Mama in her mobcap, which covered her straight dark hair, worked on her knitting. Mrs. Jordan, who couldn’t be much older than Ester, was on the opposite end doing needlepoint. Not a word was exchanged. Were the ladies dutifully waiting on their husbands to tell them what to do, when to stand, what to think?
Of course they were. That’s why Clancy’s tray was untouched and the room had no conversation, no life. Ester couldn’t turn into one of those women with no opinions about anything but colored yarn.
“Mama.” Ester coughed to loosen her tongue then tried again. “Mama, I’m leaving for my appointment.”
Her mother slowly turned her face to her. The woman’s light skin had yellowed to a pale gold with age, and her eyes, forest green, looked small, as if she refused to see trouble. “You, should stay and visit with Mrs. Jordan.”
Stay in the parlor? And make small talk about current and future cheating spouses? Not today, Satan. Ester tugged at her sleeve. “Mama, I am to meet Miss Burghley for tea. Remember?”
“You let her visit with Miss Burghley, the Duke of Simone’s…daughter?” Mrs. Jordan sprang to life as her nose turned up in the air. “Mrs. Croome, is that wise?”
Ester held her breath and closed her eyes, hoping that her mother would say something to defend the prejudice that surrounded someone as dear as her friend. Frederica Burghley was Simone’s illegitimate daughter, but that wasn’t her fault any more than it was Mama’s for Papa’s failings—like what had been detailed in the horrible letters that Ester had found last Christmas. It had changed her father from a hero in her eyes to someone like the Jordans—known womanizers and opportunists.
When she heard the sound of tea pouring, drip-drip-splash, she blinked, then stared.
No words.
No defense of Frederica.
Nothing of what a good person Frederica was.
Nothing but brown liquid spitting from a fine silver pot into bone china cups.
“You should really stay, Ester,” Mama said, “but I know you have an appointment. Be back as soon as you can. I’ll need your help. My party starts at seven sharp.”
As silent as a mouse, Ester turned. Out the door she started to run. She’d catch a hackney if Clancy hadn’t ordered the carriage. Lucky for her, it sat at the steps. She climbed aboard the onyx berlin carriage. Its well-matched pair of ebony horses took off like their tails had been set on fire. One thing Ester knew right now. She couldn’t be a couch woman waiting for a man to say when to jump, or move, or breathe.
…
It didn’t take long to reach the White Horse Cellar, the coaching inn nearest the Burlingame Arcade. Ester sighed as she adjusted her bonnet again. She wanted to be supportive of Frederica’s attempt at making a match by newspaper advertisement. It had been Ester’s idea for her friends to solicit husbands through theMorning Post. She should’ve dictated one for herself, but that would be like cheating on her fantasy “lover,” Arthur Bex, as Papa had put it. If only she’d spoken to Bex at Theodosia’s party last year. Maybe he’d have noticed her, a girl from the wrong side of town.
Lifting her chin, Ester decided to do what she’d done at Christmas, to pretend to be happy. She’d be an actress and play the part of a dear friend, one with no troubles.
A groom helped her down. With her sketchbook in tow, she crossed the busy courtyard filled with travelers to the big gold and black carriage of the Duke of Simone. She tapped on the door.
Dark brown curls with sun streaks bounced as Frederica Burghley popped her head out. “I thought you’d abandoned me.”
“Never.” Ester meant that with every part of her heart.
Handed down by one of her trusted grooms, Frederica looked resplendent in a short indigo velvet pelisse over her gown, a fine ebony bonnet upon her head. “No, you’d never do that. You’re loyal and predictable. Those are qualities I now treasure.”
The two had grown closer since their friend Theodosia had married. And though Frederica tweaked Ester’s nose about her caution, Ester knew the girl was right. Shyness and caution were weaknesses, ones her father had counted upon, so she’d comply with the sham marriage.
“You did remember to wear dark colors,” Ester said.
“I miss color.” Frederica sighed.
Ester did, too. They brought her sketches to life. “Mourning for the king is still occurring. Two women like us at a coaching inn are hard to ignore. Bright colors would be taken for an offense. We must be careful.”
“I hear radicals meet in the cellar. If my newspaper prospect is dull, we could join a conspiracy.” Frederica giggled, but the light tones fell flat. She tugged at the sleeve of her jacket with pleated butterfly embroidery at the waist. “Safety is an issue but so is security. This meeting has to work. With the duke thinking of marrying again, he’s been looking into arrangements for me. Old men, friends of his, readying for a second or third wife, orother.”
Frederica’s voice could have been a bell, ringing of pain, foretelling every fear. The other…a fancy or mistress…as Frederica’s mother had been to the duke—it was a fate worse than death for a girl who wanted honor and respect.
Ester gripped her friend’s hand. “You will be all that you can be, and you will choose a great husband.” She nudged Frederica toward the rugged door of the coaching inn. “I wish I were you.”
Her friend stopped, planting her short boots in the dusty fairway. “Wait. You’ve never… All the years we’ve known each other, and you have never said that. What has happened?”
Jerking like she’d flubbed a line or been caught reading Mama’s papers, Ester flinched. “It doesn’t matter. Your newspaper groom is waiting inside.”
