A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)

“Yes, it’s stuck,” Bel snapped, releasing the rod and scrambling to her feet. Her breathing was quick and shallow. “Just as these young children get stuck in flues with alarming frequency. Imagine, Lady Violet, that you’re the one wedged into that flue two bricks wide. Imagine that you’re the one stuck, unable to move, suffocating in a cloud of soot, frightened beyond belief. Imagine that your cruel master below is jabbing pins into your flesh to convince you to move—


or, if that fails to work, lighting straws on fire and using them to toast the soles of your feet. Imagine, Lady Violet, that you are a miserable, impoverished, friendless child about to die. To be sacrificed on the altar of English tradition simply because a lady of the ton could not be bothered to instruct her housekeeper to embrace modern improvements.” Bel sniffed and pushed a stray wisp of hair from her eyes. “Are you enjoying that image, Lady Violet?”

“No,” the matron said smugly. “But I think you are.”

Bel gasped. Lady Violet was right. She was enjoying the image of a cramped, choked, sootcovered Lady Violet. She was enjoying it far too much. What was wrong with her? This was meant to be a charity function, not an exercise in hostility. But she had so much emotion churning inside her—she felt like a volcano, preparing to erupt. The worst of it was, she couldn’t very well flee the danger, when it resided in herself.

She could do this, she told herself, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. She could conquer her simmering passions and complete this demonstration with dignity and grace. She would not explode.

Sophia moved toward her. “Bel, you’ve been working so hard. Perhaps you need a rest.”

Bel warned her off with a shake of her head and bent down to take up the rod again. “What I need is a bit of assistance. Let us work in harmony, Lady Violet. May I ask you to lend a hand?”

The matron cast her a withering look. “Surely you’re joking, Lady Aldridge. As if—”

“Not strong enough, then?”

“It isn’t that, I assure you—”

“Afraid of a little soot?”

“No.” Lady Violet’s mouth thinned to a slim red gash in her face. She rose from her chair and placed her hands on the rod above Bel’s. “Anything to get me out of this mad house,” she muttered to Bel. To the room at large, she sang, “What a lark this is, Lady Aldridge. It’s giving me all sorts of ideas for my next party. I think I shall distribute aprons at the door and invite all the ladies to take turns at scullery maid. After tea, each guest must wash her own cup and saucer.”

The ladies giggled. Bel seethed inside, but she forced herself to remain outwardly calm. “On three, then?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“On three,” Lady Violet agreed. “Oh, but wait! I’ve just had a brilliant idea for my autumn house party. We’ll all play at dairymaid!”

Bel ignored the laughter and began counting. “One …”

And somehow—in that brief, fleeting moment—a strange thing happened in Bel’s mind. Grasping that wooden rod in her hand, listening to the mocking laughter of her peers, feeling the anger bubble and rise inside her … she faced down the specter of madness.

“Two …”

She felt it keenly, the temptation to just give in. To go into a rage, scold Lady Violet, cast these insufferable women out of her home, and smash a few ceramic figurines, just to complete the dramatic effect. It would be so easy, to fly off the handle.

But Bel chose not to. Instead, she made a very calm, very rational decision. To let it go.

“Three.”

Bel released her grip and stepped back. She stood watching a few paces distant as—. Whoosh.

Lady Violet’s full-strength tug released a deluge of ashes and soot. A plume of black vapor swallowed her puce-clad form.

Turning away from the cloud of ash, Bel clapped her hands over her face. Oh, there was no more laughter now. The room was so silent, she could hear the coal dust settling to the floor. Slowly, she lowered her hands, uncovering only her eyes, and turned back to face the hearth.

Lady Violet stood before her, coated with coal dust from crown to toe, sputtering and fuming like a snuffed candlewick. Around them, a dozen ladies stood stock-still, handkerchiefs pressed to their mouths in horror.

Bel kept her own hands clamped over her mouth, to no avail. No matter how hard she pressed her fingers against her lips, she couldn’t prevent it.

She laughed.

It started with a few inane giggles, then quickly progressed to full-throated peals of laughter. She couldn’t help it. This demonstration was a travesty and her marriage was a disaster and she was very likely going insane—and there was just nothing for it but to laugh. Laugh loudly and long. Really, where was the benefit in being a madwoman, if it didn’t entitle one to bursts of wild laughter?

Bel laughed until her sides ached and she was wiping away sooty tears with her handkerchief. Then she met Lady Violet’s shocked blue eyes, staring out at her from an ash-powdered face. The matron stood frozen in place, hands raised in surrender, and before Bel even knew what she was doing, she embraced the woman. She caught Lady Violet in an unabashed, exuberant hug and laughed harder still.