The Lie and the Lady (18 page)

It began with an itch. Near the mole just above her knee, a place no lady would ever scratch in public. She suppressed it, taking long deep breaths, and in the space of a few long seconds it would go away. Then, when whispers reached her ears—whispers she couldn't make out but she was certain were about her—the itch would travel. Her elbow. The hairline just behind her ear.

And it would grow.

Just a touch, a bit of pressure with the side of her nail, surely wouldn't do any harm. And it would bring some much-needed relief. But when she did let her nail cut into that small spot, the itch grew wider. And then the red spots popped up, as if they were waiting for that one small break in decorum to declare themselves.

People would wonder if she was at all well. If she had not contracted some violent illness. Soon enough people were not whispering about her, but speaking out loud.

It was because of this that Konrad took her away to the country for the first time. He kissed her on the forehead (one of the few hive-free spots) and told her he did love her—as much as he could love any woman. But it wasn't enough of a love to make him give up everything else he loved.

Everyone else.

He told her then how it would be between them. That he would give her the best of all possible lives. His title was as old as some countries, and he was related to every great house in Europe. Even if his secret was badly kept, there were enough people impressed by his pedigree to keep them in invitations. Really, since she was a miller's daughter with little more than good looks and a better dowry to recommend her, she could hardly dream of more.

Still, the disappointment, the shift from the fairy tale to the reality, had little red welts popping up all over her body. And the desire to tear her skin off was almost as strong as the need to shed that skin for another one. A stronger one.

Konrad had married her for a reason. She was clever, yes. But more than that, she was practical. He taught her how to ignore people's whispers and bury her disappointment along with her own desires. She taught herself how to keep calm in the face of even the most alarming rumors. A storm was little more than a gust of wind, if one knew how to face it. Nothing and no one was ever allowed to cause her distress again. They could try. But they would fail.

When they went back to London a few months later, she no longer worried over Konrad's social habits, his friendships. His late-night visits to parts of town that were never spoken of among ladies. Instead she smiled, and breathed. And never felt that itch under her skin again.

Not even when her former lover appeared in the same town of the gentleman she was going to marry.

Not even when faced with the various plots Sir Barty rambled on about over his morning ham to have his daughter marry said former lover.

And not even when staring down the town of Helmsley itself.

Somehow, some way, she had gotten off on the wrong foot with the town—with its ladies in particular. Who knew one little mention of buying wedding clothes in London would destroy any chance of ingratiating herself? Didn't everyone buy their wedding clothes in London?

But no, something else had made the ladies close ranks. Made them dislike her. And why? She'd wondered, a frown crossing her brow. She was a nice person. Incredibly nice. Approachable, even being so polished. More polished than most of these country folk in Helmsley had ever seen. They were far more concerned with making sure their crops came in well that summer than they were with Sir Barty's love life, so why on earth would they bother taking a dislike to her?

“Because they're silly women who can take no adjustment to their little worlds,” Helen said as they made their way down the rows of stalls. “It's why they don't like the idea of the new steam equipment for the mill either.”

Leticia had met Helen in Helmsley for market day, Margaret in tow and in her second-best dress. This one was such a dull color it made dirt look boring, but at least it concealed her ankles.

Helmsley was one of a ring of market towns around the famed Lincolnshire Wolds, a particularly picturesque tract of land near the east coast of England. The town had a central square, which was flanked on one side by St. Stephen's churchyard. Around the other sides of the square were shops, pubs, and tearooms, with streets leading out at the four corners, winding down to houses, and then farther out, to farms. And one road winding out to the entrance to town and the grand windmill of the Turner Grain Mill that stood there.

Normally, Helen told her, the town of Helmsley was home to a few hundred people at most—but on market days the population swelled with the farmers who brought vegetables and livestock to be sold, their wives baking sweets and tarts to fill out their stalls. The beekeepers plied their honey, and there was even a fishmonger who brought in his catch from the nearby stocked ponds—if you got there early enough, you could have fresh fish on your table that night, and not be relegated to salted.

And of course, there was pork. In every conceivable itineration.

Add to that the customers for these goods coming from the surrounding areas, as well as a few summertime tourists, and the town of Helmsley was filled to brimming with country life. And all this country life was centered in the town square.

As, that day, were the ladies of Helmsley.

“But, as narrow minded as they may be, they are what passes for company in this part of the world . . . and you can't look a gift fourth for cards in the mouth, is what I always say.” Helen smirked and upped her brisk pace through the market stalls. “Although, do not ask Mrs. Emory about her locket. She will never stop talking about it if given first opportunity.”

Leticia would have rather dawdled. She found the marketplace to be charming in its way. She was not used to the quaintness of a rural community. Growing up, her father's timber mill was a bastion of smoke and sawdust, the entire scene painted gray. And while she lived under her sister's roof for her teenage years, she was ever trying to shake off the coal dust from her parentage, and Fanny was trying to stand on tiptoes above everyone else, as the new lady of the area. Thus mixing with the more mundane of town life simply wasn't done.

And with Konrad, everything had been sparkle and glamour . . . or, during their fallow periods, pain and despair.

But here in Helmsley, with the sunshine warming the red and gold bricks of the buildings, carts and hay wagons jumbling over the cobblestones, and men and women calling out their wares from their market stalls, Leticia felt both entertained and a part of it all.

Helen caught her dawdling over a stall that sold fresh flowers (and trying to keep her eyes from watering—she was determined that constant exposure would inure her to the worst of Lincolnshire's effects on her), and came back around with a smile. “You should have seen this place six years ago, when my Mr. Turner was alive . . . when the mill was up and running.” Helen sighed. “Twice as many stalls, because all the farmers around would be coming into town with their wheat crop. More people to sell to. Now, people shop in Claxby or Fennish Moor or Frosham, because they have to go there anyway with their grain. But soon . . .”

Pure determination gleamed in Helen's eyes. Leticia got the impression that if the woman could turn the sails of the mill through will alone, the Turner Grain Mill would be able to pulverize all the grain in England in a single week.

She was very much like her son in that respect.

“I have a feeling that Margaret would be able to discourse quite well with the flower sellers,” she said, nodding toward the flower booth they had just left. “Should we fetch her?”

“No,” Leticia said, smiling. “She's already run ahead to the fishmonger.”

Margaret's eagerness for market day had been twofold—to see Mr. Turner (or not see him, if she took Leticia's advice) and to get the makings for her special fertilizer tea. “Fresh fish heads,” she'd said with relish, “are the most potent ingredient.”

“She's a very bright girl,” Helen was saying. “Did I tell you how much my son enjoyed this past Sunday afternoon's visit?”

“Yes, you have.” Over tea yesterday, it must have come up only a few dozen times.

“He'd hoped to come into the village with us today,” Helen said, and Leticia held back a disbelieving scoff. “However there were a few things he had to deal with. But I imagine Margaret will be seeing my son soon.” Helen's eyebrow waggled.

“Hmm . . .” was all that Leticia managed. She worried about Margaret seeing Turner, but she worried more about Sir Barty hearing of it if they did chance to meet.

But before she could ask any questions, Helen had begun waving madly to someone across the square.

“What sort of things are keeping him?” she asked, trying to recall Helen's attention from whomever had her so distracted.

“A friend of his has come to visit, and he wanted to introduce him to Sir Barty.”

Panic shot down Leticia's spine. Turner was with Sir Barty? Now? Without her there to stop him from saying something to him about her?

Not that he would say anything, she reasoned with herself. They had made an agreement. She just had to remind herself of that every time the fear rose in her throat.

She was about to inquire as to who this friend was (heaven help her if it was the Earl of Ashby), but Helen continued.

“And there was the incident at the mill last night.”

“Incident? What—”

“Oh, Mrs. Emory! There you are!”

Helen took Leticia's arm and dragged her through the crowd and to the door of a tearoom that stood on the corner, the Blessed Thistle. Forcing Leticia to catch up, in more ways than one.

“Mrs. Turner,” Mrs. Emory said, startled. She'd had her back turned when she heard her name called, standing in a circle with three other ladies. “And Lady Churzy,” she finished with a stiff curtsy.

The other three ladies stood frozen in shock. One of them began fanning herself with a straw fan (although it was a perfectly breezy day), as if completely atwitter at this meeting.

Really, if this is what passed for dramatics in Helmsley, Leticia had plenty to teach them.

“Mrs. Emory.” Leticia gave a slow, gracious curtsy. A countess curtsy, she decided, was best used on the likes of Mrs. Emory. As much as she wanted to be accepted by the ladies of the town, it was always best to play from a place of power, and she preferred to move the first chess piece.

Mrs. Emory, for her part, seemed impressed. Her mouth tightening, she turned to the other ladies around her. “I do not know if you were introduced to Mrs. Robertson, Mrs. Spilsby, and her sister, Miss Goodhue.”

The three ladies murmured greetings, with the overheated Miss Goodhue devolving into a flurry of giggles.

“Helen,” Mrs. Emory began, making a concerned pout out of her features. “I see you wasted no time.”

“No time?” Helen replied through a gritted smile.

“Well, after last night!” Mrs. Emory fanned herself. “I should have thought that you would be pulling your things out of the rubble of your mill!”

“Rubble?” Leticia interjected, alarmed. “Was Mr. Turner—or anyone—hurt?”

“Lord no!” Helen said, her hand biting into Leticia's arm. “It was just a bit of air in the equipment. Made a loud noise is all.”

“I'm surprised you did not hear it, my lady,” Mrs. Emory said with a smirk. “It echoed through the entire town. I was afraid it was another fire. Like the last one—it nearly jumped the mill wall into the town. I've never been so frightened.”

“Bluestone Manor's estate is so large, we are rather far from town. Like I told Sir Barty, I can hear neither row nor rumor,” Leticia answered, and enjoyed watching Mrs. Emory's relish dry up like water in the desert. Luckily, before Leticia could further ruin the entire enterprise, Helen stepped in.

“I'm so glad we ran into you, though,” she said, her voice affecting a breathlessness that wasn't there before. “Lady Churzy was just telling me that she's desperate to look at some of the latest fashion plates for her wedding clothes and I knew that you must have the very newest magazines.”

“I . . . I have,” Mrs. Emory said, blinking. “They are in the shop.”

“Oh, so you are the town's milliner?” Leticia asked smiling.

“No,” Mrs. Emory replied, aghast. Then, after Helen cleared her throat, her eyes flashed and she continued. “I own the millinery shop,” she corrected. “But ever since my son Harold has become so very successful in the navy, I have hired my dear friend Mrs. Robertson to run the shop, not to mention purchased the entire building in which it resides.” She waved a hand proudly toward the building they were standing in front of. One door down from the tearoom was a storefront with dresses on mannequins in the windows.

“That is quite fortunate,” Leticia said kindly. “You must be quite proud of your son.”

“Of course I'm proud of him,” Mrs. Emory puffed up, her eyes getting remote and teary. “I could only wish that he did not have to find work so far away, and so dangerous. But his work in Helmsley was cruelly taken . . .” She shot a look at Helen, who barely contained a roll of her eyes. Mrs. Emory turned back to Leticia. “Would you like to see a picture of my darling Harold? Here he is, in his uniform . . .”

She opened up the locket at her neck, and showed what Leticia could only assume was a very generous portrait of Harold Emory—no son of a dressmaker could have that many epaulets without some artistic license.

“He's just so handsome,” Mrs. Emory was saying on a sigh when Helen cleared her throat and Leticia forced the topic back to those present.

“Quite. I ask about the millinery because I have some wedding clothes to order.”

Mrs. Emory did not take kindly to having her reminisces interrupted. Her eyes became steely as she snapped the locket shut.

“But I thought you were going to go to London for your wedding clothes,” she said.