The Stepsister's Triumph (10 page)

“It's perfect,” Adele said. “Absolutely perfect.”

“I don't know,” Helene said. “It might be too daring for our matrons.”

“Lady Helene, please let me assure you that we have hosted the land's finest and most respected persons in the Tapswell Gardens.”

The Tapswell Gardens were a magnificent green space of lawns and gardens on the edge of London. Mr. Tapswell, a slim, fussy little man with salt-and-pepper hair and shirt points so tall they threatened his eyes, led them across the flat expanse of lawn where the outdoor dance floor would be laid, and he described how the tables would be set for the supper. He extolled the discretion and experience of his staff and listed the number of parties they had hosted and would host. He lingered over these last for rather a long time, making sure the girls understood that there were only very few dates left this season when the gardens would be free.

Not every person who wished to host a grand entertainment during the London season had the luxury of a house with a ballroom of any sort, let alone one large enough to host an entertainment that could be considered significant. Therefore there were any number of persons who made it their business to supply such space. Public assembly rooms of all classes and kinds existed across the length and breadth of England. Almack's was only the brightest jewel in that particular crown.

Madelene was beginning to feel she had toured most of the available rooms with Adele and Helene. Helene had filled three whole notebooks with the details. They had even considered Almack's itself, although only briefly.

“There's no hope at all of us being able to hire Almack's,” Madelene said. “The cost . . . even with what I can raise, is too much.”

“And the lady patronesses are unwilling,” Miss Sewell said. “Or at least highly dubious.”

“Well, perhaps we should hold our event on a Wednesday,” Adele said tartly. The famed Almack's balls were always held on Wednesdays.

“No,” Helene said. “That will only annoy them further, and the enterprise is not about making enemies; it is about making friends.”

“It's strange to hear you worrying about making people angry. You've done it for a very long time,” Adele said.

“So you may believe me to be an expert at it. We will not schedule our event for a Wednesday.”

And that was that. Now here they were, walking across the lovely grass, listening to this thin and obsequious man extol the virtues of his gardens, the illuminations, the refreshments, the possibility of boats on the pond . . .

“No. That would be too expensive,” Helene said, flatly.

“Prudence of course is a most desirable attribute,” agreed Mr. Tapswell. “However, if her ladyship will consider . . .” Helene glowered at him, and Mr. Tapswell decided against finishing that sentence.

“What if it rains?” Helene asked, making another tick mark in her book. “This is the English summer, after all.”

“The canopies will prevent the least discomfort or inconvenience.” Mr. Tapswell watched her moving pencil nervously. Madelene and Adele shared a smile behind the little man's back. “Perhaps her ladyship would care to see the rooms for retiring and dressing?”

“Her ladyship would,” Helene said.

Madelene trailed behind. She was tired. She had been tired for two days, since she left Lord Benedict's studio. What on earth had possessed her to talk as she did? Where had that audacity come from? Benedict must hate her now. She'd gotten angry with him. People were disgusted by angry women. Mother had said so. Her stepmother had said so. Girls must be quiet. They must be properly bred. If one must say something unpleasant, or even truthful, one must say it calmly and in a disinterested fashion.

One did not challenge. Although, of course, no one seemed to have told Helene that.

“Are you all right?” Adele had fallen back to walk beside her.

“Yes, yes,” murmured Madelene. “Don't worry about me.”

“Don't talk nonsense,” Adele shot back, although softly. “Helene will hear, and then we'll waste another ten minutes arguing about it.”

“You're right, of course. And I couldn't deal with another argument right now.”

“Did you argue with Benedict? Is that why you're so out of sorts?”

“I'm not sure,” Madelene said.

“You're not sure you're out of sorts?”

“I'm not sure we argued. It wasn't like any argument I've ever had. We said . . . some harsh things, but in the end, it was as if we agreed with each other whether we wanted to or not.” She frowned. “I don't understand it. And why are you smiling at me?”

“Because it's a lovely day and these are lovely gardens and I think we should take them for our party. When is your next session?” Adele asked.

“I don't think there will be one.”

“Yes, there will. You will not let us down, Madelene.”

“If you two are quite finished back there?” Helene called from her post beside Mr. Tapswell. “We are here on business.”

Adele rolled her eyes. “Yes, Matron,” she sighed.

So, they toured the dressing rooms and the retiring rooms, and the refreshment rooms. But each new sight and smooth description from Mr. Tapswell just made Helene press her lips more tightly together, until at last, even his flow of words trickled to a halt.

“I don't know,” Helene said, as they returned to the hall's airy foyer. “It's very expensive, and it's out of doors. We run a risk.”

“But it will be spectacular with all the illuminations and the boats on the pond,” Adele reminded her.

“We cannot afford the boats,” Helene said. “Not with all the canopies and extra staff we'll have to have in case it rains.”

“I must beg Lady Helene's pardon.” Mr. Tapswell bowed. “I forgot to mention that when the extra staff are taken on, we quite naturally are sensitive to the needs of our patrons and their guests. In these cases, the boats are supplied at no extra charge.”

Helene scribbled furiously into her book. She paused and sucked on the end of her pencil. “Well, Madelene? With what Adele and I can raise, we have exactly half. What's left is here.” She underlined the sum and passed Madelene the book. “What will your banker say?”

Madelene looked across the lawns and the beds of flowers and the topiary sculptures. She imagined them lit up like a fairyland at night with the music floating through the pretty groves of trees. She imagined dancing under the stars and retiring for supper into the beautiful folly that was a cross between a hunting lodge and a German castle with its blue roof and arched windows.

It would be beautiful. It would be grander than she'd ever considered.

She looked at the number in the book, and she looked at anxious Adele and grim Helene. She looked across the grand foyer toward the lovely gardens. The mess she'd made of her time with Benedict lay like a black cloud over what could have been happy anticipation. And as she became aware of this, she also became aware of another emotion. Anger. It was not fair that his unfeeling and changeable conduct should have damaged this moment and her ability to help her friends. Well, she would not let that go any further.

“We'll do it,” she said. “I'll speak to Mister Thorpe.”

And I will speak to Lord Benedict as well
, she promised herself.
And next time I will not let him confuse me or oppress me with his humors.

I hope.

“Behold!” cried Cousin Henry. “This wooden O that shall contain our swelling scene!”

He led them out onto the stage at the Theatre Royal. The space itself was much smaller than Madelene had thought it would be. Not much bigger, in truth, than the dining room at home. It was only when she turned to what Cousin Henry called “the house” and looked out at the rows and tiers and clusters of empty, silent seats that she felt the enormity of the place open to engulf her.

Miss Sewell allowed Cousin Henry to lead her to the sofa at the edge of the stage. “Thus do we revive that ancient custom of allowing the audience to be seated on the stage,” he said with a wink.

Adele was in raptures.

“Romeo! Romeo!” she declaimed to those empty seats. “Wherefore art thou, Romeo? Deny thy father! Refuse they name!”

Helene rolled her eyes and strolled over to examine the sconce that had been converted to the new gas lighting.

“Now
if
I may have your attention, please,” Henry boomed. “We are here, I believe, for a lesson in the terpsichorean art, specifically its ballroom variety. Now. Shall I tell you ladies the secret of the dance?”

“Yes, please do,” Adele said.

Madelene stepped forward.

“It is this.” Henry spread his hands wide. “It is that the dancer must take control of the space around them. They must know where they are in the room, and no matter what that room, no matter where, they must feel that it is their own.”

“That makes no sense,” Helene said. “Forgive me,” she added.

“A demonstration, then. Cousin Madelene, if you would oblige me?”

Madelene walked forward. She didn't like the empty seats. The shadows themselves seemed to be watching her. They might conceal anything. There might be people out there she couldn't see . . .

Henry took her chin between his fingers and firmly pointed her face toward him.

“Ignore the seats. They are unimportant. There is a solid wall between them and you. What is important is here.” He walked a slow circle around her. “This space. This bit of the world around you. This is yours, always. Yours to shape with your personality, your presence.” He stopped. “And do not, Cousin, say you have no presence, or I shall have to be cross.”

“No, Cousin Henry.”

“Now. Close your eyes, and imagine. Imagine you can feel the air about yourself. That you shape it. For you, it is warm and comfortable. You own this space. You wear it as you wear your best and most comfortable gown.”

She tried. It was difficult. She'd never been any good at such games.

“Excellent. Now.” She felt Henry lift her arms, forming the frame for a waltz. “Don't open your eyes. Just keep imagining. I will not let you stumble. You can trust your cousin. We begin. One, two, three . . . one, two three.”

Gently, Cousin Henry began to move. He was light on his feet. She knew the steps. It was awkward with her eyes closed, trying to think about the air around her, trying to imagine wearing the world like a dress, even for a moment.

And yet, and yet, while all that was happening in her mind, something else was happening as well. Her mind was so occupied with this concentration, she forgot to be nervous. Her feet, trained by years of dancing lessons, moved to Henry's patient counting. Her body followed his lead.

And as soon as she thought about this, she stumbled.

“Oh!” Her eyes flew open, and she froze in place, waiting for Henry to scold her. But instead, he smiled.

“Excellent!” he cried. “You see, you can do it.”

Helene, Adele, and Miss Sewell all applauded. “You were beautiful, Madelene,” Adele said.

“I . . . Oh . . . Was I truly?”

“Truly,” Henry said, his eyes twinkling. “Who shall be next to try. Lady Helene?”

Helene lifted her chin, eyes bright and manner determined. She curtsied to Henry and he bowed, and Adele clasped her hands in eagerness, and perhaps a little jealousy. Madelene found herself holding her breath for her friend. Helene was so stiff, so bold, surely she'd try to lead or something . . .

But then the music played and Henry moved into the steps and Helene . . . Helene floated. Adele's jaw dropped, and Miss Sewell arched an eyebrow. Helene stepped in perfect time, all her stiffness, all the brittle armor of her suddenly gone. There was nothing left except a spare and beautiful grace. Henry didn't bother to keep counting; he simply moved them, turned them, and turned them again. Helene followed each curve, each figure, detached and graceful as a queen, as a swan.

When the violinist lifted his bow from his instrument, no one applauded. There was only respectful silence.

At least there was until Henry bowed, deeply. “I see that you have no need of my lessons. But please believe me to be your most humble servant, Lady Helene.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replied seriously, but Madelene was sure she heard the edge of humor in her voice. How like Helene to keep the extent of this most romantic and ladylike accomplishment a secret.

“Now, Lady Adele,” Henry said cheerfully. “It is your turn.”

And so it went. Cousin Henry led them around the stage, with their eyes closed and their eyes open. He made them dance individually and together, with him and even with the violinist, who stumped across the stage like he wore hobnailed boots. It didn't matter who the partner was, Henry told them. What mattered was the space and the awareness of it. They must be able to draw that sense around them like a cloak.

Slowly, it became easier. Madelene realized she could focus her attention on the space around her and her movement within it. Concentrating like this, she had no room in her thoughts for the shadows, or for who might be watching.

Her entire life, Madelene had focused on the people around her, on what they must be thinking and doing and wanting. She had tried so hard to please them all that there hadn't been a thought left to spare for herself. But here, in this strange dance lesson, Cousin Henry was not only instructing her to reverse that habit of thought but was giving her the means to do it.

It felt entirely, terribly selfish. It felt oddly wonderful.

It felt like freedom.

Here I am again
, thought Madelene irritably as she stared at the closed door of Benedict's studio.
We have to stop meeting like this
, she thought toward the splintered and unpainted wood, and she winced. Clearly Helene and Miss Sewell were rubbing off on her.

Of course it was her own fault. If she'd had more steadiness of purpose and nerve, she would have stayed away. No one was forcing her to return here. Not Adele, and certainly not Helene.

But Helene had decided the time had come to invite some of the more eminent among their new acquaintances to call, so yesterday the three of them had to be “at home.” Adele had volunteered her house for the exercise, since some of these grander ladies might balk at being seen in Miss Sewell's little green parlor and, fussy though she might be, Adele's Aunt Kearsely was an impeccable hostess.

It was the voluble Lady Finch who was the earliest of their invited callers, and practically the first words out of her mouth had been, “What is this I hear that you are having your portrait painted, Miss Valmeyer? And by none other than Lord Benedict Pelham! Does he say when it will be finished? Are there plans for the unveiling?”

Madelene had been so confused she'd almost been unable to answer. But that had sealed it. If people were talking about the portrait, she must go through with it. To do otherwise would be to create a sense of disappointment that might cause them to change their minds about accepting their invitations to the ball.

At least, that was what she told herself. It was certainly the most comfortable line of reasoning. All the others led straight back to her last conversation with Benedict and those things she'd heard beneath his anguished outcry.

Of course she hadn't told any of the others about the contents of that last conversation. She wasn't keeping secrets, exactly. It was just that they didn't need the distraction of Madelene's foolishness. Especially not Helene. Now that they'd secured the Tapswell Gardens for their ball, they had to finalize the guest list, choose the menus, find the musicians—and that was all before the invitations could even be sent to the engravers. They must be engraved, Helene insisted, and with gilt edges. There was no point in half measures. Adele of course agreed, because it would be grand and beautiful. Miss Sewell was not home and so could not be consulted on the subject.

All these details had occupied today's meeting at No. 48, up until the moment when Madelene had to rush to collect her cloak and bonnet or risk being late.

She'd turned around from tying her bonnet ribbon to reach for her reticule. But it wasn't on the table where she'd left it. She looked around in confusion. Because her bonnet brim blocked much of her peripheral vision, it took her a moment to see Helene standing behind her, holding the beaded bag.

“I'll go with you to Lord Benedict's, if you want.” Helene handed the reticule to Madelene. “Adele can keep herself busy elsewhere today.”

Madelene peered at her friend. Her face was drawn unusually taut. “What's happened, Helene?”

Helene pressed her mouth into a thin line. “I've had a quarrel with Miss Sewell.”

“About me?”

“Among other things. Listen to me, Madelene.” Helene took her hand. “I didn't mean for word of the painting to get out. But now it is, and nothing can be done about it, but it does not matter.” Helene pressed her hand. “You do not have to go back to the studio if you do not want to, and you certainly do not have to be alone, if Lord Benedict . . .”

“Lord Benedict has done nothing wrong, I promise you. And I want to go back. I need to put things on a proper footing between us,” she said. “A disinterested and professional footing.”

“Is that really what you want?”

“Yes,” Madelene said firmly.

Helene peered at her for a long and uncomfortable moment. “Very well. Since you say it, I believe you. But if you change your mind at any point, cry off. I will stand with you, whatever you decide.”

“But the ball . . .”

“The ball doesn't matter,” Helene said. “Not as much as you do.”

They'd embraced and Madelene had to resort to her handkerchief quickly. Dear Helene. The world might see her as cold and managing, but she was true as steel.

And so here Madelene had returned to the studio, and here she stood in front of the door again, with her hand raised again. And again, she hesitated. What would she do if there was another scene, like last time? What would she do with her disordered feelings and her sudden bursts of confession and sympathy? What if he mocked her? What if he did as he said and used her, showed her up before the world . . . ?

He would not
, murmured the treacherous, sentimental voice from the back of her mind.
He will not. He is not such a man. I know this. He simply does not trust himself as he should, as I do.

Yes
, said the other voice, the older, bitter, frightened voice.
You also trusted Jeremy, and Wallace, and Frederic, and you were wrong about them all and they left you alone.

Well, that at least Benedict could not do. He could not leave her, because he had never come to her. She had gone to him. And even if, no,
when
, he did go away, she would still have Helene, Adele, and Miss Sewell all behind her, as well as Cousin Henry. She was not merely a friendless girl with a dangling fortune. Not anymore. She needed to remember that. She could and she would control herself and her emotions. She would not allow a hopeless and dangerous attraction get in the way of the future for herself and her friends. She would sit for the portrait. It would be finished. She would . . . she would . . .

She didn't know what she'd do after that. She'd think about it later.

Madelene raised her hand and knocked.

For a moment, nothing happened. Madelene's heart thumped and sputtered underneath her breast. Then there was the sound of running feet, and the door flew open. Lord Benedict, breathless and flushed, stared at her in surprise.

“You're late,” he breathed. “I was afraid you might not come.”

“But I did.” She gestured, a little, and smiled a little. She also ignored how the hitch in his voice sent delicate shivers across her skin.

“I'm glad,” he said as he stood back to let her pass.

“I was a little afraid, after last time, that you might not want me back,” she said lightly as she stepped inside.

“Last time was my fault,” he told her. “It has been a very long time since I painted a portrait. My manners have fallen into disuse. I am resolved to do better this time. I wanted to write a note, or send Marcus with a message, but . . .” He gestured helplessly. “Everything I tried to say sounded ridiculous. Or bombastic.”

“I did think about staying away,” she admitted. “I thought you must surely have enough sketches by now to be getting on with. But . . . there were reasons to continue.”

“This conspiracy of yours with Miss Sewell and the other girls?” She heard a note of disappointment in his voice, and her heart thrilled in response.

“Yes,” she said. “I suppose Lord Windford told you about the party? Will you please keep that in confidence until the invitations are sent? If word gets out about our plans, it could be detrimental to them.”

Benedict chuckled. “I doubt anyone is going to ask me about the plans of three young women for the season.” He paused. He wanted to stay something more, but she couldn't tell what it might be. She'd been prepared for this meeting to be tense, perhaps even disappointing. But disappointment was not the feeling that surrounded her now. Neither was it regret, or even the anger that had been exposed and left raw by the words they'd flung before. There was something new in the air between them, like a promise left unspoken and unfulfilled.

“Was that the only reason you came back?” he asked. “Because you need the painting?”

“Yes,” she said. But she didn't say it to him. She had to say it to the windows and the beautiful day outside. There was no possible way she could look into Benedict's dark eyes feel the anticipation in the air around them and continue to lie.

“I see.” And with those two words, all that unspoken promise she'd felt so keenly when she entered seemed to crumble into dust. “Well, then, will you sit? The light is very good just now, and we should not waste it.”

You have done the right thing
, she told herself.
That's why you came. To finish the conversation properly and be done with it. You have already seen that this attraction, however real it may be, can only cause trouble and get in the way of all your plans.

Madelene took her seat on the rush-bottomed chair and picked up the strings. The primroses had been replaced by geraniums, she noted. This time she would keep her mouth closed. She would instead occupy her thoughts with all she had accomplished so far. She would think about the fun of the dancing lessons Henry was giving them. She would congratulate herself on even being able to sit calmly and look at the geraniums, which made a nice change from primroses, and let Lord Benedict work. She would concentrate on herself within this space, just like Henry instructed. Surely if it worked for dancing, it must work the much simpler act of sitting still. How did the saying go?
They also serve who only stand and wait?
Or sat and waited, in her case. Well, she was serving her friends, which was all she'd wanted from the beginning. By sitting here, she paradoxically became an active participant in their coming triumph. The attraction between her and Lord Benedict might not have been entirely her imagination, but it was certainly an unnecessary complication. She didn't need it. None of them needed that, especially not with a man who could only bring scandal and controversy.

There was only one problem. Even as she repeated this to herself, she knew it was not true.

It doesn't matter
, she told herself.
What you felt has never mattered. Remember Jeremy. You felt a great deal for him, too.

She'd met Jeremy Glenn during her debut season, and she'd fallen head over heels for him, and he, she thought, had fallen for her just as strongly.

Mama had thoroughly disabused her of that notion, of course. Mr. Glenn had been a fortune hunter, the first of many. All of them were eventually discovered courting other girls, or drunk, or playing with and losing to Octavius Pursewell or some other sharp. Across the long, lonely afternoons that followed, Madelene had forced herself to forget what it was like to desire someone's touch and companionship— that breath of need, that silken insinuation of feeling that could keep you up until the small hours.

“You're frowning.” Benedict's voice cut across her thoughts, startling Madelene so much she jumped and dropped the strings.

“I . . . I'm sorry,” she stammered. “I . . . I got a crick in my neck.”

“Let's take a break, then,” he suggested. “I've some tea on the stove. It might even be fit to drink.”

“Thank you, I'd like that.”

“You have not yet tasted my tea.”

While Benedict busied himself at the cast-iron stove, Madelene moved across to the French doors. It was a still day, so Benedict had opened them to allow in some fresh air, or at least the vapor that passed for fresh air in London. She stood on the threshold, watching the sparrows and the pigeons flying between the chimney pots and the black smoke rising up to mix with the clouds.

“Do you like my view?” Benedict asked softly.

“Very much.” He was right behind her. She could feel his warmth, and his breath against her cheek. She dropped her gaze to see him reaching around to hand her a chipped mug of tea. She took it, and as she did, she turned.

He'd never been this close before, not even at the gallery. She'd never been able to see his eyes or the complex planes of his face so clearly. The sunlight streamed through the doors and caught in his chestnut hair. It glistened on the reddish stubble that outlined his straight, strong jaw. She wanted to touch it, to feel the texture of it. She wanted to touch him. Here. Now. This minute.

In a single instant, discipline and resolve turned into immediate, urgent desire. It was like the return of an absent friend.

He's going to see. What am I going to do if he sees?

What am I going to do because I see it in him?

Because she had seen desire in Benedict's face before, and she recognized it now. It shone in his dark eyes as they stared into hers. It resonated in the hitch in his breath.

What do I do? What do I do?

She did the only thing she could. She raised the mug of tea and took a long swallow. A moment later she made a face. She couldn't help it.

Benedict laughed, and Madelene laughed in return, out of relief and the breaking of tension, and because it was a way to cover all her confusion.

“Not drinkable, then?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I'm sorry.”

“I thank you for your honesty.” He took the mug from her hand and set it down on a worktable beside the window. Surely, he would step away now. But he didn't.

“Did you get the painting I sent?” he asked. “
The Prelude
?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you.”

She had never seen such dark eyes, not on the gypsies in Covent Garden, not even on the Italian opera singers. Benedict's eyes were unique, and they were searching hers.

“I keep thinking I should ask for it back,” he murmured. “I didn't do you justice. Your hair . . . your eyes. They are so much more complex, so much more beautiful than I realized.”

He wasn't touching her, but his meaning reached more deeply inside her than any touch ever had.

“I would not give it to you,” she said. “I love the painting. It brought . . .” She swallowed. She was too warm. It was his warmth wrapping around her. “It brought us here.”