A Lady’s Code of Misconduct Page 13

  Excitement leapt through her. “Do you mean it?”

  “Of course,” he said. “The day is yours, m’lady.” He sketched a mock bow.

  A thousand possibilities raced through her brain. At Marylebigh, she had made a study of Baedeker’s Guide to London—the Crystal Palace, the zoo, the Tower, the British Museum.

  But there was one place above all that she wished to go. Since her girlhood, she had desired to see it.

  “I—”

  A hand seized her arm.

  “Here’s a surprise,” sneered Archibald.

  Instantly Crispin was between them. She could not tell what he did—one moment he had taken hold of Archibald’s wrist, and the next, her cousin cried out and staggered backward, clutching his wounded hand.

  “That’s assault!” he shrilled. “I’ll summon the police!”

  “I’ll summon them for you,” Crispin said coldly.

  In the distance, Jane spied her aunt, who had just stepped out of a milliner’s shop. As their eyes met, Aunt Mary’s lips curled as though she’d tasted a lemon.

  Where was the coach? Jane’s heart was thudding. There was nothing these two could do to her, but still—

  “We won’t sign your papers,” Archibald spat. “If it’s our fortune you were counting on, prepare yourself for the poorhouse. You’re done for, Burke.”

  “Your fortune?” Jane forgot her trepidation. “You mean my father’s fortune, which you failed to steal!”

  Aunt Mary drew up. “Is this anything to discuss on the street?” she hissed. “Archibald, go fetch the coach. Jane—” Her eyes fell to the wedding ring on Jane’s finger, and she scoffed. “Economizing already, I see. I hope you grow accustomed to it.”

  “Come,” Crispin said, steering Jane toward the curb.

  “And you—you’ve run mad,” came Aunt Mary’s voice from behind them. “Do you really imagine that my husband won’t act? His secrets are your secrets, Burke. Don’t think he’ll fear to use them.”

  Crispin pivoted, fixing her aunt with a look that made Jane’s blood run cold.

  Mary took a step backward, her hand at her throat.

  “C-Crispin?” Jane’s lips felt frozen. She did not know if it was Crispin whom she was addressing any longer.

  But his gentle touch on her shoulder answered that question. Mr. Burke hadn’t yet returned. He silently urged her into the waiting coach, then rapped the ceiling to alert the driver to move onward.

  Only once they were well under way did he speak. “Secrets,” he said darkly. “What secrets did she mean?”

  * * *

  “The new residence marks a great step forward for us.” Elizabeth Reid spoke haltingly, as though each word were a great and grave charge in itself, to be delivered with care. Her hair was snow white, her face deeply lined. She had the habit of squinting through her wire-rimmed spectacles, as if prepared, by nature, to doubt what she saw.

  Crispin’s wife, who sat across from Mrs. Reid, strained forward to hear better. Jane’s face was flushed; since setting foot on the curb in front of the brownstone, she’d seemed wracked by some private, building emotion. “Bedford College,” she had whispered, hushed and reverent, as though beholding a miracle.

  The sight of her, in that moment, had taken his breath away. His wife schooled her passions so well that in those rare moments when they overwhelmed her, one found oneself startled, transfixed, by the vivid beauty of her face. Olive skin, smooth and poreless; eyes as bright and luminous as stars.

  He was tired. Increasingly dizzy. But he would not rush her, nor show any sign of exhaustion. He would give her the day she deserved, because she, all unwittingly, had given him something he’d very much needed: a clear view, at last, of his wife, unguarded and enchanting and utterly irresistible. He would gladly bring her here every day simply to see that expression—and to satisfy his intense curiosity about what else might cause her to glow.

  The building itself offered no clues. It was unprepossessing, three stories of plain brick—well situated in a shady green square at the heart of Bloomsbury, but hardly large enough, Crispin had thought, to lay claim to the collegiate title.

  Once inside, though, he’d realized the cause for its modesty. A flock of students had passed by—every one in skirts, their lecture notes gripped in kidskin gloves.

  In this college, the students were women.

  “I think your father would have been very pleased,” Mrs. Reid said. She paused to cough; the room was cramped and dark, choked with the smells of paper and leather and wood smoke. “You will not recall—you are too young—but we faced a great deal of opposition in the early days. Unitarians were not looked on so kindly then. Your father did us a great favor by lending his support.”

  “That is wonderful to hear, ma’am.” His wife sounded transported. That husky note in her voice—what might he do to lure it out? Surely she did not reserve it only for schoolmistresses. “And I do remember how very much he believed in your mission. Why, he teased me that one day I might have the good fortune to enroll.”

  Mrs. Reid’s laughter was cracked and phlegmy. “And why don’t you, my dear?”

  “Oh . . .” Jane’s smile looked wistful. “I’m afraid it’s too late.”

  “But what rubbish!” Mrs. Reid caught Crispin’s eye. “We have several matrons enrolled in our courses. Perhaps your wife will join them. And if not—why, we’re always in need of Lady Visitors, volunteers who chaperone our younger pupils.”

  Chaperone? Could anyone look at his wife and imagine her as a chaperone? The full, pouting curve of her lower lip, the tender cove beneath it—the swell of her bosom, the sinuous curve of her waist—to imagine her as the face of virtuous rectitude felt like a travesty. A great wonder, wasted.

  “I’d have no objection to it,” he said.

  Mrs. Reid gave him a benevolent smile, but Jane’s looked far more uncertain. Surely she didn’t doubt her own aptitude? It only took a minute in her presence to recognize she had a very fine mind. Among other things. Her hoops disguised the poetry of her hips, but on two rare and precious occasions, when he’d glimpsed her in a robe—

  Irritated with himself, Crispin turned to look out the doorway. This was neither the time nor the place to lose control over himself. In a women’s college, of all places—

  A women’s college! Amazing that he’d not known such things existed. Of course, a good deal of society still argued that a woman’s only place was in the home. But with women now employed as telegraph clerks, at the post office, and for the newspapers, it seemed strange to him that Bedford College remained as small as it was.

  “If there is anything else I can do,” Jane said from behind him, “I hope you will let me know. My father . . . I’m quite certain he would have extended his support. His passing was so sudden . . . there was no time to make bequests.”

  “It has been a struggle of late,” came Mrs. Reid’s slow reply, “to keep a ready stable of lecturers. Most of them come from University College, you know, and we cannot match the salaries which their expertise might lead them to expect. And they find it a challenge, I believe, to adapt their materials to an audience that was not raised to the same scholastic standards as young men.”

  “I quite understand,” said his wife. “I fear I cannot be of immediate help, but very soon, I hope within the month, I might be in a position to make a sizable donation—”

  Crispin wheeled back. “Why not now? How much is required, Mrs. Reid? Think ambitiously, if you please; I mean to make it my wedding gift to my bride.”

  Jane turned toward him, the surprise in her face already all the repayment he could hope for.

  “That is very kind of you,” Mrs. Reid said—her speech abruptly brisk, her posture straighter, and her gaze hawkish. “I believe fifty pounds should make a fine start, Mr. Burke, but if you could find it in your heart to look ahead to next year, a hundred would—”

  “Five hundred,” he said with a wink to his gaping wife. “I am always thinking
of the future.”

  * * *

  “It’s remarkable,” Crispin murmured into her ear. They stood side by side at the back of the lecture hall, watching a dozen women bend their heads over their notes as a stentorian lecturer explained the meaning of the striations of rocks deep beneath the surface of the earth.

  Jane drew a full, joyous breath. She felt too full, actually—overflowing with joy. “This was my mother’s dream,” she whispered. “She was Unitarian, like Mrs. Reid. My father had never thought such a thing possible. But she persuaded him. They had searched the Continent for the best tutors for me. But so many felt it a wasted effort to teach a girl. Would it not be marvelous to create a place that might prove otherwise? That’s what she told him.”

  “Yet you don’t wish to become a student yourself?”

  She hesitated, then motioned him to follow her into the hall. Two young women nearby were arguing over Latin declensions. Ah, she could sit here and watch forever! How rare, how miraculous, to see a wild dream come true.

  A bench by a large paned window offered a place to sit; sunlight spilled in squares across the glossy wooden floor. Jane took a seat and looked up at Crispin. “I’m twenty-three,” she said.

  The sunlight illuminated his navy eyes, picked out the crow’s-feet that deepened as he smiled. “Hardly ancient, Jane.”

  “True. But sometimes I feel so.”

  He sat down beside her. “And why is that?”

  “I feel . . .” She took a breath. Did she truly intend to ruin this atmosphere by speaking of her uncle? But Crispin was watching her with such patient attention. How long had it been since somebody had taken such interest in her thoughts? “As a girl, I felt very confident, very certain of myself.” She managed a smile. “My parents ensured that. They encouraged me to speak my mind, to reason through my opinions, to offer them with confidence. But then . . .” She cleared her throat. “After they died, when I went to Marylebigh . . .”

  His face darkened. “What did he do?”

  She shrugged. “My uncle had a particular opinion of how women should be. And he imagined himself to be doing his duty by me. A woman is not to consider her opinions equal to a man’s. And so he set out to fix what he thought my parents had broken.” She pulled a face. “To be honest, it was not his treatment I minded so much as . . . the realization I had, from what little of the world I glimpsed through his guests and newspapers and novels, that his view was the common one. Not my parents’.”

  His hand came over hers. “The world is often wrong,” he said steadily. “That is why men like your father make such a difference. What is broken can be fixed. But you were never broken, Jane. I hope you know that.”

  “No, of course not.” She hesitated. “But I do feel ancient,” she said slowly. “I feel as though I was worn down while at Marylebigh. That I stopped believing, hoping, that things could be different. And I fear . . .”

  Her throat closed. Of all men, she meant to confide in him?

  His grip tightened. He leaned close, so close that she caught the scent of the spiced soap she had stroked over him. His lips brushed her temple for the briefest moment before he eased back to look into her eyes again. “Go on,” he said quietly.

  “I fear I won’t have my parents’ strength,” she said in a rush of breath. “To see their plans through. That instead of ignoring the sneers and braving through the wickedness, I will let it embitter me, and give up on the world, and tell myself there’s no point to working for others when all I receive is contempt. And—and become useless and indulgent, and shut myself away like a hermit to count my coins and order books and write letters and never do anything worthwhile.”

  His lips twitched. And then—he laughed!

  She sprang off the bench. “That is hardly—”

  “But, Jane,” he said, still smiling as he rose and caught her hand back despite her ill-tempered resistance. “I’m sorry, but that’s absurd. Yes, I understand you’re afraid. But you? Crumpling before sneers? You came down the stairs last night and had at your uncle like an avenging angel. Do you mean to say that there was a moment at Marylebigh when you thought your uncle was right thinking? I won’t believe it. Surrender is not in you.”

  She blinked very rapidly. “I—” Her face felt warm. “You—” She liked very much this picture he painted. But . . . “You don’t know me, Crispin.”

  His smile gentled. “And yet I already know enough to see you clearly. Or will you deny it?”

  No. No, she would not. Her throat felt very full suddenly; the sunlight felt too bright. She blinked to clear her vision, breathing hard against a bizarre, fleeting impulse to tears.

  “Besides,” he went on. “If ever a moment comes when you lose faith, I’ll be there to encourage you. What is marriage but a partnership? I won’t let you go astray, Jane.”

  The very world seemed to lurch. Or her soul to strain out from her body. A partnership. Yes.

  She took back her hand, wrapped her arms around herself for fear they would reach for him again.

  She had the shipping schedules memorized. A valise sat in her wardrobe, containing the essential items she would need to flee in the night. If he remembered—she would go.

  But until then, oh, what point in continuing this silent debate? She would stay. She would find out what he was made of, this man who kept surprising her.

  When he offered his arm, she bit back a shy, pleased smile. He led her out from the college, into the sleepy green-shaded square. After the hectic furor of Regent Street, Bloomsbury felt pastoral. Jane inhaled the grass-scented breeze, feeling light as air, positively giddy.

  Her parents would have been so pleased today. They would even have been pleased to imagine her wed to the man who guided her down the pavement now—this man who had continued their work for the college and praised her mettle with a smile.

  Over the treetops rose the famous pediment that topped the forecourt of the British Museum. A thrill went through her. She was in London. At last, it felt real. So many wonders at her fingertips—and perfect liberty to see them. The man at her side would find no objection to her curiosity, her hunger for experience. He had just proved it. Far from recoiling at women’s education, he had made a sizable gift. He had promised to encourage her.

  She tucked her hand more deeply into the crook of his arm, letting herself at last relish the feel of his muscled forearm, the closeness of their bodies. She could trust him with such intimacies. He would not press her for more unless she invited it, welcomed it. “That donation was very good of you. I will repay you every penny, I promise.”

  He cut her a glance, his mouth shifting to a teasing angle. “Is that how our marriage is to go? Tallied and budgeted, with ledger books beneath our pillows? I meant it as a gift, Jane. A women’s college is a fine idea, and I hope it continues to flourish. Even if most of its students go on to dedicate themselves to hearth and home, their children will benefit for their mothers’ educations.”

  Her mood dimmed a little. That was precisely the kind of logic that Mr. Burke would have used, if forced to support the college. Very well, let the women have their little adventure. Perhaps it will prove useful for their sons. “Their daughters may be the ones to profit most. Why, perhaps they will grow up thinking an education their right, and aim to earn their degrees. If women were professors, Bedford wouldn’t suffer for want of lecturers.”

  “Are you arguing with me again?” he asked mildly. “Or rather, let us say ‘him,’ for the sake of clarity. Did he, this mysteriously enriched politician, express some objection to female education?”

  “No, of course not,” she said, startled. It was very disconcerting to hear him jape at . . . himself.

  He came to a stop, facing her. The wind kicked up, ruffling the edges of his cravat, luring a few strands of dark hair across his eyes. “I can’t tell when you’re being honest, and when you’re trying to shelter me,” he said. “So I’ll ask again: did I discourage you from it? Is that why you hesitated when Mrs
. Reid invited you to take tuition?”

  “The subject never came up,” she said. “That is the perfect truth.”

  But he did not look satisfied. “And why, may I ask, did we not speak of it? Did we not share such things, you and I? What did we talk about, if not our passions?”

  Why did he insist on probing so deeply? He was forcing her to invent lie upon lie, when she did not want to lie to him, not anymore.

  She turned away, staring blindly at the entrance to the museum, now in clear view, well-dressed families loitering on the steps. Say it.

  She didn’t want to. This ring . . . she closed her hand, rubbing her thumb over the smooth surface. The way he looked at her, the romantic things he said . . .

  She didn’t want to discourage them. They unsettled her, they surprised her, they . . . pleased her.

  Which was why she must say it. At once.

  “It was not a love match.” She cleared her throat. “I’m so sorry, Crispin. I know I misled you. But we married for convenience. Once we had control of my fortune—”

  “Jane.”

  “—we intended to divide it and go separate ways,” she said stubbornly. There. It was done. No more flattery for her, no more admiring looks and gentle courtesies.

  His hand on her arm forced her to face him. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

  She huffed out a breath. The man was impossible! “What cause have I to lie about that? It hardly flatters me.”

  He studied her a long moment, his expression troubled. “Perhaps you’re not lying,” he said at last. “I . . . am sorry to hear it, if so. But for all that I cannot remember our courtship . . . the memories are still there, Jane, only buried. And I feel them guiding me at times.” He took a deep breath. “On my part, it was not convenience. I am certain of that.”

  He was half-right. He’d never thought to marry her at all.

  A laugh escaped her, a wretched little sound. She lifted a hand to her eyes to shield her expression, for she would not be able to explain the misery in it.

  “Jane,” he said, taking her hand, pulling it away. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Or challenge your word. If you married me for convenience, so be it. I’ll simply have to persuade you that convenience isn’t all we might share. We have all the time in the world to come to know each other—”