The Duchess Takes a Husband, page 10
It was a sad sort of irony that she had become just like those women her mother called friends, despite her best intentions. Perhaps she had been the one who was wrong all along.
The ring of the doorbell sounded downstairs. Camille hurried to grab a handkerchief from a drawer in the dressing table. The telltale glaze of tears made her eyes shiny in the reflection, so she dabbed at the corner of her eyes. Self-pity would get her nowhere, and she’d been wallowing in it a bit too much lately. Mrs. Greene was exactly the distraction she needed.
A few moments later she joined Jacob’s sister in the drawing room. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Greene, it is good to see you.”
Lilian turned away from the glass cabinet that held seventy-four (Camille had counted them) shepherd and shepherdess figurines hand-selected by some nameless Hereford ancestor. The woman smiled, and Camille wasn’t certain how she had missed the similarities between her and her brother. They had the same rich, black hair and olive skin, and there was a bit of good-natured mischief in her expression that perfectly matched Jacob’s.
“Please call me Lilian. I was happy to receive your note. I worried when I didn’t see you at the club again.”
“My commitments have kept me away.” She still didn’t know if she could return. Dinner to honor her commitment had been one thing; to go on her own would be quite another. “I am glad you could call. Please sit down.” She indicated the settee that faced the window.
“I brought this for you.” The woman rifled in her handbag and pulled out a small cosmetic pot and presented it to her. “The same color as the one I shared with you.”
Surprised at her thoughtfulness, Camille took it but didn’t quite know what to say. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. It was a lovely color on you, so I thought you should have some of your own,” she said, taking her seat.
Camille held the small container in her palm, touched beyond words that she would remember how the rouge had looked on her. “I do love that color. I’ve never chosen red before.” She immediately thought of Jacob and wearing it for him. His gaze had lingered on her lips that night.
“You should. It suits you.”
Camille smiled, the feeling she’d had that night, as if she’d rediscovered a long-lost friend, making a reappearance. “Perhaps I’ll wear it to the club next time I go.”
Lilian agreed that she should, and they settled into a polite exchange of pleasantries. After a few minutes, Lilian let her gaze roam the room from the heavy wood paneling to the caramel wallpaper and the heavy furniture. “This room is rather dark. Do you ever find it . . . oppressive?”
Camille laughed, recalling how Jacob had indicated his sister was a bit outspoken. “The house belonged to my late mother-in-law. I never met her, but she seems to have had rather old-fashioned and dreary taste.” She used the home that was part of her dower when she was in town but hadn’t made significant changes to it yet.
“Ah, that makes more sense. It doesn’t suit you at all. Have you considered redecorating?”
“I had planned to, and I have redone my bedroom and sitting room. After my husband’s death, I spent some time in New York with my family. I only returned in the autumn, and I haven’t had a chance to address the main floor.” The truth was that she had lost her enthusiasm for the project. She didn’t particularly like it here, and had considered leaving the dower house, but winter had set in.
“You didn’t prefer to stay in New York with your family?” Seeming to realize that she was probing, Lilian smiled. “You don’t have to answer my questions. Jacob claims that I talk too much and don’t know how to mind my own business. Do not tell him, but he’s sometimes correct.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” Camille laughed again, becoming more at ease with her with every passing moment. There was a natural way about her that made Camille believe her questions came from a place of empathy. Certainly, any of her Society acquaintances would have been asking probing questions in an attempt to gain gossip to share with their friends later. “The truth is I’m not very close to my family, not like you are with Jacob and, I assume, your sister. I’m an only child and my parents and I see the world differently. I anticipated wanting to stay in New York, but I no longer felt at home there.” Not that London felt like home, either. “At least here, I have freedom. My own home, no one to tell me what time I should be in every night, no one to remind me of what is proper and what isn’t.” Society matrons, the scandal sheets, and Scarbury did their own sort of policing as far as that went.
Mrs. Hartley, her housekeeper, walked in with a tea tray. Camille spent the next several moments pouring their tea and arranging the platter of sandwiches and pastries. Once they had both settled with a cup of tea, Lilian regarded her over the edge of her cup.
“I can tell you are a woman who enjoys her freedom. You’re quite lucky in that way.”
“In what way?” Camille asked.
“Only that many women don’t have freedom.”
“Yes, I know.” Thinking of the times she had felt a prisoner in her own home, she added, “Once upon a time I was one of those women.”
Lilian looked at her thoughtfully. As if she could intuit Camille’s thoughts, she asked, “And then your husband died?”
Camille nodded, wary of this turning into another discussion of her marriage and all the things that had been done to her. Sometimes talking about it made her feel as if she were still helpless. “Is it that obvious? I don’t plan to marry again for a long time, if ever.”
“Husbands hold the keys to freedom or servitude.”
Taking a cue from the forthright Lilian, she asked, “You’re a married woman. Have you found freedom in your marriage?”
Lilian’s warm laughter filled the space, its pleasant sound easing any hesitation Camille might have still harbored about opening up to her. “Yes, but I am extraordinarily lucky. Mr. Greene is a unique man. He believes the same as I, that a marriage should not give a man complete ownership of a woman. We have our disagreements the same as any couple, but we are equals in our marriage.”
An unexpected wave of jealousy caused her throat to close. It appeared that she was doomed to be surrounded by absurdly happy couples who espoused progressive ideals and shone new shades of light on just how inferior her own marriage had been. “How fortunate.”
“Forgive me. I do not presume to know the particulars of your own situation.”
“No, I am happy you have found someone who shares your ideals.”
There was a slightly awkward pause as they sipped their tea. “Jacob tells me that you volunteer at the London Home for Young Women. Do you like it there?” Lilian clearly hoped to change their topic of conversation.
“Yes, it’s a wonderful organization. They do such good work for people who have been otherwise left behind. You should come by sometime. There is always room for another person willing to help out.”
“Thank you, I think I will. I have to admit that I was surprised when I read about it in the Times. It’s a radical concept. A home for fallen women and their illegitimate children. I admire Lady Helena for conceiving of the idea.”
“It was a charity born of the need she saw at the Bloomsbury Orphanage. Many women would be forced to leave their children there, not because they didn’t want them, but because they had to work and had no family to help with childcare. Not to mention that many lost their jobs once they became pregnant.”
Lilian nodded in understanding. “Yes, I can see the need for it. I only meant that ladies do not usually support radical causes.”
“Yes, you’re right. I suppose it upsets the balance of what is proper. Lady Helena is an unusual woman in the very best way.”
“You don’t seem to be bothered by what is proper.”
Camille smiled. “Neither do you, if your brother can be believed. He claimed you met your husband at a suffrage convention.”
“Jacob talked to you about me?”
Camille shrugged off the question, not wanting to dwell on what came after in that conversation, and picked up her tea. “He did. I was a little surprised. In my experience most men aren’t very progressive.”
“Perhaps you’ve been associating with the wrong men.”
“Touché.”
“Universal suffrage is a passion I share with my husband.” Lilian reached for a cucumber and dill sandwich. After taking a delicate bite, she asked, “Have you given much thought to women’s suffrage?”
“No,” Camille answered honestly. To be fair, her life had been very complicated until recently. “My friend August has recently joined the London Suffrage Society, but I’m afraid I’ve been preoccupied. I do believe it is a just and good cause.”
“Yes, I am a member of that group. We were very happy when the duchess joined us. If your schedule permits, you must come to our next meeting. The American Victoria Woodhull will be speaking.”
“Her name sounds familiar, but I’m afraid I cannot place her.”
“She ran for president of the United States several years ago.”
“That’s right.” Camille vaguely remembered the hubbub that had caused and that she had been arrested several times. “I remember her now.”
“She’s only recently relocated to England with her family and has graciously offered to speak to our group. She has peculiar views, which makes her an important voice in the cause. We believe that only with suffrage can all women truly find the sort of freedom that you’ve found.”
She wasn’t as free as most liked to believe, since she only had an allowance under her control. “You’re right. Until women are able to vote on the laws and politicians who represent our interests, we will never have true equality.”
“I’m glad we agree. It sounds like you’re ready to join our cause.”
Camille grinned. “Was this your way of recruiting me?”
Lilian shrugged. “It wasn’t that difficult. You only needed a little nudge.” They both laughed. “I would be happy to introduce you to a few women I believe you would like. I don’t want to pressure you, but the cause could use someone in your position.”
“I’m not altogether certain what I could do. I’d be happy to donate, of course.”
“Your status alone could be a boon,” the woman said. “We need names like yours to lend legitimacy to our fight. Unfortunately, many of the titled women as well as the heiresses from America have been reluctant to step into the suffrage movement. They stand with the queen in suggesting that a woman’s place is firmly in the home and any talk of suffrage will upset this mystical balance.”
“Why do you suppose they feel this way?” While Camille had been too self-absorbed in the past several years to give the situation much thought, she did believe that women deserved the right to see to their own livelihoods. Suffrage was a natural and just way to help achieve that. If she had been in charge of her own livelihood, she might have avoided Hereford altogether.
Lilian gave a shrug. “Sometimes it’s easier to keep things the way they are, especially if you aren’t the one suffering.”
That was true. Even now, Camille was reluctant to join because it would mean changing things and chancing uncomfortable situations. One of the reasons she rebelled was that people would talk about her regardless, so she might as well give them something to talk about. This, however, would be worse than her petty rebellions, like joining Montague Club. Women’s suffrage roused genuine feelings of anger and insecurity in those in power. It would lead to a different sort of backlash. “Could I think about it?”
“Of course.” Then in a lower voice Lilian added, “With your help, we could stop other women from facing a similar fate.”
Camille glanced at her, unsure what she knew about her fate.
“I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but Hereford’s reputation and age were no secret.” Everyone knew that he had died in the bed of his mistress. They also whispered about Camille being his poisoner and executioner. “Every woman should be able to choose her own spouse.”
“I agree completely.” How much suffering could she have saved herself if she had chosen her own husband? It might not have been a happy marriage, given the pool of eligible bachelors her parents would have approved, but it might not have been so . . . damaging.
“Then help us make sure that can happen. With your assistance, we can make certain every woman has the freedom she deserves.”
If joining the movement could help ensure another young woman didn’t have to suffer, wouldn’t it be worth the risk? She couldn’t help but wonder what Jacob might think of such a bold decision, and she wanted to talk it over with him. He listened to her in a way no man ever had before. Almost immediately, she realized that he would applaud her instead of feeling threatened. He was strong and secure in himself and special in ways she was only just starting to understand.
Chapter 9
Parliament sat beginning in January, but the Season didn’t truly start until the families with country estates came to town after Easter. Lord and Lady Ashcroft were one of the few who held a ball every winter during this lull for those who were in Town. Since it naturally was more exclusive, it had become a veritable who’s who of London insiders. Camille had learned that the term insider translated to the people who considered themselves most important to the running of the country. The pretentiousness was such that she generally tried to avoid the gathering, but Hereford’s heir had been most insistent that she accompany him when he arrived on her doorstep the evening after her tea with Lilian.
“Did you not receive my note? I sent it to you along with the invitation last week.” He addressed her very firmly in the middle of her own drawing room. Gloves in hand, pacing before the fireplace.
“Of course I did, Scarbury.”
“Hereford. I will thank you to use my title.” He interrupted her, speaking through gritted teeth.
She sighed. In her mind, Hereford would ever be the ogre she married, even though the title had transferred after his death. “Hereford,” she said to appease him. “I simply do not understand the need for my presence.” She was still catching up on correspondence after her trip to Charrington Manor and planning for a board meeting for the London Home for Young Women. A ball was not on her agenda for the evening. “Did you not receive my reply?”
He paused to give her a sharp look that could have pierced her very soul had she given a fig about his opinion of her. Luckily, she didn’t. Nearing forty years old, he could have easily passed for fifty. It wasn’t only his receding hairline and gangly build that sometimes made it seem as if he stooped that made him appear older. His aged look was also owed to his pinched features and sallow complexion. Or, perhaps, it was how he seemed to look down at everyone and everything as if he were far superior simply because of his birth.
Not bothering with a response to her question, he said, “I will return in precisely two hours, and you shall accompany me to the Ashcrofts.”
Camille rose, only barely managing to restrain herself from stamping her foot like a recalcitrant child. This family brought out the worst in her. “Why must I go?”
“You are the dowager,” he said, pulling the gloves on over his thin fingers. “It is what is required of you.”
“You have a wife for these things.”
“Eleanor is at the estate and not suitable for public appearance at any rate, as you well know.”
While she knew Eleanor was pregnant, it had slipped her mind that the woman was so far into her pregnancy. They weren’t exactly close. “She’s due to deliver any day now, isn’t she? Shouldn’t you be there at her side instead of here in London?”
She thought of Christian and Violet. He had been an absolute wreck in the lead-up to the birth of their daughter two years ago and had hardly left her side, sometimes to her humorous displeasure. Then there was Evan, a duke as well, who had been emphatic about changing his schedule around to be with August and their son at Charrington Manor in the months after she had given birth. In fact, tonight was their first foray back into London life since William’s birth.
Scarbury merely stared at her as if she had lost her mind. “Whatever for? The butler will wire me when the child is born, along with the pertinent details.”
Memory was a strange thing. Sometimes it sat there in its corner of the mind perfectly content to exist in its allotted space. Sometimes it got restless and seeped into all the nooks and crannies surrounding it until it colored the present with its garish stain. His callous words reminded her of the first time her husband had left her at the estate in Sussex not long after they had arrived from America. He had gone to London to ready the house for her. (Now she suspected that he had gone to soothe the ruffled feathers of his mistress.) As he was leaving, she had overheard him instructing the housekeeper to send word should her courses not arrive on schedule because she was expecting. The exchange had made her feel violated all over again. As if what he did to her in her bed wasn’t enough, he had to invade her privacy as well. The exchange had been so very impersonal and degrading that it had further solidified what she had suspected: she was an object who existed in his life for the sole purpose of playing her role of wife and giving him children. She wasn’t a person anymore . . . if she ever had been in his eyes.
Without even meaning to, she felt alone and bereft, as if she were back there all over again; alone in a foreign country and with a man who hardly cared if she lived or died as long as he had her father’s money. She hated this detached way of living where there was no room for intimacy, tenderness, or even hope.
“Are you ill?” Scarbury asked, and she realized she had been lost in her thoughts for too long.
“If I were, would you leave me alone?”
He let out a sigh and walked past her toward the door. “You are still a child in many ways, Camille. It is an unattractive feature for a woman of your age. My carriage will be round in precisely two hours. If you do not accompany me, we shall have to reevaluate your allowance and that refurbishment you were planning.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “You still have duties as a dowager. Do not forget that.”
