Courtney Milan - Unveiled

“Mrs. Benedict,” Mr. Turner said as the footmen whisked the covers off the green soup, “I was thinking of investing in cotton, and I wished to ask you a few things.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Benedict’s face turned red. “Mr. Turner, I know how to dose a goose with castor oil, and I have a secret formula to get the shine back into silver. Investment—” she pronounced the word gingerly, as if holding up a dirty handkerchief “—that’s not for the likes of me.”

Inwardly, Margaret nodded.

“You want to talk to one of your peers, or a solicitor. I’m just a simple housekeeper.”

Mr. Turner picked up a spoon. “Nonsense. It is precisely your opinion I want. Men of my station would simply sniff and tell me nobody of good breeding wears cotton, and not to bother with it. But there’s money to be made if I ignore the gentry’s prejudice. I could sell five hundred times the amount to people like you. You are important.”

As Mr. Turner spoke, Margaret could see a change pass over Mrs. Benedict. She unfolded her arms. Her eyes widened. By the time Mr. Turner favored her with his final, brilliant smile, the woman had a soft, foolish grin in place.

“Well.” She fiddled with the cutlery and looked up. “There’s rags to start. Cotton—it absorbs water, and so I’ve used it for dishcloths.”

Mr. Turner nodded. “Go on.” He tasted his soup and looked back at Mrs. Benedict, focusing on her as if she were the only person in the universe. She continued, tentatively at first, and then with greater confidence. As she spoke, Mr. Turner leaned towards the housekeeper, his gaze riveted on her. Every aspect of his face said the same thing: You matter. You are important. Your observations are valuable.

It stung. Not just that Mr. Turner ignored Margaret; her pride had been beaten down enough over the past few months that such a slight would hardly even tickle. No. It stung that she was wrong. It stung that he could transition from a man who could court votes in Parliament, to someone who could sit down and talk to a servant and find his welcome. That he should belong everywhere with everyone, while she had no place with anyone.

Mr. Benedict and Mrs. Turner progressed from the topic of cotton to the mill in the village, and from there to tenant farmers. Margaret was so used to her father’s style of autocratic demand. Every word he voiced was a command. It came out a shout, as if he had to rail to be heard above the cacophony of a wide and clamorous world. Mr. Turner spoke quietly, but everyone strained forwards to hear his words.

Even Margaret.

He was good at winning others over, she realized. It did not augur well for her future. What would happen when he brought this smiling bonhomie to bear on the members of the House of Lords who would decide the question of legitimacy? Richard might scream and protest and threaten, but it was not often the lords got to choose their own members. Had she no personal stake in the matter, she would have chosen Mr. Turner, too.

She stared grimly ahead of her. Her soup was replaced with creamed peas; peas were followed by fresh-caught fish, and fish by roast beef. She watched the plates stream by, unable to do more than take a few forkfuls of food. If her brother was not legitimized, the vast bulk of the family’s entailed inheritance would fall to Mr. Turner. She had no illusions about her relative importance. Her two brothers would lay claim to whatever scraps remained.

She could feel all her hopes for the future dissolving in the wake of his damnable likeableness.

Mrs. Benedict spread her hands, continuing a conversation Margaret had ceased to follow. “There’s always been land disputes, sir.”

“I’ll talk to them, then.” Mr. Turner spoke as if any problems would simply be concluded with a bit of plain speaking. Likely, Margaret thought bitterly, with him, they would be. Life seemed to rain gifts on this man. Wealth. Station. Legitimacy.

Margaret didn’t think she would have dared to dislike him, had he not taken so much from her. She looked away, feeling petty.

“Miss Lowell. You have my apologies. We’re boring you.”

Her eyes cut back to him. “No. Of course not.”

“Yes, we are. It’s either that or we’re upsetting you. I won’t stand for either. Come now. What is it?”

“It’s just…” She searched for an answer that would satisfy him. But as she looked into his face, all thoughts of lies disappeared. “You are the most cheerfully ruthless individual I have ever met.”

A big grin spread over his face, and he gave a guffaw. “Cheerfully ruthless! I like that. Should I adopt it as my motto? Would it look well on my coat of arms? Mark, how do you say ‘cheerfully ruthless’ in Latin?”

“Nequam quidem sumus,” his brother intoned. It was the first he’d spoken all evening, and he said the words dreamily. Up until that point, she’d thought he was the fine young scholar that he appeared—a little distracted, and wiry-thin. But Margaret had spent time around her brothers when they came home from Eton—enough to recognize a few words of impolite Latin. She choked.

Mark looked across the table at her, all blond good looks, and dropped her a wink. Margaret revised her estimate of him from “painfully serious scholar” to “mischievous schoolboy.”

“Alas,” the elder Mr. Turner said, “that lacks a certain panache.”

“Don’t you know Latin?” Margaret asked in surprise.

“Never went to school.” He leaned back in his chair. “Never had the time for it. I went to India with a hundred and fifty pounds in my pocket, determined at fourteen to make my fortune. But Mark’s the scholar now.” He turned to his brother, and it was obvious from every line on his face, from the fierce smile that overtook him, that this was no idle boast. No matter what his brother might have said in Latin. “Did you know that he’s writing a book?”

“Ash,” Mark said, with all the unease of a younger brother being praised.

“His essays have been published in the Quarterly Review; did you know that? Three of them, now.”

“Ash.”

“The queen herself quoted from one not two months prior. I had that from a friend.”

“Ash.” The younger Mr. Turner ducked his head and put his hand in front of his face. “Don’t listen to him. It was frippery. Pretty language, but nothing original. Nothing to be really pleased about. Besides, she didn’t even remember my name.”

“She will.” There was a glow in Mr. Turner’s eyes. “When you’re the brother of a duke? She’ll know your name, your birth date and the number of teeth you had pulled at eleven years of age.”

Mr. Turner leaned forwards, as if speaking a vow.

And, she realized, he was.

Margaret felt the bottom fall out of her stomach. This was what he wanted—not her father’s estate, nor his title, nor even the revenge he’d spoken about. This was where all that ruthless intensity concentrated: on his brother.

And Mark, for all his teasing, accepted this as his due. He simply took, as a matter of course, that his brother loved him, that he might tease him in Latin and receive this…this powerful endorsement. Mr. Turner would never call his brother useless. Of all the things that the Turners had and Margaret lacked, this camaraderie seemed the most unfair.

“Yes,” he said, catching her look. “More of my cheerful ruthlessness, I’m afraid. And now you know my greatest weakness: my brothers. I want to give them everything. I want everyone in the world to realize how perfect they are. They are smarter than me, better than me. And I’ll do anything—cross anyone, steal anything, destroy whatever I must—to give them what they deserve.”

Margaret dropped her eyes from that fervor. She felt strangely small and intensely jealous.