The Lie and the Lady (10 page)

“Indeed,” he'd finally said. The first words he'd said to her. “It shall be wonderful.”

So now Leticia was going to have her ex-lover and his mother over for tea with her new fiancé and his daughter.

Wonderful.

It was times like this that Leticia wished she had a confessor. A friend that she could confide in, who knew all her secrets. A lady's maid would be ideal. But Leticia refused to press Sir Barty for a lady's maid until the wedding was closer and she could argue the need for one.

Perhaps she should argue for one now. She dearly needed a confidant.

As soon as the carriage pulled up to the front of Bluestone Manor, Leticia called out for Mrs. Dillon.

“We are having guests for tea, Mrs. Dillon, and . . . where do you think you're going?” she called out.

Both Babcocks made identical turns.

“I need a cushion for my foot, and to dig out the cribbage board.” Sir Barty toddled over and kissed the top of her head. “I'm sure you and Mrs. Dillon will take care of everything, m'dear.”

As he wandered off, Leticia turned her attention to Margaret.

“I need to attend to some pruning in the greenhouse,” the girl replied with a shrug. “It cannot wait.”

Sir Barty she might not be able to argue with, but Margaret was another matter entirely.

“It will have to wait. You have invited guests for tea and you must be in charge of their comforts.”

“I . . . I am?” Margaret looked vaguely panicked. “Usually, my mother . . . that is to say, I usually have far too much work to do in my greenhouse to be entertaining.”

Thankfully, Mrs. Dillon stepped in. “My lady, if I may—who is going to be visiting?”

Leticia tried to keep her face impassive. “Mr. John Turner, and his mother, Mrs. Turner.”

“Miss Helen—you'll forgive me, Mrs. Turner—would probably prefer the sitting room, it being a bit on the warm side today.”

“Then the sitting room it is,” Leticia replied. And with a pointed glance to Margaret, had that girl nodding in approval as well.

Mrs. Dillon nodded to a footman, who moved quickly off, a silent order given.

“Now, I know you must be thinking that Mrs. Turner and I will get to know each other while you and Mr. Turner go off to view the violets, but I have to tell you I don't think that would be the best idea. As your friend, that is.” Leticia would be run through with a serving fork before she allowed Turner to be alone with Margaret.

And it had nothing to do with the silly notion that he and Margaret were meant for each other, as his mother seemed to desire. Of course not. She simply did not trust Turner with her secrets.

He would not have the chance to tell Margaret—or Sir Barty, for that matter—anything in confidence. He wouldn't have the opportunity to ruin her life. Again.

God help her if he'd told his mother anything. Although, while he seemed to esteem her greatly, she just couldn't imagine John Turner telling his mother much about his love life.

“Oh, but . . . I never thought . . . that is, I'm sure Mr. Turner will be fine touring the violets on his own.” Margaret, for once, met Leticia's eyes—and in them was stark horror.

Leticia froze midstep. On the one hand, she was extremely glad that Margaret had no plans to be alone with Turner. On the other hand, she did not want to be left alone with the Turners either.

“No, Margaret. They are your violets. Your gardening. I am sure Mrs. Turner and her son are expecting that you would want to show them off proudly.”

Margaret looked panic-stricken. “Why?”

Because this entire afternoon is a theatrical farce. “Because you invited them over specifically to see them,” Leticia replied through clenched teeth.

“Oh no,” Margaret said. “I should much rather be in my greenhouse.”

“Margaret—” At this point Letitia's patience was wearing a bit thin. “How much time have you spent with Mr. Turner? Alone?”

“None,” she replied.

None. Well, at least that meant that John Turner was perhaps not as interested in Margaret as she was in him. It was a laughable notion that he'd be interested in her at all. Wasn't it? But still . . .

“If you haven't spent any time with Mr. Turner, how is it that you know you like him?”

Margaret's eyes whipped up, blazing. “I just do.”

“I know, but—”

“I don't have to explain my feelings to you.”

“I never thought that—”

“Because if I didn't like him, why on earth would he make me blush?”

Now it was Leticia's turn to blink in astonishment. “He makes you blush,” she repeated.

“It's a physical indicator of attraction,” Margaret answered matter-of-factly.

“Yes, that's true,” Leticia answered slowly. “He makes you blush. Therefore, you are attracted to him.”

It did make an odd sort of sense. After all, Leticia had been prone to those same blushes courtesy of Mr. John Turner. Once. Not anymore, of course.

“If I am to give a tour of the gardens, I should change clothes,” Margaret said after a moment.

Leticia was about to nod in agreement, but then she remembered with whom she was speaking.

“What do you intend to change into?” she asked instead.

“My gardening clothes, of course,” Margaret replied.

“Not that ragged thing from yesterday!” Leticia positively gasped. “It's completely unsuitable.”

“But I cannot wear this—it's my best gown, it will get dirty.” Margaret indicated her current dress; the white muslin with a blue spencer was not much better when it came to fashion, but at least it was clean, and fit her frame appropriately. Even though it was a hair shorter than proper and exposed a bit too much ankle—but that was the difficulty with being so tall, Leticia surmised.

“That's your best gown?” Leticia goggled, unable to stop herself before realizing her mistake.

“Yes,” Margaret said, defiantly crossing her arms over her chest and looking down her nose. “What of it?”

Leticia threw up her hands. “Then it is what you will wear to receive guests.” Addressing the obvious lacks in Margaret's wardrobe would have to come later—right now, the Turners' arrival was imminent, and she would be damned if John Turner saw that her soon-to-be stepdaughter was a complete mess.

“I just told you—it will get dirty,” she argued, her cheeks becoming redder and redder.

“Margaret,” Leticia said, her voice stern as a dictator's, “if I can walk through the gardens in a clean gown so can you.”

“But you're not going to get near the plants—you don't even like flowers!” Margaret flat-out yelled. “My mother would not—”

“If you had a gentleman call while your mother was alive I am absolutely certain she would—”

“You can't simply come in here and change everything!” Margaret exploded.

Leticia recoiled as if struck. Her face flushed with the argument, and her horrified realization that they had an audience.

“If I may,” Mrs. Dillon said after clearing her throat. “Perhaps an appropriate compromise would be that Miss Babcock wear her current gown for tea, and then put on an apron or smock when you tour the grounds. For protection.”

“That . . . would be acceptable,” Leticia replied after two deep breaths. “Margaret?”

She nodded slightly. But added, “It's your fault if my gown gets ruined.” And with that, she flounced off (as much as someone of her height could flounce), presumably to splash some water on her flushed face.

As Margaret bounded up the stairs, Leticia was left to wonder about the girl's upbringing. While last night she had thought the child angry and spoiled, now she was beginning to wonder if she had been neglected. After all, her mother died less than two years ago, when Margaret would have been seventeen—surely she had taught the girl something of social niceties?

And how had she let the inquiry—a perfectly polite, utterly restrained inquiry about Margaret's feelings for one known liar—turn into a heated argument so quickly? She'd thought she'd made some real progress with the girl in the churchyard. She'd managed to get her to smile. To stand on somewhat equal footing.

But now Turner was coming to Bluestone Manor. It upset absolutely everything in her mind, and robbed her of her ability to reason and of her patience, which resulted in a fumbled handling of one Margaret Babcock.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dillon,” Leticia said, giving credit where credit was due. “I was on my way to making quite the cake of things, wasn't I?”

Mrs. Dillon gave a pitying smile. “It will take some time. For everyone. Now, I believe I have just the smock for Miss Babcock—I'll have it pressed and ready once tea is served. My lady?”

Leticia nodded and Mrs. Dillon was dismissed.

Strange, when the older woman was not overeager to please, she left off her nervous affectations and wore all her knowledge comfortably, like a grandmother. Perhaps Leticia had an ally in the house after all.

But at that moment, Leticia had little time to reflect on such things. For any second, John Turner was going to arrive on the doorstep.

And when he did, the farce began in earnest.

The vast majority of the afternoon was rather pleasant—or would have been, had it simply been an old friend of Sir Barty's getting to know his affianced bride, while said old friend's son made gestures of courtship toward Sir Barty's daughter.

But of course, it wasn't that simple.

Being in the same room with John Turner never was.

They assembled in the sitting room at Mrs. Dillon's suggestion and began their intricate dance.

“How did you and Sir Barty meet, my lady?” This from Helen.

“Now, Helen—” Sir Barty began from his position next to the window—he was precariously balanced in a spindly chair with a tuffet beneath his bad foot, which was newly wrapped in clean linens. “Don't go interrogating my bride.”

“Darling, it's not an interrogation.” Leticia smiled and patted his good leg. “We met in a museum in Paris—and you simply must call me Leticia, Mrs. Turner.”

“Leticia then, my lady. And how did you come to be in Paris?”

“I was traveling.”

“Alone?”

“Since my first husband's unfortunate death, I am a woman of independent means.” Leticia judiciously ignored the coughing coming from the corner where John Turner had planted himself. No, not planted. He sprawled. Sir Barty may have been wider, but Turner had the advantage of height, so they were both oversized in this overly feminine room. But while Barty made an effort to confine himself to his small chair, Turner let his masculinity loose, unabashedly taking up a full half of a blue velvet settee.

Oh God, she was staring. She must stop that.

“And you, Mrs. Turner? I understand you and Sir Barty were friends from childhood.”

“If you are Leticia to me, I must be Helen to you,” Helen answered, keeping her smile bright. It was a smirk, really. A smirk of triumph. And it was so like her son's.

Although Turner was not currently smirking. His face was made of stone.

And of course, from her corner, Margaret said very little—just kept sneaking glances at Turner's face and blushing.

Suffice to say, the weight of the niceties landed on Leticia and Helen.

“Yes, we grew up together in Helmsley—Sir Barty, although he was simply Barty then, Hortense, and me.”

“Hortense?” Leticia asked.

“My mother,” Margaret said, before going back to blushing.

A silence fell over the room. Helen and Turner glanced at each other. Sir Barty's mustache twitched, as if he intended to say something, but couldn't think of what. Margaret seemed oblivious to the awkwardness—or perhaps, she was so used to awkwardness that it didn't faze her.

“Hortense is a version of Horta, isn't it?” Leticia finally said. “The Greek goddess of plants and growing things. No wonder Margaret excels at gardening.”

“I thought you said you were no scholar,” Sir Barty said, his bushy brow coming down, while Turner's brow went in the opposite direction.

“I'm not!” Leticia laughed. “I just happen to remember a little bit from all our time in that museum, darling.” She smiled and placed a hand on his good knee.

As Sir Barty warmed under Leticia's attentions, Helen's shoulders relaxed, and conversation turned to the gardens and the flowers they would amble past after tea.

Helen struck Leticia as a very practical woman—very much like the women in Manchester, where Leticia grew up. Wives of merchants and millers could not afford to be silly, and those that were quickly sank their husbands' prospects. Practicality was prized. Shrewdness even more so.

But it wouldn't be until much later in the afternoon that Leticia realized she was playing chess with a master.

To be fair, she was distracted. After all, it wasn't every day that John Turner sprawled in one's fiancé's sitting room, his face and voice (when used) giving nothing away.

They gabbed in this manner for what felt like hours, but was likely only ten minutes, before Sir Barty had gobbled up the last of the tea cakes and rose to his one good foot.

“Well, shall we take in the violets?” Sir Barty asked the room, shoving a last watercress sandwich into his mouth.

“Darling, your foot—” Leticia began, keeping her voice low, but was put off with a wave of Sir Barty's hand.

“I will manage to walk in my own park, m'dear,” he replied, brusque. “Besides, violets were the point of this, after all.”

“Right you are, Sir Barty,” Helen said, rising to her feet, forcing her son to do the same. “Margaret, I am very much looking forward to seeing what you've done. But no one is more enthusiastic than my John.”

The words
enthusiasm
and
John
seemed antithetical, at best. But with a rueful glance toward his mother, he bowed to Margaret and offered his arm.