11
For years, Ivy and I had made a habit of meeting for a morning ride in Rotten Row, and it had long ago become one of my favorite daily rituals during the season. The morning light would fall soft on leaves and grass and make a glowing cloud out of the dust kicked up by our horses’ hooves. We would start off slowly, then I’d pull ahead, goading her to race. She’d protest, worried we’d shock society and horrify the multitudinous other riders. But soon enough she’d be following me, pulling up close, and egging me on.
Today, I regretted not having had more than a small piece of toast and a single cup of tea to fortify me before I’d set off. I hadn’t realized Winifred Harris would be joining us, or just how much fortification dealing with her could require. It took fewer than ten minutes for me to confirm something I’d long suspected: try though I might for Ivy’s sake, Winifred and I would never be close. Our conversation was stilted from the outset, and she scolded me fiercely the second my horse started to move a beat faster than a canter, explaining to us in overwrought detail how inappropriate our previous behavior had been.
“Furthermore, it’s not good form,” she said, just as I’d started to hope she was nearly done. “It’s dangerous, too, as there are so many riders present. But most of all, think of the talk to which it has exposed you. Do you want to draw ire upon yourselves? Do you want to be left off guest lists because you’re considered wild?”
Personally, I was quite taken with the notion. No one had ever suggested to me before that I might be wild. It seemed something to which one might aspire.
“Thank heavens we’re both already married,” I said, knowing my irony would be completely lost on Winifred. “We’d be scaring off every potential husband we met.”
“I don’t mean to be stern with you,” Winifred said, puffing up her broad chest. “Please understand that. But it’s essential we stay vigilant in the protection of our characters. What does a lady have that matters more than her reputation?”
“I can think of lots of things,” I said, but wasn’t allowed to continue.
“One need only look at how Lady Merton’s circle has shrunk since her house was painted. Consider that, Lady Emily, and then consider your connection with the Women’s Liberal Federation. It’s very off-putting,” she said. “People are beginning to talk.”
“Let them,” I said. “I believe in what I’m doing.”
“You’re just trying to get attention. No thinking person can believe women should have the vote. It’s a revolting concept. You should know your place better than that.”
“You know, Winifred, you begin to make me wonder if
My insult was lost on her as her attention was elsewhere. “Look at that! Her posture is appalling!” She pulled closer to Ivy and motioned with a subtle gesture to indicate a rider not far from us, but made no attempt to modulate her voice. “Did you see her at the opera last week? Her gown was atrocious and her manners even worse.”
“She is kind, though,” Ivy said. “Her younger sisters adore her.”
“Precisely,” Winifred said. “She’s a good woman, yet she doesn’t bother to care what impression she makes. Which means she has nothing in store but ruin and loneliness. If she’s fortunate, she’ll find a post as a governess.”
I kept silent.
“I can tell you’re angry at me for speaking so openly, Lady Emily. You think I’m hard on my own sex. But I feel the same about gentlemen. Do you see that man over there?” she asked. “An extremely well-known youngest son—there, standing on the pavement perpendicular to us, speaking to a woman in a garish purple hat? I understand his gambling debts are close to ruining his entire family. What sort of a man allows himself to sink to such a level?”
“Isn’t it enough for him to live with what he’s done?” I asked.
“I know how high the standard to which you hold yourself is, Winifred dear,” Ivy said. “But not everyone is so capable as you.”
“We must learn from the mistakes of others, Ivy,” Winifred said. “That is the only reason I condone paying attention—close attention—to what is happening in the private lives of others.”
“Private lives should be just that,” I said, unable to hold my tongue any longer. “No good comes of spreading gossip.”
“Emily, you can’t possibly mean to accuse me of being a gossip!” Her eyes opened wide. “I make these observations only to help my friends because I care about them so deeply. I see all around me the tragedies that can befall those who are not vigilant, and only want to protect those dear to me from suffering a similar fate.”
“What an interesting position,” I said, realizing the futility of arguing with someone like Winifred. “What do you think, then, of this person terrorizing society with his red paint?”
“I cannot approve, of course,” she said. “But I think we’d all have to admit he’s catalyzed a welcome change in people’s behavior. Who will embark on a bad course of action when he knows he might face exposure and censure?”
“So you believe secrets should be told?” I asked.
“I make no judgment on that,” she said. “But I do think we should look within ourselves during this time. I’ve heard rumors the situation will escalate soon, and you’ve not exactly led a blameless life, Emily. A bit more caution on your part might be something you should consider.”
Wickedness. Her eyes narrowed and beamed undiluted wickedness.
“Oh, Winifred, don’t be hard on Emily,” Ivy said. “She’s my dearest friend! You won’t find a more devoted, smarter, or more passionate lady in all of London.”
“Passionate, Ivy, isn’t a quality you should be discussing,” Winifred said. “Its connotation is not what you think.”
That was quite enough for me. “Mrs. Harris,” I said. “Ivy is perfectly aware of the connotations of the word
“I’ve never suggested any such thing! This is an outrageous accusation, Lady Emily.”
“You might find yourself in happier circumstances if you’d treat those around you with more respect,” I said.
“I can’t remember when I’ve been so insulted.”
“Most likely because you’re not accustomed to it being done to your face,” I said. “Forgive me, Ivy. I’ve had my fill of riding today.”
I pulled on the reins and turned my horse back towards home. I did not regret what I’d done, but neither did I look forward to the social discomfort it was sure to bring. As I reflected further on the subject, my mind began to change on this point. I was tired of forced politeness, tired of maintaining the appearance of friendship with people who deserved censure.
This was, I realized, similar to Winifred’s position. But we came at it from opposite directions—I from that of being more interested in reveling in the good in people and not wasting time with those who had none to offer, while she preferred slander and mockery. I’d never once heard her compliment anyone. When had a kind word ever escaped her hard lips? Misery was her trade and I wanted no part of it.
I handed my horse over to a waiting groom and headed straight for my husband’s study, not bothering to change out of my riding clothes, and flung myself into a chair. Colin, his head bent over his favorite book of chess problems, spoke without looking up.
“Was that an exasperated fling or an exuberant one?”
“Exasperated.”
He moved the white rook from his John Company set forward three spaces, closed the book, and sat next to me. “Tell me.”
I blew out a long breath before launching into the story. He listened attentively, his face without expression, until I reached the end. He then dropped his head into his hands and shook with mirth.
“Oh, Emily, I do adore you,” he said. “I know you’ll suffer in some circles for what you’ve done, but not in
