien, merci,” Gloriana said. “Your accent is already better than mine.” She smiled at him, and he grinned back. How rewarding to see him now entirely the equal of the far better bred Charles Brun. She gazed fondly on the children, the paler, fairer Thomas and the darker, Gallic-looking Charles, and pretty little Elise. The boys were now fast friends, where in other circumstances they could never have known and trusted one another. Charles would have gone on to a respectable profession, solicitor perhaps, or physician, while Thomas would likely have been hanged or transported for theft. It went to show how completely accurate were Philippe’s theories of education, on which she had founded the school.
These were the same theories she’d argued against every time she met him, which made it impossible to seek patrons for the school. Society, including Philippe, would learn that she supported his views on education. Since she publicly disagreed with him at every opportunity, she would look like a fool, a madwoman, or both.
The more she thought about the role she’d played for the last several years, the less sense it made.
“Perhaps we can have coffee together more often.” Madame Brun had never learned to share the English taste for tea.
“That would be delightful,” Gloriana said, meaning it. How lovely, and how perfectly restful, to be amongst people who knew her as she really was—no pretense, except for her name. She bade them all adieu and continued into the orphanage.
A boy, descending the stairs with a bundle of laundry, spied her and cried, “Miss Glow is here!”
Within seconds, a torrent of pupils, ranging from around five years old to fifteen, poured out of every room in the house and surrounded her. Tears burned behind her eyes. This, she realized for the first time, was genuine love.
Well, perhaps not on the part of the boys. They liked her well enough, and they appreciated the treats she brought, but on her part, this was love.
Perhaps it wasn’t so terrible that she’d broken her vow, because she’d had no true concept of love upon which to base it.
She greeted them all by name and was introduced to the latest addition, a scrawny, towheaded child. Mr. Alexander appeared and sent them back to their various tasks. All the boys contributed to the upkeep of the school, whether it was cleaning, helping in the kitchen, or making simple furniture for sale.
“I didn’t expect you back in London so soon,” he said, brushing chalk dust off his hands. He was a spare, untidy widower of about forty with a twinkle in his eye and an infectious grin. If he’d been a little younger, she might easily have fallen in love with him. He was definitely a better sort of person than the Marquis de Bellechasse would ever be.
Although he did have an eye for the ladies, which had got him into trouble with the Church. She suspected he had a lady friend on the side, but so what? She liked him. He got on well with the boys, who probably respected him all the more for not pretending to be a prim and proper schoolmaster.
“I’m thinking of spending more time at the school,” she said. “Do you suppose any of the boys might benefit from a class in sketching and drawing, or perhaps even watercolor painting?”
“You wish to teach them?”
“I want to do something useful,” she said. “Apart from putting money into the school, that is.”
“Speaking of money,” he said, “if we continue as we’re going, we’ll need more. I know of two more boys who would benefit from our schooling, but we’re full as is.”
She bit her lip at this. “I don’t think I can manage much more.” Her income was respectable, but it only went so far. She had her own house and servants to support, and . . .
“Might Mr. Bridge be willing?”
“He might,” she said dubiously. “More likely, he will urge me to find some other patrons or patronesses.”
“If we could rent a nearby house, we might be able to expand and breathe a little,” Mr. Alexander said.
He had suggested this before, and so far, she had always refused—because of Philippe, because she didn’t want to admit to him, or to the world at large, that he was right. Well, to the devil with that. She’d had enough being a hypocrite. No more putting on an act.
“Yes, I suppose I must. I can think of any number of people who might help.” If she could convince them the school’s purpose was worthwhile, that is. She would have to do a complete about-face, or so it would seem to society: from a die-hard supporter of the rigid class system her mother had upheld, to a firm believer in equality of opportunity, regardless of birth.
She would look quite the idiot, but what choice was there? The welfare of the orphans came first.
“I expect some of the boys would benefit from drawing and painting, as long as they don’t see it as a feminine sort of activity,” Mr. Alexander said. “They weren’t much interested in making paper flowers even after they realized there are willing buyers out there. They prefer to stick to furniture. They believe it is manlier.”
“They should be required to do both,” she said. “The flowers can be made much more quickly, thus contributing to their immediate upkeep.”
He grinned. “I’ll do my best.”
She sighed, knowing how stubborn the boys could be in their notions; in fact, they were as bad as adults. “Perhaps we could have someone in to introduce them to marquetry and inlay work. There are sure to be a few who wish to pursue it. And to produce their own designs, they will have to learn to draw.”
“An excellent notion. I know just the man, but that will cost money too.”
“I’ll find some.” It was time to show the world who she truly was. If Philippe found out and regretted his insults, so much the better.
Not that she cared what he thought.
“Could you teach a drawing class . . . twice a week, perhaps?” Mr. Alexander asked.
“Perfect. I’ll purchase sketchbooks and so on.” She spent a few hours going over the accounts and then returned to London for supplies. A fortnight passed, during which she spent two days a week at the school, rather than her usual once a month when she was in Town. Wisely, she related the drawing class to future lessons in marquetry and inlay, and the boys who possessed aptitude progressed quickly.
She reveled in being useful, and since London was thin of company, she saw little of Lord Hythwick and nothing, thank God, of Philippe. As she expected, Lord Hythwick treated her with his usual pompous civility. Relieved, she followed his lead. What friends she met were unsurprised that she and Hythwick were not to marry. A few even congratulated her on escaping a tedious fate.
She sent for her coach one evening after a long day at the school, and waited on the doorstep. Birds twittered and cheeped their evensong. Leaves rustled in the chestnut tree, heavy with conkers promising autumn fun for the children. Several boys played marbles in the dust, while a few girls from neighboring houses skipped rope. Contentedly, Gloriana pulled a few weeds from the tiny flowerbed beside the footpath.
A curricle-and-pair wheeled into the street. The children scattered before the glossy matched chestnuts. Gloriana raised her eyes and found herself staring into the cold gaze of Philippe de Bellechasse.
“What are you doing here?” she gasped, but he had already driven past. Maybe he hadn’t noticed her.
He pulled up a few houses farther down the street. Oh, perhaps he had recognized her; perhaps he would speak; perhaps he had even come to see her . . .
Philippe jumped down. He ordered his groom to take the curricle to the Angel and arrange for stabling overnight.
Overnight? At . . . at Madame Brun’s house? She gaped at him, transfixed.
He rapped on the door, then turned as if he sensed Gloriana’s stare. Their eyes met for a long moment. He turned away.
He had given her the cut direct.
The worst possible insult. Why? He had never done that before.
The door opened and ten-year-old Elise Brun danced up to the marquis, clutching his coat. “Have you brought sweets?”
The marquis laughed, and then swept her up and kissed her. Next came her brother and mother with more bises in the very French fashion and many happy smiles.
“Philippe, mon cher, what a delightful surprise,” Madame Brun said. “The children have missed you.”
Gloriana felt the blood drain from her face. No wonder Charles’ Gallic features seemed somehow familiar—because Philippe was his father. Madame Brun was no widow. She was the mistress of the Marquis de Bellechasse.
All these years, during which Gloriana had loved Philippe with all her heart, he had been with another woman . . .
Revulsion washed over her, partly at him, but mostly at herself.
Madame Brun spied her watching, smiled, and beckoned. “Ah, Philippe, I must introduce you to my friend. She—”
“No,” he interrupted, “let us go indoors.” He herded the children ahead of him into the house, while Madame blinked, wide-eyed, at Gloriana.
Offering the slightest of shrugs, Gloriana took ahold of herself. She managed a vague sort of smile, and then, thank God, her carriage drew up and bore her away.