Suchlike was already waiting in the hallway. She looked up as Melisande entered. “Are we going somewhere, my lady?”
“I thought a walk in the park would be nice,” Melisande said briskly. She glanced at Mouse, sitting sedately by her feet. He gazed back at her innocently. “Sprat, I believe we will need Mouse’s leash as well.”
The footman hurried back to the kitchens to fetch the leash, and soon dog and women were in the carriage, headed west toward Hyde Park.
“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it, my lady?” Suchlike commented. “Blue sky and sunshine. ’Course, Mr. Pynch says we should enjoy it while we can, because soon it’ll rain.” The maid’s brows lowered. “He’s always predicting bad weather, Mr. Pynch is.”
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Melisande looked at her maid, amused. “A dour sort, is he?”
“Dour?”
“Dark and scowling.”
“Oh.” The maid’s brow cleared. “Well, he is dark, but not so much scowling as always looking down his nose at people, if you know what I mean.”
“Ah.” Melisande nodded. “A superior sort, then.”
“Aye, my lady, that’s it exactly,” Suchlike exclaimed. “He acts like other people aren’t quite as bright as he. Or just because a person is younger than him, she might not know as much.”
Suchlike brooded for a bit on the superior valet. Melisande watched her with interest. Suchlike was usually a very cheerful sort of girl. She had never seen her in a glum frame of mind—and over a bald valet a dozen years her senior at that.
“Here’s Hyde Park, my lady,” Suchlike said.
Melisande glanced up and saw they’d entered the park. It was early still, and the park was not yet crowded with the fashionable carriages that would later parade. Right now, there were only a few riders, a carriage or two, and several figures strolling in the distance.
The carriage rolled to a stop. The door opened and a footman peered in. “Is this spot good, my lady?”
They were near a small duck pond. Melisande nodded. “Very nice. Tell the coachman to wait here while we stroll.”
“Yes, my lady.” The footman helped Melisande down first and then Suchlike. Mouse scampered to the ground and immediately lifted his leg against a bush.
Melisande cleared her throat. “Shall we make for the duck pond?”
“Wherever you’d like to go, my lady.” Suchlike fell into step several paces behind Melisande.
She sighed. It was most proper for the lady’s maid to follow her instead of walking by her side, but it did preclude any kind of intimate conversation. But the day was indeed fine, and she set out determinedly. Why wait at home for a husband who had a life of his own? No, she would enjoy the day, enjoy this walk, and not think about Vale and why he’d not waited to have breakfast with her.
However, Melisande found that it was somewhat hard to achieve a serene state of mind whilst out walking Mouse. The terrier strained against the leash, his sturdy legs digging into the ground as if he fought for each footstep. Indeed, he strained so mightily against the loop of leather that he was half strangling himself.
“What do you think you’re doing, you silly, silly animal?” Melisande muttered as the dog choked and coughed dramatically. “If you simply stopped pulling, you’d be fine.”
Mouse didn’t even turn at the sound of her voice, intent on his struggle with the braided leather lead.
Melisande sighed. The portion of the park they were walking in was nearly deserted. In fact, the only people in sight were a woman and two children by the duck pon [y tk td, still ahead. And Mouse had always loved children. She bent and slipped the loop off Mouse’s head.
The dog immediately put his nose to the ground and began running in circles.
“Mouse,” Melisande called.
He stopped and looked at her with ears pricked.
She smiled. “Very well.”
The dog wagged his tail and scampered to investigate the base of a tree.
“He does seem to like a ramble, doesn’t he, my lady?” Suchlike called from behind her.
“Yes, and he hasn’t had one in quite a while.”
Melisande walked more easily now that Mouse was no longer pulling against her. She unwrapped the cloth and took out the buns, offering one to Suchlike.
“Thank you, my lady.”
Melisande strolled and munched. Mouse came running back and took a bite of bun from her hand before exploring again. She could hear the laughter of the children in the distance now, as well as the lower tones of the woman with them. The children were crouched near the pond’s edge, the woman a little farther off but still near. One child had a long stick and was poking it about in the mud while the other watched.
Mouse saw a duck and drake waddling on the bank, and giving a joyful bark, he rushed at them. The ducks took flight. The silly terrier flung himself into the air, teeth snapping, as if he could actually catch a flying duck.
The children looked up and one shouted something. Mouse took this as an invitation and trotted over to make friends. As Melisande strolled closer, she could see that Mouse’s new acquaintances were a boy and a girl. The boy looked about five or six, while the girl was perhaps eight. The boy was wearing a lovely suit but now had his arms wrapped about Mouse’s neck. Melisande winced to think what mud was being transferred from dog to boy. The girl was less enthusiastic, which was fortunate since she wore a pristine white gown.
“Ma’am! Ma’am, what’s his name?” the boy called when he saw her. “He’s a grand dog.”
“You shouldn’t shout,” his sister said in a repressive tone.
Melisande smiled at the girl. “His name is Mouse, and he is a grand dog indeed.”
Mouse seemed to grin before putting his nose into the mud near the edge of the pond. Boy and dog went back to investigating the water.
Melisande paused. She hadn’t much experience talking with children, but surely some things were universal? She nodded at the girl. “And what is your name?”
The child blushed and looked down. “Abigail Fitzwilliam,” she whispered to her toes.
“Ah.” Melisande’s mind worked as she looked from the child to her mother, whom she’d seen just the other night at the masked ball. Helen Fitzwilliam was the Duke of Lister’s mistress. The duke was a powerful man, but no matter how powerful the man in such si [mann Ftuations, the woman was still considered beyond the pale. She smiled at Helen Fitzwilliam’s daughter. “I am Lady Vale. How do you do?”
The girl still stared at her toes.
“Abigail,” a low feminine voice said. “Curtsy to the lady, please.”
The girl dropped a wobbly but pretty curtsy even as Melisande looked up. The woman who had spoken was beautiful—shining golden hair, wide blue eyes, and a perfect cupid’s-bow mouth. She must be a little older than Melisande, but she would outshine women both younger and older than herself. But then it wasn’t surprising that the Duke of Lister would choose a blindingly beautiful woman as his mistress.
She should walk away, not acknowledge the courtesan by either look or word. By the set of Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s shoulders, that was exactly what the other woman expected. Melisande’s gaze dropped to the little girl, her eyes still firmly fixed on the ground. How many times had she seen her mother cut dead?
Melisande inclined her head. “How do you do? I am Melisande Renshaw, Viscountess Vale.”
She saw the flash first of surprise, then gratitude, on Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s face before the woman sank into a curtsy. “Oh! It’s an honor to meet you, my lady. I am Helen Fitzwilliam.”
Melisande returned the curtsy, and when she rose, found the little girl looking at her. She smiled. “And what is your brother’s name?”
The girl glanced over her shoulder to where her brother was squatting by the water, poking at something with a stick. Mouse was sniffing at whatever they’d found, and Melisande hoped he wouldn’t take it into his head to roll in something noxious.
“That’s Jamie,” Abigail said. “He likes stinky things.”
“Mmm,” Melisande concurred. “So does Mouse.”
“May I go see, Mother?” the girl asked.
“Yes, but do try not to paint yourself with the mud like your brother,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said.
Abigail looked insulted. “Of course not.”
She walked carefully over to where the boy and dog were playing.
“She’s a pretty child,” Melisande commented. Usually she disliked trying to make conversation with strangers, but she knew that if she was quiet, the other woman would take it as a snub.
“She is, isn’t she?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. “I know a mother isn’t supposed to notice, but I’ve always thought her rather lovely. They’re the light of my life, you know.”
Melisande nodded. She wasn’t sure how long Mrs. Fitzwilliam had been Lister’s mistress, but the children were almost certainly his. What a strange half-life it must be to be a man’s concubine. Lister had a legitimate family with his wife—some half-dozen sons and daughters already grown. Did he even acknowledge Jamie and Abigail as his own children?
“They love the park,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam continued. “I come here with them as often as I can, which, I’m afraid, i [ I’t ssn’t often enough. I don’t like coming when there are too many other people about.”
She said it matter-of-factly, without any self-pity.
“Why do you suppose little boys and dogs love the mud so much?” Melisande mused. Abigail was keeping her distance, but Jamie had stood and stomped at something in the muck. Mud flew up in great lumps. Mouse barked.
“The stench?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam guessed.
“The mess?”
Abigail shrieked and leaped back as her brother stomped in the mud again.
“The fact that it disgusts little girls?”
Melisande smiled. “That certainly explains Jamie’s fascination, but not Mouse’s.”
She found herself wishing she could ask the other woman to tea. Mrs. Fitzwilliam wasn’t what she’d expected at all. She didn’t ask for sympathy, didn’t seem distressed at her lot in life, and she had a sense of humor. She might make a very good friend.
But, alas, it would never do to invite a cyprian to tea.
“I understand that you are newly wed,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. “May I offer my felicitations?”
“Thank you,” Melisande murmured. Her brow wrinkled as she was reminded of how Jasper had left her the night before.
“I’ve often thought that it must be hard to actually live with a man,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam mused.
Melisande darted a glance at her.
Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s cheeks reddened. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”
“Oh, no.”
“It’s just that a man can be so distant sometimes,” the other lady said quietly. “As if one is intruding on his life. But perhaps not all men are like that?”
“I don’t know,” Melisande said. “I’ve only the one husband.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam looked down at the ground. “I wonder, though, if it is even possible for a man and a woman to be truly close. In a spiritual sense, I mean. The sexes are so far apart, aren’t they?”
Melisande clasped her hands together. Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s view of marriage was rather cynical, and a part of her—the sensible, pragmatic part—urged her to agree. But another part of her disagreed violently. “I don’t think that always has to be the case, surely? I have seen couples very much in love with each other, so close that they seem to understand each other’s thoughts.”
“And do you have such a bond with your husband?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam asked. The question would’ve been rude coming from any other lady, but Mrs. Fitzwilliam seemed honestly curious.
