What Happened at Midnight(20)

And then she gave Mary a brilliant smile.

Keep talking, Mary mouthed, tilting her head toward the door behind which Sir Walter sat.

Lady Patsworth glanced in her husband’s direction and then picked up the paper.

“Of course,” she said loudly, “now that I’m designing my own gowns—”

She stopped again as she unfolded the pages. Sir Walter always read the news of the world while handing the middle page of fashion and gossip to his wife. But she was staring at the front page—not the fashion column.

“Now that I’m designing my own,” Lady Patsworth said more quietly, “I can do…anything I want?” Her voice raised in a question.

“Of course you can,” Mary soothed her.

Lady Patsworth’s hands were shaking. She turned the paper around.

Mary hadn’t had the chance to look at it yet. When John had given it over last night, it had been too dark to make out letters. If she’d tried to read it herself in daylight hours, she would have risked losing her contraband. So this was the first time that she’d seen the headline.

Queen Grants Royal Assent to Matrimonial Causes Act.

Mary drifted over, skimming paragraphs, trying to take it all in. No wonder Sir Walter had canceled his subscription. The gossip pages wouldn’t have been safe any longer. The new bill had created a civil court to hear cases of divorce, allowing anyone to bring suit. Anyone—not just those with access to Parliament. And when that court came into existence…oh, the gossip that the paper would print.

Mary raised her eyes to Lady Patsworth. The woman was staring at the words in confusion.

Mary tilted her head, reminding the other woman that her husband was near. “What sort of gown do you think you will make first?”

Lady Patsworth was staring at the black ink before her.

“I don’t think…” Her fingers plucked uselessly at the pages. “That is to say…” She let out a breath and shook her head. “I believe I will make the same sorts of gowns that I always have. Nothing has changed, really.”

How many years had Lady Patsworth suffered under her husband’s rule? More than Mary knew. She knew that the other woman hated his restrictions—but maybe, after all this time, she’d forgotten how to live without them.

“I think you should make a riding habit,” Mary said. “With divided skirts so you might be able to challenge anyone to race—and dash away quickly so that they might never catch you.”

The other woman’s eyes widened at those words. She stole another glance in the direction of her husband. “I…I couldn’t. I haven’t the slightest notion how to cut the cloth.”

It wasn’t right. The last few days, talking with John in friendship…they’d been a real balm for Mary. But John would leave, and when he did, Mary would find herself all the more aware of the bars that made up her cage. This was her chance to prove that she could do something besides wait to be released.

“Let me sketch you how it is done,” she said, reaching for a pencil. She wrote in tiny letters in the margin of the paper.

Would your brother help you?

Lady Patsworth bit her lip and took the pencil from her. But how am I to get word to him? Even if he came—he did two years ago—Sir W will simply not let him on the property.

“With the right riding habit,” Mary said, “you might even take a horse over an obstacle. Just jump over it if it gets in your way.”

He has a pistol, Lady Patsworth wrote. I’m afraid he’ll use it.

They stared at those words and then Lady Patsworth turned away. “It’s a silly project.” She sniffed. “I don’t ride, I’m afraid. I haven’t since I was a girl. No sense in countenancing such waste.”

There must be some way to change matters, Mary wrote. Her hands were shaking. If Lady Patsworth could break free, Mary might as well.

But the other woman shook her head vehemently.

“Make an evening gown, then,” Mary suggested. “One you might wear to an elegant party at a neighbor’s house.”

“Alas,” Lady Patsworth said coldly. “My health does not permit such excursions.”

We could make it happen, Mary wrote.

Lady Patsworth looked at those words for a very long time before reaching for the pencil. How?

Mary let out a breath of relief.

I have an idea.

Chapter Eight

“I NEED TO TELL YOU something.”

John had been meeting Mary for a half hour or so every night for more than a week, now. It was easy to be patient, to pretend to be her friend. It was easy to fall into their old camaraderie—so easy that most of the time he forgot that he was pretending. In fact, he’d stopped probing after the first days. He had time, he told himself, and it would go better if she trusted him…and he was enjoying himself.

He only remembered that he was lying to her at moments like this—when she looked at him with her eyes round and solemn, and he recalled that she had secrets he wanted to uncover.

There was a luster to her eyes, something more than the reflection of starlight. There was something about the way she looked at him that made his chest feel tight.

“I need another favor,” she said. “Two favors, this time, and rather larger. But in order for my requests to make any sense, you have to understand who—what—Sir Walter is.”