At this moment, talking was exactly what I needed. I found myself telling her everything, from the moment I’d met Lady Clifford in Grenville’s private sitting room to my evening at Lady Breckenridge’s musicale. I did not know how much of this Marianne already knew, but she listened with interest to my tale.
When I finished, I did indeed feel better. Quieter in mind, ready to let it all go for now and seek sleep.
“Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale,” Marianne said thoughtfully. “At each other’s throats one minute, oozing affection for each other the next, then back to baleful glares? Do I have the right of it?”
“So Lady Breckenridge tells me. And now Lady Clifford has entirely changed her mind about accusing her rival and wanting me to investigate the matter. Damn the woman.”
“Her rival,” Marianne repeated. She went silent as she settled down and arranged the covers over her. “I’ve been an actress for a while, you know. I’ve worked in several companies, both meager and great. When you are thrown side by side with men and women for long stretches at a time, where modesty and politeness go hang, you learn much about people.”
“Seven or eight in a bed helps with that, presumably.”
“Exactly. Menandwomen stuffed together. No privacy at all—for anything. Privacy is for the wealthy. What you describe of Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale I’ve observed before, several times. Lowly actresses or highborn ladies, there really is not much difference, despite what people say.”
“A love triangle is a triangle, no matter where it is placed, you mean?” I agreed with her. In the army, I had been thrown into close contact with men and women of all walks of life. Though rigorous care might be taken to separate the ranks, we all bathed, ate, loved, and died together.
“I mean that you are viewing the love triangle, if there is one, the wrong way around,” Marianne said. “Not Lord and Lady Clifford broken apart by Mrs. Dale. I mean Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale, broken apart by the maid, Waters.”
My eyes opened. “Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale?”
Marianne laughed. “Gentlemen are so shocked when they learn that women do not prefer them. It grates on their pride, I believe. But it happens more often than you like to think, and can you blame them? Men like Lord Clifford can be quite awful.”
I lay still, thinking of the tangle in light of Marianne’s speculations. “Lady Breckenridge never put forth this idea.”
“Because Lady Breckenridge has no use for other women, and so she does not watch them particularly closely. As horrible as her own husband was, she would never turn to ladies for consolation. And so, she might not recognize the need in others.”
I turned my head to look at Marianne, unashamedly stretched out beside me, her head on my pillow. “And you?”
She shrugged. “I too, have little use for women, but I’ve been thrown among them far more than has your Lady Breckenridge. Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale sound like lovers who had a falling out over something. Or someone. This Waters, is she pretty? And I imagine that Mrs. Dale has no choice but to comply when Lord Clifford makes advances to her. He could turn her out of his house, after all, if she resists.”
And Mrs. Dale had professed to have nowhere else to go.
I let out a breath. “Good God.”
“Think of it that way, and I’m certain it will help. Good night.”
So saying, Marianne turned over, dragged the quilts over her, and fell fast asleep. Or at least, she pretended to.
Marianne had given me much to think about. Most people would believe, as I had, that Mrs. Dale and Lady Clifford were enraged at each other because of Lord Clifford’s amorousness. Two women fighting to possess the same man.
But thinking on what Lady Breckenridge had told me, both women thoroughly disliked the bullying Lord Clifford. A romance between the ladies, on the other hand, especially if they’d quarreled over Lady Clifford’s affection for her maid Waters, might explain Lady Clifford’s spiteful accusation that Mrs. Dale had taken the necklace. It would explain her about-face on the matter as well.
Perhaps it hadn’t been brought home to Lady Clifford what could happen to Mrs. Dale—Newgate, ignominy, hanging—until the maid, Waters, had returned to describe her harrowing ordeal.
It also threw into new light Lady Breckenridge’s observation of the two women crying and hugging over the missing knitting basket. They’d been comforting each other after Lord Clifford’s harangue—lovers who cared more about each other than for the brutal man who bullied them both.
Mrs. Dale had begged Lord Clifford to help bring Waters home. Because she felt sorry for her “dear Marguerite” and wanted to spare her more pain? Or to try to restore peace between herself and Lady Clifford? Both, possibly.
“Hell, Marianne,” I said.
Marianne only snored.
**
True to her word, Marianne was gone before I woke. The window showed sunshine, the rain finished for now, the bed beside me empty. I heard Bartholomew in my front room, and a moment later, he strode into my bedchamber with his usual energy, coffee balanced on a tray.
“Did you not see your nightshirt?” he asked when he saw me in my underclothes. The garment lay across the bed again as though it had never been worn.
“I didn’t bother to make a light,” I said, extemporizing. “I was exhausted.”
