Lady in Red (3 page)
Mr. Baker-Sneed possesses the purest blood in England, but he is more well known for running off with Baron Winchefield’s youngest daughter, Mary. Winchefield was furious and the old fool blabbed to one and all that young Baker-Sneed had heartlessly seduced his “innocent” daughter, which is complete foolery. Anyone who’d ever met Mary must know that poor Baker-Sneed had no say in the matter—she saw him, she wanted him, and b’God, she got him. And so it is with the females who bear the hot, impetuous blood of the Winchefields; they are queens, not consorts.
The Countess of Firth to Lady Jane Frotherton, while strolling the grassy banks of the Thames
awaiting the Regent’s royal barge
“I
hereby call this meeting of the Society for the Betterment of the Baker-Sneeds to order.”
The whispers and giggles that had punctuated the small fatting room immediately silenced and all attention focused on the tall figure standing beside the pianoforte. Miss Honoria Baker-Sneed rapped her bare knuckles on the cherry-wood surface and smiled upon her sisters and youngest brother. “Please, everyone take a seat. We have much to do.”
This request was met by a rustling of silk and muslin, and an occasional complaint as to who got the settee closest to the fire, as Honoria’s siblings found their favorite seats amongst the scattered chairs and mismatched sofas that punctuated the faded red carpet of the sitting room.
As soon as everyone was seated, Honoria nodded to Olivia. “The treasurer’s report, if you please.”
Olivia flushed, pink with pleasure at being finally given a duty as worthwhile as the budget, her new job since Ned had left to join Father. Prior to this, Olivia’s most important duty had been to assist in the planning of holiday celebrations, and while it was fun to string cranberries and place ivy about the house or prepare cake and surprises for each birthday, she was quite ready for something more substantial. After all, she was almost fifteen and nearly a woman grown.
Beaming, she made her way to the pianoforte to stand beside Honoria. Shorter than Honoria by several inches and not nearly as pretty as Cassandra or Juliet, Olivia tried to make up for her lack of presence with a convincing determination to eschew feminine frivolity. She instead aspired to a more exciting lifestyle, like the one their oldest brother possessed.
Olivia lifted an ink-stained scrap of paper and frowned at it with an important air, her dark head bent over the figures. “I’ve worked out our weekly expenses and figured in our income from both Father’s jointure and the monies he and Ned have sent. Then I compiled a list of all of our expenses and—”
“Oh pother!” Portia flounced in her seat, her hazel eyes flashing annoyance. “We don’t need to hear how you established our accounts. We just want to know how they stand.”
Olivia frowned at this interruption. “And I plan on telling you as soon as I explain how I came about getting the figures.”
“Portia, please allow Olivia do this her own way,” Honoria said. “She has spent hours getting things organized.”
Honoria nodded for Olivia to continue and hoped Portia’s interruption didn’t add too much to what was sure to be a long-winded report. Every time Ned wrote from India
, where he was currently residing with Father in search of a way to recoup their recent losses, Olivia would soak in the letter, poring over each and every detail Ned let fall. Then she’d spend the next two weeks moping about because her life wasn’t nearly as exciting as his.
Olivia would have given her eye teeth to be able to travel about the world, indulging in the adventures Ned portrayed in his infrequent letters. Honoria rather suspected that her brother, like Father, skimmed over the more unsavory details of their travels… like the sanitary aspects of some of the places they stayed and the indigestible food they were sometimes forced to eat. Neither were things that held any appeal to Honoria; she liked her clean sheets and well-roasted meat, thank-you-very-much. And she definitely didn’t look forward to facing the great unknown. There was a good deal to be said about the comforts of a well-run homeland surrounding yourself with the people you loved.
Portia settled back in her chair. “Yes, well, I liked it better when Ned was here to do the treasurer’s report. He always went straight to the point.”
Juliet looked up from her needlework, the light from the small fire dancing across her ripe golden curls. At sixteen, she was bidding fair to rival Cassandra in beauty, though Juliet possessed none of her elder sister’s placid disposition. “Ned never went straight to the point. And he was forever salting his report with sea phrases, half of which I didn’t understand.”
Ned, who was the closest in age to Honoria, had at the tender age of sixteen served on a sailing vessel for two years under the auspices of their uncle, Captain Porterfield Baker-Sneed. Uncle Porterfield sailed under the flag of the Royal Navy and was a crusty, rough-spoken sailor who was supremely confident at sea and filled with lusty excitement at the thought of a battle, but was reduced to a mass of quivering bread pudding at the mere thought of spending a week on shore wearing a cravat and making polite talk to his nieces.
Juliet smiled her encouragement to Olivia. “I daresay you will be a better treasurer than Ned. He was forever making errors in his figures, and twice we overspent merely because he said there was extra in the accounts and there were not.”
Olivia beamed. “I made no mistakes. Indeed, I checked the figures twice and even cross-referenced the—”
“Yes, I am sure you did,” Honoria said smoothly. “And how
are
we doing this month?”
Olivia cleared her throat impressively. “As Ned would say, we’re seaworthy, but taking on water fast.”
Portia smacked her forehead, sending a wave of bounce through her dark brown hair. “Oh for the love of—”
“Portia, please!” Cassandra placed her embroidery hoop on her knees. As gentle as she was beautiful, she was forever attempting to keep the peace among her more active brothers and sisters. “Olivia, we understand that things are ill, but how ill?”
Olivia sighed heavily, and then said in a voice of long suffering, “We’re floundering and will end in the deep blue if the wind doesn’t change.”
Seven-year-old George looked up from where he was trying to put his frog into the Dresden
soup tureen that rested on the sideboard. “Damnation, Olivia! Can’t you speak English?”
“Georgie!” Cassandra protested, her violet eyes wide. “Where did you hear that word?”
George looked at Honoria:
Honoria’s cheeks heated.
“What?
I did no such thing!”
“Honoria,” Cassandra said in a disappointed voice.
Olivia grinned. “And to think you banned poor Ned from saying ‘bloody’ when he was here.”
Honoria ignored her. “George, when did I ever say such a horrid word?”
“Last week. When you hit your thumb with the hammer while hanging the picture in the front room. You said ‘Damnation’ and then you said—”
“I remember,” she said hastily,“ catching the censure in Cassandra’s gentle gaze. ”George, do not say that word— either of them—again.“ Honoria quickly turned her attention back to Olivia. ”Are you saying we have no money?“
“Exactly.”
“But I thought that so long as we stayed in budget—”
“Which no one did. Our expenses this week included seven pounds over our expected expenses.”
“Seven?” Honoria’s chest ached, and for a moment she wished Ned hadn’t had to join Father. It would be nice to have him here now, smiling reassuringly at her across the room. “But how did that happen? We figured every expense.”
“No, we didn’t,” Olivia said bluntly. “For example, the price of coal rose and cost us two pounds six shillings more this month than last. Then George had a cold and we kept the sitting room a bit warmer for him.”
Oh yes. George, for all his robust appearance, was prone to catching every case of ague that went about, some of which went into his ears and produced the most wretched pain and frightfully high fevers. What was worse, though, was that George never complained about the pain, even when it was at its worse. They had Ned to thank for that; unbeknownst to Honoria, before his departure Ned had taken George aside and gravely informed him that he was now the man of the house. Honoria was certain Ned only thought to get George to behave, but instead it had given the poor child an overburdened sense of responsibility, a weighty thing for a not-quite-eight-year-old.
Honoria sighed. “I had forgotten about George’s ague.”
“I’m not sick now,” George said, his face fierce.
“Of course not,” Honoria said. “You’re healthy as a horse.”
“And Honoria doesn’t even like horses,” Portia chimed in.
Which was sadly true. And all because Father’s old mare had loved nothing more than to snap at anyone who wandered within sight. Honoria rubbed her arm where a scar lingered still. “That’s neither here nor there. What other expenses were there?”
“The wheel on the carriage broke. That cost an additional pound and four shillings.” Olivia consulted her paper. “Then Juliet took nine shillings on account.”
Honoria tried to swallow her sigh.
Face slightly pink, Juliet shook out her sewing, and Honoria could see that the design was of a black stallion atop a hill, his mane blowing in the wind. Beneath it was transcribed the words
Run free and fast.
Juliet caught Honoria’s glance and said in a defensive tone, “The money wasn’t for me. It was for Hercules.”
The Baker-Sneeds owned one horse, a broken-down old gelding. It was the one horse that didn’t make Honoria jump every time it moved quickly, mainly because it had two speeds—slow and very slow. But to Juliet, Hercules was a priceless part of their family. She’d been mad for horses since she was old enough to walk to the stables by herself, and Father, horse mad himself, had never discouraged her. At one time they’d had no less than twenty-two horses in the stables. But that had been before the Crisis. Now they were down to just one—poor Hercules.
Honoria rubbed her temple where a faint ache was beginning to form. “What did Hercules need that cost so much?”
“He strained his right foreleg and Mr. Beckett said he needed a poultice, so I purchased one from the apothecary.”
Mr. Beckett was their coachman, or had been when they’d had a coach. Now he was a combination of footman, errand boy, and handyman. “And the poultice cost nine entire shillings?”
“Well, no. I also bought Hercules a new blanket.” Seeing Honoria’s expression, Juliet added, “I can repay it when Mrs. Bothton returns from Yorkshire
. I promised to teach her niece how to ride sidesaddle. The poor girl is dreadfully frightened of horses, just as you are.”
All eyes turned on Honoria. Her cheeks heated. “I am not frightened of horses. I just do not like them.” At all. Even from a distance, but especially up close where they could bite. “Juliet, I know you will pay us back, but—”
“Next week,” Juliet said serenely, tying off a thread. “You will see. I am an excellent teacher and it will take no time at all to get Miss Lydia
riding as if she was born to it.”
Honoria shook her head. “I don’t doubt that. It’s just that things are rather precarious with us now and—”
“Which is all Father’s fault,” Portia announced rather bitterly, looking at the papers in Olivia’s hands. “None of us would be in this mess if Father hadn’t—”
“Nonsense,” Honoria said firmly. “Father, cannot control the winds of fortune that made the ship get lost at sea any more than you can keep from loving pastries, especially cream-filled ones.”
Portia had to smile at that, some of the bitterness fading. “I suppose you are right. I just wish Father hadn’t invested
all
of our money in one ship.”
Olivia nodded. “They say one should never put all of their eggs in one basket. I’d think that a good rule for investing in treasure ships as well.”
Honoria agreed, but all she said was, “I’ll be sure to add that little homily to the next letter we send him. He is working very hard to make up for the loss, you know. Staying with friends and acquaintances when he can, and eating far less than he should—”
“I know,” Portia said, her cheeks flushed. “And I know he’s working hard to repair our fortune and will do so, in time. It’s just that…” She hesitated a moment, then blurted out, “I miss having things.”
Cassandra reached over and placed her hand over Portia’s. “We all do.”
It was a sad thing to admit, but Honoria suspected that she missed their former luxuries worse than anyone else. She, more than any of her younger brothers and sisters, could remember the servants and gowns and fine food, the laughter and music and jeweled slippers—all of which disappeared after Mother’s sudden death two days after George’s birth. Father had never recovered from that blow, becoming lachrymose and lacking in energy. Naturally, his investments had suffered greatly and it had only been in the last two years that he’d attempted to recoup his losses.
Honoria glanced down at the toes of her morning slippers, which were faded and much darned. Ye gods, what she would give for a new hat like the ones she saw in the much admired copies of
La Belle Assemblee
that Cassandra received from Aunt Caroline every few months. It had been high brimmed and made of straw and decorated with the most delectable pink and green rosettes and matching ribbons. The entire effect had been fresh and springlike, something Honoria yearned for.
