She’d begged and pleaded with him to change his mind, but he’d turned a deaf ear to all her pleas and arguments, and as always, here she was, delivered like a parcel and abandoned.
For two pins she’d run away, only she didn’t have two pins, or even tuppence—and in any case, where could she go? She had nowhere to run to and she wasn’t naive enough to try. She’d tried once, and afterward Papa had made her walk by herself down a grimy, narrow street lined with scantily dressed girls and women, some her age and younger, selling their bodies, calling out their “wares.” It was a terrifying lesson in the fate of unprotected girls, and she’d never forgotten it.
You needed money to run away, and Papa had seen to it that she didn’t have a penny of her own. She’d seen the thick wad of banknotes he’d given to Lady Charlton.
This mad scheme of his. Whatever did he imagine would come of it?
And though she wouldn’t mind getting married, she really, really didn’t want to marry a lord. She’d met enough of them at the comtesse’s to know what they were like, and she’d known several girls from titled families at the various schools she’d attended—horrid, snobbish cows, for the most part.
Those girls had despised Lucy for her accent, her lack of family, her lack of “background”—and Lucy had despised them right back.
Lady Charlton would despise her, too, she knew, even though Lucy’s accent was better now. And those lords of hers would take one look at her and turn up their aristocratic noses. Or slip their horrid, soft white fingers into her clothing, assuming she would be honored by their lordly attentions.
She’d given quite a few lordly types a nice shock when she’d reacted to that kind of attention. Though some of them got quite excited by a slap. Horrid beasts.
No, she really didn’t want to be part of fashionable society, where everyone thought themselves superior to everyone else. She had to find some way out of this stupid plan of Papa’s.
She rolled off the bed, made use of the necessary, then washed her hands and face. A marble-topped table held a large jug of water—still warm—a bowl for washing in and a small cake of soap. It was good-quality soap, too, and smelled faintly of roses.
Why was Lady Charlton doing this? Why would a grand lady like her agree to take in an unknown girl and try to find her an aristocratic husband. For money?
It was obvious that Lady Charlton was a trifle purse-pinched—Lucy had noticed the darker patches on the walls of the upper floors where paintings had once hung, and there was evidence that there had once been rugs on the floors. But despite its faded elegance, this house was impressive and right in the heart of fashionable London. It would be worth a mint.
Maybe she was a gambler and was in debt and had no choice. That was a possibility. She didn’t think it was for love. Papa had a way with the ladies, but his taste ran more to vulgar widows—mutton dressed as lamb. Lady Charlton was quietly elegant, not his style at all. Though you never knew with Papa.
She dried her face and hands on a towel.
Had Papa somehow forced Lady Charlton to take her in? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done that kind of thing before. And whenever Papa coerced people into taking Lucy, they invariably took it out on her.
But this room . . . Lucy looked around the room with a new eye. It was a very nice room altogether, by far the nicest bedchamber she’d ever had. It wasn’t large, but it was spotless. Papered in a pretty pale blue, the room had a large window on one wall that let in plenty of light. As well as the bed—which was large and surprisingly comfortable—there was a tall chest of drawers, a spacious wardrobe, a dressing table with a looking glass attached and, beside it, a full-length cheval mirror.
It wasn’t opulent, but nor was it shabby. It was clean, attractive and comfortable. She hadn’t expected that.
The clock in the hall chimed the quarter hour. Lucy glanced at her reflection in the cheval glass and pulled a face. Oh, how she hated this dress. The sooner Lady Charlton took her to that fancy French dressmaker, the better. If she listened to what Lucy wanted, that is. Not that anyone ever did.
Beneath the window sat a small chaise longue and beside it a narrow shelf of books. Lucy loved to read, and had a weakness for the kind of books that Papa called “rubbishy novels.” Curious, she went to investigate the titles—and then stopped dead. Her room was at the back of the house, and she had expected to look out onto brick walls or a dingy laneway. She stared out, entranced.
Her window looked out into trees. A hundred shades of green in the heart of gray old London. She pressed her face against the glass, looked down and felt some of the tightness in her chest slowly loosen. Between a gently fluttering veil of tender spring leaves, she could make out a smooth swathe of velvety green lawn.
There were neatly edged garden beds, bursting with bright spring colors: golden daffodils, tulips in red and yellow, and something blue—hyacinths or maybe the last of the bluebells. Beneath the taller flowers, a rich floral tapestry in soft jewel tones that she thought might be primulas. Mama would have known; she loved flowers.
It was hard to be sure, to see exactly which flowers were out. Narrow pathways wound between the lavish, exuberant flower beds and disappeared behind a bank of shrubs, leading who knew where.
In the middle of the garden sat an odd, intriguing little building made mostly of glass. She dodged, trying to look through the screen of leaves, but the breeze was making them dance and shift, so it was difficult to see. Was it a temple? A folly? Oh, and was that an arch of wisteria? Who owned this wonderful garden so full of delights?
A heavy bong reverberated from below, startling her and reminding her that she was supposed to go down for luncheon. She hadn’t been able to eat a thing this morning, she’d been so full of dread. And frustration. And anger. Now she was ravenous.
She dragged herself away from the enticing view, tidied her hair and hurried down the stairs. The last house she’d lived in that had a proper garden with flowers had been one she’d lived in with Mama, but that was small, just a few flowers in front and mostly vegetables behind. Now she only had to look out her window to gaze into a magical garden. And in London, of all places. It was an unexpected gift.
She passed a number of doors on her way downstairs. Spare bedchambers, Mrs. Tweed had told her as they’d passed earlier. Any one of them could have been hers. She doubted any of them had a view: they faced the side of the building, so would probably look out onto a brick wall of the house next door.
But Lady Charlton had given her unwanted guest a light, pretty room with a magical view. Why? Lucy couldn’t understand it. If Papa had forced Lady Charlton to take Lucy in and present her to society, Lady Charlton would surely resent her.
If their positions were reversed, Lucy would probably want to stick her uninvited guest in a stuffy closet or some dark little hole. Or a chilly attic room, like the one the comtesse had given her. Or squeezed her into a dusty room filled with old furniture and boxes, as Frau Steiner had. And in the various schools she’d attended, Lucy had always been given the most uncomfortable bed or the dark corner nobody else wanted.