“He’s such an imbecile, that Roger Shrewsbury, such an utter, irredeemable, muttonheaded dolt.” She waved the bottle for emphasis. “Oh, God, Charlotte, of all the amoral and reckless married men to be had in London, why did you pick him?”
Charlotte sat on the windowsill, her feet on top of a packed suitcase. Livia had hours ago shed her blouse and corset to swaddle herself in an old, comfortable dressing gown. Charlotte remained in her day dress, a summery confection of cream silk printed with roses and climbing vines. Livia preferred her garments as unadorned as possible, but Charlotte relished a good ruffle, yards of lace, and the most dramatic tassels swinging from the shiniest cords of braided silk.
You are more upholstered than a dowager’s boudoir, Livia had once said to Charlotte, exasperated by the latter’s more-is-always-better taste. And Charlotte had laughed and countered, Didn’t I tell you? Great Aunt Maribel always said that I reminded her of her favorite needlepoint footstool.
Tears welled in Livia’s eyes. She drank directly from the bottle. “I’m going to smash something into Roger Shrewsbury’s face the next time I see him.”
“Oh, I can’t condone that,” said Charlotte. “Mr. Shrewsbury’s face is his only contribution to humanity. I recommend you instead smash something into his derriere, which is rather ordinary and not as worthy of preservation.”
Livia gasped in shock—and hiccupped at the same time. “You saw his derriere?”
“I saw his everything.”
“Even the . . .”
“Even the parts usually covered by a fig leaf in the British Museum.”
“Did it . . . did it hurt?”
“If you speak of the act of penetration, it wasn’t exactly pleasurable but it was no agony. Far more unpleasant was the fact that I had to go through such extreme measures in a bid for a modicum of freedom.”
Livia rubbed her eyes. “Do you really think that would have got you what you wanted? Our parents don’t strike me as the sort to reward what they’d consider gross misconduct with what they weren’t willing to provide when you were being an obedient daughter.”
“Which is why I’d have blackmailed them.”
Livia choked mid-swallow. “What? How?”
“By threatening to reveal to the general public that I’d been ruined—and hope that they’d cough up enough hush money for me to be educated.”
The audacity of Charlotte’s plan made Livia lightheaded. Or was it the madeira? She set down the bottle. “Oh, Charlotte.”
The tears that had long stung the back of her eyes at last spilled down her cheeks. “You won’t be all alone in that horrid cottage, Charlotte, I promise you. I’ll come around every time Mamma and Papa aren’t looking. I’ll bring you books and newspapers. I’ll bring you cake. I’ll bring you—”
Charlotte peered at the curtain gap. “Papa is leaving to visit Mrs. Marsh.”
Mrs. Marsh was Sir Henry’s current paramour. She, like Mrs. Gladwell, enjoyed rubbing the fact that she was sleeping with Sir Henry in Lady Holmes’s face.
“I hope she gives him something dreadful,” said Livia vehemently.
“No, then Mamma might get it too, and that wouldn’t be fair to her.” Charlotte looked back at Livia. “Anyway, Papa going out means Mamma has taken her laudanum and gone to bed. Will you please check to make sure she’s fast asleep, Livia?”
Livia rose unsteadily to her feet. “I can, but why?”
“Can you check first, please?”
Livia did as she was asked, her brain foggy. But there was no doubt about it: Lady Holmes was snoring.
She reported her findings to Charlotte, who led her to a room at the back of the house. There Charlotte opened a window. “Moo as loudly as you can, please.”
“What?” Livia was extraordinarily good at imitating animal sounds—a most useless talent for a lady except for entertaining her baby sister when they were little. She hadn’t mooed in years.
“Please. It’ll be a signal to Mott.”
Mott was their groom and coachman—and gardener, too, when the family was in town.
“But why do you want to signal Mott?”
“I’ll explain. But please hurry. It’ll be past his bedtime soon and I don’t want him to go to sleep thinking he’s no longer needed.”
Livia wondered if she were roaring drunk. Or perhaps Charlotte was. The moo emerged with surprising vigor, if also plenty of unintended tremolo.
She moaned. “I sound like the bovine version of a fishwife, toward the end of an argument.”
“But a victorious one,” said Charlotte.
An unconvincing baaa came back from the mews. Charlotte nodded. “Mott’s heard us.”
“Now will you tell me what’s going on?”
“All right,” said Charlotte, guiding Livia back to their room. “But you must promise not to say anything to anyone.”
“I promise. What is it?”
Charlotte shut the door and began to unbutton her dress. “I’m leaving.”