The Secretary (13 page)

“It was thrilling,” she said, and it seemed that she was being honest. “I have missed out on many of the pleasures of society. Before my father died, Cynthia and I would go to teas and things like that, but I was never asked to drive in the park. This has been a treat.”

As they drove back towards Trevor Street he said, “I almost forgot. I have a gift for you.” He took the book, now tied up in a pretty blue ribbon, from the seat beside him and handed it to her. She held it for a few moments before untying the ribbon, and then she studied the Greek lettering.

“
Iphigenia in Tauris
,” she translated. “Oh, how lovely, My Lord.”

“Do you think I might call you Clarissa?”

“But that would put me at a disadvantage, as I do not know your given name.”

“Anders,” he said. “It’s a Danish name.”

“It’s lovely,” she said as the curricle pulled to a stop. “I mean, very masculine.”

He laughed. “You needn’t butter me up. I’m already bringing you gifts.”

“And very thoughtful ones, too,” she said. “Thank you for the book...Anders.”

He got out and handed her down. “When may I see you again?”

“I’ve been invited to attend the Middlebury’s ball with Lady Eleanor on Thursday.”

“I hope you will save me a dance?”

“Of course, My--Anders.”

“Then I will look forward to Thursday, Clarissa,” he said, and he kissed her hand.

ELEVEN

February 11, 1833

Clarissa couldn’t swallow a morsel of the huge breakfast Mrs. Butterford laid before her the next morning, but she did make herself drink the coffee. She had stayed up late into the night reading
Iphigenia in Tauris
, and had then had trouble falling asleep. This morning she felt as though every part of her body was trembling separately. She had barely managed to tie a respectable knot in her cravat.

“Are you feeling quite well, dearie?” Mrs. Butterford asked, laying a hand to her brow. “You haven’t touched your breakfast.”

“I’m quite all right, Mrs. Butterford,” she promised. She picked up a piece of toast and nibbled on it.

“Something’s eating you, that’s for sure,” the cook said.

Clarissa sighed and pushed away from the table. Anders was waiting for her upstairs.

Lord Stowe
, she reminded herself. Clarence Ford could not very well call his employer by his given name, and she must try to think of him in her mind as Lord Stowe and not as Anders, though she had been whispering the name to herself for the last twelve hours.

“Good morning, Lord Stowe,” she said as she entered the study. She put some papers before him. “I’ve made those notes on the Mayo disturbances for you.”

He looked up. “Good morning, Ford.” he picked up her notes and glanced at them. “What is your opinion of the whole thing?”

She sat down in her customary chair. “It’s a bad business, My Lord. According the Marquis of Sligo, there are not enough police to control the crowds. People have died already, and more are like to if something isn’t done. Some of the members say the police are only doing what they must, but it seems rather excessive to me.”

“And yet the peace must be maintained.”

“It must,” she agreed. “But at what cost?”

He sighed and dropped the papers onto the table. “Everything has a cost.”

“That is very true, My Lord.”

“The cost of this trouble in Ireland is more grumbling and glowering from Lord Brougham, I’m afraid. With things the way they are, I doubt we’ll be able to debate the abolition measures until the end of the month, at least,” he said.

Clarissa’s heart sank. “So late, My Lord?”

“This Irish business will keep us occupied for weeks, you see if it doesn’t.”

She tried to hide her disappointment. In between reading the Euripides he had given her and murmuring his name, she had come to a decision the night before. If he planned to propose to her--and she hoped he did--there could be no deceptions between them. She had decided that she would tell him the truth after the Middlebury’s ball. But she had hoped that there would at least be some movement on the abolition bill before she had to leave his employ. She had so wanted to be involved in seeing her father’s dream brought to reality.

They worked in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Then Lord Stowe stood. “I’m going for a swim,” he announced. “Will you have the notes on that infernal Lunatic Regulation thing for me before I go to Westminster?”

“Yes, My Lord,” she said, trying not to show her distaste for the bill that was to be debated that afternoon.

“Don’t pretend you like it any better than I do,” he said. “It’s disgusting, what they want to do to people who can’t care for themselves.”

She looked up, letting his words sink in. “I agree, My Lord,” she said.

When he had gone, she leaned back in her chair. When he had said that, about the poor insane who could not afford a comfortable asylum, she had fallen a little bit more in love with him. Yes, a little bit more, she admitted to herself, for she had already fallen most of the way in love when he had given her the book. Perhaps that was why she had dreamed of her father the other night. At his knee she had learned that romance was something society had made up to keep women dependent and caged.

She leaned her head in her hand. “Whatever am I going to
do
?” she asked the empty room. For a good long while she allowed herself to simply sit there and feel sorry for herself. It was rather prophetic, she thought, that he had taken her to see a play about a young lady disguised as a man falling in love with her employer. She had always thought Viola rather foolish for not revealing herself to Orsino the moment she began to feel something for him, but now she understood. As Viola had dug herself deeper and deeper into the hole she had made, she had begun pulling other people down with her. Clarissa was in exactly the same sort of mess, and she was not sure yet whether it would be wise to call out for help.

With a moan of self-pity, she sat up and bent back over the papers that awaited her.

Then there was a knock at the front door.

Clarissa sat up, wondering who it could be at such an odd hour. Lord Sidney usually called in the mornings, and Lord Stowe never had afternoon visitors. But it was nearly one.

The knock came again. Where was Phelps?

Clarissa went out into the hall. She walked slowly down the stairs. The knocking sounded a third time. “Oh, very well,” she sighed, and she opened the door. An elegant woman of about fifty stood on the stoop, looking rather irritated. “Yes?” Clarissa asked.

“Where is Phelps?” the woman demanded. She had a slight accent that Clarissa could not quite place, but her fine clothes marked her out as a gentlewoman.

“I...I don’t know,” Clarissa stammered.

“Who are you?”

“Mr. Ford, His Lordship’s secretary,” she answered.

“Didn’t he have a different one last time I was here?” the woman asked. When Clarissa gave no immediate answer, the woman shrugged and swept past her into the house. “Well, no matter. Will you inform my son that his mother is waiting?”

Clarissa nearly jumped out of her shoes. “Of course, Lady Landridge,” she said.

“It’s Mrs. Coleridge now, dear boy. I’ll wait in the parlor, shall I?”

“Yes, of course, madam,” Clarissa said. As Lord Stowe’s mother disappeared into the parlor, she looked about again. There was still no sign of Phelps.

She knew her way down the stairs to the pool room. She had promised herself she would never go there again, not after seeing him so...well, so naked there. But now it seemed there was no choice. Slowly she descended into the cellar, willing herself to take each step, hoping against hope that someone would come along and offer to fetch the earl for her. She was shaking like a leaf. As she approached the door to the pool, she heard him splashing about. She almost turned and ran. But she swallowed her fear, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.

“My Lord,” she called as she entered.

“Ford,” he said, brushing the water out of his eyes. The water lapped at his waist. She did not look down. “What is it?”

She came to stand at the edge of the pool, trying to prove to herself that she was not afraid. “Mrs. Coleridge is in the parlor, My Lord,” she said.

“My
mother
? What does she want?”

“I...I didn’t think it my place to ask, My Lord.”

“Oh, all right. Tell her I’ll come directly.”

“Of course,” Clarissa said, and she turned, breathing a sigh of relief.

Then he pulled the towel that had been lying beside the pool out from under her foot.

With a shriek, Clarissa tipped backwards, her shoes sliding on the wet tile. Her arms flailed helplessly in the air, and then she hit the water with a splash.

She came up sputtering for air. Lord Stowe gripped her arm.

“I say, Ford, are you quite—”

She wiped the water from her eyes. He was staring at her. She put her hand up and felt her fingers brush a few loose pins. A few more were floating on the surface of the water.

And so was her wig.

“What in God’s name is going on?” Anders asked.

The person standing in his pool reached up and pulled off her moustache.

It was Clarissa.

She began pulling the remaining pins from her hair. “I was going to tell you after the Middlebury’s ball,” she said. He stared at her. He could see the outline of her body where her wet clothes pressed against her skin.

“I think you’ll tell me now,” he said.

“Yes, I suppose I will. But do you think I might dry off a little, first?”

He sighed. “There’s a robe over there. Get out of those wet things and put it on. Wait for me here. I’ll go upstairs and deal with my mother and be back in ten minutes.”

“All...all right,” she stammered. Her teeth were beginning to chatter. He got out of the pool and slipped the towel around his waist, trying to ignore the fact that he was naked. She had seen him that way before, after all.

“I mean it about the robe,” he said as she waded to the side of the pool. “I can’t have you catching your death before you tell me what’s going on here.” Then he strode out of the room and upstairs. “Phelps!” he yelled.

Almost immediately his butler appeared. “I am sorry, My Lord,” he said as he trailed Anders up the stairs. “I stepped into the kitchen to speak with Mrs. Butterford a moment and I did not hear the knock.”

“No matter, Phelps. Find my dressing-gown, please.”

“You don’t wish to dress before going down to Mrs. Coleridge?” Anders could hear the horror in his butler’s voice.

“I wish to do a great many things, Phelps, but I have time for none of them now. My dressing-gown, if you please.”

Phelps brought him the garment, mercifully not asking any more questions. Anders slipped it on and went right back down the stairs. When he burst into the parlor his mother stood. “What on earth is going on, Anders? What are you doing in your dressing-gown? Why are you all wet? Are you quite well?”

“Quite, mother. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I thought you would not be in town until after your birthday.”

She looked him up and down but said nothing more about his appearance. “I came up early. I heard such a strange piece of news from Lady Russell that I thought I had better see you at once. Are you intending to propose to a young lady named Miss Martin?”

“Don’t start planning the wedding yet, mother,” Anders said. “A...complication has arisen, and I must go see to it now. You’ll forgive me for abandoning you, won’t you? I’ll call later, I promise.”

“Come for supper tonight,” she said. “Your stepfather is still in Kent and you know how I hate dining alone.”

“Very well,” he said. He kissed her and swept out of the room and back down the stairs to the cellar.

Clarissa had taken the rest of the pins from her hair and was patting it dry with a towel when he strode into the pool room. She had taken off her suit, shirt, cravat, shoes, and stocking and hung them over the rack meant for the towels. There were also a pair of ladies’ drawers and a long, thin piece of white fabric. Her wig lay on the bench beside her.

When she saw him, she stood. “My Lord, I can explain.”

“You had better,” he growled. He picked up a wicker chair and plopped into it. She lowered herself back onto the bench.

“First, please let me apologize for deceiving you. I know it was wrong, and I will understand if you choose not to forgive me. It was the only way I could think of to survive. You were right when you guessed that my father left me penniless. He did not mean to,” she added when he frowned. “But his death was so...so sudden.” He thought her lower lip trembled a little, but she bit it. It was such a fetching motion that for a moment he forgot to listen to her, thinking instead of what she must look like under that robe. “I had enough to live on for a little while, and I thought I might find work as a governess or something, but I couldn’t. I didn’t have the skills suited to the positions that were available for young women like me. But I had been my father’s secretary for more than six years—for my whole life, really. I knew I could do that. So I became Clarence Ford. I thought I would find a member of the Commons looking for a secretary, but then I happened to hear a man complaining that you had fired him, and it seemed like...fate.”

“I see. And when I came to call on
you
, Clarissa? What then?”

“I am so ashamed,” she said. “I know I lied. I know you probably will never forgive me. But my father worked so hard for abolition. I wanted to continue working for you, for the cause.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So you deceived me.”

She looked away. “I deceived everyone, even myself. I thought I could keep up the pretense, but I couldn’t. I longed to tell you, I truly did. You said you cared for me. I...I care for you, too. A great deal. I couldn’t lie to you anymore. But I understand if you never want to see me again.”

He was silent for a moment while he tried to muddle through all the things that had happened in the last twenty minutes. Coming to a decision, he said, “We have a problem there, Clarissa.”