Allison Lane (23 page)

“I could not sell the work if my characters countered expectations.”

“Fustian.  Mary Wollstonecraft did.”

“She was not writing to entertain, and her situation was far different from mine.  She could afford to write from the heart.”

“As do you,” he vowed.  “You could not touch your readers if your stories were contrived solely to meet other people’s expectations.  Those themes you profess to disbelieve are your own dreams.  You have suppressed them due to an understandable fear, but they persist, appearing under the safer guise of fiction.”

“How dare you—”

“I want you to be happy, Elizabeth.”  His soft words cut off her protest.  “Even before today, I admired you.  Meeting Mary Selkirk has only increased that admiration.  But I will never force you.  You are free to pursue whatever future you desire.  If you reject my offer, I will find some way to prevent Fosdale from retaliating against you.  But I do ask that you seriously consider the consequences of living alone.  Ask spinsters – even widows like Sadie – if they truly enjoy that life.  Mankind is not suited to solitary existence.”

“Do not deign to tell me what I believe or why I write as I do, Mr. Randolph.”  Ice dripped from every word, making him sigh.  Had she listened to anything he’d said?  “Yes, I need to write.  But even stronger is my need to escape this estate.  Thus I make compromises, writing what will sell rather than what I feel.”  She hesitated then, proving that some of his words had penetrated.  “Do you speak from actual knowledge about my earnings, or is that merely a guess based on Society’s opinion of women?”

“Knowledge.  I am well-acquainted with several publishers, yours among them.”

“Then what am I to do?”  Tears shimmered in her eyes.

He briefly considered pulling her into his arms.  His heart wept for her pain, which could only get worse as disillusion set in.  But touching her would press his suit in a way she would interpret as taking unfair advantage.  And if he was to give her the free choice he had just vowed, then she must know all her alternatives.

“Are you convinced that you will never wish to take your place in Society?” he asked instead.  “Turning your back on your heritage will have serious repercussions if you later change your mind.”

“I have no use for any of them.”

“In that case, you have another option.”  He paused, but he had no choice.  “You asked me to appraise the library.  I have finished my examination.  If you sell it and invest the proceeds in Consols, you could live quite comfortably on the earnings.”  He handed her his report.  The total made her gasp.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded.  “You need not take my word for it, of course.  I can put you in touch with two rare book dealers in London, though they will likely offer less.  They must make a profit on resale, you understand.  Or you can contact Christie’s auction house.  It is possible that the books would bring more at auction – though not guaranteed, and there would be commissions.  I do know that Symington would pay that figure for the collection in its entirety if you wish a private sale.”

“You work for his family.”

It took him a moment to realize that she was questioning his objectivity.  Fury twisted his face before he remembered that a servant must always consider his own position first.  He sighed.  “Then perhaps you would prefer to let a dealer handle the sale.”

“I did not mean to imply that I distrusted you, Mr. Randolph,” she said, flushing.

“The choice is yours.  But I would urge you to consider the future long and hard.  Given your age and rank, setting up your own establishment – even with a rigid chaperon and a separate companion – would be so scandalous that your reputation would remain suspect for many years.  You admitted that you have not considered anything beyond escape from Ravenswood.  Please do so before making any decisions.  What would happen if you formed a
tendre
for a gentlemen?  Marriage need not be unpleasant, you know.  When two people care for each other, it can offer fulfillment and great joy without threatening either party’s independence – as I know quite well, for my parents have just such a union, as did Whitfield.”

“It is you who should be writing novels,” she said with a snort.  “I cannot imagine a marriage that does not destroy independence.”

“Then perhaps your imagination is not as acute as I thought,” he countered, stung by her stubbornness.  “I know many happy couples in which the wife pursues her own interests with full support of her husband.  Lady Bridgeport is a renowned artist and illustrator, for example.  Just because the law gives a man the right to dominate his wife does not mean he will actually do so.  I have always chosen my friends out of mutual respect rather than social position – or even gender.” 

He cut off further comment before he gave himself away.  The lowly Mr. Randolph could have friends in many places.  Only in a duke’s heir were some of his attachments surprising.

She frowned when he raised his own character, so perhaps he should have cut his comments even sooner. 

“You still feel obligated,” she said.

“Not at all.”  This was one idea he must demolish.  “I have no respect for your father, Elizabeth.  I have never allowed anyone I don’t respect to dictate my actions.  And while Society would conclude that I have compromised you, and continue to do so at frequent intervals,” he added, gesturing to the closed door, “you are quite correct that nothing irrevocable has passed between us.  Given your determination to eschew Society and its restrictive demands, I feel no need to press the issue.”

“Good.  Then we shan’t discuss it again.”

“Not so fast,” he protested, holding up his hand.  “I feel no obligation to offer for you, yet I do believe we could be quite comfortable together.  Thus marriage is another option you can choose.  But I will not press,” he added to forestall further argument.  “All I ask is that you consider not just the coming months, but ten, twenty, even fifty years ahead.”

“Very well, but now you must leave if you are to have time to change before dinner.  Tonight’s topic is Society, I believe.”  She stood.

“Just so.”  He considered kissing her hand, but decided against it.

She must have read his decision, for she relaxed, sending him the most natural smile he had yet seen.  “When I have considered, I may have other questions concerning the library.”

“I remain at your service, my lady.”

* * * *

Elizabeth was relieved when Symington and Mr. Randolph entered the drawing room after dinner.  As usual, Fosdale had disdained joining the ladies – which provided further relief, because he had been testier than usual in the dining room.  At one point, she had feared that he would demand a firm wedding date from each of the gentlemen. 

Mr. Randolph had smoothly deflected him – too smoothly.  He was remarkably adept in social situations and completely indifferent to Fosdale’s vastly superior position.  In fact, he was often just as haughty and commanding as Symington.  Granted, he had grown up at Whitfield Castle and counted Symington among his closest friends, but she was beginning to wonder just how close his connection might be.  Could he actually be Symington’s heir presumptive?  Her grandfather had once mentioned that Whitfield’s line was sparse, with the closest branch descending from a distant cousin.

But his exact position was irrelevant, she reminded herself.  He would leave as soon as Cecilia jilted Symington.  She would always remember him fondly, of course, and not just because he had solved her most pressing problem.  If circumstances had been different, they could have become friends.  Possibly more than—

Selling the collection to Symington would assure her future, she reminded herself, forcing her thoughts back onto business.  And it provided the easiest answer.  London was too far away to easily transact business with book dealers or auction houses.  Symington could take them with him when he left.  And despite her insinuation, she knew Mr. Randolph would not cheat her.  Even though he disapproved of her plans, he would do his best to help her. 

The admission raised a treacherous glow in her heart, distracting her yet again.

She still had trouble believing that he had given her the means to achieve her dreams.  Such unselfishness had to hide an ulterior motive.  But try as she might, she could not imagine what it might be.  He was a man ruled by honor, a man who would never eschew a duty.  Yet he was backing away from a marriage demanded by both honor and duty.  Why?

“Tell us about London,” demanded Lady Fosdale when the gentlemen were seated.  Fosdale had monopolized the table conversation. 

Elizabeth exchanged triumphant glances with Mr. Randolph for the ease with which the desired topic had arisen.

“What do you wish to know?” asked Symington, ignoring Cecilia’s avid gaze as he concentrated on his hostess.  That irritating note of
ennui
was back.

“It must be wonderful to live so close to friends,” she answered with a sigh.  “I can rarely make calls more than once a week here.”

“You would enjoy London, then,” agreed Symington.  “Calls occupy most of every day.  Sometimes I wish they did not.”

“Then you agree that drinking tea and gossiping is a waste of time?” asked Cecilia, smiling in delight.

“Good heavens, no!”  He stared at her in appalled shock.  “Gossip forms the very fabric of Society.  My irritation arises from the necessity of keeping track of where I have called and where I have yet to call.  Many hostesses must be visited weekly, some at other intervals.  Inadvertently insulting one by failing to appear when expected can besmirch even a spotless reputation.  One needs a secretary just to keep proper records – quite exhausting, and another reason I avoid Town.  A man in my position must make at least a dozen calls a day.”

“At least it allows you to keep up with what is happening,” said Lady Fosdale.

“You have that reversed, my lady,” he said in gentle correction.  “One hears the news from one’s servants – part of their job is to keep their employers informed.  Paying calls proves that you are
au courante,
for you are able to discuss every story.  Only rarely do calls reveal something new, so being first with a tale is quite prized.  I actually managed it the last time I was in Town.  After overhearing Lord Eppingham release his valet in a fit of pique over a badly tied cravat, I was lionized for quite four hours.”  He preened in a most exaggerated fashion.

“Who would care?” demanded Cecilia.

“Why, everyone!  What is more important than the intimate doings of Society?  When Brummell cut the Prince Regent some years ago, it was the talk of the town for weeks.”

“Because everyone was speculating about his reasons?”

“Of course not.  Everyone knew the Beau was tired of approving the Regent’s dress – there is no disguising such girth, so why pretend otherwise?  But repeating the latest gossip proves that one knows it and is part of the
haut ton
.  Those who remain in ignorance live on the fringes, demonstrating that they are little better than mushrooms.  Thus everyone repeats every tale every day.  One can enter a dozen consecutive drawing rooms and hear exactly the same stories in each.  Driving in the park offers another opportunity for demonstrating one’s knowledge.  And whether one attends a series of routs, a card party, or even a ball in the evening, the day’s gossip will dominate.”

Elizabeth jumped when Mr. Randolph joined her on the settee.

“He does this so well,” she murmured.  “One could mistake him for a leader of Society after such a performance.”

Lady Fosdale was smiling.  “It sounds heavenly.”

“It sounds boring,” snapped Cecilia.  “But surely you exaggerate, sir.  There must be many places where one can discuss the state of the country, ways to alleviate the poverty that is becoming so common in the cities—”

“Good Lord!”  Symington recoiled.  “Surely you are not a bluestocking!”  His voice shuddered on the word.  “No lady of quality would dream of discussing politics.  And coming out as a reformer courts permanent ostracism.”

Elizabeth met Cecilia’s shocked gaze.  “I warned you,” she said calmly.  “The newspapers make it quite plain that society ladies avoid serious discussion of any kind.”

“Quite true,” confirmed Symington.

Mr. Randolph cleared his throat.  “I have noted that many ladies concern themselves with such matters in the country, willingly addressing the problems that face their tenants and villagers.  Some even sponsor schools to teach the children to read and write.”

“So you are saying that people go to London only to enjoy the entertainments?”  Cecilia’s brow cleared.  “That makes sense.  There would be little time for anything else.  And frequent doses of frivolity make life enchanting.”

Elizabeth glared at Mr. Randolph, but his slight shake of the head dissipated her irritation.  He was right.  Straying too far from the truth would lead to trouble.  Cecilia might be obsessed, but she was not stupid.

“Few people view the London Season as frivolous,” said Symington sternly.  “It is quite serious, for its purpose is to arrange marriages.  The rules reflect that purpose, though they vary by activity and location.  A modest infraction that might be excused on a morning stroll, would cause a serious scandal if it occurred during the fashionable hour.  The strictest rules are enforced at Almack’s, of course.”

“Almack’s.”  Cecilia’s sigh was ecstatic.  “That gold and marble palace seen only by the
crème de la crème
.”

“I don’t know where girls get such ridiculous notions,” complained Symington.

Randolph tried to stifle his laughter, but failed, sending Elizabeth into similar spasms of hilarity. 

“Almack’s is a building,” he said once he caught his breath.  “And not a particularly handsome one.  I have been there, as has every mushroom in Town, for it is available to anyone who cares to rent it.  The walls are plain, the floors uneven – which makes it dashed difficult to execute steps properly.  The last time I was there, paint was peeling from the portico.”  He shook his head at such neglect.

“I expect she was referring to the Wednesday subscription balls,” said Symington, making a token effort to cover a yawn.  “The patronesses have given them an aura of mystique by making them excessively exclusive.  But the music is mediocre and the food nearly inedible.  Stale cakes, buttered bread, and orgeat so foul-tasting that it threatens illness.”