Miss Fellingham's Rebellion (13 page)

Lady Fellingham took Catherine through the entire ledger, explaining which numbers referred to the salaries of the staff, which covered the cost of food, which went to clothing the family and so on.

As she listened, Catherine realized how little she knew about money matters. She was amazed to see that their maid Betsy received annually little more than Evelyn spent on a few dresses. Granted, Evelyn’s gowns where made of the finest-quality muslin and heavily embellished with lace, bows and elaborate embroidery, but still…the equivalent of a whole year’s salary? Because she read newspapers and journals regularly, she had expected to have a better grasp of these things and was surprised to discover how wrong she was.

“Why are some figures in black and others in red?” Catherine asked.

“The red ones have yet to be paid.”

Some of the numbers in red were extremely large, and Catherine wondered at their ability to pay them. “Mama, this figure here is from eight months ago. When do we plan on paying it?”

Her mother leaned over. “Don’t tease yourself over the candle maker.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a tradesman,” she said sensibly, “and nobody pays the tradesmen. It’s unbred, my dear.”

Catherine very much suspected that this wasn’t true—or if it was, the tradesmen very much wished it weren’t—but she didn’t want to argue with her parent about it. She simply resolved that as soon as she took over the accounts, the tradesmen would get paid in a timely fashion.

“And what is this figure here?” she asked of an extremely large amount that had her name next to it.

“Those are your new dresses that we purchased yesterday morning.”

“My dresses?” she echoed, aghast. “But that’s so much.”

“Not just dresses, my dear, but kid boots and gloves and bonnets and hosiery and reticules and that beautiful pelisse that I insisted you get.”

Catherine was horrified. She didn’t need a wardrobe that cost more than the downstairs servants’ salaries combined. It was indecent. “Then we shall cancel those orders right way. I am very glad that we had this talk, Mama. I wish you had made me aware of the situation sooner.”

“My dear child, you are being absurd,” Lady Fellingham told her, laughing happily at her daughter. It was unusual for Catherine to misunderstand something. “’Tis a paltry sum, really. Sir Vincent has been known to lose twice that on the turn of a card.”

That such a significant amount could be called
paltry
staggered Catherine, and she understood now what a wretched fix they were in. “B-but that is so much money,” she stammered finally. “How can this be?”

Her mother smiled, satisfied. “Why else would Arabella and I have come up with our excellent scheme? I assure you, dear, it was nothing short of completely necessary.”

Catherine was beginning to see that. “Are there any economies we can practice?”

“We
could
use rushlights, of course, but I would feel so wretched about it. What happens when my sister Louise comes for tea? Louise would never use rushlights instead of candles. They’re for servants. And we already are poor ones for entertaining. I’ve told Sir Vincent several times that we should host a rout or even a musicale. Something small and intimate for our closest friends. How I loved giving parties for my father. I was very good at it, in fact. I always knew exactly what to do. That’s the rub, my dear, knowing when to do what. So many hostesses are paralyzed by decisions. Have the servants set the table or hang the decorations? I assure you, it is not easy.” Lady Fellingham’s eyes shone as she remembered. “But you’ll see, my dear, when you are married to Deverill. His house in Grosvenor Square has a beautiful ballroom. They had an extravagant coming out for Deverill’s sister years ago. Then you’ll see how hard it is to coordinate a large, lavish affair. Perhaps you could throw a ball for your dear sister Evelyn.”

With her mother lost in a dream world of future possibilities, she studied the books carefully, looking for a corner to cut. She knew her family’s income was modest, and she could tell from the accounts that they owed money to many creditors. Not that they were in Dun territory, for they weren’t at all. The monies they owed could be covered by next quarter’s income. Unless, of course, they spent next quarter’s allowance before it came.

It was a serious problem and one that she couldn’t find any way out of. Since she clearly could not stop her father from gambling away the money, she would have to discover a way to augment their income. Surely the answer to the solution was to have more money coming in to the house than they had going out. But how to do that? Her mother, having arrived at the same conclusion, had come up with a moneymaking scheme that was completely unacceptable. Would she be able to do any better?

CHAPTER SIX

As Catherine walked
in to the drawing room of Lady Georgina Haverford, she conceded that despite who may or may not be present (Deverill, of course) she really did hate routs. They were always, to the supreme satisfaction of one’s hostess, such devastating crushes. As soon as they arrived, she lost sight of Evelyn, who looked stunning in her primrose gown. The air of tragedy she had assumed upon seeing her sister waltzing with Deverill two evenings ago still clung to her, making her beauty seem almost delicate and ethereal. In many ways, Evelyn truly baffled her. She knew her sister was selfish and rarely thought of anyone but herself, and yet the recent events seemed to have wounded her more deeply than Catherine would have expected. Her sister couldn’t be in love with Deverill, she assured herself
.
No, Evelyn was only miffed to have lost an accomplished flirt to a dowd such as herself. Wouldn’t it be funny if she knew the truth, Catherine thought, well aware that it wouldn’t be funny at all.

Catherine observed the crowd, keeping an eye out for Deverill and not seeing him. Although disappointed, she readily conceded that it was for the best. She needed to put her plan into action and wouldn’t succeed in meeting other suitors if she was in the marquess’s pocket all night. She knew she was in fine looks that evening, for the early ride in the park had put a lovely blush in her cheeks that no amount of examining the dismal financial accounts could dim, and she felt reasonably confident that she could find someone to talk to.

Since Freddy hadn’t come with them this evening, she couldn’t rely on him to introduce her. She would have to muddle through on her own. Surely she knew someone in this room. After all, she had been out for six years and had met scores, if not hundreds, of ladies and gentlemen in that time. To her dismay, she saw faces that were only vaguely familiar but none that she could actually put a name to, and just as she was beginning to despair, she spotted Mr. Pearson.

“Miss Fellingham,” he said, bowing over her hand, “you look charming tonight.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pearson.” She curtsied in return. “I’m extremely pleased to have found you. I’m afraid I’ve lost my sister completely, and Freddy is not in attendance. You don’t mind, do you, if I use you as a social crutch for a little while? I haven’t been to such a crush in a long time, and I am a little overwhelmed.”

Pearson didn’t seem the least put off by her honesty. “By all means, my dear, lean on me. To return candor for candor, I must admit that I myself am a little surprised by the number of people who are here. I would offer to fetch you some punch, but I don’t think I could make it to the table and back.”

“That’s all right. I am not yet parched.” She considered Mr. Pearson for a moment and thought that he would be handsome one day when the spots on his face cleared up and he grew accustomed to his height. Of course, right now he was by far too young and too awkward to be a beau, but Catherine thought he made a very nice friend. “So, tell me, Mr. Pearson, without betraying any confidences, of course, stories of Freddy’s scrapes. I know he must get into a lot of them. Otherwise, they wouldn’t keep sending him down the way they do.”

It was just the right thing to say because Pearson indeed had a fair number of stories to tell and just as he was embarking on a narrative about an incident with the bubbles in the schoolmaster’s apartments, Deverill presented himself with a slight bow.

Catherine, who had kept one eye pealed for him, was surprised by his sudden appearance and realized, after greeting him in return, that Mr. Pearson was not known to him. She made the introduction and discovered that the marquess was acquainted with his brother, Morgan. After confirming that both Pearson and his brother were in good health, Deverill announced that he would like to introduce Catherine to his aunt, who was eager to meet her.

Catherine saw the young man’s disappointment and promised him that she would return presently. He had been a good friend to her in her time of need and she would not desert him now.

As they made their way across the room, Deverill said, “He’s but a puppy, you know.”

Catherine laughed because the observation was so patently obvious there seemed no reason to make it. “Of course he is. He’s my brother’s age. Regardless, he’s a charming companion and it is nice to have someone to talk to amid this crowd.”

“I am here. You can talk to me now,” he said, more autocratic than she had ever heard.

She couldn’t quite tell from the quality of his voice whether he was teasing or not, though it seemed to her that it must be the former, for nobody could be that arrogant. “Perhaps I don’t want to talk with you, Lord Deverill.”

Rather than respond to that blatant lie, he simply smiled with satisfaction and guided her in the direction of his aunt.

“Why does your aunt want to meet me?” she asked.

“She listens to the gossips and has heard my name linked with yours,” he explained, pressing his hand to the small of her back to indicate that she should turn left out of the room. “She wants to look you over and report back to my mother.”

“Your mother, my lord?” she asked cautiously, determined not to get into a fix like this morning, where she showed too much interest in his family. Nevertheless, she was curious, as the idea of his mother knowing her name made her heart trip.

“Of course. She might bury herself in the country during the season, but she does keep abreast of every nine days’ wonder to blow through town.”

“Is that what I am?” she asked in a chilly tone because it hurt to hear herself described so, even though she knew that was exactly what Lady Courtland had meant for her to be. “A nine days’ wonder?”

He examined her carefully, trying, she supposed, to make sense of her suddenly changed demeanor. But “a wonder, certainly,” was all he said in the end.

They found his aunt standing in the hallway, greeting guests who were still arriving in great numbers. Deverill saw that she was in conversation with Lord Haskell, an elderly man, gray of face and hair with a beaklike nose, and waited patiently for the conversation to draw to a close. When it did, he said, “Aunt George, may I present Miss Catherine Fellingham?”

Despite her remarkable height, Catherine felt as though she were being looked down on by this petite woman who was so much grander than she. Deverill’s aunt was a legendary figure on the London scene who had somehow managed to brazen out an adulterous scandal—
she
being the adulterer—dozens of years before. “It’s an honor to meet you,” she said in her quiet voice. She wasn’t surprised when she was ordered to speak up.

“Miss Fellingham,” the older woman said, “you are familiar to me. Who’s your mother?”

“Eliza Fellingham. She was a Lewis before she married, ma’am.”

Lady Bedford seemed displeased with this answer, as if Catherine were intentionally thwarting her. “No, that’s not right.” She thought for a moment before saying, “Your father, is he Sir Vincent?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You have the look of him,” Lady Bedford announced. “I can always tell a person’s relations by looking at her face.”

“An impressive skill, to be sure,” Catherine said, an irrepressible tongue-in-cheek note marring her sincere admiration only slightly.

Noting the impertinent tone, Deverill’s aunt lifted an eyebrow. “You are very like old Felly. He’s quite a rascal.”

Catherine thought of the man who occasionally joined the family for meals and who wanted only a peaceful house and exclusion from all Cheltenham tragedies enacted there, including the ones he himself authored with his antics. She didn’t doubt old Felly got into quite a lot of mischief when free of the obligations of family. “I wouldn’t know, ma’am,” she said stiffly.

“Aunt,” said Deverill, sensing Catherine’s discomfort, “we should let you return to your guests.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Pray hold off on your escape until I’m done with my interview.” Her sharp gaze examined Catherine. “What’s this about your dangling after my nephew?”

Taken aback by the unexpectedly direct question, she found her earlier boldness deserted her and she kept her mouth closed for want of something to say. Her instinct was to deny the charge, but she knew the more one denied a rumor, the more everyone believed it. The clever thing to do would be to dismiss it with a joke, but she could think of no glib rejoinders.

Fortunately, Deverill replied before her silence became marked. “Whoever is feeding you your daily dose of gossip has left you sadly misinformed, Aunt. Miss Fellingham isn’t dangling after me, much to my regret. Indeed, to arrange this meeting I had to drag her away from the side of another suitor. And, what’s more, as soon as we leave you here, she’s promised to return to him,” he said, sounding more disappointed than necessary.