Miss Peverett's Secret Scandal
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Bronwyn Scott
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Chapter One
She was likely the only person in England who was looking forward to winter. Thomasia Peverett pressed her forehead against the windowpane of Haberstock Hall’s music room and peered out into the gathering dusk, hoping to catch sight of snowflakes this early in the season. It was certainly cold enough. If she had her way it would snow indefinitely from now until May, although such weather was improbable. This part of Hertfordshire wasn’t known for acquiring long-lasting accumulations of snow. That was too bad.
Snow was insulating. Scientifically, it kept the heat in. Socially, it kept people out. It was the latter she was banking on. Snow froze roads, and when it melted the muddy sludge left behind continued to make roads impassable.
Thomasia closed her eyes and wished for snowdrifts as tall as a man, drifts that would keep the world out a while longer.
‘Come and sit by the fire, Tommie,’ her sister Becca coaxed from the rug set before the hearth, where she was entertaining little Effie-Claire with a rattle and a stuffed bunny.
Effie-Claire gurgled in delight and Thomasia turned towards the sound of her baby daughter’s laughter, unable to resist a smile despite her contemplative mood. She moved to the fire, taking a seat on the floor and tucking her skirts about her.
‘I don’t remember you liking winter so much when we were up in York last year.’ Becca gave her a quizzing look as Effie-Claire crawled to her.
Thomasia let the sweet baby weight of the infant settle in her lap before answering. ‘Last year was different.’
Last winter she’d been six months into a difficult pregnancy that had begun poorly and continued with much worry. By the middle of January she’d been confined to the security of her aunt’s home, not even allowed the freedom of the garden for fear she might slip on the ice and do herself or the babe an unrecoverable injury.
For a girl who loved the outdoors and socialising with people, last winter had seemed interminable. But that girl was no more. She was a mother now, a mother bear in hibernation, fierce and defensive on behalf of her cub. Winter was no longer a prison, but protection for herself and her daughter. The coming winter meant she was safe at home, at Haberstock Hall, amongst her family, surrounded by love, snow and unnavigable roads that kept people at home and the world at bay.
Winter was not a season of curiosity, but spring was. Spring was the season of going abroad, of exploring the world, of seeking out the changes that had occurred while the world had lain dormant, seeing what had been wrought beneath winter’s white blanket. Spring burgeoned with babies and beginnings. Spring was innocent. Winter was wise and wary.
Thomasia breathed in the soft baby scent of her little daughter, a reminder that to be wise and wary was better than being wild and reckless, although it had been wildness and recklessness that had brought Effie-Claire into her life.
Effie-Claire gripped her bodice with pudgy fingers, trying to pull herself up.
Becca laughed. ‘She’ll be walking soon, and then we’ll really be on our toes.’
Thomasia frowned and dismissed the idea. ‘She’s not even a year old. It’s too early for her to walk.’
It was all going so fast. Soon Effie-Claire would be too old to breastfeed, too old to sleep beside her in bed. An Effie-Claire who walked wouldn’t be a baby so much as a toddler and Thomasia was already missing the baby.
‘Mother always claims Anne walked early.’ Becca held out her hands to Effie-Claire. ‘I could make her a little walking contraption to help her along.’ Becca was always inventing things.
Thomasia shook her head against the idea. ‘Whenever she walks it will be soon enough.’
How was it that a year ago Effie-Claire hadn’t even been born and now that little scrap of a baby, born a few weeks early, was nearly walking? Talking wouldn’t be far behind, and questions would follow.
Thomasia pushed the thought away. There would be time to contemplate answers to those questions. Surely she had a few years yet before Effie-Claire realised she was different from other children, or other children realised it for her. Children could be unintentionally cruel that way. Effie-Claire must never know her father didn’t want her, didn’t want them.
She glanced anxiously towards the window, as if expecting to see a face from the past at the panes. It was for the best that he’d walked away from them. She could appreciate that in hindsight. But such a thing would wound a child. She didn’t want such hurt in Effie-Claire’s life.
‘He’s not out there,’ Becca offered quietly from the floor.
‘I know.’ But it was an old fear—one that had plagued her for months when she’d carried Effie-Claire. That Anthony would change his mind again and come to claim her baby in order to satisfy his great-aunt’s will and she would be able to do nothing about it.
Once, she would have swooned at the thought of marriage to Lord Anthony Halston, but that had been before she knew the truth of him, even if that truth had come too late to save her. Someone else had married him this past summer, thank goodness. That marriage had made it possible for her to feel safe enough to return from York. They were beyond one another now. He need not darken her door again. His presence need not remind her of her foolishness and she would not give him the chance. She would do all in her power to ensure that their paths never crossed. Out of sight was out of mind. She, who had once loved the thrill of Town, would live out her life in a quiet village and be thankful. It was a penance she was happy to pay if it kept Effie-Claire safe.
The music room door opened, startling her with a draught from the corridor. ‘Girls, you’re not dressed for dinner yet,’ her mother scolded with a smile, sweeping up her beloved granddaughter in her arms. ‘We have guests tonight, don’t forget. Mr Rawdon and his sister are coming.’
‘Tonight? But the weather... Isn’t it too cold to be out visiting?’ Thomasia protested. She’d hoped their guests would stay at home and send their regrets. If she had a choice, she’d choose to spend the evening before the fire, playing with Effie-Claire.
‘Mr Rawdon and Miss Susannah are good people. You will enjoy their company if you give them a chance. Seeing others will be healthy for you, Thomasia.’ Her mother firmly shut down the protest for what it was—a chance to prolong her retreat. She never could put anything past her mother. ‘You can’t hide away here for ever.’
Thomasia disagreed. She could hide here, and she would for as long as possible—which meant until spring. She had no desire to cut that time short, although such seclusion wasn’t easy. She was a social creature by nature. She’d become a recluse, a veritable hermit, by necessity.
‘Mr Rawdon is our MP, Tommie. Even Thea and Anne think he’s quite progressive,’ Becca offered in support of their mother.
‘Quite progressive for a man, you mean.’ Thomasia shot her sister a look that said You’re supposed to be on my side. Men were only progressive to a point—that point being when their grip on power was threatened. Some men would agree to progressive politics in theory, but in practice they were hard-pressed to act on those beliefs when the time came. She’d met a few ‘progressive’ politicians in York and found them lacking.
‘You could persuade him to your cause, Tommie,’ Becca wheedled gently, dangling the one carrot besides Effie-Claire that could tempt Thomasia to act.
Thomasia would do anything for her daughter, or for The Cause—that cause being the advocacy for and the protection of women’s rights when it came to healthcare and their children.
Aunt Claire, Effie’s namesake, with whom she and Rebecca had lived in York, had introduced her to The Cause early on in her pregnancy, when she’d been inclined towards self-pity. She’d been sick, depressed and entirely despondent, but Aunt Claire had had little sympathy for her self-pity.
‘If the world frustrates you, Thomasia, do something about it,’ she’d said. ‘The world wants you to think you’re alone. You’re not. There are other women who want what you want: equality, protection, recognition before the law.’
And Aunt Claire had introduced her to those women, taking her to a meeting of those like-minded females in Coffee Yard Close. They’d welcomed her, pregnant belly and all. Thomasia had not looked back since.
The work of educating herself and educating others about the subtle and not so subtle suppression that kept women in a subservient position had been the antidote she’d needed. She missed that work now that she was home. She still kept up on the goings-on from the Coffee Yard group, but it wasn’t the same as being there and being actively involved by talking to others about The Cause.
When she’d left York, earlier that autumn, the ladies had been just beginning to rally support against an attempt to overturn the 1845 Bastardy Act, which allowed unmarried mothers to petition for an affiliation order that would require the father of her child to pay maintenance. The attempt to repeal the Act was being engineered by a Lord Stanton, and would be introduced at the upcoming Parliamentary session in January. Thomasia smiled to herself, an idea taking shape. Perhaps there was something she could do. Perhaps Mr Rawdon might have his uses after all?
Becca caught her expression. ‘You’re already thinking of ways to persuade our Mr Rawdon—I knew it,’ she crowed.
Thomasia rose from the floor and shook out her skirts. ‘Well, I can at least survey the terrain. The Cause doesn’t have so many allies that we can ignore the potential for more.’
An MP would be a coup for The Cause. They’d made inroads using newspapers to promote their agenda with the general public, but they had yet to gain a strong toehold with actual members of Parliament—proof to Thomasia that male openness to progressive politics stopped when action was needed.
Catherine Peverett glanced between her two daughters. ‘Just be polite, Thomasia. We like Mr Rawdon, and I’d rather not have the best company within miles scared off before the cheese course. Besides, one catches more flies with honey than with vinegar, as the saying goes.’
Thomasia dropped a kiss on her mother’s cheek as she headed for the door. ‘I know, Mother. I’ll be good. I promise.’ She lifted Effie-Claire from her mother’s arms. ‘I’ll drop this little darling off in the nursery before I change.’
Effie-Claire, of course, need not worry about dinner and politics with guests. She’d be tucked away with a maid. The Rawdons would leave none the wiser regarding her existence for the time being. But Thomasia was well aware that such a strategy was a temporary one only. When spring came and it was time to be out and about there’d be no more hiding. By then, both she and The Cause would be out in the open. It would be nice to go armed if Mr Rawdon could be persuaded.
Suddenly dinner was shaping up to be more interesting. The thrill of having a purpose outside of Effie-Claire began to hum in her veins, like a little piece of herself coming back to life.
Armed with a newfound sense of usefulness, Thomasia dressed carefully for dinner, selecting a gown of green silk taffeta trimmed with red velvet ribbon. The gown was fashionable, but discreet enough for the country, with a bateau neckline instead of one that plunged. A fitted bodice formed a V at the waist and sported velvet paisley-patterned buttons for decoration, while the skirt was full and plain, devoid of the ostentatious trims and ruffles one might see in London.
Thomasia twisted and turned in front of the cheval mirror that stood in the corner of her room, critical of her appearance from all angles now that the maid had stepped out for a moment. It had been eight months since Effie-Claire’s birth, and she still wasn’t sure she had her figure back or would ever get it back. Despite the returned flatness of her stomach, there was a decidedly new flare to her hips that suggested she’d not see nineteen inches again—something the slight snugness of her gown attested to at the waist and across the bust.
At least she didn’t feel full. She’d fed Effie-Claire before she dressed, but to her critical eye she could see the womanly fullness of her breasts. Gone was the high, girlish pertness that had once defined her silhouette. It was worth it, though, to breastfeed Effie-Claire.
‘Oh, miss, you look a treat!’ Her mother’s maid returned—sent, no doubt, to hurry her along under the guise of offering help. ‘That green becomes you...sets off your dark hair, it does. Can I help with your hair? Perhaps do it up in a twist?’
‘Yes, that would be lovely.’ Thomasia took a final look in the mirror. ‘Do you think we should lace the corset tighter?’ Old habits died hard, even when she knew better. Restrictive clothes, even if she could get into them, weren’t healthy for the body, and they were one of the subtle ways in which women were oppressed. Still, she secretly did like how she looked, although she hated to admit it. ‘Perhaps we could squeeze out another inch or two?’
‘Absolutely not, miss,’ the maid scolded. ‘Twenty-one inches is perfectly respectable, and you’ve had a child. You look wonderful. Now, come and sit. I’ve promised your mother I’ll have you downstairs at half past six without delay.’
Thomasia managed to delay anyway, despite having new motivation for charming the dinner guests. It had been a long time since she’d kept company. She worried they’d take one look at her and guess her secret. Was there something about her that would give it away? She fussed over wearing a red or green velvet ribbon at her throat, so that by the time she finally descended to the music room, where her family liked to receive guests when the party was small, everyone was already assembled.
Her mother and Becca sat on the settee. A pretty young woman, who she guessed was Susannah Rawdon, sat perched adjacent on a chair, leaning forward, intent on whatever Becca was saying.
Her father stood at the mantel of the fireplace, tall and straight-backed, engrossed in conversation with the man who must be Mr Rawdon. His back was to her, but there was plenty to study even without seeing his face: the set of broad shoulders beneath a dark brown jacket, his significant height, topping her father by three inches, and his russet hair, a stark contrast to her father’s greyer shades. He was, in fact, a veritable autumn flame set against the greys and whites of oncoming winter. He was a spark, a fire, and something unbidden in her answered to him, before he even turned around.
The new MP was handsome.
Handsome. The word made her cringe. What was wrong with her? She’d promised herself no more recklessness, no more acting on intuition. She was a mother now. She had a child to protect. It couldn’t be any other way.
‘Ah, Thomasia, there you are!’ Her father had spied her and gestured for her to join them at the fireplace. ‘This is my youngest, Rawdon. Now you have met all my girls.’
‘Miss Thomasia, I am sincerely charmed.’
He bowed over her hand as if they were in a London drawing room, his touch sending a warm jolt of awareness up her arm. When he raised his gaze to hers she was met with striking blue eyes the vivid cerulean of a summer sky, and a pair of cheekbones set high and sharp against the lines of a long, masculine jaw.
He had at once the look of a rugged sportsman and the elegance of a gentleman, the perfect cross between Town and country. For a moment Thomasia was rendered speechless. Against her will, he’d set her pulse to racing. That was another thing she’d promised herself after the debacle with Anthony—that she was beyond such superficial appeal as physical attractions, that she’d learned her lesson. But before her stood a man who was both Adonis and Apollo, a man who she knew would be good at everything he did, indoors and out. No, he would be better than good. He would be excellent. He was likely as dangerous to men as he was to women—sucking secrets from the unsuspecting with all that easy charm, whether it was over a shooting match or a musical soiree.
Such a man would not be easily persuaded to The Cause. He had too much to lose. But Thomasia liked a challenge.
She felt Becca coming to stand beside her in encouragement and solidarity. Becca’s arm slipped through hers in support.
‘Don’t say anything foolish, Mr Rawdon,’ Becca laughed. ‘Like You’ve saved the best for last, or She’s the prettiest one of the bunch, because I am still in the room.’
Rawdon laughed—a warm, genuine sound, as if they were all old friends. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Rebecca.’
His blue eyes crinkled at the edges and Thomasia wondered just how much help her usually stalwart sister would be against such a good-looking onslaught of charm. Still, there should be some safety in numbers...
But within moments she found herself alone with Rawdon. Becca had rejoined Susannah, and her mother had pulled her father aside to confer with him on something. That left her with Rawdon and fifteen minutes before dinner would be served. Fifteen minutes to meet charm with charm and strike a blow for The Cause. The situation would be ideal if only he was less handsome and her pulse less rapid. As it stood now, the caution she’d developed over the last year and a half counselled her to retreat, while the woman in her who was committed to The Cause told her to push on, that this was too good an opportunity to waste, and the woman in her who insisted on admiring a handsome man agreed.
She plunged in with a smile and a tried-and-true strategy learned in London’s ballrooms. ‘I’m told you are our new MP. How do you find Parliament thus far?’ No man could resist the chance to talk about himself. The trick was to use it to one’s benefit.
He gave a smile and a shake of his head. ‘Tedious, stultifying, yet at times exhilarating. Sometimes I imagine Parliament is like an enormous ship, setting out to sea: cumbersome to start, with tugs straining under the tonnage as they haul it to the open water, but once underway it’s unstoppable as it reaches full speed. It’s an engine of change, Miss Thomasia, perhaps the best one we have.’
Whatever she’d expected for an answer, it hadn’t been that, and she found herself unarmed against such passionate honesty. This was going poorly. She didn’t want to like him, didn’t want to have anything in common with him.
‘Why, Mr Rawdon, you may have missed your calling. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard Parliament described in such poetic terms.’ She favoured him with a smile, aware that he’d unknowingly given her an opportunity to advance The Cause. ‘You speak of change... What sort of change?’
It was a vital question. His political agenda would tell her much about the man. How far did his progressivism go? Perhaps his answer would help her like him less, make him less attractive. Thanks to Anthony, she knew all too well that handsome faces could hide ugly things.
He was ready with his answer. ‘Expansion of the railways, Miss Peverett, and with them an expansion in education—particularly for the poor. Railways will bring the country closer to the city. Not only that, they will bring the world closer. And all people, regardless of their social status, will need an education to navigate that new world, from foundlings to lordlings.’
Did he truly mean that? It was a laudable sentiment and it spoke well of Rawdon’s intellect. Few understood the consequences advancements like railway expansion would have on the lives of ordinary people. Before she’d met the Coffee Yard ladies she, herself, had not given any thought about the railways beyond the transportation benefits they provided. But now she knew better.
She decided to test him. ‘And women? Are they included in your definition of “all people regardless of social status”?’ She was sure this was where he would fail, she was certain of it.
He met her question evenly, with only a slight tightening of his jaw. He’d clearly not liked being challenged, or, more particularly, he hadn’t liked his word being challenged.
‘When I say I seek change, Miss Peverett, I mean I seek change for everyone. As much change as I can manage before my views become unpopular.’
‘And when they do? What happens then?’ Thomasia pressed. ‘It’s one thing to want change, it’s another thing to actually vote for it.’
His blue gaze rested firmly on her in a long considering glance that she felt to her toes. ‘Yes, Miss Peverett, it certainly is.’
She would have liked to pursue that line of questioning, but Rawdon was saved from her interrogation by the announcement of dinner. If she had offended him he gave no sign of it. Instead, he offered her his arm, and another sharp sting of awareness crackled through her, intense and definitive. She was acutely alert to the solid muscle that met her touch beneath his sleeve, to the male scent of him. It was all winter spice, with a top note of cedar, a base note of patchouli and a hint of something—sandalwood, perhaps—in between. He smelled of comfort and strength.
His voice came low and private at her ear. ‘There is much that needs fixing in England, and I mean to fix it for as long as I can.’
There was, indeed, Thomasia thought. Starting with its men. She slid him a coy look. What would he think of that? He might think a little differently about change then. Men usually did.
