Page 12 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
Phaedra gave an affected shrug, although she felt the sting of his criticism keenly. She knew that her earlier writings had been much better. Her secret career as Robin Goodfellow had begun some months before Ewan’s death. Then she had written stirring condemnations of the king and his ministers for their shortsighted dealings with both the Americans and the Irish. Her impassioned words had supported the American colonists in their war for independence. She had cried out for justice for the beleaguered Irish Catholics, whose livelihood was being stolen by greedy English landlords. All her writings had been heartfelt because they mirrored her own despair, her own yearning for freedom from a marriage that had become a bondage.
She responded bitterly to Gilly. “I am sorry you disapprove of my ‘common gossip.’ But I had not much choice, thanks to Grandfather and his good friend the marquis. It is not easy to write about fine, important matters from exile in Bath. You know I only intended to make a brief holiday when I left town after Christmas, not to find myself banned for the rest of my days.”
“But you cannot blame Varnais for that. You are an independent woman now. You can come and go as you please.”
“What? With my grandfather controlling the purse strings of the meager pittance Ewan left me? I had barely enough pocket money to get to London on the stage. When Grandfather finds me returned, he may well fling me into the street.”
The stern expression which sat so ill on Gilly’s good-humored face softened. “Well, we can become highwaymen aswe’d always planned. How have you managed to escape the jaws of the old crocodile thus far?”
“He was out when I arrived last night. By now I expect his beloved housekeeper has informed him of my return.” Phaedra grimaced. The mere prospect of a confrontation with her grandfather left her feeling deflated. She crossed the room and began to fold the sheets of her essay.
“If you don’t wish to deliver this for me, I understand. But the sad truth is, Gilly, that I rather need the money.”
“Whist now. Did I ever say I wouldn’t take it? You could malign the good Saint Patrick himself, and I’d stand by you to the end.” Gilly tugged the manuscript from her hand and tucked it inside his waistcoat.
When she deposited a grateful kiss upon his cheek, he groused, “ All I say is, heaven deliver you if your grandfather ever suspects that you are the rascally Robin Goodfellow tweaking the king’s nose.” Gilly gave a short hoot of laughter. “Come to think on it, it is more likely myself that’ll be suspected. I think Jessym half does already. Belike one day I’ll find your marquis coming after me with his wicked sword.”
“I would never let it come to that,” Phaedra vowed earnestly. “If you were ever accused of being Robin Goodfellow, I would?—”
She broke off, interrupted by a high-pitched scream.
“What the devil is that?” Gilly asked.
“I don’t know,” Phaedra said, looking up fearfully at the ceiling above them. “But I think it is coming from the direction of my garret.”
Lifting her skirts, she dashed out of the library, with Gilly hard on her heels. Seeking out the backstairs, she took the risers two at a time, not pausing for breath until she reached the small chamber at the very top of the house.
The scream had not been repeated, but when Phaedra stood outside the door to her private sanctum, she could hear thesound of muffled sobbing and above it, a steady thwack, like a poker being pounded against a cushion.
“Sounds like someone is taking the devil of a drubbing,” Gilly said. “You’d best let me deal with this.”
Phaedra shook her head, her mouth compressing into a hard line. Turning the knob, she flung the door open and burst into the room. The sight that met her eyes occasioned more rage than astonishment, for she had already guessed what was amiss.
The chamber, with its low ceiling and plain white plaster walls, was a jumble of furniture discarded from the elegant apartments below. Between a Jacobean daybed and an empty bookshelf, cowered a tall, raw-boned maid, her flat bosom heaving with sobs. The girl held her large-knuckled hands before her face in an effort to ward off the blows. Her assailant, a wisp of a woman garbed in black bombazine, brought her cane crashing onto the girl’s back with great energy, her lips stretched in a grimace of ecstasy.
Phaedra flew across the room, catching the woman’s arm in mid-swing, and wrenched the weapon away from her. “Mrs. Searle! What is the meaning of this? How dare you strike my maid!”
From beneath the starched lace of her mobcap, Hester Searle’s colorless eyes glared at Phaedra with all the malice of an adder contemplating its prey.
“When yer ladyship hears the truth, ye’ll want to beat the wicked creature yerself. I caught Lucy fixing to burn yer ladyship’s finest gowns.” The woman pointed an accusing finger toward a pile of black silks strewn before the fireplace.
The girl scrambled over to Phaedra, shrinking behind her skirts.
“Oh, milady,” she sobbed, “I tried to explain.”
Phaedra glanced down at the purple swelling which had begun to disfigure the girl’s cheek. She shook with anger, but shemanaged to place a gentle hand upon the girl’s shoulder. “Never mind, Lucy. I will settle this. You run along to Thompson and have him apply something ointment to that eye.”
With a hiccup of relief, the girl bolted from the room, nearly blundering into Gilly in the doorway. Phaedra rounded upon Mrs. Searle. Never had she so loathed the sight of that woman’s sharp-featured face, the coal-black hair drawn back from her brow in a widow’s peak. A distant relative of Ewan Grantham’s, poor and untutored, Hester had been hired as the housekeeper upon her late husband’s recommendation. More often than not, Hester had served as Ewan’s spy. Upon her husband’s death, Phaedra had hoped that Hester would resign her post, but it seemed she was never to be rid of the sly creature.
“This time, you’ve carried your impertinence too far, Mrs. Searle. In the first place, I’ve told you that I consider this my own private room. I don’t ever want you coming in here. Secondly, that girl was acting upon my orders. I told her to destroy those gowns. I no longer have a use for them.”
Hester Searle pursed her lips. “Begging yer ladyship’s pardon. How was I to know? Such a strange command, burning these lovely silks. If you had but told me you wished to be rid of them, I could have?—”
“You are only the housekeeper. How I dispose of my personal wardrobe is none of your affair. “
“Aye, but Fae, I fear for once I must agree with Madame Pester about the gowns.”
Having all but forgotten Gilly’s presence, Phaedra twisted her head to glower at him. He leaned up against the doorjamb. “‘Tis more the action of a spoiled, highborn beauty than the cousin I know, to so wantonly destroy such clothes as many a poor woman would be glad to have upon her back. If you don’t want them, m’dear, give them away.”
