Chapter Two
“Minnie!”
This time, when the voice came across the courtyard, Minnie didn’t startle. Her heart didn’t race. Instead, she found herself growing calmer, and a real smile took over her face. She turned to the speaker, holding out her hands. “Lydia,” she said warmly. “I am so glad to see you.”
“Where have you been?” Lydia asked. “I looked all over for you.”
She might have lied to anyone else. But Lydia… “Hiding,” Minnie returned. “Behind the davenport in the library.”
Anyone else would have taken that amiss. Lydia, however, knew Minnie as well as anyone ever could. She snorted and shook her head. “That’s so…so…”
“Ridiculous?”
“So unsurprising,” her friend answered. “I’m glad I found you, though. It’s time.”
“Time? Time for what?” There was nothing playing beside Beethoven today.
But her friend didn’t say anything. She simply took hold of Minnie’s elbow and walked her to the door of the mayor’s parlor.
Minnie planted her feet. “Lydia, I meant it. What time is it?”
“I knew you’d never suffer the introduction in the Great Hall with all those people about,” Lydia said with a smile. “So I asked Papa to keep watch in the parlor. It’s time for you to be introduced.”
“Introduced?” The courtyard was almost empty behind them. “To whom am I being introduced?”
Her friend wagged a finger at her. “You need to stay abreast of gossip. How is it possible that you do not know? He’s only twenty-eight years old, you know, and he has a reputation as a statesman—he’s widely credited with the Importation Compromise of 1860.”
Lydia said this as if she knew what that was—as if everyone knew about the Importation Compromise of 1860. Minnie had never heard of it before, and was fairly certain that Lydia hadn’t, either.
Lydia let out a blissful sigh. “And he’s here.”
“Yes, but who is he?” She cast another look at her friend. “And what do you mean by that sigh? You’re engaged.”
“Yes,” Lydia said, “And very, very happily so.”
One too many verys for believability, but as Minnie had never successfully argued the point before, there was no point in starting now.
“But you’re not engaged.” Lydia tugged on her hand. “Not yet. And in any event, what does reality have to do with imagination? Can you not once dream about yourself dressed in a gorgeous red silk, descending into a crowd of adoring masses with a handsome man at your side?”
Minnie could imagine it, but the masses in her imagination were never adoring. They shouted. They threw things. They called her names, and she had only to wait for a nightmare to experience it again.
“I’m not saying you must lay out funds for a wedding breakfast on the instant. Just dream. A little.” So saying, Lydia wrenched open the door.
There were only a handful of people in the room beyond. Mr. Charingford stood nearest the door, waiting for them. He greeted his daughter with a nod. The room was small, but the walls had been paneled in wood, the windows were stained glass, and the fireplace was adorned with carving. The Leicester coat of arms took pride of place on the far wall, and the heavy mayor’s chair stood at the front of the room.
That was where the few people had congregated—the mayor, his wife, Stevens, a man she didn’t recognize and… Minnie’s breath caught.
It was him. That blond-haired, blue-eyed man who’d spoken to her in the library. He’d looked far too young to be anyone important. More to the point, he’d seemed far too nice for it. To see the mayor dance attendance on him…
“You see?” Lydia said in a low voice. “I think even you could dream about him.”
Handsome and kind and important. The tug of her imagination was an almost visceral thing, leading her along paths paved with moonlit fantasies.
“Sometimes,” Minnie said, “if you believe in the impossible…”
She had been so young, when her father had been liked well enough that he was invited everywhere. Vienna. Paris. Rome. He’d had little to his credit aside from an old family name, an easy style of conversation, and a talent for chess-playing that was almost unsurpassed. He’d dreamed of the impossible, and he’d infected her with his madness.
All you have to do is believe, he’d told her from the time she was five. We don’t need wealth. We don’t need riches. We Lanes just believe harder than everyone else, and good things come to us.
And so she’d believed. She’d believed him so hard that there had been nothing to her but hollow belief when all his schemes had broken apart.
“If you believe in the impossible,” Lydia said, jerking her back to the present, “it might come true.”
“If you believe in the impossible,” Minnie said tartly, “you let go of what you have.”
There were no moonlit paths that led to this man. There was only a gentleman who had spoken kindly to her. That was it. No dreams. No fantasies.
“And you have so much to lose.” Lydia’s voice was mocking.
“I have a great deal to lose. Nobody points at me and whispers when I go down the street. Enraged mobs do not follow me seeking vengeance. Nobody throws stones.”
And strange men were still kind to her. He was unfairly handsome—no doubt that explained the gleam in Lydia’s eye. From what Lydia had said about importation, he was involved in politics. A Member of Parliament, perhaps? He seemed too young for that.
“So serious,” Lydia said, pulling a face. “Yes, you’re right. You could be spit upon and hailed as a complete monster. And perhaps you might be eaten by dragons. Be reasonable. Nothing of that ilk is even remotely possible. Since you can’t envision it for yourself, I’ll do it for you. For the next minute, I’m going to imagine that he’ll turn around and take one look at you…”
There was no need to imagine. He, whoever he was, turned at that moment. He looked at Lydia, who was bristling with excitement. She sank into a deep curtsey. Then his eyes rested on Minnie.
There you are, his gaze seemed to say. Or something like. Because a spark of recognition traveled through her. It wasn’t something as simple as seeing his face and finding it familiar. It was the sense that they knew one another, that their acquaintance ran deeper than a few moments spent together behind a davenport.
The man’s eyes traveled right, lighting on Lydia’s father standing by them. He took a few steps forward, abandoning the people around him. “Mr. Charingford, isn’t it?” he asked.
As he came closer, he caught Minnie’s eye once more and he gave her a slightly pained smile—one that tugged at some long-hidden memory.
If Mr. Charingford’s agitation hadn’t given her a hint, that smile would have convinced her. This man was someone important. It took her a moment to place that curious expression on his face—that small smile, paired with eyes that crinkled in something close to chagrin.
She’d seen it eight years ago on Willy Jenkins’s face. Willy Jenkins had been bigger than all the other boys his age—alarmingly so. At just fifteen years of age, he’d been six feet tall and almost thirteen stone in weight. He had the strength to fit his size, too. She’d seen him lift his two younger brothers, once, one in each hand.
Willy Jenkins was big and strong, and the other boys would have been frightened of him were it not for his smile.
Mr. Charingford gave an obsequious bow, so low that he almost doubled over. He scarcely choked the words out. “Might I present…?”
Mr. Charingford didn’t even assume that this man would allow the introduction—seemed to think that it would be perfectly good manners if he said no.
“By all means,” the man said. He met Minnie’s gaze; she looked away swiftly. “My circle of acquaintance is never so large that it cannot include more young ladies.” That apologetic smile again—Willy’s smile. It was the one Willy gave when he won at arm wrestling—and he had always won at arm wrestling. It was one that said: I’m sorry that I am
bigger than you and stronger than you. I’m always going to win, but I’ll try not to hurt you when I do. It was the smile of a man who knew he possessed considerable strength, and found it faintly embarrassing.
“So considerate,” Mr. Charingford said. “This is my daughter, Miss Lydia Charingford, and her friend, Miss Wilhelmina Pursling.”
The blond man bowed over Lydia’s hand—a faint inclination of his head—and reached to take Minnie’s fingers.
“Young ladies,” Mr. Charingford said, “this is Robert Alan Graydon Blaisdell.”
His eyes—a blue so lacking in color that it put her in mind of a lake in winter—met hers. That smile curled up at the corners, more chagrined than ever. His fingers touched hers, and even through their gloves his hand felt overly warm. Despite every ounce of good sense, Minnie could feel herself respond to him. Her smile peeked out to match his. In her imagination, for just that one moment, there were moonlit paths. And that silver light painted every bleak facet of her life in magic.
Beside her, Mr. Charingford swallowed, the sound audible at this distance. “He is, of course, His Grace, the Duke of Clermont.”
Minnie almost yanked her fingers back. A duke? A bloody duke had found her behind the sofa? No. No. Impossible.
Charingford indicated the other man by his side. “And his, uh, his man of business—”
“My friend,” the duke interrupted.
“Yes.” Charingford swallowed. “Of course. His friend, Mr. Oliver Marshall.”
“Miss Charingford. Miss Pursling,” the duke said, nodding to Lydia over Minnie’s shoulder. “All the pleasure in the introduction is surely mine.”
Minnie tipped her head slightly. “Your Grace,” she choked out.
The entire night was conspiring to destroy her. Her best friend’s fiancé thought she was engaging in sedition, and the Duke of Bloody Clermont could ruin her with a single word. That for her treacherous imagination. That for moonlit paths. That for even a moment’s contemplation of romance. Dreams failed, and when they fled, they left reality all the colder.
His Grace met her eyes just before Minnie took her leave. And once again, he gave her that sheepish smile. This time, she knew what it meant.
She was nothing. He had everything. And for what little it was worth, he was embarrassed by his own strength.
The carriage swayed, not smoothly, but in harsh back-and-forth jerks. Once, Minnie supposed, the springs had been new, and every bump in the road back to her great-aunts’ farm would not have been magnified into teeth-jarring jolts. But funds were scarce, and repairs were a luxury, one that her great-aunts could ill afford.
Her Great-Aunt Caroline sat on the bench across from Minnie, her cane poised over her knee. Next to her sat Elizabeth, less stooped but far more gray. They could not have looked more different if they had been picked from a crowd. Caro was tall and plump, while Eliza was short and angular. Caro’s hair was sleek and dark, with only a few gray strands; Eliza’s once-blond hair had become white and frizzled.
At their age, they should have been resting at home by the fire on a cold November night, not gallivanting out to attend musical evenings. But they had come with her, and now they wore twin expressions of grim dissatisfaction.
In the dark of night, shielded from the view of the man who drove the carriage, they’d joined hands for comfort.
And, as she always did, Minnie was about to make everything worse.
“Great-Aunt Caro. Great-Aunt Eliza.” Her voice was quiet in the velvet night, almost overwhelmed by the rattle of the wheels. “There’s something I have to tell you. It’s about Captain Stevens.”
The two women exchanged a long, lingering glance. “We know,” Great-Aunt Caro said. “We were wondering whether to mention it to you.”
“He’s looking into my past.”
The two women exchanged another slow look. But Caro was the one who eventually spoke. “It’s a setback, to be sure, but we’ve weathered worse setbacks before.”
Minnie shook her head. “He knows. Or he will. Soon. I don’t know what to do.”
Eliza reached over and patted Minnie on the knee. “You’re panicking,” she said softly. “Never panic; it tells others that something is wrong. Just remember, the truth is too outlandish to be considered. Nobody will ever guess.”
Minnie took a deep gulp of air, and then another.
“But—”
“In order to uncover the truth,” Eliza said, “he’d have to ask the right questions. And trust me, my dear. Nobody, but nobody, is ever going to ask whether your father passed you off as a boy for the first twelve years of your life.”
“Still, he only needs to suspect—”
“Stop. Minnie. Breathe. Working yourself into a state won’t accomplish anything.”
Easy for them to say. With her eyes shut, she could almost see the mob closing around her, harsh discordant shouts emanating from faces twisted by anger…
“It’s nothing,” Eliza said, awkwardly rearranging herself in the carriage so that she sat next to Minnie. She put her hand on Minnie’s shoulder. “It’s nothing. It’s nothing.” With each repetition, she smoothed Minnie’s hair. Each whisper brought greater calm, until Minnie could curb her rising panic. She locked that memory back in the past where it belonged, held it there until her vision stopped swimming and her breath returned to a regular cadence.
“That’s better,” Eliza said. “We’ll handle this. Stevens spoke to me as well. He thinks you’re lying to us—he suggested, in fact, that you might not be who you claimed, that you were taking advantage of our kindness.”
“Oh, God.” Minnie put her head in her hands.
“No, no,” Caro said. “This story is easier to combat, because it is so clearly false. There’s no need for us to even lie. I said that I’d been there the day you were born, that I promised your mother on her deathbed that I would see to your wellbeing, and that I didn’t appreciate his poking his nose in where it didn’t belong. When I told him that there was no way that you were some cuckoo thrust into our nest unawares, he believed me.” Caro gave a sharp nod. “He knows you’re my great-niece—no question about that. He suspects that something is not quite right, but I’ve made him very uncertain. He won’t do anything.”
“But I’m not.” Minnie gulped for air. “I’m not your great-niece. I’m—”
Caro reached out her cane and rapped Minnie smartly on the leg. “Don’t you speak like that. You know how it is.”
She did. For as long as Minnie could remember, she’d called both Caro and Eliza great-aunt, even though Eliza was her only blood relation. Almost fifty years ago, the two women had gone to finishing school together. They’d come out in London society at the same time. And when they failed to find men that they loved after a handful of Seasons, they had refused to marry for convenience. Instead, they’d retired together to the small farm that Caro owned just outside of Leicester—friends and spinsters for the remainder of their lives. They were as close as sisters. Closer, Minnie suspected.
“Don’t you worry,” Eliza said. “I did promise your mother. We both did.” Her voice shook. “I failed her once, to my great shame. Never again.”
Minnie reached up and touched the scar on her cheek. When she was a child, she’d thought herself invulnerable. Other people might falter and fail, but she could not. The very brazenness of what she’d achieved was matched only by how far she’d fallen after. She could still remember lying in the dark, not knowing if she’d have the use of her eye again. That was when her great-aunts had come for her.
“If you come with us,” Caro had told her, “you’ll have a chance.”
They had offered not the glittering, glamorous life that most young girls dreamed about. If she came with her great-aunts, she could expect a frugal life. An assumed name. She’d have a few years of childhood, followed by a little time to meet the local men in town. She might marry and have children. There would be no fame, no adulation. They could provide her only one benefit: a futu
re without angry mobs.
Her great-aunts had sacrificed so much to give her that bare, gray chance. They’d scraped pennies so that she could have a respectable wardrobe once she was old enough to go out in mixed company. They never complained, but Minnie knew why there was no sugar in their tea. She knew why they’d—regretfully—let their subscription to the lending library lapse. They’d sacrificed every comfort of their old age for Minnie.
And she didn’t even have the grace to want what they had so generously won for her.
“Maybe,” she suggested, “maybe if we tell Captain Stevens the truth…”
Her great-aunts stared at her in dismay. “Minnie,” Eliza said slowly. “Darling. After all this time! You know you must never do that.”
Caro picked up where Eliza had left off. “These rules we made for you—they’re not intended to be strictures. Or punishments. We made them because we love you. Because we want you to have a future. Isn’t Walter Gardley sweet on you? Because if you could catch him, and marry him quickly…that might be a good idea.”
“Yes,” Caro echoed, nodding. “That would be a very good idea. All Stevens’s wild imaginings will lose force once you’re married to a distiller’s son. Then it would be your own livelihood at stake should the workers organize. Marriage would secure not only your future, but your credentials.”
Nothing she hadn’t thought to herself before.
She’d known what a coup it was to get even that. For a girl with no dowry and only middling looks, any man was a catch. Even if he wanted her because he thought she would suffer his boorish behavior in silence. And yet she couldn’t muster even the smallest iota of enthusiasm over the prospect.
“I heard him talking,” Minnie choked out. “He said I was a mouse—that I’d keep my peace while he took a mistress.”
Caro and Eliza looked at one another.
“You don’t have to marry him,” Eliza said slowly. “Of course you don’t, if it will make you unhappy. But before you refuse, please consider what your other choices would be. I might counsel you to wait.” That was said with a dubious frown, one that said a second, preferable proposal was unlikely to come as Minnie aged. “If there’s the smallest chance that Stevens might hit on the truth…” She trailed off.
She didn’t need to voice the words. If the truth came out, there wouldn’t be another offer.
Minnie hadn’t lied to the Duke of Clermont. Gardley was the best she could hope for—a man who knew only that she grew quiet in crowds. A man who preferred her quiet. He hadn’t bothered to discover a single thing about her: her favorite color, her favorite food. But then, it would be safer to marry a man who wanted to know nothing of her.
Miss Wilhelmina Pursling would be pathetically grateful to Gardley for an offer of marriage. But Minerva Lane, on the other hand…
“He doesn’t even know who I am,” she said. “He called me a little rodent. Minerva Lane was never a rodent.”
“Don’t say that name.” Eliza’s voice was quiet but alarmed. Her hand pressed against Minnie’s knees, clutching.
“Keep quiet,” Caro said. “It never does to speak the truth.”
Keep quiet. Don’t panic. Never tell anyone the truth. She’d lived with their rules for twelve years, and for what? So that she might one day be so lucky as to be forgotten entirely.
The memory of Minerva Lane—of who she’d been, what she’d done—felt like a hot coal covered in cold ashes. It smoldered on long after the fire had been doused. Sometimes, all that heat rose up in her until she felt the need to shriek like a teapot. Until she wanted to burn the mousy shreds of her tattered personality.
It rose up in her now, that fiery rebellion.
The part of her that was still Minerva—the part that hadn’t been ground to smoothness—whispered temptation in her ear. You don’t need to keep quiet. You need a strategy.
No strategies. Her great-aunts really would protest, if they knew that she contemplated taking action. It had been years since she’d allowed herself to do so.
Stevens thinks you’re writing the pamphlets. You know you’re not. So find out who’s doing it.
Stupid. Foolish. Idiotic. Impossible.
But it didn’t matter how she browbeat herself; the insidious thought wouldn’t leave. How could she find out who’d done it? It could be anyone.
No, it can’t. You know it’s not Captain Stevens. Not your great-aunts. Not yourself. If she could figure out who couldn’t have done it, only the guilty would remain. By process of elimination…
No, you fool. There are hundreds that could be to blame. Thousands.
But having given herself a task, it was nearly impossible to shut down her thoughts. There were those block-letter capitals, the exclamation points. Paragraphs of text, describing the factory owners and their offspring. Something was odd there.
And then, for some reason, she thought about something else entirely. Minnie knew why she had been hiding behind the davenport. She’d been avoiding the crowds and Gardley’s proposal.
But why on earth had the Duke of Clermont been there?
ORGANIZE, ORGANIZE, ORGANIZE!!!!
And how strange was that smile of his—that friendly smile, slightly abashed? When would a duke ever have learned to apologize for being what he was?
No, there was definitely something odd there. Something…
The realization hit her with a force so blinding that the carriage almost seemed to disappear in a flash of light.
Moments like these were one of the reasons it had been so lovely to be Minerva Lane. There were times when it felt like words were mere threads, completely inadequate to contain the enormity of her thoughts. The landscape in her head rearranged with tectonic vigor, coming together with a certainty that was larger than her ability to explain.
And like that, even though she knew she shouldn’t—even though she knew how dangerous it was to strategize—Minnie knew what she needed to do. The plan fell into her lap with full force.
It was not the kind of thing that the rodent-like Miss Pursling would consider. But Minerva Lane, now—she knew what to do.
And thank God, she wasn’t going to have to marry Walter Gardley immediately.
Maybe one day she would. But if she could keep Stevens from suspecting her, she might be able to put him off for months. And maybe—just maybe—something better would come along.