Loud to the point of bombastic. Pushy and intolerant. And not least of all, a highly accomplished gossip.
Jo’s caller had never encountered a topic on any subject that she didn’t have an opinion. Lady Nithsdale was a woman who believed—with a fervor that the most devoted religious zealot would envy—that it was her heavenly ordained duty to learn everyone’s business and interfere with it as much as she possibly could. And if she could ruin a reputation or run down something of value, all the better.
Jo was not looking forward to this visit, but she would try to bear it with stoic civility, as always.
Lady Nithsdale considered herself a Londoner, and only deigned to leave it when the fashionable crowd had deserted its clubs and salons and theatres and pleasure gardens. The only exception she made was for a month in Bath and a trip to the Borders in May and June. She would never dream of missing the ball at Baronsford. The crowd that attended included many of the ton’s most elite echelon, and she could sail about amongst them as if she herself were hostess of the festivities.
Jo spent very little time in London and divided the rest of the year between Scotland and Hertfordshire. Happily, there was only a short period when both of them were here. And that was a blessing. Jo saw it as her responsibility to keep relations between Baronsford and its surrounding neighbors cordial, and she’d been reasonably successful in that effort for years now. And with most of their guests, she enjoyed the quiet pleasantries of country dinners and morning calling hours.
Lady Nithsdale, however, was a challenge. And Jo feared today would be far worse than usual.
The callers arrived earlier than expected and were situated in the drawing room. As she descended the winding staircase, Jo paused and took a deep breath to ease the tension in her shoulders.
Receiving Lady Nithsdale was bad enough, but she was bringing her houseguest. As much as Jo tried to overcome her apprehension, she never found it easy meeting new people. She knew Mrs. Mariah Douglas only by reputation. The widow of a former Cabinet minister, the woman now traveled from drawing room to drawing room, commentator of the style and fashion, an arbitrator of haute couture, a modiste of the highest order, but one whose fingers would never be sullied by the banality of the shop. From what Jo had heard, she traveled mainly in the rarified air inhabited by the Prince Regent and his royal entourage, and the duchesses and marchionesses and countesses under her wing would never pick out a dress style without her expressed approval. Why she was in Scotland during the Season was a mystery.
Nonetheless, Jo could think of little to say to this woman. She wasn’t particularly interested in the latest changes in style. She didn’t bother to update her wardrobe with every tick of the fashion clock. With the exception of the balls at Baronsford in June and at Christmas, Jo rarely attended parties or assemblies. Her enthusiasm for such occasions had been crushed long ago. During the same time, she had come to terms with the fact that the life she now led had little room for women such as Mariah Douglas.
The loud bark of laughter from Lady Nithsdale made Jo pause and grip the polished railing. Some things could never be forgotten. She’d never told Hugh. She’d never told her parents or any of her other siblings. Fifteen years ago, Lady Nithsdale had been a leading voice in the chorus of gossips who contributed to the destruction of her happiness. The frenzy of rumor and falsehood that polluted the drawing rooms of their acquaintances had been directly responsible for Wynne Melfort withdrawing his offer and putting an abrupt end to their engagement.
Jo set her jaw and started down. She couldn’t change her life. She couldn’t blame spectators and gossips for the uncertainties of her origin. It was true that she was adopted at birth, and she grew up surrounded by the love and fortune of the Pennington family. At the time of her engagement, her parents had endowed her with a sizable dowry. But for all that Jo offered, she still wasn’t good enough for the Melforts once the avalanche of conjecture and vile innuendo began.
When she entered the room, her intention of maintaining an air of cool formality was immediately dashed. Lady Nithsdale leaped from her chair with agility belying her age and weight. In a false show of intimacy, she placed a kiss on each of Jo’s cheeks. Clearly, to the world, they were the closest of friends.
“Here you are, dearest. The very angel of empathy. The kindest of souls.” She pulled Jo toward the small table and chairs as if she were welcoming a guest. “I want you to meet my dearest friend, Mrs. Mariah Douglas.”
From the hat to the walking dress to the accessories, Mrs. Douglas was an impeccable advertisement of her vocation. But the woman’s arched brow and the shadow of a smile at the corners of the rose-painted lips landed like a punch to Jo’s stomach. Lady Nithsdale had no doubt shared Jo’s personal history at length, for she was now being appraised as if she were a street dog begging at a kitchen door.
“Lady Josephine is a messenger of mercy, as was Lady Aytoun before her. Why, I was just married, hardly more than a girl, but I remember her ladyship carrying you into that ballroom, wrapped as you were in a muddy blanket.” She paused, relishing the memory. “But as I was telling you, Mrs. Douglas, this darling young woman here is an uncommonly generous benefactor of the glorious help we here in the Borders are giving to those unfortunate fallen women. I showed you the tower house . . .”
Jo walked away under the pretense of ringing for tea to be brought in, even though she’d already arranged for it. She couldn’t listen to any of this. She wouldn’t elaborate on the work that for years had been largely shouldered by Violet Truscott. Jo herself never asked for support from the Nithsdales or anyone else. Lord and Lady Aytoun continued to bear the expense.
At the same time, Jo resented the insinuation lurking beneath Lady Nithsdale’s words. How many times did she need to hear the story of her own entrance into Baronsford? And she hadn’t missed either the mention of fallen women or the smug look the two visitors exchanged. She wondered when, after all these years, people would grow tired of referring to her birth mother. Never, she supposed angrily. The feeling of moral superiority was too gratifying.
Swallowing her feelings, she returned to the guests.
“But about your surprise,” Lady Nithsdale continued. “I cannot believe you hid such astonishing news from me. Why, we were here for dinner the very same week the crate arrived, and neither you nor his lordship made any mention of it.”
Jo decided she wasn’t about to make it easy for them. She turned to Mrs. Douglas. “Is this your first time in the Borders, ma’am?”
“No, no, no!” Lady Nithsdale cried, stopping her friend from answering. “Tell us about the woman in the crate.”
“Pardon me, Lady Nithsdale, but I’ve just met your guest,” Jo objected, focusing her attention once again on Mrs. Douglas. “If you’ll excuse my curiosity, I find it surprising to see a lady of your celebrated talents in the country at the height of the Season. How is London to get on without you?”
Mrs. Douglas exchanged a look with her friend and then turned her cool gaze back to Jo. “Town is a whirl of activity, m’lady, as you know, but we all need time away from it.”
“She’s always overwhelmed with offers,” Lady Nithsdale broke in. “If she’s not in Brighton with His Royal Highness’s party, she’s in . . . well, she’s at all the very best places! I’ve been begging her for years to join us here in the Borders. She could never schedule the time. Isn’t that right, my dear? But can you imagine how delighted I was to receive her letter last week telling us she’d come?”
The countess patted her friend on the hand, obviously satisfied at having taken over the conversation again.
“I do recall you mentioning it at dinner here,” Jo said.
“Yes, indeed I did. Well then, that’s settled. Let’s talk of your unexpected houseguest.”
Jo glanced at the open drawing room door, hoping the tea would arrive soon.
“I know you must be wondering how it is that I know so much.”
Jo raised an eyebrow. She didn’t have to say more. Lady Nithsdale inability to hold back anything was well known.
“Mrs. Namby’s servant told his sister about the doctor being called out in the middle of night. The girl told her cousin. Her cousin is one of my cook’s helpers.” Her voice rose in volume with each successive step. “A nearly lifeless woman arrives in Baronsford in a shipment intended for the viscount. Imagine that!”
Jo didn’t know which of the two women was getting under her skin more right now, Lady Nithsdale with her prattling nosiness or Mrs. Douglas with her unfaltering stare. The latter had not once removed her eyes from Jo’s face. At first, she knew the woman was appraising her. Now, it was as if she was trying to read her mind, like the old woman in the gypsy troupe that passed through Hertfordshire every year.
“Why should it be that I was the last one to find out about this exciting news?” Lady Nithsdale wailed.
The combined effect of the two women was straining Jo’s patience. “If the shipment had arrived at Nithsdale Hall, m’lady, then you would have been the first.”
“That won’t do. I’m not satisfied.” The countess wagged her finger. “Who is she?”
“You appear to know more than I.”
“I know far too little. I know her first name is Grace and that she had no memory of anything else. And she’s been ill, but is recovering. Surely, you have more to share with your friends.”
Too late, but Jo now saw the wisdom in Hugh’s suggestion that they should have sent for an Edinburgh doctor. Not so much for better medical care but to avoid gossip. Dr. Namby was a kindly man, but clearly what he knew had been conveyed to his wife. And now it was fresh on this woman’s tongue. For Grace’s sake, Jo was relieved that the good doctor had no knowledge of the diamond they’d found in her dress. She didn’t want to imagine the feast these two would make out of that information.
“Has there been a change in her condition since the last time Dr. Namby was here? What has she told you of her origins? Her family?” Gossip-mongering had turned into an interrogation.
Just as Jo was about to cave in to a nearly overwhelming desire to tell the woman to mind her own business, the tea arrived.
“Lady Nithsdale,” she said, lowering her voice and gesturing meaningfully toward the servants. “Pray be so kind as to curtail this conversation.”
As a footman and a maid passed trays of brioche with butter and jam, Jo stood and prepared the tea. While they ate, Lady Nithsdale nattered away about the opera and plays she’d attended in London, and Mrs. Douglas sat sipping tea in silence, only occasionally responding when called upon. But Jo knew the conversation would turn the moment the food plates had been cleared.
She was correct. The servants had no sooner left the room when Lady Nithsdale—unable to wait another moment—switched the topic back to Grace.
“Finally. As I was saying, Mrs. Douglas could provide brilliant assistance to you regarding—”
“Would you care for more tea, m’lady?” Jo interrupted, holding up the pot for her.
“No, thank you. Where was I? Oh, yes. She could solve the entire mystery of this stranger for you.”
Jo’s gaze uncontrollably was drawn to the silent guest. Her face was a mask. The same unchanging hint of a smile etched across the woman’s features.
“More tea for you, ma’am?”
“Thank you. No.”
“Mrs. Douglas travels extensively through the Continent,” the countess continued. “She knows everyone who is anyone. She’s told me herself she has several friends she visits in Antwerp. If your guest is of any consequence there, my friend will surely recognize her.”
“And are you to be here for the ball? Or are you too desperately needed by the ladies in Brighton?”
Mrs. Douglas’s cool expression didn’t change, but before she could answer, Lady Nithsdale pushed her tea cup and saucer away from her.
“Really, Lady Josephine. You must allow us to meet with this young woman before we go.”
“Oh, must you go?” Then, smiling as sweetly as she could manage, Jo rose from the table. “But of course you have so many calls to make, I’m sure. Oh, look at the time.”
“No, I didn’t mean that we need to—”
“Of course you didn’t. You’re too kind to hurry your visit, but I’m certain our other neighbors would feel neglected if you were to deprive them of Mrs. Douglas’s company. I wouldn’t feel right, keeping you both to myself. Ladies?”
As Lady Nithsdale reluctantly rose from her seat, Jo glanced at the other guest, who was eyeing her with the same inscrutable expression.
“But about your guest . . .” Lady Nithsdale huffed.
“No, m’lady. I won’t keep you another moment. We’ll save that for another visit, shall we?” Jo ushered them toward the door. “And the next time you call, we can tour the garden. The azaleas are lovely this year.”