The Secret Mistress

Miss Goddard sat farther back in her chair and set her arms along the armrests. She looked perfectly relaxed—except that the fore- and middle fingers of her right hand were beating out a fast little tattoo.

“Why would you ask such a question?” she asked. “We are friends. We have been for years.”

“But would you marry him if he asked?” Angeline asked her.

Miss Goddard opened her mouth once to speak but closed it again. She started once more after a short silence.

“We once had an agreement,” she said, “that we would marry each other at some time in the distant future if nothing happened in the meanwhile to change our minds. Neither of us felt drawn to marriage at the time, though we both recognized that eventually we might see the advisability or the necessity of entering the marital state rather than remaining single. We were seekers of knowledge at the time, two earnest young people who had not yet felt the pull of the world beyond the pages of a book or the learned confines of Cambridge or the exciting workings of our own minds. Something did happen to change our minds, of course. Edward’s brother died and he became the earl in his place. It made all the difference, you know. Not to who he is, but to what. And the what is important in the real world.”

“But why?” Angeline asked her. “He does not need to marry money. At least, I do not believe he does, or Tresham would not even have allowed him to speak to me yesterday. He does not need to marry position. All society really demands of him is that he marry respectably. You are eminently respectable, Miss Goddard. You are a lady, and you are refined and sensible and intelligent. And you are his friend.”

Miss Goddard smiled.

“Lady Angeline,” she said, “you refused Edward yesterday. Are you trying to matchmake for him today?”

Angeline looked down at her hands. It was precisely what she was doing. Though not so much for him as for her new friend, whom she liked exceedingly well. She dearly loved Martha and Maria and hoped they would remain her close friends for the rest of her life, but Miss Goddard was the friend she had always yearned to have. She could not understand quite why it was so. It just was. And it hurt her heart to see her friend a wallflower at balls, unseen and unappreciated when she was the equal of anyone and the superior of most. She was Angeline’s superior.

“It just struck me,” she said, “that in all likelihood you love him and he loves you and yet he was forced into offering for me. Not literally forced, I suppose, but definitely maneuvered by what society expects of him. And by his family too, even though they are very pleasant people. I believe they actually like me and genuinely believed that I would be the best possible wife for him. But it is you he ought to marry. It is you he must marry. When he strolled about the ballroom with you last evening after supper—after you danced with Lord Windrow—you looked very right together. As if you belonged with each other.”

“He certainly thought you looked very happy,” Miss Goddard said.

“Oh,” Angeline said. “I was happy. Quite blissfully so. I have never enjoyed an evening so well in my life.”

She looked down at her hands again. And instead of picking up the conversation, Miss Goddard let it rest. The silence stretched. Angeline looked up again after what must have been a full minute.

“I just want to be your friend,” she said, “if that does not strike you as being too utterly absurd. I thought we might walk together in the park occasionally or go to the library together or spend a little while in each other’s company if we are attending the same entertainment. But I also want you to know that I will not find it awkward if you wish to encourage Lord Heyward’s suit. I will not feel you are somehow betraying me—if you accept my friendship, that is. Indeed, I would be very happy for you. I—Oh, dear, I have no right to be saying any of this. And the very idea that you would wish to be my friend—”

“Lady Angeline.” Miss Goddard leaned forward suddenly and reached out a hand in Angeline’s direction. “I grew up in Cambridge with my father and my brother—my mother died when I was six. I grew up surrounded by men. In many ways it was a wonderful upbringing. I was allowed to read anything I wanted and to listen to endlessly stimulating conversations and drink in knowledge to my heart’s content. I knew no girls of my own age—I never went to school. Now I am here with my aunt, too old to mingle easily with girls of your age, too young to settle into a resigned spinsterhood. I am not poor or of lowly birth, but neither am I really a member of the ton except as the niece of Lady Sanford. I have never had a come-out. I do not have a bright and sparkling personality to be noticed when I do mingle in society. I do not wish to paint an abject picture of myself. I have always been very content with my lot in life. I have been privileged in many ways. Although I did not have governesses or go to school, I believe my own education to have been an excellent one. It was certainly one that always excited me. But Lady Angeline, I believe I have always longed for a female friend.”

“Even one with a head full of fluff?” Angeline asked her.

“Your governesses ought to have been boiled in oil,” Miss Goddard said.

They both laughed.

“I like you exceedingly well,” Miss Goddard said. “If I wish to consort with intellectual giants I will return to my father’s home and consort to my heart’s content. I would like to have a friend, even if we must discuss Paradise Lost.”

And they both laughed again—at just the moment the parlor door opened and the Earl of Heyward was ushered in by a servant careless enough not to have come first to see if Miss Goddard was home.

He stood arrested in the doorway.

Angeline’s heart leapt up into her throat and then dived again for the soles of her shoes. It was a most disconcerting feeling. She stood up—as did Miss Goddard, who crossed the room toward him, both hands extended.

“Edward,” she said, “I have been enjoying a conversation with Lady Angeline Dudley, as you can see. We have both been agreeing that the Hicks ball last evening was a splendid event. Indeed, Lady Angeline believes that she has never enjoyed herself more in her life.”

Angeline smiled brightly.

“It was indeed a fine squeeze,” he said stiffly, keeping his eyes upon Miss Goddard. “I am sorry, Eunice. If I had known you had company, I would have gone away. I will do so now and come back another time.”

“No,” Angeline said, “I was just leaving. You must sit down, Lord Heyward. Not that it is my place to offer you a seat in Miss Goddard’s house—well, Lady Sanford’s house, but she is from home at the moment and so it is Miss Goddard’s place to tell guests where they may sit and if they may sit. But you must not feel obliged to curtail your visit just because I am here. I have stayed far too long already, and I daresay Miss Goddard is wishing me to perdition. I shall … go.”

“Lady Angeline came alone,” Miss Goddard said, looking only at the earl. “Her maid is indisposed. I shall send my own maid with her.”

“Oh, no—” Angeline began.

Lord Heyward fixed her with his very blue gaze. It looked ever so slightly hostile.

“Lady Angeline,” he said, “it will be my pleasure to escort you home. I am surprised that the Duke of Tresham and Lady Palmer allowed you to leave Dudley House alone.”

“Oh, they did not know,” she said, “and I have no intention of telling them. They would scold for a fortnight. I am quite capable of walking alone, however. I have not noticed footpads lurking on every corner, have you?”