Page 27 of A Gentleman’s Offer

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Meg, despite the fact that she had gone to bed so excessively early and without her dinner, did not wake until the early morning. The much-needed slumber brought a little counsel, though she was not sure if she should trust it, since it was a low, seductive voice, sounding very much like Sir Dominic’s honeyed tones, that whispered in her ear and said, After all, why not ? Perhaps Maria was right – perhaps she, as an outsider, saw more clearly. Meg had never had a distinct idea of her own future before, but she thought she could picture herself married to Dominic. Making love with him, getting to know him, building a life together, writing, one day travelling with him. He was a good companion, she knew that already. She didn’t care at all for being a great lady, or for fortune and luxury, but they could be happy, she thought. They might be happy together, and share that happiness with others.

Was she really going to say yes, next time she saw him? She thought she was, but she felt shy, still unsure – as though the idea of a life with him was a present she had been given unexpectedly; something so precious that she dared not show it to anyone else yet, but needed to keep as a secret while she examined all its contours. A shining globe of possibility, a velvet temptation. Riding with him today… she couldn’t do it. It was too much, too raw. If she saw him on a horse, in breeches and top boots, she’d want to drag him off and throw herself upon him shamelessly. In Hyde Park!

And it was not as though this decision of hers solved all their problems at a stroke. Was she saying she was prepared to take up the masquerade as Maria, for the rest of her life? She thought she was, but… She would write to him properly later in the day, when her thoughts were more collected, and say yes, and they would face all these difficulties together. And if she saw him – and she hoped she would – it would be in private, an idea which lit a flame deep inside her.

She wrote him a brief note now, revealing nothing of her feelings but crying off politely from their arrangement to go riding together, and stayed in bed, thinking of him, imagining their future, smiling to herself despite all the obstacles that still stood in their way.

It occurred to her as she lay there that she had no idea – never having needed to consider such matters previously – whether the banns had been read in St George’s in the normal manner over the course of three weeks, or whether the ceremony was to be carried out by expensive special licence. Could church weddings be organised in such a manner and, if so, would it even be possible for her to take her sister’s place under her own name, assuming that was what they ended up deciding to do, or would they have to begin the whole business of application again, and give a great many awkward explanations besides? She let out a little hiccup of wild laughter at the thought of Sir Dominic disclosing urbanely to some mystified reverend gentleman that he had, in fact, somewhat confused the precise appellation of his betrothed, even to the extent of applying for a licence at Doctors’ Commons in the wrong name, which was, after all, a mistake anyone might make, and quickly set right. It was easy to imagine that all sorts of objections and legal obstacles might be raised to such a switch of brides. To marry him as Maria would be far easier, of course, but should she? Would he agree to that, even if she decided she could do it?

After nuncheon, she went out with Hannah to walk off her fidgets with the excuse of doing a little shopping. She had not the least need to buy anything, and barely any money in her purse in any case, but she was fizzing with restless energy, and it was another fine, bright day. Hannah suggested that, if she had no particular aim of her own in mind, they might browse in a new bazaar she knew of in Soho Square, where all manner of things, from sewing supplies, fabrics, accessories, even children’s toys and books, might be purchased at reasonable prices. It might be crowded in the afternoon, she warned, but they were perhaps less likely to encounter anyone of Maria’s acquaintance there than in the more fashionable shops of Bond Street. Meg agreed energetically that this was a good notion, and they set off. The walk through London’s most fashionable streets was less than a mile, and to stride out in the fresh air was more to Meg’s taste than sitting idle in her father’s carriage for the short journey. She was largely silent on the way, nervous of sharing her thoughts with anyone, even this woman who’d known her as a baby, and Hannah appeared to be aware of her mood and did not attempt to coax her into speech. This morning she’d told her old nurse that she’d found Maria and that she was safe, but had not had permission to share any more, and so had left her guessing.

Once at their destination, Meg couldn’t summon up any interest in the colourful rolls of fabric sitting ready to be taken down, cut up according to patterns and made into gowns. It would require an effort of imagination that she simply could not summon at the moment – who would she be, by the time some piece of material she bought now was transformed into a gown? And admitting that she didn’t know, how could she be expected to look at muslins and silks and take them seriously? Maria Nightingale – the future Lady De Lacy – had gowns enough, and Meg Nightingale, dowdy country bluestocking, didn’t need them, unless of course she was to be the one to marry. It was exciting, she must acknowledge, but all still so uncertain.

They wandered aimlessly about the stalls, with Hannah trying and failing to engage her restless companion in this trinket or that pair of evening slippers, when she suddenly became aware that her companion had stopped dead in her tracks and was pulling hard at the sleeve of her pelisse. ‘Miss Meg!’ Hannah hissed. ‘Don’t say anything, but look! Over there on the left!’ As she spoke, Hannah, most extraordinarily, dragged her with some force and speed into a place of partial concealment behind a tall glass cabinet of goods.

She couldn’t conceive what possible reason there could be for such urgency, but she raised her eyes impatiently and looked in the direction Mrs Treadwell had indicated. The object of her attention was an establishment selling children’s toys, she saw. It made a brave show with its bright colours and varied stock, enough to delight any child’s heart, but it could be of no possible interest to her. She was about to say that she didn’t even know any children, certainly not well enough to wish to buy them trinkets, when she saw why Hannah had called on her with such insistence, and why she had been so quick to make sure that they were not seen into the bargain. As she watched in horror, she felt the blood drain from her face, and thought for the first time in her life that she might swoon.

Meg and her companion beheld a pretty family scene. A tall, young lady, who was dressed with great neatness and propriety but not, perhaps, in the first stare of fashion, was laughing as two bright-eyed, curly-haired little boys in identical frilled shirts and nankeen trousers tugged at her hands and begged her to help them choose. It was sufficiently obvious that they had been told they might have one gift each, and to pick carefully. The poke of the lady’s modest chip-straw bonnet was moderate in size and did not conceal her glossy dark ringlets, expressive brown eyes and smooth brown skin. Meg judged her to be rather older than herself, maybe in her mid-twenties. The boys, a handsome pair of perhaps six and five years old, were made in her image and plainly her sons. The gentleman who accompanied them, who was laughing with them and teasing them with the ease of long familiarity, was known to her. Very well known to her. It was Sir Dominic De Lacy.

She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him so carefree. The worries that still oppressed her seemed to have left no mark on him, she thought bitterly, as she watched him engage in earnest debate with the smaller child about the merits of a miniature cricket set over a box of toy soldiers. The little boys plainly stood in no awe of him, and when at last their choices were made and Sir Dominic paid for their prizes, they at first thanked him politely, as prompted by their smiling mother, and then flung their arms about him, as high as they could reach, and hugged him fiercely. She could see that he protested at their boisterous show of affection, but in a joking way. He was very good with them, loving and patient, and why should he not be? Clearly, he was their father.

Meg was frozen in astonishment, still as a statue, and there was not the least need of her companion’s whispered admonition to keep silent; she had no idea what she might say if she spoke, and she certainly had no desire at all to attract Sir Dominic’s attention to her presence. Could anything be more mortifyingly embarrassing than such an encounter? Yesterday, he had asked her to marry him, had come close to some sort of declaration of deep feeling, if not of love; today, she beheld him, happy, smiling, intimate, with his mistress and their two young sons. He might be famous for his polished ease of manner and habitual cool self-possession, but even he, surely, would struggle to navigate such a situation. What could he possibly say, to either wronged woman? The books of etiquette could be small use in such a situation. There would scarcely be a chapter on How to Introduce One’s Mistress and Natural Children to the Lady to Whom One Has Just Proposed Marriage.

As the shock subsided a little, and as she watched the family make their way towards the exit of the building, the older child clutching Sir Dominic’s hand securely, chattering away to him nineteen to the dozen, and the younger jumping excitedly at his mother’s side, showing off his new toy, Meg realised one more nightmare detail: the woman was familiar in appearance. It wasn’t so much her pretty, animated face as her tall frame, good shoulders and queenly bearing. She’d last seen her mirror image in Covent Garden, a few nights ago, by the handcart that dealt out food and succour to the children of the street. Angela Jones. Mother Jones. And now she recalled the woman’s words, and a name: Annie. ‘She’d be so pleased to see you. They all would.’ And Sir Dominic: ‘That’s good news. I’d like that.’ It seemed so strange to her, that Mrs Jones had been easy and friendly with Sir Dominic, who must be the aristocratic seducer of her daughter, the father of her illegitimate grandchildren. But perhaps he provided handsomely, perhaps there was some story behind it all of which she was ignorant… It seemed she was ignorant of a great deal. What a na?ve fool she was. It hurt more, she accepted, because of her tentative decision this morning. She’d been so happy. She’d thought they could have a future. He would never know it, she would make sure of that, but he had betrayed her most cruelly.

Hannah said significantly, ‘Well, I never did! And I thought so highly of him when I met him, and you too, I’ll be bound. That was a sight I didn’t expect to see this fine day, Miss Meg, I do declare!’

‘Nor me,’ Meg replied levelly, though it cost her an effort to retain her fragile composure. She could say no more just now, and hoped Hannah had no further desire to discuss the subject and exclaim over Sir Dominic’s shocking secret. There was a pain, somewhere inside her – not a sharp, stabbing pain, but a dull one. An ache she did not care to put a name to, lest naming and acknowledging it made it worse. Foolish girl that she was, she had thought, hoped… She felt sick, all of a sudden, she realised, heavy, and very tired. ‘Let’s go home,’ she said. ‘Let’s hail a hackney and go home directly. I’ve had more than enough of shopping.’