Page 63 of The Heiress's Daughter
The door was ajar, and she could hear Lady Scattergood talking to Mrs. Price-Jones. Zoë raised her hand to knock before entering when she heard a snatch of conversation that made her freeze.
“Yes, but it was one thing to pass Izzy off as legitimate: it’s quite a different case with young Zoë,” Mrs. Price-Jones was saying.
Zoë leaned closer to listen.
Mrs. Price-Jones continued, “Even so, Izzy—and withher, Clarissa—were skating on very thin ice. There are still rumors, and really it was only Izzy’s marriage to Leo that caused them to die down—too many people are reluctant to offend an earl. And of course there are plenty who could not believe that a high stickler like Leo would stoop to taking a bastard to wife.”
Zoë swallowed.
Lady Scattergood said, “Yes, but they did succeed—the girls, I mean. And Clarissa is adamant that young Zoë is her sister. And I’m inclined to agree. Besides, Zoë is a dear girl and I like her very much. In my opinion, illegitimacy is a piece of nonsense that men invented to control women.”
“That’s all very well for you to say, Olive, but you won’t find many—if any—in society to agree with you. It’s the law. Zoë is a dear girl and I like her, too, and I grant you, she is the image of Izzy, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re both baseborn. The difference is that Izzy was raised with Clarissa and has all the advantages of a lady’s education and training: she looks and sounds like a lady. But Zoë—well, she only has to open her mouth and it’s clear she was raised in a London gutter.”
There was a short silence. Zoë leaned her head against the wall. Was her accent really that bad?
Lady Scattergood made a piffing kind of noise. “But her French is impeccable, and her accent clearly aristocratic. I have no doubt that her mother was indeed a nobleman’s daughter.”
“Yes, but English drawing rooms are full of people who speak only the best kind of English and couldn’t tell aristocratic-sounding French if it hit them on the nose. Besides that, the child is barely educated. Granted, her handwriting is both elegant and stylish, but her spelling and grammar are appalling.”
“Oh, pish! The gel is still young. There is time to remedy that. I’ve been getting her to read to me.”
“I know, and I’ve been helping, too, and her reading isimproving. But is it enough? I doubt it. And Clarissa still has her head in the clouds about the whole thing.”
“Clarissa has a warm and loving heart.”
“I agree, but she’ll never get anyone to believe that Zoë is her legitimate sister. And if she tries, she won’t just fail, it will stir everything up again—all those rumors will spring up afresh and this time they’ll be even harder to deny. Clarissa and Izzy—and your nephew Leo, for that matter—will be dragged into a shocking scandal.”
Bile rose in Zoë’s throat.
There was another short silence, then Lady Scattergood said, “I don’t see what we can do about it, Althea. Clarissa is a dear, sweet gel, and generally very gentle and biddable, but in matters such as these she’s immovable. Look at the way she defied her father over keeping Izzy. She was a mere child, and Bartleby Studley was a nasty big beast and a bully who should have been drowned at birth!”
Mrs. Price-Jones sighed. “Then what can we do? Personally I couldn’t care less about the child’s illegitimacy—I don’t believe in all that ‘sins of the father’ nonsense, either. But there’s no denying it matters to the majority of people, so I can’t just stand by and do nothing while Clarissa courts her own ruin.”
Zoë could almost hear Lady Scattergood’s shrug. “Well, we’ll just have to help young Zoë become a lady. Or at least pass her off as one and hope for the best. She’s still young. Now, I think I could do with a cup of tea after all that. Would you ring the bell for Treadwell, please?”
Zoë crept away.
Chapter Ten
It had to be done, Race decided. Little as he wanted to attend, this was the only way to be sure of talking to Clarissa. She’d been avoiding him at every opportunity, and he needed to make something clear. She’d be hard put to avoid him this time. He straightened his neckcloth and stepped forward to ring the doorbell.
“Young Randall again?” a cheery elderly voice behind him said.
Race turned. “Sir Oswald.” Of course, it was mainly the elderly who attended Lady Davenham’s literary salons. And young ladies and their mothers.
“Didn’t know you were a student of literature,” the old gentleman said.
“I’m not.”
The old fellow chuckled. “Cherchez la femme, eh? Good show. Anyone I know? Plenty of pretty young fillies in attendance at these things. Bea—Lady Davenham, that is—loves havin’ young people around her. Keeps her young, she says, and who am I to contradict her?”
The door opened and the butler admitted them. Race and Sir Oswald walked upstairs and entered the large drawing room in which rows of chairs had been set out in semicircles, facing a shallow platform. He spied Clarissa seated on the far side of the room, with her back turned, talking to someone behind her. Her chaperone, as usual wearing an eye-watering colorful ensemble, was, thankfully, at the other end of the room, deep in conversation with another old biddy.
Their hostess, Lady Davenham, sat at the front, resplendent in a large turban, from which sprang several bright red curls. Race swiftly bowed over her hand, and left her chatting with Sir Oswald while he approached Clarissa. As luck would have it, there was a spare seat beside her. He plonked himself on it.
She turned. “Lord Randall,” she said, unable to hide her surprise. “I didn’t realize you were a reader.”
“Oh, I’m full of surprises. Besides, I wanted to speak to you.”
