Chapter 4
“How could you be so impolite, Philippe?” Sophie asked.
They had dined en famille and sent the children off to bed, during which time Philippe had had plenty of opportunity to form a response to the inevitable questions. Eventually, he settled on the truth.
Or some portion of it. He’d regretted his behavior almost immediately. He would have to get accustomed to meeting Gloriana from time to time.
But not in Islington, curse it. Not just down the street from the house of his sister, Sophie. What the devil was Gloriana doing here?
It didn’t matter. He didn’t intend to apologize to her, but he would muster a degree of civility in future. “I was taken by surprise.”
Sophie huffed. “What sort of excuse is that?”
“A feeble one,” he admitted, not knowing how to explain the feeling that his privacy was violated by her presence. That he had sworn to avoid her as the best method of forgetting her forever. That the sight of her shook him to his very soul. “I am sorry if Miss Warren is your friend, but—”
“Miss Warren? Who is that?”
“The lady whom I so rudely ignored this afternoon.” When she frowned, he added, “Tall for a woman, auburn hair, quite pretty when she isn’t ranting.”
This confused Sophie even more. “She doesn’t rant. And her name is Miss Glow.”
He gave a derisive snort. “A nickname, I suppose.” Her maid had addressed her that way. Your friend—” He regretted his caustic tone of voice. No useful purpose would be served by upsetting Sophie. He cleared his throat. “She is Gloriana Warren, the sister of Lord Garrison.” Since Sophie did not move about in society, this meant nothing to her. “She and I have been acquainted for a number of years. We disagree on many fundamental matters.”
“You do? Such as what?”
“The role of the aristocracy. The education of the masses. The fundamental equality of all people.”
Sophie was frowning again. “How is that possible? Her school is founded upon principles you hold dear!”
“Which school?”
“She is the owner of a school for orphan boys only a few doors from here. She was leaving it as you arrived. She recruits her students from the dregs of society—thieves, mostly—and provides them with an education fit for gentlemen. She seeks to prove that the circumstances of one’s birth have little relation to one’s fitness for a responsible position in society.”
“Impossible,” he said, confused. “You must be mistaken.”
“I am not,” she said indignantly. “Miss Glow and I have discussed this subject at length. One of her boys, Thomas Walters, shows great facility with languages, and he is by far the top pupil in the French classes I give at the school—although I suspect he learns more from Charles, with whom he is the best of friends.”
“Charles’ close friend is a thief?”
“A former thief. Thomas is an excellent boy, and is appropriately grateful for his good fortune. If he lapses at times into London cant, which I do not comprehend at all, I believe such knowledge will be useful to Charles, for he intends to become a solicitor and will benefit from some understanding of the lower classes. Thomas wishes to join the diplomatic corps, which may perhaps be too ambitious, but fluent French will certainly prove useful once this horrid war is over.”
“You teach at the school run by Miss Warren? Miss Glow, as you call her.”
“Why yes, you have known this forever. She opened it a few years ago after inheriting some money from an aunt. I wrote to you about it. I teach French, and in exchange Charles attends the school.”
“I suppose you must have told me.” He hadn’t paid much attention, assuming Sophie knew what she was doing. He certainly didn’t wish to send his nephew to one of the schools for gentlemen’s sons, which perpetuated the old, corrupt social order. The boy would be Comte de Ste-Anne one day—might already be if his father was dead—but Sophie agreed that he must not be raised in an atmosphere of unjust privilege.
“What reason do you have for thinking Miss Warren would not found such a school?” she asked.
“She consistently disagrees with everything I say,” he said. “She holds firmly to the conviction that the aristocracy are superior beings, divinely ordained to rule the masses.”
Sophie burst into laughter. “What nonsense. She believes exactly the opposite, and her actions prove it. The school’s headmaster, Mr. Alexander, ventures into the worst areas of London in search of worthy students. She feeds and clothes them out of her own fortune.”
He shut his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. This made no sense—none at all.
“She must have been jesting, cher Philippe.”
He raised his head. “Jesting for five years?” he jeered. “I think not.”
“Then she was misleading you on purpose, although I cannot see why . . .” The light of comprehension appeared in her eyes. “Five years?”
Merde. He shouldn’t have said that.
“‘Quite pretty when she isn’t ranting,’” she quoted. “She is very pretty, even striking, and you know it. In fact, she’s the loveliest woman you have ever known, if I recall your words of, oh, about five years ago.” She paused. “Miss Glow—Miss Warren, rather—is the lady who stole your heart.”
~ ~ ~
That night, when she lay naked and satiated beside her lover, Sophie said, “I believe my brother is in love with Miss Glow.”
“They are acquainted?”
Eric Alexander had never met Philippe and mostly likely never would. Her liaison with Eric must remain a secret. She was doing her best not to fall in love with him, for she could not marry him—not now and maybe never.
“It seems they have known one another for years, but they are estranged. It is a story of passion and tears.” She snuggled closer and wrapped herself around him. Eric was a virile man, often ready again soon after the first time. “So romantic, n’est-ce pas?”
He snorted. “Sounds plain foolish to me.” He toyed with her available breast.
She squirmed. The other breast, which was pressed against his side, made its desire for fair and equal treatment known. She rolled to her back and gave his roaming hands access. He was a truly excellent lover, worthy of his reputation. “Mais oui, foolishness of the most absurd. My brother lusts after her, but instead of taking her to bed, he insults her and does his best to avoid her.” She hoped Miss Glow wouldn’t hold her brother’s stupid behavior against her.
“Truly idiotic.” He moved lower to kiss and suckle her breasts.
She moaned, writhing beneath him. “It is most strange. I understand that a man has needs—and occasionally Philippe has a mistress—but he avoids the ladies who pursue him. There are many, for he is a handsome man.”
He halted. “Miss Glow is pursuing him? That doesn’t sound like her. Nor does passion and tears, if you ask me.”
“No, she insults and confounds him, but who knows how she feels deep inside?”
“No one, I assume. She is a well-bred virgin. Which you are not, thank God. I know how you feel deep inside.”
She giggled and caressed his growing erection. She settled him on top of her and spread her legs, sighing with desire as he entered her. “Ah, and do you like it there?”
After that, they didn’t speak.
~ ~ ~
Two days later, Gloriana returned to the school, anxious but in control of herself. If she encountered Philippe again, at least it wouldn’t be unexpected. Nor would losing Madame Brun as a teacher or friend.
No one had ever given her the cut direct before. She’d battled nausea the entire ride home. Was this how her brother, Lord Garrison, had felt when most of the beau monde turned against him several years ago? For her mother’s sake, she’d had to pretend to reject him as well. It was part and parcel of the role she’d been playing—her hypocrisy, as she saw it now—and after a month into the season, she’d simply refused to discuss his scandal. She’d nursed a short-lived rage against her dear but shameless cousin Daisy, and then had stopped discussing her too. She couldn’t bear to think and say cruel things about the brother and cousin she dearly loved.
So why had she remained unkind to Philippe for five whole years? She’d believed she loved him too.
Well, it hardly mattered. This encounter had given her more reason than ever to put Philippe out of her mind.
“Madame Brun wants to see you,” Mr. Alexander said in his brusque way. He was the son of a wheelwright and had been adopted upon his father’s death by the local vicar. He’d been educated as a gentleman and ordained in the Church of England, but had never quite shed his working-class origins. He dispensed with formality whenever possible, teaching the boys proper manners and forms of address, while at the same time ensuring they retained an appropriate cynicism. “She seems worried. Shall I send for her?”
“No, I shall call.” Forlorn but resigned, Gloriana walked a few doors down to get it over with. Hopefully Philippe had left by now. She put her head high and her nose in the air—what a familiar, regrettable posture, dictated by pride—and rapped on Madame’s door.
The maid who answered it gave no sign of a change in attitude within the household. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Glow.” She ushered Gloriana into the drawing room.
Madame Brun set down her stitchery and rose to greet her. “Bring coffee, Anne-Marie,” she said, and after the maid left, she continued, “I am so glad you have come. I worried that you might refuse to see me.”
Gloriana found that she was wringing her hands and clasped them tightly behind her back. “Pray get to the point quickly, Madame. If you can no longer teach at my school, please say so.”
The Frenchwoman’s eyes widened. “I am happy teaching at the school, but I feared you might dismiss me.”
“No, no, I would prefer you remain.” Gloriana paused, awkward and uneasy but doing her best to mean what she said. Madame Brun was a lush brunette whom any virile man might desire, but such stupid emotions as anger and jealousy had no place here. It was common knowledge that Philippe took a mistress from time to time, as any gentleman would, but not someone with whom Gloriana might be acquainted. Not someone he had loved and had children with for years and years. “The Marquis de Bellechasse . . . dislikes me intensely. I thought he might forbid our association.”
Madame rolled her eyes. “My brother is a fool. All he forbade me to do was apologize on his behalf, but I shall do so anyway.”
Flabbergasted, Gloriana could do nothing but stare. “Your brother.” I’m such an idiot. Here was a perfectly logical explanation for the resemblance between Philippe and young Charles, but she’d jumped to a stupid, insulting conclusion. She hastened to cover her confusion. “I wondered, but since he wouldn’t allow you to introduce him, I could do nothing but guess.”
Madame Brun tipped her head to one side, her gaze very French and disconcertingly shrewd. Suddenly she laughed. “You thought I was his mistress!”
Heat swarmed up past Gloriana’s ears.
“Oh, là, là, I have guessed correctly, n’est-ce pas? You did not know I have a brother. You were jealous! I do not blame you. He is a very good-looking man. All the young ladies sigh for him.”
Gloriana clutched her hands tighter and shook her head. “There is no attachment between the marquis and me.”
“No? Then why is my poor Philippe so rude? So great an anger does not come from nothing. He refuses to explain.”
Thankful for this reticence on Philippe’s part, Gloriana admitted, “We treated each other unkindly in the past. I should not be surprised at whatever ill-mannered action he chooses to take now.”
“He is a gentleman and should know better.” Madame Brun broke off as the maid came in with the coffee pot and cups on a silver tray and then left, closing the door.
“I am a lady and should know better, too,” Gloriana said ruefully. “I thought . . .”
Madame Brun passed her a cup of steaming coffee. Gloriana closed her eyes and inhaled the delightful fragrance. “Ah, how lovely. Your coffee is always perfect.” Perhaps this embarrassing conversation could end now.
“The English do not understand coffee.” The Frenchwoman poured for herself and passed the sugar. “You thought . . .?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Gloriana nipped a lump off the loaf of sugar and dropped it into her cup.
“But no, it matters very much! Why did you pretend to disagree with his views? He was astonished when I told him about the school.”
“Yes, he would be. I have kept the school a secret from society until now.” Gloriana wished he hadn’t told his sister about her stupid behavior. Wished he hadn’t found out about the school. But perhaps it was all for the best, as she needed funds to expand it, so soon everyone would know—but not about her foolish tendre for Philippe. She shook her head. “I can’t explain.”
“You mean you will not,” Madame Brun said, “just like Philippe.”
“You’re right, I won’t. It is all ancient history.”
“You are not ninety years old, to speak as if your life is past. He is thirty and you are . . . twenty-five or so?”
Gloriana scowled. “My decision to conceal my philanthropy has nothing to do with Philippe.”
Madame Brun wasn’t deceived. “You loved him once,” she said softly, “and he loved you.”
“We thought we loved one another,” Gloriana said. “And then we found that we did not.”
Madame pouted. “Perhaps if you came to know one another again . . .” She spread her hands suggestively.
“He gave me the cut direct, Madame Brun, and also forbade you to apologize! That indicates very clearly that he does not wish to know me.”
“Tsk,” Madame said. “He is a prideful fool. I don’t know what happened between you, but surely . . .”
“No,” Gloriana said. “What is done cannot be undone.”
Madame tutted. “Love is not so easy to find, that you and he should dismiss it so lightly.” She sighed. “But if we cannot become sisters, at least we shall continue to be friends.”
~ ~ ~
Time passed, and Gloriana held her breath, anticipating droll looks and frank laughter amongst her acquaintances as Philippe spread the news about her school. And as he crowed in triumph that she had given in to his eloquence and adopted his revolutionary views.
But no such thing happened. Seemingly, he had told no one. Why not? He should be gloating about it. He probably thought she’d opened the school all those years ago in the hope of regaining his approval.
How mortifying, since something of the sort had indeed gone on in the privacy of her mind—so private that she hadn’t even realized it—while she snubbed him consistently in public.
She wrote to her sister-in-law, Melinda Garrison, in Lancashire, and to her newly-wedded cousin Daisy in Somerset, asking them to serve as patrons of her school. As expected, both contributed with exclamations—written, but no less loud for being so—of surprise and approval.
This eased the immediate financial problems, resulting in the addition of two more orphans and weekly classes in marquetry and inlay. But sooner or later, she would have to make the school’s existence public and, for the sake of the boys, bear the humiliation of agreeing with some of Philippe’s views.
From time to time Philippe visited his sister, but it was easy to avoid him. Twice he deigned to give Gloriana a curt nod whilst riding in Hyde Park. She and her friend Alice Stowe met him while shopping for Christmas on Old Bond Street, where he behaved with ordinary civility. This display of hypocrisy on his part made it easier to shut off any and every reaction to him: no anger, no pain, and not even much interest.
“He’s so gloriously handsome,” Alice gushed as they walked on.
Gloriana cast her eyes heavenward. “You too?” She hadn’t noticed until lately how many silly women swooned over the Marquis de Bellechasse.
Alice laughed. “If I were not married, I would long to compromise him. Last week, Arabella Stansom tried to trap him in an alcove at Corington House.” Alice, an unrepentant gossip, always knew the latest on dits.
“Surely she needs to marry money,” Gloriana said. “Her family are poor as church mice, and although the marquis is not precisely impoverished, he is not a wealthy man.” She had followed his progress over the years, fool that she was, and knew he had purchased a small Buckinghamshire estate.
“Lust, my dear Gloriana. Fortunately, the marquis is adept at avoiding foolish females, whether virgins, married ladies, or widows. He confines his amours to the demimonde, which is eminently practical but disappointing to many passionate ladies.” At Gloriana’s grimace, she asked, “Don’t you find him devastatingly attractive?”
“Not because of his looks,” Gloriana said and wished she’d phrased her answer otherwise. “Yes, he is handsome, but—”
“His delicious Frenchness is so romantic,” Alice said.
“And entirely superficial.” Gloriana certainly wouldn’t admit that at twenty, she had found these same features fascinating. “Surely his views are far more . . . worthwhile.” There, a first step toward seeking out more patrons for the school.
Alice stared. “I thought you disagreed completely with his views!”
“Mostly, yes, but he does have some valid notions, and a rational woman should prefer a man who at least thinks about important matters.”
“Tsk,” Alice said. “Lust trumps all.”
As a first step, it wasn’t much. At least Alice hadn’t laughed in her face. Perhaps she would pave the way with a little gossip, and Melinda and Daisy had agreed to help find more patrons during the upcoming season. Maybe publicly agreeing with Philippe wouldn’t be quite so humiliating after all.
December came. Gloriana left gifts for the children at the school and at Sophie Brun’s, and returned to Lancashire for the Christmas season.
She no longer berated herself for her own unkind, foolish behavior. Nor did she dwell on the cruelty on Philippe’s part which had sparked it, for what was the point? She reveled in the freedom and usefulness of her life in London. In Lancashire, she savored the company of her family, particularly her dear cousin Daisy, who had come to Garrison House with her husband, Sir Julian Kerr. Christmas came and went, and Gloriana participated happily in visiting tenants, distributing gifts, and serving lamb’s wool to a large party of guests on Christmas Eve. She played a role in a Christmas play, and even joined a group of rowdy neighbors in saluting the apple orchard on Twelfth Night.
“I am reborn,” she told herself as she returned to the Dower House well after midnight. She was a new, contented Gloriana, filled with goodwill and ready to seek out more patrons for the school. Surely now, after so many months, she could seek the comfort and solace of the Book of Hours once again.
She thanked the footman who’d escorted her home and went slowly up the stairs to her bedchamber. Impatiently, she let Elspeth undress her and prepare her for bed. “Thank you, but I’m not ready to sleep just yet,” she said when the maid tried to hustle her under the covers. “And I’m sure you’re dying to go to bed and read.” For Gloriana had given her two of the latest romantic novels as a Christmas gift.
Elspeth grinned. “Aye, Miss Glow, that I am.”
Pleased with herself, at peace with the world, and alone at last, Gloriana set her candle near the shelf and reached behind the books to her hiding place.
The Book of Hours wasn’t there.