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Authors: Tamara Lejeune
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dead, Serena can no longer live with her brother-in-law, you know. She has been cast out into the cold, cruel world.”
Benedict snorted. “Lady Serena is perfectly able to keep her own house. And it would hardly be proper for her to live with Lord Redfylde now that he is a widower.”
“You know her ladyship?” Fitzwilliam said jealously.
“She was my sister’s matron of honor. I have known her for years. And she is possessed of a pretty independence. If she marries, it will not be in desperation, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”
“Setting up house is a most tedious undertaking for a single lady,” Fitzwilliam argued. “Even a wealthy woman will resent having to spend her own money on necessities when she never had to before. The more she spends on food and rent, the less there is for clothes and jewels and carriages. I doubt Lady Serena has ever had to pay a butcher’s bill in all her life. And tradesmen always do cheat a woman, if they can. Depend on it: right now Lady Serena is feeling all the disadvantages of spinsterhood.”
Benedict looked at Fitzwilliam thoughtfully.
“It would be remiss of me not to pay my respects,” he said.
Although she was a near-total invalid, Lady Agatha Vaughn still took interest in society when she felt up to it. Today she felt up to it, and, as she was eating a meager breakfast of biscuits and beef tea, her eldest daughter dutifully read the society columns to her. Cosy was continually amazed by how many people her mother still knew, even though she had been out of society for decades.
“Did you say Sir Benedict Wayborn, my dear?”
Cosy blanched. Her mother had been a Wayborn before her marriage. Now, as it turns out, the devil who had propositioned her in the kitchen was a Wayborn, too. “He’s not one of your brothers, is he, ma’am?” she asked anxiously. How nasty it would be if he turned out to be my uncle, she thought.
But, fortunately, Lady Agatha had no brother by that name.
Cosy sighed with relief.
“I wonder! Could he be one of the Surrey Wayborns?” Lady Agatha mused. “How long does he mean to stay in Bath? Is he ill? Is he a knight or a baronet? Is he married?”
“It doesn’t say, Mother. Probably he’s no relation to us at all.”
Lady Agatha finished her tea. “I think I will be well enough to get up tomorrow.”
When Lady Agatha felt well enough to get up, she would put on her auburn wig and paint her face with white lead. She had been badly scarred by smallpox as a child, and she never allowed anyone but her family and her maid, Nora, to see her without her face on, as she put it. She had no idea that the deadly poison was slowly killing her.
“Perhaps Lady Dalrymple will visit us again.”
Cosy silently cursed Lady Dalrymple. It had been Lady Dalrymple who had first put the idea of coming to Bath into Lady Agatha’s head. Then the old witch had dropped her mother like a hot potato when she found out the Vaughns had lost all their money. The woman, and her son, and her daughter, had spent three months with the Vaughns in Ireland, eating them out of house and home, but now, apparently, they couldn’t be bothered to maintain the “friendship.”
“Perhaps,” she said, turning over to the personal advertisements. She had placed an advertisement in the paper a week ago herself, in the hopes of earning a little money by giving piano lessons, but there had been no response. Yesterday, she had finally sold the beautiful Erard pianoforte she had dragged, at great expense, all the way from Ireland, in order to pay the chemist for her mother’s medications. She had hoped the sale would fetch enough for her to buy her mother a Bath-chair, but that had not been the case. Today was the last day that the fruitless, yet not inexpensive, advertisement would run. It would be the height of irony if today’s paper contained a response, and she dearly needed a laugh.
There was no response today either, but, halfway down the page, an interesting item caught
Benedict snorted. “Lady Serena is perfectly able to keep her own house. And it would hardly be proper for her to live with Lord Redfylde now that he is a widower.”
“You know her ladyship?” Fitzwilliam said jealously.
“She was my sister’s matron of honor. I have known her for years. And she is possessed of a pretty independence. If she marries, it will not be in desperation, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”
“Setting up house is a most tedious undertaking for a single lady,” Fitzwilliam argued. “Even a wealthy woman will resent having to spend her own money on necessities when she never had to before. The more she spends on food and rent, the less there is for clothes and jewels and carriages. I doubt Lady Serena has ever had to pay a butcher’s bill in all her life. And tradesmen always do cheat a woman, if they can. Depend on it: right now Lady Serena is feeling all the disadvantages of spinsterhood.”
Benedict looked at Fitzwilliam thoughtfully.
“It would be remiss of me not to pay my respects,” he said.
Although she was a near-total invalid, Lady Agatha Vaughn still took interest in society when she felt up to it. Today she felt up to it, and, as she was eating a meager breakfast of biscuits and beef tea, her eldest daughter dutifully read the society columns to her. Cosy was continually amazed by how many people her mother still knew, even though she had been out of society for decades.
“Did you say Sir Benedict Wayborn, my dear?”
Cosy blanched. Her mother had been a Wayborn before her marriage. Now, as it turns out, the devil who had propositioned her in the kitchen was a Wayborn, too. “He’s not one of your brothers, is he, ma’am?” she asked anxiously. How nasty it would be if he turned out to be my uncle, she thought.
But, fortunately, Lady Agatha had no brother by that name.
Cosy sighed with relief.
“I wonder! Could he be one of the Surrey Wayborns?” Lady Agatha mused. “How long does he mean to stay in Bath? Is he ill? Is he a knight or a baronet? Is he married?”
“It doesn’t say, Mother. Probably he’s no relation to us at all.”
Lady Agatha finished her tea. “I think I will be well enough to get up tomorrow.”
When Lady Agatha felt well enough to get up, she would put on her auburn wig and paint her face with white lead. She had been badly scarred by smallpox as a child, and she never allowed anyone but her family and her maid, Nora, to see her without her face on, as she put it. She had no idea that the deadly poison was slowly killing her.
“Perhaps Lady Dalrymple will visit us again.”
Cosy silently cursed Lady Dalrymple. It had been Lady Dalrymple who had first put the idea of coming to Bath into Lady Agatha’s head. Then the old witch had dropped her mother like a hot potato when she found out the Vaughns had lost all their money. The woman, and her son, and her daughter, had spent three months with the Vaughns in Ireland, eating them out of house and home, but now, apparently, they couldn’t be bothered to maintain the “friendship.”
“Perhaps,” she said, turning over to the personal advertisements. She had placed an advertisement in the paper a week ago herself, in the hopes of earning a little money by giving piano lessons, but there had been no response. Yesterday, she had finally sold the beautiful Erard pianoforte she had dragged, at great expense, all the way from Ireland, in order to pay the chemist for her mother’s medications. She had hoped the sale would fetch enough for her to buy her mother a Bath-chair, but that had not been the case. Today was the last day that the fruitless, yet not inexpensive, advertisement would run. It would be the height of irony if today’s paper contained a response, and she dearly needed a laugh.
There was no response today either, but, halfway down the page, an interesting item caught
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