No Proper Lady (5 page)

“So,” said Joan, trying to figure out how to begin with this girl, now that Simon had gone. She glanced out the window, stalling for time, and the view gave her an idea. “Why don’t we head outside?”

“If you’d like, of course.”

“We can stay in if you want.”

Eleanor took a breath. “No,” she said. “It’s only that I haven’t done much exploring around here myself.”

There was something to this girl after all, beneath the nerves and the trauma. Joan smiled. “We can get lost together then. Got a spool of thread with you?”

“Oh, do you know that story?”

“Some version. Ariadan, right? The goddess?” It wasn’t exactly the right term, but she didn’t know what they called the Watchers here. “Angel?”

Eleanor led Joan out into the hall, talking softly as she went. “Not quite, not here. A princess. Ariadne. Her father, the king of Crete, kept a-a monster in a maze and fed youths to it.”

“Nice dad,” said Joan. “Your royalty doesn’t do that kind of thing, right?”

“No, not at all.” Eleanor gave a half-shocked laugh at the thought. “Nobody civilized would—”

She was starting to stare at Joan, and Joan, remembering Simon’s lecture, didn’t tell her that feeding youths to monsters would’ve been fairly standard behavior among the Traitor Lords. “What happened to the girl?” she asked instead.

“Well, Theseus, the son of Poseidon—sorry, that’s the Greek god of the ocean—came to kill the monster. Ariadne fell in love with him, and she gave him the ball of thread so that he could get back through the labyrinth afterward. What’s the story like where you’re from?”

“There’s a princess there too, but she’s a different woman. She gets cursed and falls asleep for a hundred years. A maze of thorns, or sometimes fire, grows up around her. Ariadan gives the hero a ball of magic thread. It rolls ahead of him and shows him what path to take.”

They stepped outside. Sunlight washed over Joan, and she turned her face up to it, closing her eyes and feeling the heat against her skin. A deep breath brought her the smell of earth and grass.

When she opened her eyes again, the lawn she’d seen from her bedroom window stretched off before her with a wide road looping around it. A narrower path, though it was still big enough for two or three people to walk side by side, led around the house, flanked by a row of tall trees. Eleanor had taken a few steps in that direction but then paused. She was politely looking elsewhere.

“Sorry,” said Joan. “Been a while since I saw the sun, you know? Where do these roads go?”

“The large one goes out to the village,” Eleanor said. “It turns off halfway, and there’s a path to the woods. This other one will take us to the gardens and the stables.” After they’d gone a few feet, she added, “I’d heard some of your story before too. The princess and the curse, I mean.”

“Oh, there are a million of ’em,” Joan said. “And the
dratted
prince never gets the job done himself either. Something always shows up and helps him. And then he gets the reward. Nice in stories.”

They turned a corner. A large brown building stretched out in back of the house, and Joan saw horses in a corral near them—they were huge goddamn things even from a distance, and she was glad she didn’t have to learn riding right off—while another path led away, down between two lines of trees. As they walked toward it, Eleanor was silent, and she didn’t look at Joan.

“Sometimes it works out,” she finally said, not much louder than a whisper. “Sometimes, someone comes before things get too bad.”

“Yeah,” said Joan, clearing her throat. “Sometimes, yeah.”

If she got the chance, she’d kick Reynell in the balls a few times before he died.

Trees gave way to low hedges bordering green grass and low banks of flowers in bright red and blue, yellow and white. A little farther on were rosebushes with rich spots of red and yellow and white against their shining, dark green leaves. Joan tried to drink it all in as she walked, the color and the light and the sweet smell in the air. It was a few minutes before she looked over at Eleanor.

The girl was putting up a fairly good front, or maybe a fairly good fight, walking along with her head high and her face mostly calm. Her eyes kept flicking to the shadows and back, though, and her breathing was too quick, like a trapped animal’s.

“By the way,” Joan said, turning away reluctantly from the flowers, “where are we, exactly?”

Englefield Hall, she learned, and Queen’s Engle was the nearby village. They were half a day from London, more or less, if you caught the train and had a good coach. When the weather wasn’t so fine, Eleanor said, perhaps Joan could look at some of the atlases, and Joan eagerly agreed. She’d never seen a map of the world in this time; she hadn’t really seen a map of the whole world at all. High Command had one, but it was mostly guesswork. She didn’t tell Eleanor any of that.

As Eleanor spoke, she seemed to calm down a little. By the time they reached the house again, she was even smiling once in a while. She did keep looking at the shadows, though, and that made Joan think about security.

The subject was still on her mind that evening when she sat in what Eleanor had called the drawing room and tried to make sense of the rules in a book of etiquette. Footsteps, when she heard them, were a welcome distraction.

Distraction didn’t explain the way her pulse leapt when Simon came through the door, though. It was the first real opportunity she’d had to look at the man without considering tactics or trying to get her bearings, and she couldn’t deny liking what she saw. The tall athlete’s body that his clothes outlined, the hint of something not so stern about his firm mouth, and the crisp black hair that fell across his forehead—there was plenty to like.

He seemed a little surprised as he looked at her, and Joan clamped down quickly on her thoughts. No good ogling her allies too blatantly—the last thing she needed was Simon getting awkward around her. “Evening,” she said, and tried to make her smile casual rather than lecherous.

“Good evening,” he said, and looked from her face to the book that was now closed in her lap. “Did you hear me coming?”

Joan stifled a grin. “Were you trying to be quiet?”

“No, but the hall is carpeted in this part of the house.”

“I noticed,” Joan said and shrugged. “Carpet’s not air.”

“You hear very well, then.”

Now she couldn’t resist. “I do a lot of things very well.” Joan let herself grin this time and then moved on. “Eleanor’s gone to do some reading, but she seemed to be all right this afternoon. Showed me around the gardens and everything.”

“That’s…more than you realize. I’m glad to hear it.” Simon dropped into a chair next to the sofa where Joan was sitting, crossing one leg over the other. “I hope you enjoyed the tour,” he added.

“Yeah, it’s a great place you’ve got here.” She didn’t actually want to describe how great it was, not with his eyes on her. She had no desire to sound sappy around this man. “I was assuming,” she said quickly, “that you’d have warned me if it wasn’t safe out there. After yesterday, I mean. If I was wrong, though, or if you hadn’t thought about it—”

One corner of Simon’s mouth quirked upward. “That’s astonishingly diplomatic of you. Not simply asking if I’m a complete idiot, I mean. I’m pleased to say that my protections should cover you both, and I doubt Reynell can manage a demon or a spell to break through them.”

“So any threats should be basically mortal?”

“Yes, and I can’t imagine you’d encounter many of those as long as you stick to the grounds and the village. I may not keep as close an eye on my household as Alex does, but I expect people would notice an assassin around here.”

“Some would,” said Joan. He knew the place—but if he was wrong, she didn’t think one assassin should give her much trouble.

“All the same, I’d like you to keep an eye out. For Eleanor, especially.” Simon leaned toward her as he spoke, putting one hand on the arm of the sofa, and it was suddenly hard to look away from his eyes. “I know it won’t always be possible, and I hardly expect you to sleep across her threshold or any such thing, but where you can—”

“I’d be glad to,” Joan said, and couldn’t keep laughter out of her voice. The man sounded like he was asking her to break into one of the great fortresses or to find a living elephant or something. “It won’t be a problem at all,” she said. Without thinking, she reached over and touched his hand.

A rush of energy came with the momentary contact, along with a sudden awareness of what seemed like every inch of her skin, especially where the cloth of her dress lay against her breasts.

Did he feel the same heat? Joan’s fingers were calloused, she knew, and she wasn’t anywhere near the way a woman should look in this time. Still, she thought she saw his eyes widen a little, and there could have been more color on his face.

Better not to think too much about that.

“Thank you,” Simon said. “That’s at least one weight off my mind.” He smiled at her—a damn nice smile too.

The new clothes arrived two days later, Mrs. Simmons and her daughters having more than earned their payment. Joan came down to her first practical lesson in a blue serge skirt and a snowy blouse embroidered with small blue flowers. Her hair was done as simply as ever, she wore no jewelry, and neither good food nor plentiful sleep had more than begun to take effect. Still, her face was softened and her eyes were brighter. She could have been called pretty.

Rising to greet her, Simon suspected she’d go well beyond that in the end.

She returned his look with a questioning glance of her own, and the corners of her mouth turned up just a little. “Mr. Grenville,” she said, mindful of the servants still setting up the tea things. “Eleanor says she’ll be in shortly. We were looking at the atlas, and she wanted to look something up, but she said I should come and tell you.”

“Thank you,” he said, and then smiled and went as far as polite society would allow. “You look very well today.”

“That’s very kind of you. I’m…very much obliged.”

Simon winced. Of course, “Miss MacArthur” had been in dire straits. Of course, sending a dressmaker to her in this one instance wasn’t at all like giving a gift of clothing would have been otherwise. The servants understood that, and they’d known he was giving her clothes. Even so, he shook his head at her very slightly.

Joan was just beginning to look puzzled when Eleanor stepped in. She still wore the plainest of dresses, and she was still very thin and pale, but she’d spent the last two days walking with Joan in the gardens, and now she was having tea in the drawing room with them, a small miracle in itself.

“Ellie,” Simon said, smiling, “I hope you’re well.”

“Oh yes, thank you. And you?”

“Quite so, thank you.” He was relieved to see the last of the footmen put down his tray and walk out, the door closing quietly behind him. “Shall we?”

“Please,” said Joan. “I’m pretty hungry.”

“No, you’re not,” Simon said.

Joan blinked. “Ladies don’t get hungry,” she said then, her voice highly skeptical.

“No. You don’t mention that you’re uncomfortable in any way. Besides, saying you’re hungry says that your host hasn’t done a good job of providing food for you. You also don’t mention gifts in front of strangers, especially not gifts from men.”

“Is there anything you do mention?”

“How nice everyone looks,” Simon said. “And how lovely the weather is.”

“What if it’s not?”

“Then you don’t mention it. Rolling your eyes is also not done in the best circles. Now, say that we’d just been introduced. Follow me.” He bowed slightly, keeping his eyes on hers, and smiled. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss MacArthur.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Grenville.” Joan bowed as if she had a poker in her spine. When she looked up into Simon’s face again, she sighed. “What?”

“Military precision isn’t quite in fashion. Try again, please. Less rigid this time.” Her second bow wasn’t as stiff, but it made her look like a tiger ready to spring. “Better,” Simon said. “We can work on that.”

“Wonderful.”

He helped Joan and Eleanor to their seats, noting briefly that a footman would do so at any real party. “Leave your elbows off the table,” he told Joan, “and don’t let your back touch the chair.” Then he asked Eleanor, “Am I missing anything?”

“No, not at all.” She added to Joan, “You’d take your gloves off and leave your hat on, but that’s a bit academic at the moment.”

“I’ve been down to the village lately,” Simon said, pouring the tea and trying to remember how to start proper conversation. “Things seem to be going well.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Eleanor lifted her teacup carefully, took a sip, and then took a breath. “The rain we had the other day should do a great deal for the farms, shouldn’t it?”

“Yes. The dry weather’s been a worry lately. I hope this rain eases the farmers’ minds.” He added to Joan, “Lift the cup, not the saucer,” and racked his mind for a new, less insipid topic of conversation. “I understand you’ve been reading Edward Bellamy’s book, Ellie?”

“
Looking Backward
? Yes, it’s quite good. Very unlikely, of course, but you do almost believe in such things when you’re reading it. Have you read it?”

“Yes.” It had been a few months earlier, before Joan. Back then, he’d thought about utopian philosophy, talked over Bellamy’s ideas at his club, and wondered about socialism and about America. Now he thought of two hundred years in the future and tried not to glance at Joan. “I preferred some of his earlier works myself, the ones that didn’t get much attention. But it was quite well done.”

Eleanor nodded. As Simon passed the tray of cucumber sandwiches, she took one but left it on her plate, and her approach to the pastries seemed just as much form. They fell into a conversation about books, though, almost as light and easy as such had been in the old days, and Simon rejoiced that Eleanor listened and smiled and even told one short story about a strict teacher she’d had.

By the end of the tea, he’d begun to feel a bit like that teacher himself. He’d told Joan to keep her arms at her sides, to take smaller bites, and to hold her teacup by the handle. He’d warned her against letting her eyes drift from the other people at the table, letting her expression grow too serious or too bored, and taking more than one sandwich or scone at a time. Simon chose not to address the fact that she’d eaten five sandwiches and two scones with cream. They could talk about that when she wasn’t quite as thin.

Joan followed his instructions precisely. He never had to warn her twice, and she didn’t complain or even speak, just nodded quickly to acknowledge a point. Toward the end of the meal, though, her smile was beginning to resemble a grimace.

Afterward, once Ellie had taken herself off to read in the study and the servants were clearing the table, Joan stood looking out the window. The parlor had a good view at times, but the day was bleak. The sunset was lost behind the clouds, and Simon doubted Joan had any desire for natural beauty just then. As the door closed behind the last of the footmen, he stepped forward, close enough to speak but no farther. Alarming her would probably be unwise.

“I’m a dead shot with any weapon I can name,” Joan said. “I can survive for ten days in the wilderness. I’ve killed things that would make you run away screaming. I’ve led men on missions where we knew we all could die, and I’ve brought most of them back whole. And I’ve been through rituals. Never put a foot wrong either.”

“I—” he began, and didn’t know how to go on.

“I get that I have to do this. I’ll learn. But everything I just talked about had a point. That?” One hand gestured to the now-empty table. “That’s about showing that you’re fragile. There is no point, and it’s stupid. Just so you know.”

“It does serve a point, I think,” he said, and then laughed, careful not to seem like he was laughing at her. “But I couldn’t explain it. I’m afraid I’m not a very good teacher.”

“You didn’t make your world. You didn’t set its rules.” She sighed then, as if letting a great weight go, and turned to face him. “And don’t worry. You always want to punch your instructor. It passes. You’re a damn sight nicer than most of mine were.”

“Really?”

Now she laughed. “I was a soldier, remember? I was thirteen when I started training, and I don’t think the corporal who had charge of us ever used anyone’s name—waste of time with perfectly good words like ‘maggot’ and ‘dipshit’ around. You haven’t left a tenth of the bruises he did either.”

“Lord,” said Simon. “I’d bloody well hope not!”

“Oh, he wasn’t a bad guy. Had to toughen us up, you know? And he knew most of us did better when we had someone to hate.”

“Did you hate him?”

“For a while. Then we went out in the field. Those of us who came back learned to like him after that.”

“I hope it doesn’t take such drastic circumstances this time,” he said, half joking.

Joan stepped forward and put a hand on his arm. Her palm was warm and firm, and her hair smelled like roses now. “I don’t hate you,” she said. “I’m not good at this, and all my other training happened when I was a kid, around other kids who were as bad or worse, and I hate that. It’s not your fault, though, and I’m not thirteen anymore. I might get pissed off, but I’m not going to hate you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Hey,” she said, with a shrug and a resigned smile, “I signed on for this. You didn’t. I’m a bitch sometimes, but I can remember that much.”

“You’re not—” he responded automatically, and she waved the protest away, shaking her head.

Her hair shifted a little, a curl falling against her neck. What would it be like, he wondered, to run his hands through that hair now? What would her skin feel like under his hands?

“I should get back to my research,” he said, hoping his voice wasn’t hoarse. Clearly he’d been in the country too long.