A Dangerous Fortune - Ken Follett [136]
So that was it. “And Micky Miranda was put up to it by Augusta, I’m sure of it. Those two are as thick as thieves.”
De Tokoly was miffed. “I do hope I haven’t been used as a pawn.”
“That’s the danger of being so predictable,” Maisie said waspishly.
Next day she took Nora to her dressmaker.
As Nora tried on styles and fabrics Maisie found out a little more about the incident at the duchess of Tenbigh’s ball. “Did Augusta say anything to you beforehand about the count?” she asked.
“She warned me not to let him take any liberties,” Nora replied.
“So you were ready for him, so to speak.”
“Yes.”
“And if Augusta had said nothing, would you have behaved the same way?”
Nora looked thoughtful. “I probably wouldn’t have slapped him—I wouldn’t have had the nerve. But Augusta made me think it was important to take a stand.”
Maisie nodded. “There you are. She wanted this to happen. She also got someone to tell the count you were easy.”
Nora was amazed. “Are you sure?”
“He told me. She’s a devious bitch and she has no scruples at all.” Maisie realized she was speaking in her Newcastle accent, something that rarely happened nowadays. She reverted to normal. “Never underestimate Augusta’s capacity for treachery.”
“She doesn’t scare me,” Nora said defiantly. “I haven’t got too many scruples myself.”
Maisie believed her—and felt sorry for Hugh.
A polonaise was the perfect dress style for Nora, Maisie thought as the dressmaker pinned a gown around Nora’s generous figure. The fussy details suited her pretty looks: the pleated frills, the front opening decorated with bows, and the tie-back skirt with flounces all looked sweet on her. Perhaps she was a little too voluptuous, but a long corset would restrain her tendency to wobble.
“Looking pretty is half the battle,” she said as Nora admired herself in the mirror. “As far as the men are concerned it’s really all that matters. But you have to do more to get accepted by the women.”
Nora said: “I’ve always got on better with men than women.”
Maisie was not surprised: Nora was that type.
Nora went on: “You must be the same. That’s why we’ve got where we are.”
Are we the same? wondered Maisie.
“Not that I put myself on the same level as you,” Nora added. “Every ambitious girl in London envies you.”
Maisie winced at the thought that she was looked up to as a hero by fortune-hunting women, but she said nothing because she probably deserved it. Nora had married for money, and she was quite happy to admit it to Maisie because she assumed that Maisie had done the same. And she was right.
Nora said: “I’m not complaining, but I did pick the black sheep of the family, the one with no capital. You married one of the richest men in the world.”
How surprised you would be, Maisie thought, if you knew how willingly I’d swap.
She put the thought out of her mind. All right, she and Nora were two of a kind. She would help Nora win the acceptance of the snobs and shrews who ruled society.
“Never talk about how much anything costs,” she began, remembering her own early mistakes. “Always remain calm and unruffled, no matter what happens. If your coachman has a heart attack, your carriage crashes, your hat blows off and your drawers fall down, just say: ‘Goodness me, such excitement,’ and get in a hansom. Remember that the country is better than the town, idleness is superior to work, old is preferable to new and rank is more important than money. Know a little about everything, but never be an expert. Practice talking without moving your mouth—it will improve your accent. Tell people that your great-grandfather farmed in Yorkshire: Yorkshire is too big for anyone to check, and agriculture is an honorable way to become poor.”
Nora struck a pose, looked vague, and said languidly: “Goodness me, such a lot to remember, how shall I ever manage?”
“Perfect,” said Maisie. “You’ll do very well indeed.”
2
MICKY MIRANDA STOOD IN A DOORWAY in Berwick Street, wearing a light overcoat to keep out the chill of a spring evening. He was smoking