Shoving herself back from the table, Noelle rushed from the halcyon room to confront her hostess. The sound of voices within led her to the proper door. She had just raised her fist to bang on the door when she heard an indignant exclamation.
'It's a disgrace; that's what it is, ma'am. Mr. Quinn marrying a common harlot and her livin' right here with us.'
In the sitting room, unaware that they were being overheard, Constance was engaged in a painful interview with Violet Finch, her housekeeper and cook. Mrs. Finch, one of the few cooks in England who had totally mastered French cuisine, had been Constance's prize employee for eleven years. Her kitchen had helped make the Peale dinner parties legendary with offerings such as a ratatouille that breathed of the shores of Provence,
However, as Constance had long ago discovered, having Mrs. Finch in her employ was a mixed blessing, for she had a strong sense of the way things should be and was indignant when others saw differently. For over a decade, Constance had been soothing her cook's ruffled feathers, for she had no intention of losing the irreplaceable services of Violet Finch.
'A harlot! Come now, Mrs. Finch, where on earth did you hear that?'
As if I didn't know, thought Constance, imagining the interrogation poor Letty had suffered at the hands of Mrs. Finch. She should have warned her last night to keep silent. Not that it would have been much use. Mrs. Finch's methods would have done the Spanish Inquisition proud.
'I got it from Letty, ma'am.' The cook pursed her thin lips sanctimoniously. 'As you well know, I consider it my Christian duty to watch over the girl and see that she doesn't fall into bad ways. I must admit, Mrs. Peale, I was that surprised last night when you told me the… person… was to be your guest. Dressed as she was, I'd taken her for a new maid. And then, when Letty told me how she'd had her face all painted and been wearin' a harlot's dress that left her bosom to no one's imagination… I don't want to upset you, ma'am, but I felt my heart palpitations comin' on again.'
Curse you and your heart palpitations! Constance wanted to shriek. What a muddle this was turning into.
'Now, now, my dear Mrs. Finch, it is most unlike you to judge someone by such thin evidence. I am not at liberty to divulge the circumstances behind Mr. Copeland's marriage, but I can assure you that Mrs. Copeland is not, nor has she ever been, a harlot.' Constance managed to look deeply offended.
Somewhat subdued, but certainly not satisfied, Mrs. Finch protested, 'But the way she was dressed? And what about that hair?'
Constance delicately pressed her hand to the base of her throat. 'Come now, Mrs. Finch, surely you would not have me break a solemn oath!' She appeared to think for a moment. 'Perhaps it is just as well this has come up after all, for now I can approach you openly. As you can imagine, I am in dire need of a confidante, a woman of discretion and great Christian charity. Yes, Mrs. Finch, I see that I have no choice but to cast myself on your tender mercies.'
The cook's plump face beamed with pleasure. 'Mrs. Peale, you know you may depend on me. It's difficult for you, bein' a woman alone without the counsel of a husband. Ever since the death of Mr. Peale, God rest his soul, I've been sayin' to myself-'
'Quite so,' Constance interrupted smoothly. 'As you have realized, the new Mrs. Copeland is not a woman of, shall we say, the breeding one would expect of a Copeland bride. She is, alas, a poor, defenseless creature, too ignorant to deal with even the simplest demands made upon her.' Forgive me, Noelle, Constance thought ruefully, but Violet Finch's cooking is my Achilles' heel.
'It is useless for me to pretend that she will be anything but a great burden to us.' At this pronouncement, Mrs. Finch, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction, gave a great sigh. 'However, I hope I know my duty when I see it. When Mr. Simon Copeland pleaded with me to take her in… well, what else could I do?' Shrugging her shoulders pitifully, Constance Peale was a portrait of helplessness.
'You did right,' the cook pronounced, her lips set in a determined line. 'Now, you just stop fretting, ma'am, and leave everything to me. The staff will treat the poor creature well, or they'll have to answer to Violet Finch.'
Noelle, her cheeks burning with humiliation, fled back to her bedroom and had barely shut the door before she heard Mrs. Finch's footsteps disappearing self-righteously down the hallway.
As she sank down in front of the dressing table she caught sight of her reflection in the gilded mirror. Dressed as she was, with her crudely dyed hair, skin so unhealthily pale it seemed almost waxen, and great sunken eyes, she appeared exactly as they had characterized her, an object of charity. 'Poor defenseless creature.' 'Ignorant.' 'Great burden.' The words stung like a slap. On the streets they had called her 'Highness'; she had been respected, even feared by some.
Leaping up from the dressing table, she vowed that they were not going to do this to her. She would not be sniveled over with talk of Christian charity. They could all go to hell; she was going back to London!
In her exhaustion of the night before, she had thrown her bundle under the bed. Now she retrieved it and tossed it on top of the bedcovers. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons on the bodice of the brown merino. She would not take this charity dress with her; she would rather walk to London in the hated emerald gown. Cursing herself under her breath for her stupidity in ever having agreed to leave London, she peeled the brown dress off and, standing in her undergarments, began unwrapping her bundle. Angry tears coursed down her cheeks as she pulled out the gown, but she paid them no heed. She was not taking anyone's charity!
Unbidden, Simon Copeland's words began assaulting her. 'Will you hang up a coat and train him to be a pickpocket?' he had sneered. 'Deflowering a virgin will cure them of the French pox.'
'No,' she sobbed aloud, but his words continued echoing in her mind.
'What if it's a girl? What if it's a girl? A girl… a girl…'
With a strangled cry, Noelle threw the emerald dress down on the bed. 'God damn them!'
She was trapped. No matter how much she suffered, she could not risk leaving here until she knew if she was carrying a child. Her dreams were already haunted by the starving children she saw every day, their bellies swollen with hunger, their faces empty and hopeless. Forfeiting her pride was a small price to pay to insure that a child of her body would never be among them.
She consoled herself with the reminder that, if she were not pregnant, it would only be a matter of weeks before she could leave this luxurious prison.
And if she were? Her stomach knotted at the thought. If she were pregnant, she would be forced to accept their charity until the birth. It would be a bitter sacrifice, but when she had delivered, she could leave the baby to the protection of these wealthy people, knowing it would be well cared for. Then she would be able to return to the freedom of her old life.
Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she pulled the brown dress back on. It sickened her that she was going to be forced to accept Constance Peale's smug charity. At least no one would ever know that she had overheard the women's conversation; that much of her pride she could salvage.
As she angrily stuffed the green gown back into the worn sack, her hand skimmed against the knife she had stolen from Simon's kitchen. Thoughtfully she lifted it out and set it on the bedcovers. She would have at least one friend while she was in this house! Tearing a ragged strip from her chemise, she strapped the weapon to her calf, then reluctantly faced the door, determined to go through with her interview. 'I'm going to make that woman wish she hadn't been so quick to do her Christian duty,' Noelle pledged as she took a deep breath and once again crossed the hallway.
She attacked Constance's door with three ferocious knocks.
'Come in,' her hostess's voice racg out.
Constance's sitting room and adjoining bedroom were delicate pink and green confections. Benjamin himself had purchased the hand-painted wallpaper in Canton as an anniversary gift for his wife. From the top of the painted wainscoting to the ceiling, a filigree of pale green bamboo climbed the walls. Tiny figures dressed in shell pink robes and carrying gossamer parasols adomed the paper at eye level. There were lacquered chests, Chinese vases, and porcelain figures. The same pink of the wallpaper figures was repeated in the silk bed hanging and the Chippendale chaise on which Constance reclined.
She wore a lime-green froth of ribbons and deep lace that rustled softly as she set aside some papers she had been studying.
'Noelle, my child, I'm delighted to see you. I trust you slept well.' Her nose wrinkled becomingly as she smiled
