For all the Frenchwoman’s friendliness, Cecelia wondered if the lady’s offer to introduce Cecelia and Theresa to society had an ulterior motive, though what, she couldn’t imagine.
‘I don’t like her and I don’t like Lord Strathmore.’ Theresa wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s worse than General LaFette. Always staring at your breasts.’
‘Yet he’s the man we may have to rely on to save us.’ She paced the room, the weight of their lot dragging on her like the train of her dress over the threadbare rug. She stopped at the window, moving aside the curtain to watch the dark street below. ‘Maybe I should have accepted General LaFette’s offer. At least then we could have stayed in Virginia.’
‘I’d starve before I’d let you sell yourself to a man like him,’ Theresa proclaimed.
Cecelia whirled on her cousin. ‘Why? Didn’t I sell myself once before to keep out of the gutter?’
‘But you loved Daniel, didn’t you?’ Theresa looked stricken, just as she had the morning Cecelia and Daniel had met the newly orphaned girl at the Yorktown docks, her parents, Cecelia’s second cousins, having perished on the crossing.
Cecelia wanted to lie and soothe her cousin’s fears, allow her to hold on to this one steady thing after almost two years of so much change, but she couldn’t. She’d always been honest with the girl who was like a daughter to her and she couldn’t deceive her now.
‘Not at first,’ she admitted, ashamed of the motives which drove her to accept the stammering proposal of a widower twenty years older than her with a grown son and all his lands half a world away. ‘The love came later.’
Yet for all her tying herself to a stranger to keep from starving, here she was again, no better now than she’d been the summer before she’d married. Even Randall had reappeared to taunt her and remind her of all her failings.
She dropped down on the lumpy cushion in the window seat, anger giving way to the despair she’d felt so many times since last spring when General LaFette had begun spreading his vicious rumours. The old French General had asked her to be his mistress. When she’d refused, he’d ruined her with his lies. How easily the other plantation families had believed him, but she’d made the mistake of never really getting to know them. Belle View was too far from all the others to make visiting convenient, and though Daniel was sociable, too many times he’d preferred the quiet of home to parties and Williamsburg society.
‘Now I understand why Mother gave up after Father died.’ She sighed, staring down at the dark cobblestone street. ‘I had to deal with the creditors then, too, handing them the silver and whatever else I could find just so we could live. I used to hide it from her, though I don’t know why. She never noticed. I don’t even think she cared.’
‘She must have.’ Theresa joined her on the thin cushion, taking one of her cold hands in her warm one.
‘Which is why she sent me to Lady Ellington’s?’
‘Perhaps she didn’t want you to see her suffer.’
‘No. I think all my pestering her to deal with the creditors bothered her more than the consumption. The peace must have been a relief when she sent me away.’ Cecelia could only imagine how welcome the silence of death must have been.
Theresa squeezed her hand. ‘Please don’t give up. I don’t know what I’d do if you lost hope.’
Cecelia wrapped her arms around her cousin, trying to soothe away all her fears and concerns the way she wished her mother had done for her, the way her father used to do.
‘No, I won’t, I promise.’ She couldn’t give up. She had to persevere just as Daniel had taught her to do when his final illness had begun and she’d had to run Belle View, to pick up and carry on the way her father used to after every blow to his business. ‘You’re right, all isn’t lost yet. We’ll find a way.’
We have no choice.
* * *
Randall sat back, his cards face down under his palm on the table. Across from him, Lord Westbrook hunched over his cards, his signet ring turning on his shaking hand. A footman placed a glass of wine on the table in front of the young man and he picked it up, the liquid sloshing in the glass as he raised it to his lips.
Randall reached across the table and grasped the man’s arm. ‘No. You will do this sober.’
Lord Westbrook swallowed hard, eyeing the wine before lowering it to the table. Randall sat back, flicking the edges of the cards, ignoring the murmuring crowd circling them and betting on the outcome. In the centre of the table sat a hastily scribbled note resting on a pile of coins. Lord Westbrook’s hands shook as he fingered his cards and Randall almost took pity on him. If this game were not the focus of the entire room, he might have spared the youth this beating. Now, he had no choice but to let the game play to its obvious conclusion.
‘Show your cards,’ Randall demanded.
Lord Westbrook looked up, panic draining the colour from his face. With trembling fingers he laid out the cards one by one, leaving them in an uneven row. It was a good hand, but not good enough.
Randall turned over his cards, spreading them out in an even row, and a loud cheer went up from the crowd.
Lord Westbrook put his elbows on the table and grasped the side of his head, pulling at his blond hair. Randall stood and, ignoring the coins, picked up the piece of paper. Lord Westbrook’s face snapped up, his eyes meeting Randall’s, and for a brief second Randall saw his own face, the one which used to stare back at him from every mirror during his first year in London.
‘I’ve always wanted a house in Surrey,’ Randall tossed off with a disdain he didn’t feel, then slid the note in his pocket. ‘Come to my house next week to discuss the terms.’
Turning on his heel, he left the room, shaking off the many hands reaching out to congratulate him.
Chapter Three
Cecelia shifted the white Greek-style robe on her shoulders, the wood pedestal beneath her biting into the back of her thighs, the sharp odour of oil paints nearly smothering her as she struggled to maintain her pose. Pushing the wreath of flowers off her forehead for the third time in as many minutes, she sighed, wondering how she’d ended up in Sir Thomas Lawrence’s studio in this ridiculous position.
‘Lord Strathmore was right. You make the perfect Persephone,’ Madame de Badeau complimented from beside the dais, as if answering Cecelia’s silent question.
Cecelia shifted the bouquet in her hands, feeling more like a trollop than a goddess. Lord Strathmore wanted a painting of Persephone to complement one he already possessed of Demeter. Madame de Badeau had convinced Cecelia to pose, all the while hinting at Lord Strathmore’s interest in her. If it weren’t for the need to maintain his interest, Cecelia never would have agreed to this ridiculous request.
Her spirit drooped like the flowers in her hand, the weariness of having to entertain a man’s affection out of necessity instead of love weighing on her. Thankfully, business prevented Lord Strathmore from accompanying them today and deepening her humiliation.
‘Have you heard the latest gossip concerning Lord Falconbridge?’ Madame de Badeau asked, as if to remind Cecelia of how her last affair of the heart had ended.
‘No, I have not.’ Nor did she want to. She’d experienced enough cruel gossip in Virginia to make her sick whenever she heard people delighting in it here.
‘Lord Falconbridge won Lord Westbrook’s entire fortune. Absolutely ruined the gentleman. Isn’t it grand?’ She clapped her hands together like a child excited over a box of sweets.
‘What?’ Cecelia turned to face Madame de Badeau and the wreath tumbled from her head.
‘Mrs Thompson, your pose.’ Sir Thomas hurried from behind his easel