The Governess Affair
Page 12
Freddy wasn’t involved in this dispute. She’d never done anything—not since the dreadful night when she’d been in the carriage with their mother when it was robbed. She’d been sitting right next to her when the highwayman had taken his shot.
Freddy had never spoken of the event—but she’d scarcely been able to leave the house after. Serena had thought her distress would fade, but as the years went by, her sister had only come to fear the world outside her door more and more. Striking at her, and in this despicable way…
Mr. Marshall had a great deal to answer for.
Serena set the letter on the table.
“I have had quite enough,” she said, her voice shaking with rage. “I will not—will not—let this happen to you, Freddy. I promise.”
THE DOOR AT CLERMONT HOUSE was hard, but Serena pounded on it with all the force she could muster.
It was the third time that she’d knocked, and she wasn’t expecting an answer. Still, she wasn’t leaving until she obtained one. After what she’d come home to last night…
She raised her hand once more, and the door swung open. A gray-haired man peered down at her. Serena drew herself up to the full extent of her height—which unfortunately, didn’t even bring her to the other man’s shoulder.
“I demand to speak to Mr. Marshall,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. “I demand to speak to him now.”
The footman looked down his nose at her. “He is unavailable at the moment.”
“Make him available. If he doesn’t speak to me—”
“I have been instructed to give you this.” The footman held out one hand; a crisp piece of white paper was folded in his fingers.
Slowly, she reached out and took it. It had been folded in a square; a firm hand had written “Miss Barton” across the front.
“And this,” the footman said.
She looked up. The man held a pencil. It looked out of place in his white-gloved hands—too mundane to exist in such close proximity to a duke’s livery. She took that, too, and was unfolding the missive when the door shut, firmly and irrevocably, behind her. Serena took the letter across the street and broke the seal.
Miss Serena Barton, she read. It will behoove you to calm yourself. Convincing Frederica’s landlord to toss the two of you out was the work of a moment. Consider it a warning only.
As you have little to do with your days, the inconvenience of moving houses is, I am sure, nothing. A woman of your fortitude will find the task poses little problem. If, however, I am forced to inconvenience myself to the extent of ruining Daughtry’s Bank—where your sister draws her annuity—you can rest assured I will not remain so pleasant.
My offer still stands: fifty pounds and a reference. I can, perhaps, increase the monetary compensation somewhat.
I’d rather not cause you any further disruption, but I will not hesitate, should it prove necessary.
As always, I am
Yours.
There was no signature.
Serena stared at the offending missive, anger growing in her heart. She’d been prepared to have any threat leveled at her. But to threaten Freddy once again? It was like abusing baby squirrels.
She flipped the paper over, and on the blank reverse, scrawled her response.
Cut line, sir. My sister and I have scarcely a hundred pounds to lose between the two of us. Such infinitesimal reserves will hardly be missed.
Not true, but in her experience, wealthy men never understood the value of money. She nodded fiercely at that, and then played the card that she’d been holding in abeyance for this moment.
But you know—and I know—and all of Mayfair knows—that the duchess will not be pleased if she hears my story. I am not frightened of you; how could I be? I have nothing to lose. I am already ruined.
Clermont, on the other hand… Do remind me. Is it twenty thousand pounds at stake if his wife deserts him, or forty? The gossips never get the figures clear.
I address one final thing. You are not mine, and I’ll thank you not to address me in so familiar a fashion.
S. Barton
She handed her response off to the footman, who actually answered the door for her this time around, and returned to her bench—today, it was vacant. It was cold, but her rage kept her warm. And in any event, she wasn’t kept waiting long. The footman brought Mr. Marshall’s response out to her around noon.
Dear Serena, he had written.
She was sure he’d addressed her by her Christian name solely to irritate her.
You may pretend all you wish, but you and I both know that no matter how you protest, your resources are all that stand between you and a life on the streets. The duke, of course, might be inconvenienced by a lack of money, but he will be shielded from the true cost of poverty.
Will you?
Still yours,
Hugo.
Serena’s hands had grown cold as she read, but she grabbed her pencil and scrawled a response.
I, at least, have some experience with poverty. I don’t relish repeating it, but I am positive I will make do. Can your duke?
I have some tips for him on frugal living; I shall be sure to pass them along if his wife abandons him completely. Here’s one: Did you know that a mixture of two parts vinegar, two parts oil, and one part treacle makes a passable lemonade?
S. Barton
It took a little more than half an hour for a response to arrive.
Serena—
The vinegar solution was actually quite disgusting, which I presume was your intent. In the interest of fairness and gentlemanly conduct—two things that I cannot pretend that I normally aspire to—I must award you the upper hand in that particular bout.
I say this in all seriousness: It would give me the greatest sorrow to destroy your future and crush your spirit.
Yours.
There was a line crossed out beneath that, so darkly that she couldn’t read the original words, and then:
Postscript. I am not indifferent to your welfare, even if it seems otherwise. I can see you from my office window. It cannot be good for you to pace so frantically.
Serena swallowed, and then glanced up. The windows of Clermont House reflected the dying afternoon sun. She could see movement behind the curtains—vague shadowy figures, as of housemaids going about their duties dusting—but nobody that looked like Mr. Marshall.
I see, she wrote slowly on the reverse of his letter. You’ve been watching me. If you’ll look out your window now, I have a special surprise for you.
She handed this to the butler and then stood by her bench, waiting. Her heart pounded. Her hands were clammy. God, Freddy had it right—she jumped into everything without thinking, and now look what—
Freddy had never spoken of the event—but she’d scarcely been able to leave the house after. Serena had thought her distress would fade, but as the years went by, her sister had only come to fear the world outside her door more and more. Striking at her, and in this despicable way…
Mr. Marshall had a great deal to answer for.
Serena set the letter on the table.
“I have had quite enough,” she said, her voice shaking with rage. “I will not—will not—let this happen to you, Freddy. I promise.”
THE DOOR AT CLERMONT HOUSE was hard, but Serena pounded on it with all the force she could muster.
It was the third time that she’d knocked, and she wasn’t expecting an answer. Still, she wasn’t leaving until she obtained one. After what she’d come home to last night…
She raised her hand once more, and the door swung open. A gray-haired man peered down at her. Serena drew herself up to the full extent of her height—which unfortunately, didn’t even bring her to the other man’s shoulder.
“I demand to speak to Mr. Marshall,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. “I demand to speak to him now.”
The footman looked down his nose at her. “He is unavailable at the moment.”
“Make him available. If he doesn’t speak to me—”
“I have been instructed to give you this.” The footman held out one hand; a crisp piece of white paper was folded in his fingers.
Slowly, she reached out and took it. It had been folded in a square; a firm hand had written “Miss Barton” across the front.
“And this,” the footman said.
She looked up. The man held a pencil. It looked out of place in his white-gloved hands—too mundane to exist in such close proximity to a duke’s livery. She took that, too, and was unfolding the missive when the door shut, firmly and irrevocably, behind her. Serena took the letter across the street and broke the seal.
Miss Serena Barton, she read. It will behoove you to calm yourself. Convincing Frederica’s landlord to toss the two of you out was the work of a moment. Consider it a warning only.
As you have little to do with your days, the inconvenience of moving houses is, I am sure, nothing. A woman of your fortitude will find the task poses little problem. If, however, I am forced to inconvenience myself to the extent of ruining Daughtry’s Bank—where your sister draws her annuity—you can rest assured I will not remain so pleasant.
My offer still stands: fifty pounds and a reference. I can, perhaps, increase the monetary compensation somewhat.
I’d rather not cause you any further disruption, but I will not hesitate, should it prove necessary.
As always, I am
Yours.
There was no signature.
Serena stared at the offending missive, anger growing in her heart. She’d been prepared to have any threat leveled at her. But to threaten Freddy once again? It was like abusing baby squirrels.
She flipped the paper over, and on the blank reverse, scrawled her response.
Cut line, sir. My sister and I have scarcely a hundred pounds to lose between the two of us. Such infinitesimal reserves will hardly be missed.
Not true, but in her experience, wealthy men never understood the value of money. She nodded fiercely at that, and then played the card that she’d been holding in abeyance for this moment.
But you know—and I know—and all of Mayfair knows—that the duchess will not be pleased if she hears my story. I am not frightened of you; how could I be? I have nothing to lose. I am already ruined.
Clermont, on the other hand… Do remind me. Is it twenty thousand pounds at stake if his wife deserts him, or forty? The gossips never get the figures clear.
I address one final thing. You are not mine, and I’ll thank you not to address me in so familiar a fashion.
S. Barton
She handed her response off to the footman, who actually answered the door for her this time around, and returned to her bench—today, it was vacant. It was cold, but her rage kept her warm. And in any event, she wasn’t kept waiting long. The footman brought Mr. Marshall’s response out to her around noon.
Dear Serena, he had written.
She was sure he’d addressed her by her Christian name solely to irritate her.
You may pretend all you wish, but you and I both know that no matter how you protest, your resources are all that stand between you and a life on the streets. The duke, of course, might be inconvenienced by a lack of money, but he will be shielded from the true cost of poverty.
Will you?
Still yours,
Hugo.
Serena’s hands had grown cold as she read, but she grabbed her pencil and scrawled a response.
I, at least, have some experience with poverty. I don’t relish repeating it, but I am positive I will make do. Can your duke?
I have some tips for him on frugal living; I shall be sure to pass them along if his wife abandons him completely. Here’s one: Did you know that a mixture of two parts vinegar, two parts oil, and one part treacle makes a passable lemonade?
S. Barton
It took a little more than half an hour for a response to arrive.
Serena—
The vinegar solution was actually quite disgusting, which I presume was your intent. In the interest of fairness and gentlemanly conduct—two things that I cannot pretend that I normally aspire to—I must award you the upper hand in that particular bout.
I say this in all seriousness: It would give me the greatest sorrow to destroy your future and crush your spirit.
Yours.
There was a line crossed out beneath that, so darkly that she couldn’t read the original words, and then:
Postscript. I am not indifferent to your welfare, even if it seems otherwise. I can see you from my office window. It cannot be good for you to pace so frantically.
Serena swallowed, and then glanced up. The windows of Clermont House reflected the dying afternoon sun. She could see movement behind the curtains—vague shadowy figures, as of housemaids going about their duties dusting—but nobody that looked like Mr. Marshall.
I see, she wrote slowly on the reverse of his letter. You’ve been watching me. If you’ll look out your window now, I have a special surprise for you.
She handed this to the butler and then stood by her bench, waiting. Her heart pounded. Her hands were clammy. God, Freddy had it right—she jumped into everything without thinking, and now look what—
