He bowed and briskly left the room. Lucy glanced at the duchess, who smiled. The old woman leaned near and whispered a single word.
“Touché.”
Lucy returned the smile, but could not dismiss how his declaration of marital fidelity had stirred within her a deep desire to experience what he described. To be worthy of a man of character. To be enough for a man of passion.
A man like Henry.
Chapter Nine
The following day, Henry sat alone with the duchess while awaiting Lucy’s appearance downstairs. He suspected her delay was entirely meant to punish him. Her tardiness, however, provided him a moment of privacy to express his deep doubt to the duchess and perhaps seek a path of escape from his moral quagmire.
“When you presented this challenge to me,” he said, “I felt the task was too tall. I am happy to inform you that my first inclination was incorrect.”
She smiled, apparently pleased with his assessment.
He then added, “I now believe the task to be impossible.”
Her pleasure faded and she grew somber. “We must succeed. We simply must. For I have already arranged a test two weeks hence.”
Dismay struck him. “Test? What sort of test?”
“A small dinner party of hand-selected individuals to assess Lucy’s progress. Nothing more.”
He blinked slowly. “You have invited members of Society to meet Lady Margaret? In two weeks? At a dinner party? That she will host?”
“Yes. The plan is already indelibly in motion and we cannot fail.”
Henry shuddered involuntarily. Images of social disaster careened through his head as he considered how badly his association with such a farce would damage his already unremarkable reputation. Furthermore, he did not wish to see Lucy suffer such an indignity. Despite her seeming hatred for him, she deserved better. As he began formulating an argument to break the agreement, the duchess correctly perceived his thoughts.
“I will double your pay, Mr. Beaumont.”
He paused, considering. She grew impatient.
“Triple. I will triple your pay.”
He exhaled and leaned back into his chair. The sum offered by the duchess would greatly improve his financial situation. He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck while attempting to muster the strength to decline. While doing so, an image of Lucy flashed through his mind like a brief, flickering flame. Her remarkable eyes as she cornered him like helpless quarry. Her lilting smile as she bound him with unbreakable logic. Her slender hands as she dismissed his arguments like so much nonsense. Surprisingly, he found that he did not wish to bid her farewell. Not yet, anyway.
“Very well. As you wish, Your Grace.”
“Do I still have your best?”
He replied, more certain than before. “Yes, you have my best. Nothing less stands a prayer of succeeding.”
…
The ensuing days progressed for Lucy as a descent into Dante’s nine circles of hell, level by miserable level. The frustrated duchess and Henry played the role of Virgil, shoving Lucy forcibly through the torture of learning the most superficial of social behaviors.
Level one of Lucy’s hell proved physically taxing and left her aching and exhausted. For an entire afternoon, her guides forced her to curtsy repeatedly, with a pause between for them to offer correction. Afterward, for hours on end, Henry and the duchess watched her sit down properly, sit still properly, and stand up properly. The second day consisted of eight hours of Lucy walking—walking up the stairs, walking down the stairs, entering a room, exiting a room, and generally attempting to glide across the floor as if on skates.
The next circle was comprised of endless drilling on proper introductions and the maintenance of emotional control.
“Mr. Beaumont. I am so pleased that you have come.”
“Again, Lady Margaret, but with more feeling.”
“What if I am not pleased?”
“More feeling nevertheless.”
“I am so pleased that you have come.”
“Lady Margaret! Not that sort of feeling. Affectionate feeling.”
“Are you telling me to lie?”
“Yes.”
“I am so pleased that you have come.”
“I nearly believed you that time. Much better.”
“Thank you. My ability to lie has improved greatly under your tutelage, sir.”
As Henry schooled her in the art of leveling one’s emotions, she quickly became aware that he was searching for emotional wounds that he might exploit in order to prod her into an outburst.
“Is it true, Lady Margaret, that country maidens enhance their complexion using sheep dung smear?”
“I have never heard of such.”
“My mistake, then. When first we met, your dark facial smudges and distinct odor led me to think the rumor true.”
“Is that so? Then let me share my first impression of you!”
“I am listening.”
Pause. Pause.
“So, Mr. Beaumont. Would you call the color of your cravat the green of nasal drip or the green of cat vomit? I cannot decide.”
Deep sigh.
“Definitely cat vomit.”
Small talk and the boundaries between appropriate and inappropriate subjects comprised the next circle of torture. It soon became obvious to Lucy that in the vast realm of appropriate versus inappropriate subjects, the latter far outnumbered the former. In fact, virtually all Lucy knew about informal conversation appeared to be wrong.
“Can I compliment a woman’s dress, Mr. Beaumont?”
“No. The remark might be misconstrued.”
“How does one misconstrue a compliment?”
“People of Society often use insincere compliments to offend and ridicule. A form of sarcasm, as it were.”
“Why would they do that? Such behavior is cruel and untruthful.”
Pause. Pause.
“I do not know. Just refrain from doing so.”
In short, Lucy learned that any remark about a person’s appearance was off-limits, as was any question of a personal nature, anything that might be deemed gossip, or anything relating to shocking or evil behavior.
“So, then, Mr. Beaumont. You are telling me that conversation is largely limited to the weather, the quality of the food, and my thoughts on needlework.”
“More or less.”
“And you find this sort of social function interesting?”