nd I were taken aback that Alec had left you penniless. It was our own shock and disappointment, I suppose, that made us behave so unfairly. I can only say that we had been undergoing some financial problems and that quite turned our heads and our hearts. You are such a sweet girl. I pray you will find it in your heart to forgive us.” Aunt Augusta smiled at her and gave her a gentle, affectionate hug.
Chauncey allowed herself to be hugged, and for an instant, warmth flowed through her. To be wanted, to belong again. It was all a mistake. They did care about her, they did want her to be happy.
Uncle Alfred cleared his throat again. “Elizabeth, my dear, we plan to celebrate your birthday this evening. A festive dinner and a play. Does that please you?”
“Yes, yes, of course, Uncle Alfred,” she managed to say.
“Why do you not change, Elizabeth,” Aunt Augusta said. “I have assigned Mary to you as your personal maid. I know you believed we had dismissed her after your little . . . excursion last week, but we soon realized how very fond of her you are. She is waiting in your room to assist you.”
Chauncey’s feeling of unreality grew. The soft shimmering gown seemed as insubstantial as what had just occurred. “Thank you,” she murmured, and left the salon in a daze.
Mary was waiting for her, just as Aunt Augusta had said.
“I don’t understand it either, miss,” Mary said, reading her thoughts exactly as she helped Chauncey remove the hated black wool gown. “When the agency told me I was to return here, I nearly swallowed my tongue! Turned off and without a reference, I was, and all because I tried to help you pay a visit to that solicitor of your father’s without that old prune knowing about it!” Mary shook her head. “Of course, that miserable squealer Cranke found out and told her ladyship! Such a scene she made with me! A regular sharp-tongued fishwife, that one!”
Chauncey shivered, remembering her own scene with her aunt upon her return from Uncle Paul’s office. She had been treated like a pariah until today, her birthday. Not that she had been particularly aware of it, for her mind had been in a tangle of confusion. No, she amended to herself, not confusion really, rather a cold numbness that had turned to blinding hatred for the man who had swindled her father and caused him to kill himself. She had understood everything Paul Montgomery told her, everything. And she felt so bloody helpless! Delaney Saxton was thousands of miles away and here she was, stuck in London, without a farthing to her name. She became aware that Mary was looking at her expectantly, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember if Mary had asked her a question. “I’m sorry, Mary, I wasn’t attending. All of this”—she waved her hand toward the lovely gown—“all of this is such a shock! Aunt Augusta apologized to me. Indeed, she even hugged me. I do not know what to believe. It is all such a mystery.”
“Indeed it is, miss. Mind you, I believe in Christian charity, and how it should begin at home, but in this house? Oh, I’m not blind by any means, and I’ve seen well enough how they’ve treated you these last six months. They must want something. Aye, that’s it. They want something. Sit down, miss, and I’ll fix your hair before you put the gown on.”
Chauncey sat on the brocade-covered stool in front of her dressing table. “Mary,” she said after a moment, meeting her maid’s eyes in the mirror, “what could I possibly have that they would want? It makes no sense.” What I really want is to believe them, to believe that they want me. “A cat remains a cat,” Hannah, her old nurse, used to say. “They’re unaccountable creatures, and pet them as much as you like, and listen to them purr, they still never change. No, never.”
Mary brushed a heavy tress of hair, curled it deftly about her hand, then pinned it on top of Chauncey’s head. “Lovely hair you have, miss. Every time I think I know the color, you stand in a different light and I’ll see some red or copper or some brown. And so thick it is! Madam Prune Face must hate to see you next to her pudding-faced daughters! As I said, miss, I don’t understand it, but I fancy you’ll discover their motives soon enough.”
“You don’t believe then that they have perhaps . . . changed?” Please, Mary, say that it is possible!
“Do oranges grow in London? I doubt it, miss. Now, stand up and let’s see how you look in this gown. It’s from Madam’s own modiste too. I heard her dresser, Broome, say that it was fetched early this afternoon. Some other lady had ordered it and not paid for it. Lucky it fits you, miss.”
The soft lavender silk caressed her shoulders, and a torrent of finely stitched lace spilled over her bosom. The gown fit her well enough. For a moment she felt like the Chauncey of a year ago, twirling about her father’s library in a new gown, laughing when he assured her that she would break all the masculine hearts in Surrey.
“ ’Tis lovely you are,” Mary said, twitching an errant fold into place. “You watch out for that Master Owen, miss. So smooth and handsome he is, but he’s a terror, that one! Cook told me last year that he’d tried to ravish one of the young housemaids, and in the water closet, of all places! Madam turned her off, of course.” Mary shrugged philosophically. “It’s the way of the world, I guess.”
Mary sees things more clearly than I. I must stop being blind and seeing what it is I wish to see. I must grow up and stop being a gullible fool. “Do you know, Mary,” Chauncey said, only a touch of bitterness in her voice as she slipped on the new pair of white gloves, “I think there must be something to that saying that you win more bees with honey. I think I shall be drippingly sweet tonight!”
Mary snorted. “Just see to it, miss, that you aren’t the honeypot, and the bee stings you good and proper!”
Owen, Chauncey decided after but a fifteen-minute carriage ride, was definitely the bee. His new, very proper behavior stunned her, and it was all she could do to keep the niggling fear deep within her. He complimented her profusely, and listened to everything she uttered, which wasn’t very much, with flattering attention. Evidently it was no longer his intention to trap her on the stairs. Her smile never faded. By the time the carriage arrived at the Russell on Albion Street, her jaw muscles ached.
“Ah, my dear,” Uncle Alfred said, once they were seated around a charming white-lace-covered table, “you are the loveliest young lady present this evening. I see gentlemen already looking at Owen with envy. We will order champagne, of course, for your birthday, won’t we, love? Ah yes, it is indeed a day to celebrate. Twenty-one. A marvelous age. One has all of one’s life ahead of him . . . or her. You are most lucky, Elizabeth. You live with a loving family—”
“I believe I shall order the roast beef,” Aunt Augusta announced, cutting off the effusions of her perspiring spouse. “You, Elizabeth, though you are as lovely as your uncle says, are a bit thin. You must order whatever you wish, my dear.”
Why cannot I trust you? Why cannot I believe what you say?
“Thank you, Aunt Augusta,” Chancey said aloud.
“I have been thinking, Elizabeth,” her aunt continued, “that you should begin meeting with Cook. You were in charge of your poor father’s household for several years, and I do not want your skills to grow rusty with disuse. You will, of course, tell Cook to prepare whatever meals appeal to you. I am certain your taste is excellent.”
“I should enjoy eating whatever Elizabeth chooses,” Owen said.
“Yes, well, it is decided then. Now, Alfred, where is our waiter?”
Chauncey started to tell her uncle to order for her, but stopped herself. No, she thought, stiffening her back, it is time that I am responsible for myself. She ordered what she thought to be the most expensive items on the Russell menu. At least she hoped, somewhat maliciously, that they were the dearest.
Owen’s rather pale complexion grew florid as he downed his fourth glass of champagne. Chauncey swallowed a giggle, for Aunt Augusta was shooting him dagger glances.
Over a delicious dessert of blancmange and cream, Aunt Augusta leaned over and patted Chauncey’s gloved hand. “My dear,” she said sincerely, “I think it just as well that you did not wed Sir Guy Danforth. He likely would not have made you happy. You would likely prefer a more . . . gentle, yet sophisticated gentleman, one who is not so many years your senior. I believe, Owen, that you have consumed enough champagne.” Aunt Augusta gave a snorting laugh. “It is not, after all, your birthday, my dear boy.”
Owen bestowed a lavish smile upon Chauncey. “Quite right, Mother. I fear I got carried away.”