She almost woke Darlington up, but now she was wedded to the idea of making him beg a few more times. It was all so…delicious. Why shouldn’t she be courted, like other women? He should bring her roses, and a poem or two. The idea of a poem written by Darlington made her giggle.
She didn’t know his neighborhood all that well, but surely Fleet Street lay just to the right? Within a moment of walking she glimpsed the large thoroughfare where she would certainly be able to call a hackney.
When a carriage slowed to a stop next to her, she turned to it gladly. She hadn’t welcomed the idea of hailing a carriage—rather vulgar, to wave her hand for all to see—and it was far better that one had…
That was not a hackney.
In fact, it was a carriage she knew quite well, almost as well as she knew her own. A footman leaped from the back and held open the door.
There was nothing for it, so she entered.
“Lady Blechschmidt,” Griselda said, sitting down with as much dignity as was possible. Her hair was bundled into a simple knot. She had done little more than wash her face. If Emily Blechschmidt glimpsed her dinner dress being worn in the morning, it would be instantly apparent that she hadn’t been home since the previous day.
“Lady Griselda.”
Emily Blechschmidt was at least six years older than she. As always, she was dressed with the kind of sober elegance that invited no untoward glance.
I was getting to be like that, Griselda thought to herself. I could have become like Emily, who isn’t even forty, but is one of the fiercest moralists in the ton, quite as sharp-tongued as an old maid of eighty.
For a moment the carriage was utterly silent. Griselda’s mind was racing. Why did it have to be Emily whose coach drove by, Emily, who was known far and wide for her fierce and dogmatic views of unchaste behavior and loose women?
For her part, Emily had taken one swift look at Griselda Willoughby and known exactly how Griselda had spent her night. After all, Emily had spent her entire life watching the ton from the sidelines, watching as men and women fell into each other’s arms, danced into the garden together, gave each other secret smiles from the chaperone’s corner. It made her angry; it made her feel sick with longing; it made her feel small. She prided herself on her sharp tongue when it came to loose women, on her sizzling pronouncements when it came to hurly-burly debutantes.
To Emily, Griselda’s imperfect hair and sleepy eyes meant that she should, of course, spurn her friend. Even if they had been friends for years.
But there were times when a woman had to put aside morality and ethics.
“You never asked me why I was at Grillon’s Hotel when you saw me there last year,” she said finally.
Griselda was staring down at her hands, but she looked up. “It wasn’t my place.”
“I think it should be,” Emily said. “If we’re to be friends.”
Griselda’s smile was a little lopsided. “I rather thought we were friends.”
“We have been acquaintances,” Emily told her. “You would be horrified by what I was doing at the hotel.”
Griselda’s smile grew wider. “I promise you that I won’t be.”
“You will be.” Emily was silent for a moment. But she was tired of all the silence, and besides, that affaire was over. “I’ll never do such a thing again.”
Griselda nodded. “Unless you wish to.”
“I don’t wish to. I’m bitterly ashamed of myself.”
Griselda didn’t seem to share her feelings of shame, so Emily realized that Griselda probably had a wedding in her future. “You couldn’t understand.”
“Actually, I do,” Griselda said. “I really do. After all, Emily, I myself…” Her voice trailed off.
“I would gather that you just spent a night with a gentleman.”
“I believe,” Griselda said, “that I shall marry the gentleman in question, Emily. I believe I shall.”
There was silence between them again. But Emily felt—had felt for weeks—that if she didn’t tell someone, her heart would crack open. “I too had an affaire,” she cried, hearing the wildness in her own voice.
Griselda smiled at her. “I guessed that.”
“But I’ve been so moralistic, so disparaging of others,” Emily said. “You have always been chaste in your behavior, but you have rarely passed judgment on others. Do you loathe me?”
“No,” Griselda said without hesitation.
“You will,” Emily said. “You will.”
Griselda blinked. “A married man?” she asked.
“Worse,” Emily said.
“Worse?”
Emily couldn’t look at her anymore. “Much worse,” she whispered.
“I can’t think,” Griselda said. “A servant?”
“Servants are just men, married or unmarried; they’re just men!”
“Then—” Griselda’s mouth fell open. “You—”
“Gemima,” Emily said, and her voice was hard, saying it. “Lady Gemima.”
“She’s enchanting,” Griselda said after one gaping second. “Are you and she…”
Emily could feel the tears boiling up in her throat, all the tears that she couldn’t shed because no one—no one—could know the terrible things she’d done. “No!” She couldn’t even look at Griselda. But a moment later a soft handkerchief was put in her hand, and Griselda’s arm wrapped around her shoulders.
“Don’t cry, Emily,” Griselda said, and it didn’t sound as if she were going to throw open the carriage door and jump out from pure disgust. “Don’t cry. Gemima is lovely. If I—if—well, she’s so funny, and nice.”
“She’s—She’s not nice,” Emily wept. “She—She—” She broke down and after that she didn’t even understand the things she tried to say because they were so mortified and despairing that they couldn’t be put properly into words.
After a while the carriage stopped. Somehow they ended up in Griselda’s snug little drawing room, and the whole story came out in bits and sobs, and Griselda rocking Emily against her shoulder, just as if she weren’t the most immoral woman on the face of the earth.
“You see,” Emily said, her voice a little hoarse from the crying, “she’s going abroad. And she’s—she’s taking her new friend with her, and that’s all there is to it.”
“I’m so sorry,” Griselda said. She handed her a cup of tea. “Gemima has made a terrible mistake.”
“Why shouldn’t Gemima fall in love? And with such a perfect woman in every way,” Emily said despairingly. “Perfect!”
“As are you. But who can tell why these things happen?”
“It’s because I’ve been so unsympathetic to others. I’ve thought and thought about it in the last fortnight, and I know why this has happened, why Gemima fell in love with someone else. It’s my just desert. Fate has dealt me a blow because I deserved it.”
“Nonsense,” Griselda said. “Sympathy follows experience, Emily. I’m sure you could never be indifferent to the foibles of others. But you were never heartless. You’re being far too harsh on yourself.”