Lady Audacious: Regency Ladies Vol 3 Read online

  Regency Ladies

  Lady Audacious

  Wendy Soliman

  Regency Ladies Vol 3

  Lady Audacious

  Edited by Perry Iles

  Cover Design by Clockwork Art

  Copyright © Wendy Soliman 2021

  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations contained are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance of actual living or dead persons, business, or events. Any similarities are coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any method, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of

  The Author – Wendy Soliman

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction fines and/or imprisonment. The e-Book cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this e-Book can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the author.

  Chapter One

  London, Summer 1819

  ‘Exactly so, Prudence. Cordelia stood to inherit nothing because she refused to flatter her father. Rightly so in my opinion. Being a king did not entitle him to his daughters’ unquestioning approval, and Cordelia stuck by her principles.’

  ‘That’s silly, Miss,’ Belinda said, tossing her head. ‘What harm could it have done for her to pretend she approved of her father, if that approval guaranteed her a wealthy and comfortable life? Don’t most women do that when they’re searching for a husband? Money and social position are their first priorities. It doesn’t seem to matter much what the men in question look like, provided they qualify in other areas.’

  ‘I think it a very great pity that the girls are obliged to be obsequious in order to stand any chance of inheriting anything,’ Beth said. ‘If they were boys, the inheritance would be carved in stone.’

  Odile Aspen listened with pride as her class of senior girls entered into a lively discussion about the unfairness of the country’s inheritance laws. The debate had strayed away from King Lear’s daughters, but it was the last day of term so it seemed unimportant. Odile preferred not to temper their enthusiasm for any debate that encouraged them to express their individual opinions.

  The bell sounded for the end of the final class of that year’s school, and this particular set of girls would be going home, never to return. They bustled from the room in a buoyant mood. Odile felt a moment’s regret at their leaving, but no more than that. She had taught them as much as they were ever likely to absorb, even if it wasn’t nearly enough to prepare them for life beyond the school gates.

  Feeling a little disheartened—as she always did at the end of a school year—she left her now empty classroom, the sound of the departing girls’ excited chatter still ringing in her ears as she made her way up to her room on the second floor. She felt hollow, empty inside, as though life was passing her by. The small room had been her home since she herself had finished her education in this establishment but had stayed on to teach because the headmistress had a position to fill and Odile had nowhere else to go. With no experience of the world and no other way of making a living, it had seemed like an ideal arrangement.

  She hadn’t known at the time, six years previously, that it would drain her soul and make her hanker after another sort of life—any life—that could never be hers. A life that was full of family, love and laughter—commodities that were sadly lacking in her own small world. Now, on the eve of her one-and-twentieth birthday, she felt deeply depressed, realising this was likely to be her life for the next forty years.

  ‘I have done nothing,’ she muttered, disgusted with herself for being so feeble.

  Odile stood at her small window, watching the girls hugging one another as they made their farewells and were collected by parents in fancy carriages drawn by excellent horses and driven by liveried coachmen. All that ostentation would never entitle them to breach the boundaries of society’s elite, Odile knew, since they had committed the unpardonable crime of making their money through their own endeavours.

  Odile could have told the ambitious parents that sending their daughters to Miss Mackenzie’s Academy for Genteel Young Ladies might afford them a good education but would do little to achieve their social ambitions. She wondered if the girls who were leaving today had already seen doors closed in their hopeful faces, accounting for the lively debate about the merits of King Lear’s daughters.

  The school already had a sense of emptiness about it, even up here on the top floor where ordinarily only Odile and Miss Mackenzie herself ventured. Her accommodation was vastly superior to that of the rest of the teachers who lived two to a room in an annexe in the grounds during term time. Unlike Odile, they had families to go home to during the holidays. The favouritism that they assumed Odile enjoyed came at a heavy price, since she was constantly at the headmistress’s beck and call.

  Odile contemplated yet another long summer with just Miss Mackenzie for company and her spirits sank even lower. The headmistress took advantage of Odile’s dependency upon her and Odile knew that complaining would result in the tedious lecture that the older woman trotted out at the least provocation. Teaching positions in respectable establishments were much sought after, Miss Mackenzie insisted. Odile was very lucky to have secured hers and had no cause for complaint.

  And so Odile soldiered on for year after interminable year, keeping her mind occupied and ignoring the jibes often sent her way by the older girls who referred to her as ‘The Tree’. The other teachers more or less ignored her, thinking themselves superior simply because they were not stigmatised as orphans.

  Odile was better read than all of them, and she liked to think that she was a better teacher too. She was certainly more in tune with the girls’ modern way of thinking and less concerned about adherence to rules that were often pointless, nearly always outdated and usually disregarded anyway by the majority of the girls. Odile kept up with current affairs and took every opportunity during the holidays to explore museums and art galleries, improving her mind and attempting to convince herself that she didn’t yearn for adventure.

  She turned away from the window and caught sight of her reflection in the small mirror hanging from the back of her door. A round face and large silver-grey eyes stared back at her with just a hint of defiance. Her wide mouth curled upwards in a smile that supported that defiance. A defiance which she would never have dared to express to Miss Mackenzie for fear of losing her position and her home, such as it was.

  She wondered if she had inherited her burnished gold hair from her mother. Did hers curl waywardly with a mind of its own too? Perhaps, but Odile assumed she would not have been required by her occupation to keep her crowning glory brutally scraped back into a bun so tight that it gave her a headache. Still feeling defiant, Odile removed the pins and shook her head, sighing with pleasure when the pressure was released from her skull and thick tresses tumbled down her back as far as her waist in a riot of unruly curls.

  ‘That’s better,’ she told her reflection, thinking she might even pass for being half-way pretty if she were ever allowed to wear anything that wasn’t uniformly grey. Her grey dress with its white collar was shapeless and made her look like an elderly housekeeper, as did the only two others dresses she owned. She longed for pretty things—silks, satins and lace—that she would never be able to afford and would have nowhere to wear them even if she could.

  ‘Self-pity does not be
come you,’ she told herself, searching about for an occupation that for once did not entail reading.

  Miss Mackenzie would be expecting her downstairs for the traditional tea that they shared in the empty dining hall once the girls had departed. Sighing, she knew she would be made to regret it if she didn’t show her face. She could, however, express her individuality by leaving her hair the way that it was.

  Miss Mackenzie offered a predictable scowl when she noticed Odile’s small act of rebellion. She pursed her lips and tutted her disapproval but refrained from comment.

  ‘Cook has managed not to completely ruin this cake,’ she said, picking up a large slice and taking an equally large bite from it. Miss Mackenzie was all for refinement, but didn’t practise what she preached, at least not when it came to food, which she appeared to absorb like osmosis and had a rounded figure to show for it.

  Odile took up her seat across from the headmistress and picked up her napkin. She sipped at her scalding tea but had little taste for cook’s fruitcake.

  ‘A very satisfactory year,’ Miss Mackenzie said, just as she did at the end of every term. ‘Our girls are equipped to make their mark and we can be justifiably proud of cramming some knowledge into their vacant heads.’

  ‘A letter’s come for you, miss.’

  Odile looked up in astonishment when Jed, the lad employed by Miss Mackenzie to do all the donkey work, stopped in front of her. She assumed the boy had made a mistake and that the letter had to be for Miss Mackenzie. No one ever wrote to Odile.

  ‘For me?’ She looked at Jed askance.

  ‘That’s wot Miss Fenchurch said,’ Jed replied, unable to read himself. ‘She found it on the hall table. Said it must have been overlooked wot with all the hubbub and I was to give it to you at once. So ’ere it is.’

  Having said his piece and scratched his head for good measure, Jed sent a longing look at the cake and scuttled away again.

  ‘Most irregular,’ Miss Mackenzie said tutting, leaving Odile wondering if she was referring to Jed’s temporary presence in the dining hall or to Odile actually having the temerity to receive a letter.

  Odile glanced at the missive Jed had put beside her plate. Sure enough, it was addressed to Miss Odile Aspen and written in a flowing hand that she didn’t recognise. Thinking it must be from a former pupil with news to impart, she broke the seal and gasped.

  ‘What is it, girl?’ Miss Mackenzie asked impatiently.

  Odile didn’t respond immediately. Thinking she had misread, she scanned the contents more slowly for a second time before looking up at the headmistress, blinking.

  ‘It is from a firm of lawyers in Lincoln’s Inn,’ she said, staring off into the distance. ‘A Mr Sandwell of Messrs Sandwell and Sons invites me to call upon him at my convenience in order that I might learn something to my advantage.’

  Miss Mackenzie looked most put out, and unless Odile’s eyes deceived her, a little anxious too. ‘It’s some sort of cruel prank,’ she said, ‘and you most certainly shouldn’t go. You will be disappointed.’

  ‘Well,’ Odile replied, recovering her composure as she folded the letter and slipped it into her pocket. ‘That’s as maybe, but I might as well go anyway out of curiosity if nothing else.’

  ‘If you have nothing better to do than to waste your time on a fool’s errand, you can be sure that I will find you an occupation.’

  When did she not, Odile wondered, but she refrained from expressing that view. She also wondered why the headmistress had turned so pale. Odile craved adventure and this mysterious summons was as close to adventure as her dreary life was ever likely to get, so she would definitely call upon Mr Sandwell.

  ‘You will take care, my dear, won’t you?’ Miss Mackenzie, never the most affectionate of souls, placed a hand on Odile’s shoulder when they had finished their tea and stood up from the table. Odile blinked at her, wondering if her ears had deceived her. She could have sworn that Miss Mackenzie had just used an endearment. It was so unusual that she felt like recording the date in her journal.

  ‘Of course. I am only going to tidy the books away in the classrooms, Miss Mackenzie. I am sure I will not come to any harm.’

  But Odile knew the headmistress had been referring to the mysterious summons from Sandwell and Sons, and wondered if she knew more about it than she was willing to admit.

  At ten the following morning, Odile left the academy clad in the best of her grey dresses, thinking that anyone else would be hard pressed to tell the difference between it and the one she had worn the previous day. A small hat sat at a jaunty angle on top of curls that she had piled on top of her head but not pulled back into the tight bun that Miss Mackenzie deemed essential. Already she felt the curls slipping, their defiance in accordance with Odile’s state of mind.

  The weather was as changeable as Odile’s mood—one moment gloriously sunny, the next cloudy enough to threaten rain—so Odile indulged in the extravagance of a cab to convey her from Hammersmith to Lincoln’s Inn. Deposited directly outside the doors to her destination, Odile paid her fare and alighted from the conveyance, filled with trepidation. She glanced up at the grand building with its glossy black front door and gleaming brass knocker and briefly wondered if she had come to the wrong place.

  ‘There must surely be some mistake,’ she muttered.

  Only the thought of returning to her dreary routine and being obliged to tell Miss Mackenzie that she hadn’t found the courage to enter the premises drove her on. She sounded the knocker and the door was opened by a clerk, who gave her person an insolent look and demanded to know her business. Odile disliked being treated as an inferior and the clerk’s attitude drove her nerves away.

  ‘Have the goodness to inform Mr Sandwell that Miss Odile Aspen is here to see him,’ she replied, elevating her chin.

  The clerk looked down his nose at her. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘I do not.’ She extracted Mr Sandwell’s letter from her reticule and showed it to the clerk. ‘Will this suffice?’

  The man still looked highly dubious but opened the door wider and beckoned her inside. ‘Wait in here,’ he said with the minimum of civility, indicating a small and cheerless little room. ‘I will enquire if Mr Sandwell has time to see you.’

  Odile sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair, tapping her fingers against its arms as she took in her surroundings. If this was the room in which the clients of such an apparently prosperous solicitor were ordinarily asked to wait, it did not inspire confidence. Its plain walls, empty fireplace and lack of basic amenities were rather unprepossessing. Odile closed her eyes and tried to think what changes she would make, given a free hand, to create a better and more welcoming atmosphere. It was a game that she often played, living the grand life vicariously through her imagination.

  ‘What the devil do you think you’re playing at, Cowper?’

  Odile jolted out of her reverie when she heard the angry voice, at first thinking it was directed at her. Then she recalled that her name was not Cowper. But the clerk who had been so dismissive of her did answer to that name, it seemed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Sandwell,’ he said. ‘I had no idea.’

  An older gentleman whose whiskers were heavily threaded with grey and whose manner and avuncular smile instantly put Odile at her ease, walked into the room.

  ‘My dear Miss Aspen,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘This is the greatest pleasure, and I have waited a long time to enjoy it, I do assure you.’

  Odile stood and returned his smile, taking an immediate liking to the gentleman. ‘Thank you, sir, but I am afraid you have the advantage of me. Until I received your letter yesterday, I didn’t know of your existence.’

  ‘That is a situation that I shall rectify immediately,’ he replied. ‘Come this way, if you please.’

  Odile, more bemused by the warmth of her welcome than she was curious about her reasons for being summoned, walked past a room containing four clerks perched on high stools, scratching away with their
pens. None of them looked up as she passed, presumably aware that gawping would be more than their positions were worth.

  ‘Now then, let’s make ourselves comfortable.’ Mr Sandwell led Odile into a large office with book-lined walls and full-length windows at one end. The sun had broken through the rain clouds and a thrush sat on a branch immediately outside, singing its heart out, which Odile took to be an auspicious sign. A huge desk with bundles of papers neatly piled upon it occupied the end of the room in front of the windows. Mr Sandwell ignored it and led Odile to comfortable chairs arranged around a decent fire the likes of which Miss Mackenzie would consider far too extravagant, accounting for the fact that teachers and pupils alike spent half the year with frozen fingers and toes and very often chilblains too. ‘Sit yourself down my dear, and make yourself comfortable. Cowper, some tea for my guest.’

  ‘At once, Mr Sandwell.’

  Mr Sandwell sat opposite Odile, studying her face so avidly that she briefly wondered if she had a smudge on her chin. Before she could enquire, he broke the silence.

  ‘This must seem a little odd to you.’

  Odile smiled. ‘Miss Mackenzie, the headmistress at the school where I am engaged as a teacher, warned me against coming here today. She said it was likely some sort of cruel hoax.’

  ‘Oh, I rather think she knows differently.’

  Odile blinked. ‘She does?’

  Before she could press Mr Sandwell for a more fulsome response, Cowper reappeared with the tea. Mr Sandwell dismissed him with a flip of his wrist and poured for them both. Odile sipped at hers and looked at Mr Sandwell over the brim of her cup, waiting for him to speak again.

  ‘Have you enjoyed your tenure at Miss Mackenzie’s academy?’ he asked.

  ‘Enjoyed is a relative term,’ Odile replied, feeling the need to express herself candidly for reasons that were not yet apparent to her. ‘I enjoyed learning when I was a pupil, but I fear I was in the minority. That is why instilling knowledge into the heads of girls who would frankly prefer to exchange views about fashion, the latest gossip or their matrimonial ambitions is sometimes—in fact all too often—rather discouraging. Having said that, I am naturally grateful to have a purpose, to say nothing of a roof over my head.’