Author's Note: Please forgive the delay in posting this; things suddenly got very busy with work, and my website (The Dear Surprise... It's Master and Commander based, link in profile if you're interested), and then I got sick... Anyway! I hope you like the new chapter, I'll try not to change anything now that I've posted it. No promises, however. Warmest thanks to nightkate and Wyvern-Soars for their lovely reviews! I am posting this in your collective honor... If you don't like it, I hope you'll let me know!
P.S. To answer a question received via PM, YES, Jack and Stephen will definitely have larger parts to play in this story after the next two chapters or so. They're both an integral part of how the rest of the story will unfold, so if you're hoping to see more of them just hold fast :)
The Lieutenant and the Lady
Chapter Eight
Something Out of a Fairy Tale
"Oh, lord, they would come together," Lady Fanshaw muttered, annoyed. Evie observed her discontented look as she examined the calling card their butler, Roster, had presented to her.
"Who would?" Evie asked curiously. Already they had received several courtesy calls from last night's guests, all come to thank them for the ball as was proper. It was also a proper time for suitors to call, of course, but naturally there were none. Nor had there ever been.
"Lieutenant Mowett and Mr. Pullings," her mother answered with the same sour expression, insultingly denying the latter the honor of his rank. "Mr. Pullings doesn't even have his own calling card; he simply wrote his name on the back of Lieutenant Mowett's. Or the lieutenant wrote it for him," She added, voice full of scorn. "Do you think Mr. Pullings can write?"
Cressida Newton and her mother both tittered at Lady Fanshaw's remark. Evie experienced a bizarre combination of giddiness, terror and anger. The giddiness and terror were both due to hearing Mr. Pullings' name; the anger was for her own mother's rudeness. "I believe you'll find that Lieutenant Pullings is a very intelligent officer, mother," she stated, masking her near-rage as best she could. "Also that he outranks Lieutenant Mowett. Surely you cannot imagine that a man might be promoted midshipman without being able to read and write?"
"I would not be so certain," her mother answered dismissively before turning to the butler. "Yes, we're At Home to Lieutenant Mowett and his guest. But should they ever arrive separately, Roster, you're to send Mr. Pullings away."
Roster bowed and left the room as Mrs. Newton turned to Lady Fanshaw. "I must say, I was quite shocked to learn of Mr. Pullings' history. I rather thought that sort of thing was simply not allowed. If, as you say, he began his career… What's the phrase? 'Before the mast'? Well, then he ought to have stayed there. There's an order to such things; it's unnatural to take a man from his proper place in society and actually give him authority over his betters."
It took a tremendous amount of willpower, more than she'd even expected she possessed, for Evie to refrain from saying or doing something her mother would make sure she came to regret. As it was, she was obliged to excuse herself from the drawing room in order to find a quiet spot to compose herself. She murmured something suitably polite before escaping to the terrace, clenching her fists against her anger and panic. The terrace was just as lovely in the early afternoon sunshine- so unseasonably warm- as it had been in the depths of night, as lovely as it had been when she'd crept through it to slip into the house after the ball. Evie had not appreciated it then and did not appreciate it now. Instead she paced fretfully across the flagstones, utterly preoccupied.
She did not understand her emotions. The panic she comprehended perfectly, of course: Mr. Pullings made her feel that way in general, and on this occasion it was obviously intensified by the fact that she had behaved so unlike herself towards him the night before. Wanton, that was the only word for her ridiculous proposition. How foolish she had been, to think he could ever look at her and see something other than a pathetic spinster, to think he could see her as a woman he might actually consider kissing. It had been the most humiliating experience of her life. And of course it was made even more humiliating by the knowledge that he must have shared the entirety of her misdeed with Lieutenant Mowett. Had they laughed at her together after she'd left them? God, she couldn't bear it. But of course they must have.
It was this certainty that made it impossible to understand her reaction to her mother's rudeness. Honestly, she ought to have merely been grateful that it wasn't directed at herself for once. Instead, she felt a sense of injustice and rage, strong enough that she'd actually reprimanded her mother in company! That was so very unlike her and so very unnecessary. Why should she defend him, after all? He had refused her, pitied her, laughed at her in all likelihood. In her mind's eye she could easily imagine the jokes the two lieutenants must have made at her expense, could see them sitting together in that private copse tittering behind her back just like Cressida Newton and her horrible mother.
That image was swiftly replaced with a memory of Mr. Pullings smiling at her, and Evie was pierced as much by the sweetness in that smile as by its beauty. The memory of it soothed her, calmed her foolish, blind panic. No, no. Mr. Pullings had certainly refused her, probably pitied her, but she could not imagine he would ever laugh at her. He was far too much of a gentleman to ever do such a thing, despite his birth. It was funny, she reflected, how she knew this man not at all and yet was so utterly certain of his character. There was something essentially good about him, good and kind, and somehow she knew he was incapable of the cruelty required to make sport of her with his friend.
If Lieutenant Pullings was capable of any kind of intentional cruelty, Evie would be very much surprised. And yet there were types of cruelty that were not intentional. She could not help but think that his very existence was one.
"Well, well," a sly voice interrupted her depressing musings as Cressida Newton joined her on the terrace. Evie turned sharply towards the artificially high, painfully sweet sound of her voice. Like Lady Bethany Firth, Miss Cressida Newton was beautiful, but unlike Beth she was a close approximation of pure evil. There was something almost wholesome about coveting Beth's beauty; her outer loveliness was a reflection of something lovely within, which somehow made Evie feel better about her occasional bouts of jealousy over Beth's appearance. But she hated, hated, hated being jealous of Miss Newton. Her hair literally shone like gold in the sunlight, her blue eyes wide as though they knew they reflected the sky, the perfect, even features of her delicate face echoed in the perfect proportions of her form. Involuntarily, Evie clenched her fists.
"May I be of assistance, Miss Newton?" she ground out, the question phrased with consummate politeness. It was her only option, really. Evie was the daughter of a powerful admiral and peer, but even so she suspected it might be possible she should hang for the murder she longed to commit every time she saw Cressida's hatefully smug face.
The girl shrugged, the gesture elegant of course, and drew closer. "I merely came to bear you company," she responded in a honeyed tone.
"Thank you," Evie snapped, "but I am happy enough to be left to my thoughts."
"Ah yes," Cressida murmured. "Thoughts of Mr. Pullings, no doubt. I own I have never seen such a pathetic display as the one you treated myself and my mother to in your drawing room just now… Unless it was the way you threw yourself at the lieutenant last night."
A squirming knot of embarrassment with a hint of fear tied itself in Evie's stomach, but she remained outwardly calm. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she answered dismissively. "I've barely ever spoken to Mr. Pullings; we danced but half a set, even if it was the waltz."
"Oh, Evelyn," Cressida's grating voice was full of false pity, but also relish. "I'm not speaking of your waltz." She paused, allowing Evie to appreciate the full horror of that statement, before grinning. "I followed you into the garden, of course, and I must say I've never been quite so amused. Two and twenty and never been kissed? It's almost disgraceful, really."
There was a rushing sound in Evie's ears, a sinking sensation in her belly not unlike that of falling from a great height, and surely her heart must literally have stopped beating. Somehow, it had never occurred to her that she should be seen, much less overheard. She had lain awake thinking of it, of course, considering the consequences of Lieutenant Mowett discovering them- and at a rather compromising moment, too. Mr. Pullings had been holding her hand, holding it tightly as though he wanted to, and she couldn't imagine how that must have looked to his friend. Yet she knew that Mr. Mowett would never betray them, would never do that to his fellow officer, and so had been unworried about the possibility of their disastrous meeting becoming common knowledge. But now… To think that her most hated enemy possessed such compromising information… God, she was ruined. Lieutenant Pullings was ruined.
"It's not that I blame you," Cressida confided, clearly enjoying Evie's sudden anguish. "Before I learned of his base origins, I considered setting my cap for him myself. But now that I know he has no fortune, no name… No, I would not stoop so low. You on the other hand, well. I know beggars cannot be choosers."
Evie drew in a deep, shuddering breath, trying to control her panic. "Who have you told, Cressida?" she demanded urgently. "Your mother? My mother? Oh, god." There had been seven other guests when she had left the drawing room not ten minutes before. Seven other guests, all of whom might already be privy to Cressida's information, all highly placed in society, all with the power to strip her of her reputation and position and force her into shameful exile. Or force her into marriage with Mr. Pullings. But no, that was the wrong way around; no one would ever believe she had been forced to marry him. She wouldn't believe it herself. In the darkest most secret recesses of her heart, she was… Not opposed to the idea. He would be the one forced into marriage with her, and how he'd hate her for it.
Cressida looked at her curiously. "You almost sound as though you'd prefer if I told no one," she murmured.
"I have no wish to trap anyone into marriage," Evie stated with dignity, disgusted by Cressida's cruel games. "Mr. Pullings least of all."
"You're so boringly noble," Cressida scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Well, this changes things. I had intended to taunt you, make you think you'd won before declining to tell. But it's not amusing if that's what you want me to do."
Evie looked at her with utter incredulity. "Is that what all of this is about to you? Amusement?"
The girl blinked, evidently surprised. "Of course. Is that not what everything is about?"
"You are unbelievable," Evie accused.
"I suggest you attempt to believe it," Cressida retorted. "Or at the very least, believe that I will tell my mother about your tryst with Mr. Pullings, unless-"
Pinning Cressida with a glare of deep dislike, Evie interrupted her. "Unless what, Cressida? I have nothing you want, nothing you don't already have. It's a poor position from which to attempt blackmail."
"Perhaps," Cressida allowed. "Perhaps I merely require some time to consider. For the time being, let's simply say 'unless'. Let's understand that you owe me, and someday I shall collect. Does that suit?"
"Your soul to the devil, Cressida Newton," Evie spat. "I have no intention of sitting around waiting for you to decide the price of your silence, even less intention of actually paying it."
"Then I foresee a shamefully hasty wedding in your unhappy future, though I do so hate the thought of doing you such a favor," Cressida answered indifferently.
"Your soul to the devil," Evie repeated, thinking frantically. Obviously, she could not allow Cressida to tell anyone about her meeting in the garden with Mr. Pullings, but the idea of allowing such a horrible human being to have any kind of power over her was repugnant. Not quite as repugnant as the idea of forcing Mr. Pullings into marriage with her, however. Or not quite as repugnant as that idea ought to have been. It wasn't, entirely; it was ever so slightly tempting, if only because Evie could not imagine what she might have that Cressida could ever want, but suspected she did not want to find out. The whole conversation with her seemed like something out of a fairy tale, one of the horrible gruesome ones, and Evie couldn't help but feel that if she acquiesced to her demands, she'd be promising more than she knew.
"Yes, yes, my soul to the devil," Cressida echoed, bored. "What's it to be? Do we understand one other, or am I to wish you joy?"
Evie shook her head, reigning in her anger and frustration. "I doubt I shall ever understand you, Cressida," she bit out, defeated. "But I understand your threat tolerably well." In the back of her mind, Evie couldn't help but note that she hadn't technically promised anything. Not that it would save her in the long run, as her nemesis well knew.
Cressida's smile spread slowly across her face, bright and lovely as the dawn. Evie hated it. "Splendid," she murmured, turning back to the house. "Splendid." A hint of delicate, chime-like laughter trailed menacingly behind her.
Releasing a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, Evie sank unsteadily down onto a stone bench. It was identical to the one that had given her such proximity to Mr. Pullings the night before and thereby had inadvertently become the launch point for all her current troubles. Any moment now, she knew she'd have to return to the drawing room and face an assortment of people she'd rather not deal with: guests from the night before, who pitied her; her mother, who despaired of her; Cressida Newton, who hated her; Lieutenant Mowett, who knew her not at all yet had witnessed her most embarrassing moment… And Lieutenant Pullings, who had held her hand as though he'd wanted to. No. Who had refused her.
Surely she could remember that.
