Sherry Thomas - Beguiling the Beauty

It was true. Venetia had lied her fair share. Sometimes people must be protected; sometimes appearances had to be kept; and sometimes her own pride needed preserving, so she could go about her business with her head held high, even when all she wanted was to cower in a corner.

“The duke, most likely, is not a liar,” continued Helena. “But he has spoken with reprehensible recklessness, presenting a series of unsubstantiated rumors as if they were from the Encyclopedia Britannica . Unforgivable. We can only be grateful that while Americans might have heard of the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Marlborough, they don’t know of Venetia and won’t be able to guess her identity from what he’s said.”

“Thank goodness for small mercies,” murmured Millie.

Helena stopped before Venetia’s chair and lowered herself so that her eyes were level with Venetia’s. “Avenge yourself, Venetia. Make him fall in love with you, then give him the cut.”

Loud, dark thoughts had been crisscrossing Venetia’s head like a murder of crows over the Tower of London. But now, as she gazed into her sister’s cool, resolute eyes, the past dropped away, and the thought of Lexington likewise receded.

Helena. Helena was a woman who made her decisions with an almost frightful ruthlessness.

If Helena had truly decided that Andrew Martin was worth the trouble, then the die was cast, the board set, the bridge crossed and burned. Millie, Fitz, and Venetia could try all they want. They would not change her mind, not by any means in their possession.

Venetia could only be glad that her mind had gone largely numb. She could not feel any despair.

For now.

When Venetia was ten, a train had derailed near her childhood home.

Her father had led the charge in pulling passengers out of the wreck. Venetia and her siblings had not been allowed to go near the scene, for fear it would upset them too much. But they were encouraged to attend to passengers, especially children who’d suffered only minor injuries.

There had been a boy about her age who bore no visible damages. When sandwiches were set down before him, he ate. When a cup of tea appeared, he drank. And when asked questions, he gave sensible enough answers. Yet it became apparent after some time that he wasn’t entirely there, that he was still caught in the midst of the derailment.

In the days following Lexington’s lecture, Venetia carried out a similar approximation of normalcy. At her insistence, they departed for their tour of Montreal as scheduled. Braving the cold—barely feeling the cold, in fact—she visited the Notre-Dame Basilica, smiled at the quaintly costumed country folk who thronged the Bonsecours on market days, and admired the panoramic views of the city from the belvedere atop Mount Royal.

All the while she relived Lexington’s condemnation. And relived the awful days immediately following Tony’s death. For longer than she thought possible, she was but a bystander in her own mind, witnessing the events as if they were happening to a stranger a continent away, and marveling that she should be so removed.

The first crack in her detachment came three days before they were to leave for New York. She woke up in the middle of that night, her heart pounding, wanting to destroy something. Everything.

By the time Helena and Millie awoke she was already packed and dressed, her portmanteau strapped to the boot of a hired carriage. If she were to scream and smash things, she didn’t want her family to see her.

“I’ve decided to go ahead to New York and facilitate your arrival,” she said.

Helena and Millie looked at each other. In this day and age, all one needed was a decent guidebook and access to a telegraph office to make travel arrangements. There was no need to send a scout ahead to thoroughly modern New York, especially as they’d already applied for and received reservations in one of the best hotels in town.

Helena began, “We can come with—”

“No!” Venetia winced at the harshness of her refusal. She took a deep breath. “I’d like to go by myself.”

“Are you sure about this?” Millie asked hesitantly.

“Quite. And don’t look so downcast—it will only be two days before you see me again.”

But they did look downcast, dismayed, and anxious. They wanted to keep her near and protect her. Some hurts, however, were beyond the protection of sisterly love and some wounds better licked in dark, lonely caves.

“I’d better hurry,” she said. “Or I’ll miss my train.”

Venetia had once thought she’d made peace with Tony’s memories. She’d lied to herself. There had never been peace, only a tenuous truce with him forever silent and her studiously avoiding the subject.

And now even that truce had been undone. As her train sped south, she stared at the still-frozen landscape rushing by, while a bewildered, plaintive voice in her head kept repeating the same question. Why had you said such things to Lexington, Tony, why?

It’s simple enough, you idiot. He wanted someone to believe you were responsible for his death.

Why this should come as such a bitter surprise, she didn’t know. Perhaps with the passage of time, she’d allowed herself to romanticize the past, to believe that her marriage hadn’t been so suffocating after all, that she’d been no more unhappy than anyone else, and that Tony hadn’t really proved himself anywhere near as mean-spirited a man.

This, then, was his way to remind her, from beyond the grave, of her misery, heartbreak, and shame.

Of the truth.

Venetia’s head pounded as she detrained at Grand Central Station. She almost walked past the sign held by her friend Lady Tremaine’s driver. Lady Tremaine, her husband, and their two young daughters had already departed for England, but they’d put their automobile at Venetia’s disposal.

The manservant, who told her his name was Barnes, guided Venetia outside, to where he’d parked the vehicle. Except for the lack of harnessed horses, the automobile exactly resembled a victoria—the open body, the raised driver’s seat in the front, even the calash hood at the back.

“Driving hats for you, Mrs. Easterbrook, from Lady Tremaine.” Barnes motioned toward the stack of hatboxes on the seat.

“Very considerate of her,” Venetia murmured.

Most veiled hats employed ornamental lattices of fabric meant not to conceal, but to draw more attention to the face. The driving hats from Lady Tremaine, however, were not the least bit frivolous. Not that they were ugly, but their veils were proper veils, consisting of two layers of fine netting that wound all around the brim of the hat.

“We won’t go very fast in the city,” said Barnes, adjusting his driving goggles, “but you might find a hat useful driving out in the country, ma’am.”

Venetia unpinned her own hat and set the driving hat on her head. The effect was that of being plunked down inside a fog—not a London pea souper, but the kind of fog she encountered on early morning walks in the country, like smoke flowing on the ground.

The bustle outside Grand Central Station receded. Barnes cranked the engine, climbed onto his seat, and released the brake. The now dreamlike streets of Manhattan glided by outside Venetia’s translucent cocoon, the colors muted, the buildings smudged at the edges, the passersby blurred in ways that might intrigue modern artists.

Would that she traveled through her entire life at such a remove, protected from its pitfalls and upheavals.

They drove for a mile or so before the automobile came to a stop. “Here’s your hotel, Mrs. Easterbrook. All seventeen stories of it,” said Barnes proudly. “Ain’t it grand? All electric, too—and a telephone in each room.”