Mid-September, 1889
IT HAD ONCE occurred to Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe that she would no doubt die with a laugh on her lips and a glass of champagne in her hand. Now Willie suspected she would meet her maker with little more than watered wine and an equally weak smile. It was a sad state of affairs for a woman who, alongside her late husband, had not so long ago been considered the cream of society’s fast, young, fashionable set. Still, there was nothing to be done about it. One couldn’t go backward after all. One could only bravely lift one’s chin and charge ahead.
“So you see Aunt Poppy—” Willie adopted her brightest smile “—I have decided that a change of scenery would be ideal. I was thinking the Mediterranean. The south of France perhaps. Or possibly Italy. Or, oh, I don’t know, Venice?”
“Venice is not on the Mediterranean, dear,” Aunt Poppy, Mrs. Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore—who was not her aunt at all but rather her godmother—said in a serene manner. “It’s on the Adriatic.”
“Adriatic, Mediterranean—” Willie waved off the comment “—one vast body of water is as good as another.”
“Is it?” Poppy took a sip of her tea and studied Willie with a sharp eye that belied her advanced years.
“I should think so, yes. After all, the idea is to move on with my life.” Willie heaved a heartfelt sigh that was rather more sincere than she had expected. “Lay George and the past completely to rest, that sort of thing.”
“Something you find difficult to do at home here in England?”
“You understand how these things are, Poppy. Life here is overshadowed by everything George and I shared together. Why, even our friends are constant reminders of what we had. And what I have lost.” There was no need to add that she had seen nothing of those friends in the two years since George’s untimely death in an absurd boating accident. Oh, certainly they had been most solicitous at first but it did seem their concern—as well as their friendship—vanished the moment George had been laid neatly to rest.
Still, a certain lack of friendly overtures might well be expected as Willie had disappeared from society after George’s death, fleeing to Wales and the home of her late grandmother’s companion. Dear Lady Plumdale, Margaret, had welcomed her with open and loving arms and Willie had stayed until a few months ago, contemplating her loss and what now lay ahead of her. Which in and of itself was shocking as Willie had never especially contemplated anything. Still, when one has lost a husband in an absurd boating accident a certain amount of contemplation is probably to be expected. What was completely unexpected were the revelations Willie discovered about her life, some of them brought about by an unceasing barrage of correspondence from solicitors and debt collectors.
Willie truly had no idea that she and George had existed primarily on credit in recent years. And really who would have imagined such a thing? After all, he was Viscount Bascombe of the Suffolk Bascombes, an old and venerable family. Willie had thought her husband quite a dashing sort and life with George was never dull. Indeed, it was great fun and filled with adventure and amusement. They never seemed to pause for so much as a moment between house parties given by what then were friends, masked balls and flamboyant dinners, races and hunts and all manner of entertainment. She now wondered if the ultimate purpose of their life of fun and frolic had been the avoidance of more serious matters. And really one does not have to contemplate the grave aspects of life—annoying details like finances and responsibility—if one never pauses in pursuit of a jolly good time. And it had been fun.
After George’s death, however, the ongoing party that was their life together had ground to a halt and it was time to pay the piper, as they say. A piper who had apparently not been paid for quite some time. Pity Willie had few funds with which to do that.
“That makes a great deal of sense, dear.” Sympathy sounded in the older woman’s voice. “Although, haven’t you spent much of the time since George’s passing away from London, hiding in that charming little village in Wales?”
Poppy knew full well where Willie had been as she was the only one who had continued regular correspondence with her. “I wouldn’t call it hiding exactly but, well, yes, although—”
“I should think that would have been long enough to accept the harsh reality that life with George has ended.” Poppy patted Willie’s hand. “I know it’s difficult, dear, but we are Englishwomen and we are made of sterner stuff. We must bravely sally forth into the unknown regardless of what may lie ahead. Why, I remember when I lost my dear Malcolm. It took some time to accept that my life would never be the same.” She heaved a resigned sigh. “I confess I miss him to this day. I daresay you’ll continue to miss George, as well.”
“Yes, of course,” Willie said weakly, and while she would hate to admit it to anyone—let alone Poppy—she didn’t miss George so much as she missed the blissful state of ignorance she had apparently inhabited through the ten years of her marriage.
In addition to the discovery of George’s—or rather now her—financial state, Willie had come to the distressing realization that while she had truly loved George, he was not the grand passion of her life nor was he her soul mate, although they were very much kindred spirits. It was a revelation she suspected she never would have had if he hadn’t died. Indeed, she would have gone on for the rest of her days never realizing the man she had married was not her one true love even if he was exciting and adventurous and a great deal of fun. Whether coincidental or deliberate, her life with George had never paused long enough to come to that realization. Willie couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if it had.
“But George is gone and as you said, I do need to bravely forge ahead. Which is precisely why I wish to get away from England.”
Poppy nodded. “Although you have no money to do so.”
Willie stared. “Why on earth would you say such a thing?”
Poppy raised a knowing brow.
“Even if it’s true.” Willie sighed and collapsed against the flowered cushions of the overly comfortable sofa that was far and away too large for the parlor in Poppy’s modest house on a tree-lined street in Bloomsbury. “How did you know?”
“For one thing, Wilhelmina, your dress is two to three years out of fashion. I have never known you to be clad in anything but the latest styles.” While the widow of an explorer, adventurer and lecturer of modest success, Poppy had always had an unexpectedly keen eye for things like fashion and decor, even if she hadn’t always had the means to support her taste.
“I have been in mourning, Poppy,” Willie said staunchly. “Being a bit behind the dictates of fashion is to be expected.”
“Perhaps but do not forget I have known you nearly since the day you came into the world.” Poppy cast her a chastising look. “I would