“I shall inquire on your behalf.” Benson gave a sight bow and retreated.
Ottilie repositioned herself on the settee and pulled Violet’s letter from the envelope.
My Dearest Ottilie,
We are enjoying a wonderful summer escape at Margate. The twins are thrilled to be outdoors, playing in the sand and running barefoot on the shore. The weather is delightful. Mr. Thomas has been spoiling the children with far too much ice cream and too many sweets. Just yesterday evening, both children complained of stomachache and refused to eat their supper!
We do wish you had joined us here in Margate, but it must be lovely to see your cousin and aunt again. How is the London Season? I have a mental image of you rolling your eyes when you read those words. I remember when my Aunt Prudence, God rest her soul, tried to convince me that I needed a “suitable” husband. I resented her advice at the time, but now I see she only wanted the best for me. Keep that in mind and be gentle with Lady Hudsyn. But don’t let her steal you away from us. The young ladies at Canterbury Ladies’ College would be lost without their brilliant mathematics instructor—so before some handsome lord casts a spell over you, let him know he will have to move to Canterbury and learn how to keep a house while you tend to the future of women’s education.
Ottilie laughed out loud, then she lowered the letter and sighed. She valued her independence above all else, but sometimes her heart ached for want of a family. She longed for what Violet had but understood that a man like Byron Thomas, who treated his wife as his equal, was a rare breed. Even her mama, a dedicated bluestocking, had been betrayed by two husbands.
She recalled the shock and pain she’d felt upon realizing her stepfather’s betrayal. His rush to the altar two weeks after her mama’s sudden death and six months before the birth of his twin boys made it clear that his new relationship had begun well before his marriage ended. Had her mama known? Did his betrayal contribute to her sudden demise? Ottilie might never know. But her stepfather’s current wife did not take kindly to her speculations and so determined her husband had no further obligation to stay in contact with his stepdaughter, who was not even of his blood.
Ottilie wrapped her arms around herself. After two years, the betrayal was still as sharp as a viper’s fangs. Would she ever find a man confident enough to allow his wife her dignity and independence while remaining loyal enough to cherish his family over all else? Perhaps if she fell down a rabbit hole like little Alice? Ottilie scoffed at the thought and picked up Violet’s letter, reading where she’d left off:
Turning to another matter, I recently read about a scandal involving the author, Jack Bastin. They say a French merchant’s wife attacked him during a ball held at her Mayfair townhome. I suppose all of society is in a twitter about it. The newspapers here in Margate declare Mr. Bastin is innocent and condemn the French woman as being deranged. They report that she attacked two innocent bystanders—throwing a glass at one and drawing blood from another with her bare hands! I am certain these are exaggerated claims. Still, it is fascinating to think a famous author like Mr. Bastin is making the rounds during the London Season the same time as you! I do admire his writing, and the thought of you getting a chance to meet him is almost too good to be true. Of course, if you get that chance, you must remember to mention our college to him. Wouldn’t it be marvelous for our students if we were to secure a live reading from Mr. Jack Bastin himself? It is worth a try before he becomes too famous and out of our reach.
I am afraid I must end this letter as the twins want their bedtime story. Do write soon and tell us all your news. The children miss you terribly and send kisses to their “Aunt Tillie.” I hope you are having a marvelous summer.
Yours forever faithful and affectionate friend,
Violet
A smile formed on Ottilie’s lips, and she pressed the letter against her chest. She desperately wanted to write and tell Violet her news, but she couldn’t risk disappointing her friend. It was best to secure an agreement from Mr. Bastin, and then she’d have the pleasure of surprising Violet with the good news. But she would have to act quickly and take advantage of her aunt’s decision to keep to her bedchamber, which would make it easier for her to venture out unnoticed. Ottilie’s insides fluttered despite her refusal to acknowledge her overwhelming desire to see Mr. Bastin again.
Chapter Seven
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notesintendeth,
Which now my breast, surcharg’d, to musiclendeth?
To you, to you all song of praise isdue,
Only in you, my song begins andendeth.
—Sir Phillip Sydney,Astrophel and Stella
Ottilie stood inthe servant’s courtyard of her aunt’s residence and adjusted the oversized hood of her cloak. She needed to ensure it hid all her blond tendrils and shadowed a good portion of her face. Gossips inhabited many of the townhomes in Berkeley Square, and if anyone were to recognize her leaving the house unaccompanied, another quarrel with her aunt would certainly ensue. Her adjustments completed, she ascended the outdoor staircase and pushed open the wrought iron gate at the top of the stairs. Taking care to keep her head bowed, she stepped onto the street and scurried across the square, hoping she looked like a humble servant on a rushed errand for her mistress.
It took only a few minutes to arrive at Half Moon Street and locate Mr. Bastin’s red-bricked townhome with its contrasting white Palladian windows. Ottilie took a deep breath to steady her nerves before stepping onto the portico. The front door swung open, and she stumbled back in fright.
“Whoa!” A leather-gloved hand gripped her arm. “Watch where you’re walkin, Little Lady. You almost ran me down.”
Mr. Bastin’s American valet stood before her, looking considerably less disheveled in a three-piece suit and blue cravat than the last time she’d seen him.
“You startled me.” Ottilie steadied herself on her feet and put her hand to her chest to still the wild drumming of her heart.
“What are you doin’ prowlin’ out here like a horse thief?” The valet frowned down at her.
“What? I—I’m here to see Mr. Bastin.”
“Course you are. But Bastin’s a busy man, an’ he don’t need no women comin’ round here waking snakes.”
Ottilie blinked. Was this man speaking English? She could not make any sense of his words. “I think you misunderstand. I’m Miss Hamilton. Lord Hudsyn’s cousin. I visited here with him last week.”
The cowboy hooked his thumbs in his belt and examined her with steel-gray eyes. Then his countenance relaxed. “I remember you. Miss Favor, right?”
Ottilie frowned.
