A Debutante's Guide to Rebellion (4 page)

He looked at her crossly. “I don't think she's ugly. Have you seen her smile?”

“I don't think anyone's ever seen her smile.”

“I have,” he said. That seemed significant. It meant something, though he wasn't entirely sure what yet. Obviously, she had enjoyed something of the time they spent together. Had perhaps enjoyed his company specifically. “I'd like to speak with her again. I'd like to call on her.”

“Hm. I suppose I can clear my schedule and act as escort,” Sophie said. “If you're this interested in her, I shall need to stage an interrogation. Before things get serious.”

“It's only a conversation,” Ezekiel said. After all, he had no need of female companionship in his life. But he definitely had a need to answer the questions that Lady Mildred raised. For instance: Why had she smiled? Why did it matter to him so much that she had?

And why had she run away?

Eddie was surprised to hear that someone had come to call on her, and even more surprised when that person proved to be Ezekiel Blackwood, accompanied by the raven-haired beauty she had seen him dancing with that disastrous night with the strawberries. She was entirely sure that she had snuffed out whatever spark of interest he might have had in her with her abominable display of manners the night before, but there he was, looking nervous, clearly expending a fair bit of effort to keep from fidgeting. It made Eddie tense just looking at him. She wished he'd just fidget and have it over with.

“Mr. Blackwood,” she greeted him, when she had descended to the foyer.

“Lady Mildred,” he replied, and then silence hung between them for a long, awkward moment.

“My mother isn't feeling well,” Eddie said. Lady Copeland had claimed to be having one of her “headaches,” which were really an excuse to sigh in bed all day and be cooed over by her lady's maid.

“I'm very sorry to hear that,” the raven-haired woman said, and gave Mr. Blackwood a pointed look. He started.

“Oh! Lady Mildred, may I present Miss Sophie Osborn, my cousin. Miss Osborn, this is Lady Mildred Weller.”

They dipped curtsies and murmured greetings, and Eddie felt a strange sense of relief. She'd known that Lord Averdale had a sister as well as his younger brother—Mr. Blackwood's late father—but she had quite forgotten that he had a niece.

Cousins. That was all. And why would it matter if it was anything different? It wasn't as if she were actually interested in Mr. Blackwood's attentions, beyond simple friendly conversation. “Perhaps you would like to join me in the drawing room,” Eddie offered, and the two agreed. When they entered, the cousins sat side by side on the chaise longue, and Eddie settled herself opposite, nodding to Fellowes when he asked if they would like refreshments. She did not often entertain visitors; her mother preferred her to be out of the way on the days when she had guests.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “It's been a while since I played hostess. My manners may be somewhat rusty.”

“That's quite all right. Z's never developed manners in the first place,” Miss Osborn said with a little laugh. “And I have a horrid habit of ignoring them when it suits my whims.”

She was the sort of woman to get away with it, too. She had an easy grace about her, an effortless charisma that made Eddie's stomach churn with jealousy.

“When my family was in India, I stayed with my mother's cousin here in England,” Eddie said. “Out in the country. The most illustrious visitor we ever entertained was the vicar.” She felt a pang of longing, thinking of her cousin's house. It was old, ivy encroaching on its stones, and far away from anyone of consequence. Her cousin Honoria's husband had passed away years before, and they'd spent their days out in the gardens or in the library, twittering away to each other like birds on a branch. Honoria had promised that Eddie could stay there forever, but then she'd grown ill. She'd died just weeks before Lord and Lady Copeland returned home.

“I would think you would have all sorts of visitors here,” Miss Osborn said. “I'm always hearing about the wild Indian adventures of Lord and Lady Copeland.”

“Stories that I am not privy to, I'm afraid,” Eddie said with a thin smile. “I did not accompany my parents.”

“But those were the Indian diamonds you were wearing last night, weren't they?”

Eddie nodded. “My mother's treasures,” she said, keeping every hint of bitterness to herself. She looked sidelong at Mr. Blackwood, who seemed content to let his cousin speak. “I must apologize for my behavior last night,” she said.

“That isn't necessary,” Mr. Blackwood assured her. “I'm sure that the fault was mine.”

“It wasn't,” she said, brow furrowing. “Why would you think that it was?”

“I assumed I had offended you,” he said.

“You didn't,” she said. “What did you say that could have offended me?”

“I believe that I compared you to a one-legged madman,” he said.

“I don't think you went quite that far,” she said, grinning.

“So she does smile,” Miss Osborn murmured, so softly that Eddie almost didn't catch it.

“It's entirely my fault that I abandoned you,” Eddie continued, pretending she hadn't heard. “I was . . . distracted.”

“More distressed than distracted, I think,” Miss Osborn said. “What troubled you?”

Eddie flushed. “I shouldn't like to speak of it,” she said.

“Oh, come now. We're all friends, aren't we? Perhaps we can help you,” Miss Osborn said.

“If Lady Mildred does not wish to provide details, she needn't,” Mr. Blackwood said. Eddie flashed him a grateful look. But then she sat forward, suddenly realizing something.

“Maybe you
can
help me,” she said. “He's your uncle, after all.”

“This is about Lord Averdale?” Miss Osborn asked, frowning. Eddie felt a flicker of doubt. Surely Miss Osborn would not be inclined to support her uncle's marriage to an ugly duckling like Eddie. Even if Eddie were a great beauty, she might—rightly—assume that the motive for the match was mercenary.

“I'm afraid
I
was the one that caused offense last night,” Eddie said. “To Lord Averdale. I am worried that he has the impression that I was ignoring him.”

“Ignoring him?” Miss Osborn echoed. “Why would he have that impression?”

“We've been—we have . . .” Eddie trailed off. This was entirely the wrong conversation to be having with this particular woman.

“Oh,” Miss Osborn said. “I see. I have seen you speaking to one another a few times. I suppose I did not consider the implications until just now.”

Eddie couldn't read her tone of voice.

Mr. Blackwood looked confused. “What do you mean, the implications?” he asked.

“Do I have it right that our uncle has been courting you, Lady Mildred?” Miss Osborn asked, and this time Eddie was sure she was keeping her tone carefully bland.

“Well, no. I don't know. Maybe. My mother certainly thinks so,” Eddie said, and she was horrified to feel the prickle of tears behind her eyes. She took a deep breath. “She's very concerned that I might have spoiled something. It would be very fortunate if perhaps you could help me mend things.” She tried to keep the desperation from her voice, and failed. Miss Osborn's look crumbled from one of detachment to one of sympathy. Mr. Blackwood simply looked at sea.

“You want to marry my uncle?” he asked. “He is significantly older than you.”

“I know,” Eddie said. “And I do not make any presumptions about his intentions. I only want to ensure his good will.”
And marry him, and get out of here.
“But if such a person were interested in me, of course I would return the interest. Your uncle is an important man, and a good one.”

“And thrice your age,” Miss Osborn said, not unkindly.

“Two point seven nine times, actually,” Mr. Blackwood said. “Rounded, of course.”

“Of course,” Miss Osborn said drily. “Then what do you think, Z? Should she marry our uncle?”

Eddie blushed. She shouldn't have brought it up. Mr. Blackwood looked stiff and uncomfortable in the face of his cousin's question, and she realized she'd only made all the awkwardness a hundred times worse—precisely, without rounding.

“If Lady Mildred wishes to marry him, then she should do what she wishes,” Mr. Blackwood said, surprising her. “I assume she has good reason.”

“I do,” Eddie assured him. Her reasons were her own, but they were good ones.

Mr. Blackwood nodded sharply. “Then we shall put in a good word for you. In fact, if there is anything that I can do to aid you, please do let me know.”

***

“I cannot
believe
you offered to encourage Lord Averdale's courtship,” Sophie said when they had returned home. She was furiously pacing around the library, pulling books off shelves and then discarding them. Ezekiel observed her from a safe distance.

“It seems perfectly reasonable to me,” Ezekiel said. “She is in need of a husband, apparently. Lord Averdale is in need of a legitimate son.”

“No, he isn't. He has you,” Sophie said. “You can inherit.”

“We both know that would be disastrous,” Ezekiel said with a sigh. “I would be entirely too unsuitable, and unlikely to have children of my own.”

“Unless you got married to a nice girl who clearly finds you charming. Why didn't you speak up more? I've never met anyone so disinterested in talking to me as she was,” Sophie said. “She was far more interested in you, and you sat there like a turnip. And then offered to—!” She threw up her hands in disgust.

Ezekiel looked off to the side, unable to meet her eyes. It had all been very overwhelming. He'd wanted to say something interesting, but by the time he came up with something, the conversation had moved on. And then she had begun talking about Lord Averdale. And while he was no student of human emotion, even he could see how pleased she was at the prospect of marrying him. It was in that moment that he had admitted to himself that he was in fact extremely interested in female companionship, if it came in the form of Lady Mildred Weller. And it was in that same moment that he had realized they would never be anything more than friends.

But friendship was enough. Friendship was a rarity in itself. And so he would do what a good friend should, and help her with her problem.

He wanted to explain this to Sophie, but all the noise she was making was making him anxious. He bounced up on the balls of his feet and fell back, scratching the back of his hand. Sophie paused.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm upsetting you.”

“I'm fine,” he said. A lie. “I want to help her, Sophie. So that we can be friends.” There. That wasn't so very difficult to explain.

“Friends,” she said. “Yes, I see. All right. And as we are friends, the very dearest of friends, I will help you to help her.”

“How?” he asked.

“Leave that to me,” she said firmly. “You just do as I say, and everything will turn out the way that it should.”

Miss Osborn came to collect Eddie the next day, but refused to say where she was taking her. Lady Copeland offered no help, ushering them both out the door as swiftly as possible with the gleam of avarice in her eye. She must have suspected Miss Osborn was an emissary for her uncle. Or maybe she was simply pleased to have Eddie out of the way for the morning.

Eddie expected a carriage to be waiting, but Miss Osborn led the way on foot, chatting merrily about the weather (hot) and the surrounding architecture (in her opinion, uninspired). She had a way of turning the most dismissive comment into a lighthearted jest. Eddie wondered if anyone actually managed to be offended at anything she said; she might have insulted a man's mother and made it sound like a compliment.

Pretty girls really could get away with anything.

“You truly aren't going to tell me where we're going?” Eddie asked after several minutes of brisk walking.

“We're here,” Miss Osborn replied with a smile, and flourished her hand. Eddie blinked. They had stopped in front of a run-down greenhouse, its panes streaked with dull green and occluded with brown, decaying plants. Several panes had shattered altogether; only the fence and gate barring entry remained well-kept.

“What is this?” Eddie asked, befuddled. She did not enjoy feeling dull.

“A convenient meeting place. It belongs to my uncle. So does that.” She pointed. The house next to the lot was a narrow, foreboding affair, all its windows shuttered. “But it's been closed up since our grandmother died. And that”—she pointed to the house on the other side—“belongs to our great-aunt. She's nearly blind and totally deaf, and her only servant is a man who's little better off. Well. Technically he's a servant, but I suspect he may also be a contributor to the family line, if you take my meaning.”

Eddie blushed, feeling her cheeks grow hot enough to scald. Miss Osborn laughed. Anyone else would have made the laugh sound mocking, but from Miss Osborn it was like an invitation into a conspiracy.
Oh, I'm so terrible, aren't I?
Not
Oh, look at how she blushes.

“The point being, there is absolutely no chance of interruption, so we can begin our plotting,” Miss Osborn said.

“Plotting?”

“If you intend to marry my uncle, we will need to take a systematic approach. We shall put our best minds to the task. The best minds obviously being our own.”

“Miss Osborn—”

“Oh, please call me Sophie. If we're to plot, we cannot stand on formality.”

Eddie hesitated. She had rarely been invited into such a level of intimacy. Once she had grown out of her childhood friends, she had largely had the company of Honoria's friends, all of them women of advanced years who called one another “Mrs. Black” and “Mrs. Teacher” and so on, even after four decades of friendship. To them, she had always been “Lady Mildred.” It had only been Honoria who called her by the name she preferred.

“Perhaps you could call me Eddie, then,” she said.

“Eddie?”

“I've always hated Mildred,” Eddie confessed. “I've always wished my father didn't have a title, so I could simply be ‘Miss Weller.'”

“Eddie it is, then.” Sophie smiled. “Now. We must join the other conspirator.”

She led the way through the gate and around the back of the greenhouse. The door had been chained, the lock all but rusted shut; Sophie, whom Eddie suspected was not a woman to be dissuaded by mere practical concerns, had instead removed the hinges from one of the doors and leaned it against the other.

Mr. Blackwood was waiting inside, fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket. When he saw them, he froze. “You brought
her
?” he said.

“You sound horrified,” Sophie said, with the tone of someone providing information rather than rebuke.

“Oh. I'm not,” Mr. Blackwood said. “Only surprised. I apologize, Lady Mildred.”

“Hm. That won't do,” Sophie said. “He certainly can't neglect your title, but I refuse to let us contribute to the misery of being assigned such an ungainly name. Z, call her ‘Lady Eddie.' That should do, shouldn't it?”

“I'm not sure that's proper,” Eddie protested.

“Oh, it's going to get worse,” Sophie said. “I'm leaving.”

“What?” they yelped in unison.

Sophie smiled. “If there's anyone who can be trusted to maintain propriety without an escort, it's the two of you. And I have some rather important errands to conduct.”

“Alone?” Eddie asked.

“An escort is meeting me. I will come to collect the two of you in an hour. I expect by that time you will have formulated some sort of plan for snaring our uncle's attention.”

“You said that you were going to help,” Eddie protested.

“I will! With the things I'm good at. Like, say, helping you purchase a wedding gown. But I'm rubbish at uncles. Z knows him far better than I do, believe me. You'll be fine.”

“We will not be fine,” Mr. Blackwood said. “This is highly irregular.”

“Absolutely no one will discover your presence here. I guarantee you that. And I won't be long.” Sophie's tone invited no argument. Eddie looked at Mr. Blackwood, who shrugged helplessly. She supposed he was a better judge than she regarding the likelihood of talking his cousin out of this. Or of anything.

Sophie clapped her hands together. “Excellent! I will be back before you know it.”

She swept out, leaving them in the run-down greenhouse alone. Eddie glanced around, mostly so she did not have to look at Mr. Blackwood. The plants were all long dead, turned brown and moldering or else dried to sharp twigs.

“Pity,” she said. “It looks as if it would have been marvelous, if everything were alive.”

“It was chaotic,” Mr. Blackwood said. “And poorly maintained. There was no logic to the selection of specimens, nor any true research put into discovering the necessary care each plant needed. I used to spend hours redesigning this place.”

“And then you just let it all die?” Eddie asked.

“I do not often spend time in London. When my grandmother passed, I was unable to return to supervise the handling of the plants. They were left to perish,” Mr. Blackwood said sadly. “And as I was only seven years old, I doubt I would have had the physical strength or, frankly, height to have undertaken the task of resuscitating them on my own.”

“At seven, you were spending hours thinking about how to run a greenhouse?” Eddie asked. At seven she had mostly been concerned with protecting her toys from her brother's rough attentions. She knew every hidey-hole in every one of their residences. A pity she'd outgrown them all; sometimes she still would have liked to hide herself away.

“I was frequently described as precocious.” Mr. Blackwood was frowning. He had his hands folded behind his back, and he had not yet looked at her.

She cleared her throat a little and stepped forward. He flinched. “So, about your uncle.”

“I do not know why Sophie believes that I will be able to help you in this matter. I have absolutely no expertise at matchmaking. And my familiarity with our uncle is little better than hers.”

“What do you know about him?” Eddie asked.

He shrugged. “He is somewhat intelligent. Somewhat soft-spoken. He does not have a temper. He has three grown daughters, to whom I am not close. He is generous, allowing his relatives to stay with him—even my stepfather, with whom he has never had a particular affinity.”

“Generous is good,” Eddie said softly. In her conversations with Lord Averdale, she had gleaned little more. He didn't speak of himself. He asked her questions. Whether she was enjoying herself, what she liked to do around the city, whether she had read anything interesting of late. She always found herself caught up, and forgetting to ask any questions in return.

He must think me terribly rude.

She started to walk, feeling pent up standing in one place. She trailed her fingertips along the wooden tables set against the walls, trying to guess at what the dried and shriveled clumps of brown had once been. There were taller plants at the back, forming a near-complete screen blocking off the back wall. A single green branch jutted between a tangle of spindly, dead ones.

“There's something alive back here,” she said.
Unlike in our conversation.

Mr. Blackwood moved swiftly, his face suddenly alight with interest. Together, they hauled aside several deep pots of dead shrubbery, revealing a stubborn, stunted shrub still clinging to its greenery. It sported a number of red blossoms and a few clusters of thready bristles.

“They look like bottlebrushes,” Eddie said, touching one.

“Thus the common name. Crimson bottlebrush,” Mr. Blackwood said. “I can't believe it's still alive.”

“Has someone been tending it?”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Blackwood said doubtfully. “It needs to be repotted.”

“We could do that,” Eddie said eagerly.

“We don't have what we need,” Mr. Blackwood said with a regretful shake of his head. “And the process could cause irreparable damage to your clothing.”

Eddie glanced down. She was certainly overdressed for the task. Frankly, she was overdressed for the time of day, but when people noticed her clothing first they tended to give her personality less attention, which worked out better for everyone.

“Does your uncle like botany?” Eddie asked hopefully.

“Not that I know of. He does ask me questions about it, but he asks questions about a great number of subjects. Not to any particular end, mind you. I think he just likes asking questions.”

“I had noticed that,” Eddie said. “It's . . . nice. It makes it seem like he's really interested in you.”

“Yes.” Mr. Blackwood was frowning again, and looking away from her. “I really am the wrong person to be helping you. I have never had any skill with interpersonal interactions. In fact, I have an abysmal rate of success at small talk, much less romantic entanglements. I would not know how to approach a potential match for myself, much less for you.”

“You've never . . .” Eddie trailed off. “Have you ever flirted with anyone?”

“No.”

Eddie felt a little twinge in her belly at that.
What, did you think he had been flirting with you?

“Sophie insists that I should acquire the skill, but I see little point. I don't intend to marry.”

“Why not?”

“I wish to dedicate myself to a life of the mind.”

“But a wife would be very useful in that case,” Eddie pointed out. Mr. Blackwood raised a querying brow. “If you were to dedicate yourself entirely to your studies, who would have the keeping of your household? How would you manage expenses, ensure that you have done your social duties sufficiently to remain undisturbed when you need to be? Who would ensure that your staff is trustworthy?”

“If I have a small domicile, with minimal servants, none of that should be necessary. I have few needs. And certainly no requirement for social entanglements.”

Eddie gave a little sigh. “Of course you do. Genius doesn't flourish in isolation. You will want to meet with other bright minds, converse with them. You'll want to be published, no doubt, and that does require a degree of interaction with the publisher, if no one else. You will have family obligations. Besides, you will not be satisfied with a small ‘domicile.'” She was chattering. She really should shut up, but Mr. Blackwood looked intrigued.

“Why not?” he asked.

“At seven you had grand plans for a greenhouse. Do you really think you will be content to read about plants, rather than study them directly? You need room to grow a garden. You need a greenhouse. You need
space
.”

“A fair point,” Mr. Blackwood said. He rubbed his chin. “I see I had not considered all the necessary angles.”

“And the right kind of wife would make that all easier,” Eddie said with a nod.

“What kind of wife is the right kind of wife, though? It's not a question I have entertained.”

“You'd need a wife who is interested in your work, at least enough to support it. Who is not a social butterfly, or she would feel stifled. A wife of modest expectations, who enjoys evenings spent in and who doesn't mind getting her hands dirty now and then.” Eddie looked down at her own hands, smeared with grime after moving the pots, and rubbed dirt from them self-consciously.

“Assuming that I found such a woman, I would have no idea how to approach her.”

“That's not so difficult,” Eddie assured him.

“I've never managed it before.” He sounded glum. She sighed.

“Come here, then. I'll show you.”

***

Ezekiel considered Lady Mildred—Lady Eddie, he reminded himself. Her hair had come slightly out of its pins in the effort of hauling pots, and there was a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, approximately an inch below her eye. He found himself staring at that smudge. It seemed beautiful, but he could not explain why.

She held out her hand, beckoning him with bent fingers.

“Come on, then. The first step is to get within five feet of a girl.” She smiled. He smiled back automatically. Normally he had to remind himself to maintain a neutral expression instead of scowling; people tended to misread it as malice, rather than concentration and distraction. Smiling as an automatic reflex was rare indeed.

He despised those who ignored concrete evidence in favor of their preferred narrative, and so he was forced to acknowledge, despite the obvious inconvenience, that he was rather enamored of Lady Eddie. And so when he drew close, it was with a mix of trepidation and delight.

“Now, let's say that we've met in the park,” she said. “I would greet you, you would greet me, and then . . . Oh, you should ask if I should like company on my walk.”

“Would you?”