Page 8 of Thief of the Ton
Lavinia didn’t have the heart to refuse. She nodded and followed the woman up a narrow creaking staircase, to a tiny landing with three doors. Mrs. Bates opened one of the doors to reveal a low-ceilinged bedchamber with white walls furnished in soft pastel shades of blue. The bed, though half the size of Lavinia’s at Fosterley, looked sturdy, and was covered with a blanket embroidered with small blue flowers, which matched the embroidered design on the fire screen.
“I know it’s not much, Miss Lavinia, and it must be very different to what you’re used to. But I’m sure, in time, you’ll be comfortable here.”
The woman stood in the doorway, her expression conveying pity and a desire for approval.
“I like it very much, Mrs. Bates,” Lavinia said. “I’ve always wanted to live in a cottage. Thank you for making it so pretty.”
The housekeeper’s face broke into a smile.
“Lord bless you, child! That’s so kind of you to say.”
“Mary!” a voice cried out. “The stew’s boiling over!”
Mrs. Bates rolled her eyes. “Mercy me!” she cried. “Men! They think they rule the world, but they can’t cope with a boiling pot—they don’t have the sense to take it off the heat. Would you excuse me, miss?”
“Mary!” the voice roared again.
“I’m coming, Joe—you lazy oaf!” Mrs. Bates cried. “Why you can’t tend to the stew yourself defeats me.”
“Women’s work, that is,” the voice replied.
“Lord save me,” Mrs. Bates huffed. Then she disappeared, muttering to herself, her footsteps thudding on the stairs.
Lavinia followed Mrs. Bates down the stairs, then headed for the front door. Before she reached it, she heard Aunt Edna’s voice from the parlor.
“It’s that whore—I knew it!”
Whatwasa whore?
Lavinia tiptoed toward the parlor door.
“Lady Betty’s no harlot,” Papa said.
Ah—Lady Betty. Papa’s friend, who’d often visited Fosterley.
“Don’t be such a lovesick fool, at your age!” Aunt Edna cried. “That woman is renowned for spreading her favors up and down the country, and for her expensive tastes.”
“You don’t know her, Edna—you never did.”
“I should think not! I’ve no wish to count doxies among my acquaintance.”
What in heaven’s name was adoxy?
“Why else have you had to sell most of the family heirlooms?” Aunt Edna continued. “And now—you’ve been forced to quit Fosterley and let it out to—toriff-raff!” Her voice tightened, as if she were about to retch.
“Mr. Manford may be a commoner,” Papa said, “but I count myself fortunate in securing a tenant at such short notice.”
“I feel a megrim coming on,” Aunt Edna said. “Mr. Manford, indeed! To think of that hobbledehoy lording it over Fosterley Hall—and that wife of his! Nothing more than a scullery maid.”
“Doubtless you see your fastidiousness as a virtue, Edna,” Papa said, “but it’s not a quality that assists in the repayment of debts—”
“Debts which are due to your own wastrel life—and that hussy!”
“—or the restoration of Lavinia’s dowry.”
“Dear Lord!” Aunt Edna cried. “You mean the child’s dowry is gone?”
“Only temporarily.”
