Was he upset with her about the ruse? She knew he had no more wish to marry than she did, but there was no way out of this false courtship without his ego and reputation suffering some bruising. Why, only a complete widgeon would turn down an offer of marriage from a man of Charles Putney’s stature! He was kind, funny, intelligent and well-read; he was tall and handsome, and always turned out in impeccable style. In terms of expectations, he was heir to his father’s knighthood and estates but was also a wealthy gentleman in his own right. If – when – she did not accept his hand, then the locals would assume there was something lacking in his character, for the Putneys would not invite a girl to their home unless one of their sons had serious intentions towards her. She could survive being branded a jilt, but she could not be happy with the idea of doing him harm.
On the other hand, if he had agreed to this plan – and it was startlingly similar to the one he’d suggested – then would it wound his pride to reject his gallantry? She’d learned long ago from her brother that a man’s sense of propriety was a fluid thing, but his pride was a constant that he would protect at all costs.
And what if… what if… whispered a tiny voice that she ruthlessly thrust away before the thought could be completed.
“Do you agree?” said Mrs Melthwaite, recalling her attention to the present.
She looked at the expectant faces of the two women in turn and then forced herself to smile.
“Very well, but only if Charlie is truly happy, for I don’t think I can go through with this otherwise.”
From the bemused expressions on the faces of the two women, she had obviously misunderstood what they’d asked of her.
“I’m quite sure my son will agree that a stylish wardrobe is essential for us to carry this off,” said Lady Putney with considerable solemnity, even if her laughing eyes ruined the effect. “Now, I am certain that the commotion in the hallway downstairs is the arrival of the dressmaker, so let us make ready for her to join us, shall we?”
Marianne’s entire body burned with embarrassment, even if neither her hostess nor her adopted godmother made any further comment. Even so, she could barely manage to say three words to the dressmaker in fear of looking even more the fool, and thus allowed the women about her to decide almost every aspect of her new wardrobe without a single objection.
The dressmaker, a middle-aged woman called Miss Fletchley, loudly exclaiming at how thin Marianne was, and then promptly doubled her original suggestion for the number of gowns she would need. Rather than arguing this number down, as might be expected, Mrs Melthwaite proceeded to add several more items to the list and seek recommendations for a tailor, a milliner, and a shoemaker, all of the best possible quality for her favourite goddaughter.
Marianne winced as Lady Putney, and Mrs Melthwaite talked about her in loud asides, painting her as a heroine who had been appallingly treated by her relatives. Miss Fletchley was not so ill-bred as to comment out loud on this conversation, but the shine in her eyes told Marianne that the dressmaker was committing every single word to memory, no doubt to share with her other customers. Even Miss Wilson and Lizzie, who had returned to offer their help, shared speaking looks whenever Mrs Melthwaite said poor, dear girl with a heartfelt sigh.
Eventually, Miss Fletchley announced that she would be able to run up two serviceable gowns that very day, for as Marianne’s Aunt Headley had apparently thrown a few old muslin underdresses into the bandbox, it would be a simple enough task to make her at least presentable to the world.
“We must do something about your hair, my girl,” said Mrs Melthwaite after Marianne removed her lace cap. “Something that will bring you up to style.”
“If my Lady would permit me, I have just the thing in mind for Miss Hillis,” said Wilson, her eyes positively shining at the prospect of cutting Marianne’s hair.
Marianne put a hand to the lank curls falling down past her shoulder blades. She balled a handful into her fist, remembering all the times her aunt had informed her that long, flowing locks were a sign of beauty and the only hope she had of being raised above the commonplace.
“Could you cut it a la victime?” she asked. “Short, like Caro Lamb’s?”
Mrs Melthwaite frowned. “Is she the one who took up with that ramshackle poet?”
“Yes, but she is rather waifish, like Marianne, and certainly very stylish,” said Lady Putney.
Mrs Melthwaite did not look convinced, but when Miss Wilson added her voice to Marianne’s in favour of a fashionable crop, she relented – albeit with dark mutterings about the nature of rich peers. Marianne thought it best not to mention that she had rather liked Lady Caro Lamb, despite her obsession with Byron, and that she’d certainly understood the attraction of the poet even if she found him rather vain.
As soon as Marianne was comfortable in her chair, Miss Wilson brought out her scissors and chopped off a large length of her hair. She gasped in shock.
“It’s too late to change your mind now, my dear,” said Mrs Melthwaite.
But Marianne put a hand to her mouth, trying desperately not to giggle.
“It’s not that!” she managed to say, looking up at the bemused Miss Wilson via the mirror. “I just… I’m really about to lop off my hair!”
“My dear child, now is not the time to succumb to a fit of nerves,” said Mrs Melthwaite in a bracing tone. “It’s only hair!”
“I don’t think that’s what she means, Eustacia,” said Lady Putney quietly, a sad sort of smile playing about her lips.
But Marianne was not sad in the least. As inches upon inches of hair fell to the floor about her and Miss Wilson worked her magic, she struggled to keep herself from squealing with sheer delight. The natural curl of her hair made it dance about her face, drawing attention to her strong cheeks and large eyes. She looked different. Different from the woman who had been trapped with the Headleys, and different from the girl who had grown up worshipping her older brother.
“I look like me,” she whispered, touching a hand to the short curls as Miss Wilson threaded through a ribbon. “Thank you so much!”
“I’ll show Lizzy how to keep it styled for you,” said the Lady’s maid, with a satisfied nod.
“You do look very striking,” admitted Mrs Melthwaite with an approving gaze, “but we cannot let you wander about in your undergarments and a shift any longer; the gentlemen will be expecting us for dinner.”
“Good grief, is it so late already?’ said Marianne, genuinely surprised to realise that she had spent the entire day in her bedchamber. “You must think me an awful layabout!”
“Nothing of the sort,” Lady Putney assured her. “My staff have washed the clothes your Aunt sent along with you, but I must insist that you allow us to dress it up with this sari. My husband brought it back from India for me years ago, and while I’ve never had it made up into a dress, an acquaintance of mine showed me a very clever trick for changing it into a robe. We just drape it like so… yes, raise your arm, dear…. Tie it like this, then bring the ends over… and voila! Lizzie, bring me the gold chain belt, if you please, and fetch my locket. I think they will look lovely on Marianne, don’t you think?”
Marianne stared down at the royal blue silk sari, now cunningly draped and tied about her in the style of a Roman robe, and marvelled at how striking it looked, despite its simplicity.
“I would never have thought to do such a thing,” she admitted, turning side to side just so she could hear the swish of the material. “It even makes my muslin seem perfectly acceptable!”
“It’s amazing what tricks one picks up over the years,” said Lady Putney with a soft smile. “What do you think, Eustacia?”
“I think my goddaughter has never looked so pretty,” she declared. “Now, we have some pumps for you, my dear, and I stuffed the toes with some paper already as they are likely far too big for you.”
“They are better than the only pair I currently have to my name, and I am very grateful that you thought of them, for I am
sure that I would not have,” said Marianne as she slipped her feet into the cream satin shoes. They did not match her dress or the sari, but she did not care in the least. The kindness she was being shown was almost overwhelming, and her heart warred between the desire to sink into happiness, and a fear that it was all nothing but a ruse.
“Not that I would usually condone cosmetics in one so young, my dear, but your ordeal has left you looking rather strained, so I feel that we should give nature a little hand,” said Mrs Melthwaite, a tin of Pears White Imperial Powder in one hand, and a pot of Liquid Bloom of Roses in the other.
“Only until we can encourage that natural colour of yours back to the fore,” added Lady Putney, obviously concerned by the frown on Marianne’s face.
“But I thought cosmetics were not considered proper,” she said, although it was more a question than a statement.
Mrs Melthwaite made a rude noise, while Lady Putney gave a guffaw of laughter.
“My darling girl, for all the moralizing present in The Mirror of the Graces, I promise you that even the writer herself has used powder, rouge, and quite probably lip salve to enhance her features when nature lets her down. Why, have you not just experienced for yourself the difference a good haircut and new dress can do?”
“It’s the appearance of natural beauty that matters,” added Mrs Melthwaite, “not a truly natural appearance. Ha! I think the men of this fine nation would run screaming for the hills if we women decided to let nature truly take its course without our intervention. They are simply jealous that modern fashions deny them access to the same powders and potions that we have to enhance the features God graced us with.”
Marianne had never heard it put quite like that before, and didn’t know whether to be amused or enlightened. What she could say with certainty, however, was that the light dusting of powder applied to her face was barely noticeable afterwards, safe for an indistinct type of glow that made her look healthier than she had a few hours earlier.
“Well, let’s go and see what impact you have on the menfolk of this house,” said Lady Putney with a satisfied nod. “It is one thing to convince us that you look like a suitably romantic damsel, but I warn you that my husband is the one devoted to Mrs Ratcliffe, and my sons all pride themselves on being arbiters of taste and fashion.”
“Are they?” asked Marianne, suddenly worried. Her memories of Charlie, John and Harry were mixed up between her brief time at the Ton and a few childhood summers where mud and brambles had featured strongly.
Lady Putney patted her hand. “I said they pride themselves on it, my dear, and we should always take a man’s pride into account when dealing with them.”
“She means they’re a regular muster of peacocks, but she loves them,” said Mrs Melthwaite.
“Thank you,” said Marianne to Lizzy and Miss Wilson, “and please do give my thanks to Miss Fletchley as well.”
“You are positively gleaming, Miss Hillis,” said Miss Wilson in response, and Marianne couldn’t help but grin.
She felt like she was gleaming. Perhaps there should have been nerves or worry for the future, for this silly mess about an engagement to Charlie, but at that moment she decided that, for the short term at least, she would let herself feel happy, and enjoy the coming days no matter what.
Chapter Five
While it was a lie to claim that Marianne was unrecognizable after her transformation at the hands of Aunt Eustacia and his mother, and equally untruthful to pretend that she had become a diamond of the first water overnight, Charles was nonetheless surprised and impressed with the change in his best friend’s sister.
“My dear Marianne, how glad I am that you are staying with us,” said Sir Joseph the moment the ladies entered the room and even went so far as to clasp her hands in his own. “We don’t have to discuss the horrid details now, but I’ve had a talk with my lawyers, and I want to reassure you that everything is above board and you are legally under Mrs Melthwaite’s protection now. You may rest easy under this roof until Gordon returns for you, and I promise that I shall not let a hair on your head be harmed.”
“Bit late for that, Father,” said Harry with a lazy smile. “Hello again, Marianne; that’s a mighty fetching crop you’ve had. Caro Lamb will be sick with envy when you steal her title as an ethereal waif.”
Marianne laughed.
“I would be flattered by that, Mr Harry, had you not once told me that you thought women like that looked like ears of wheat just waiting to be blown over,” she told him with dancing eyes.
Harry looked shocked for a moment, not used to being called out on his silliness before his face split into a broad grin of appreciation.
Marianne looked back up at his father and smiled. “Thank you, Sir Joseph. I had no right to expect such kindness from Charles, let alone you and Lady Putney. I can never thank you enough.”
She stretched up onto her toes and planted a light kiss on Sir Joseph’s cheek, and Charles groaned inwardly as he watched his father silently decide that Marianne was a suitable match for one of his sons. By the way that Harry had stopped grinning, he assumed his brother had realized the same thing.
“Hello, Marianne,” said John, stepping in to distract their guest from Sir Joseph before he proposed on their behalf. “It’s been a long time since we saw each other last.”
“Indeed – before you were at Waterloo!” she said, turning to the middle Putney brother with genuine warmth. “I was so worried for you, but Gordon said I was nothing but a widgeon for if old Boney knew a Putney was on the field of battle then he would turn tail and run, knowing defeat was imminent.”
John, much to Charles’ disgust, actually blushed at this artless praise.
“I think Wellington’s presence had a lot to do with it,” he replied awkwardly.
“We will just have to disagree on that. I’m sure that your family is just happy to have you home, although I am very sad that I will not have an opportunity to attend another ball while you are in full regimentals, for you were rather dashing, you know.”
“But do you not think I look just as fetching in blue superfine?” asked John, raising an eyebrow.
Marianne pretended to give it some thought before answering. “I think you look very well, Mr John.”
The set down, delivered with a perfectly straight face, caused everyone to burst out laughing, even John himself. Charles shook his head in wonder; were these the same brothers that had been criticizing Marianne the day before as being all elbows and a graceless dancer?
Then suddenly she was before him, smiling up into his face with such perfect society grace that he almost missed the worry and fear lurking in her eyes.
He remembered everything she’d been through, everything that was unsettled about her future, and that as maternal as the hands of Aunt Eustacia and Lady Putney were, the women were also both forces of nature in their own right.
He resolved to treat her in a brotherly fashion, the way Gordon would do, until her world was back in order.
“You look ready to enjoy yourself this evening, Miss Hillis,” he said, casting an approving eye over her outfit. “I warn you that while we are a boring family to pass the time with, our conversations can quickly turn to the absurd.”
Her smile wavered a second, but it recovered quickly. “It has been an age since I spent time in company, Charl- I mean, Mr Putney, and I think I am quite ready to indulge in some absurdity.”
“Then allow me to be your escort for the evening,” said Harry, appearing at Charles’ side with his arm proffered towards Marianne. “There are many portraits of our ramshackle ancestors about the property, and I spent many an hour delighting in their ridiculous escapades.”
“Only if you promise not to tread on my foot again,” she said with a warning note in her voice.
“You are confusing me with one of my brothers,” said Harry with a note of apology in his voice. “Everyone knows that I am the graceful one in the family, while John got the brawn and Charles the
brain.”
"No, I distinctly remember it was you who crushed my toes during a country dance," she replied. "You were pining like a mooncalf at the time, which may account for it.”
Charles and the rest of his family chuckled, even if the youngest member did not.
"Now I know it could not have been me for I do not pine," said Harry with a degree of aplomb. "I also don't remember standing on your toes."
"That’s because you were pining like a mooncalf instead of paying attention to your partner," Marianne repeated, crossing her arms over her chest in the way Charles could remember her doing to Gordon.
From memory, her brother had never once come out of one of those battles the winner.
"Who was it, Marianne?” asked John cheerfully. "Lady Cordelia, or Lady Henrietta? We like to think that his brief period of adoration for Lady Eugenia was nothing but a prank on us, but it’s hard to tell with Harry.”
"Lady Cordelia,” said Marianne. “I would have been quite upset over the whole thing if I hadn’t known Harry had fancied himself in love with Mrs Merriweather just one week before.”
"Mother, they are being mean to me," said Harry, throwing himself dramatically onto the chair while his brothers laughed.
"Deservedly so," replied Lady Putney. "If you’d ever experienced a modicum of affection for any of the ladies in question I might have some sympathy, but you only pretend so that you can appear fashionable."
"But fashion is so important," sighed Harry with a shake of his head. "How else am I to look distinguished?"
“By not treading on the feet of eligible young ladies,” growled Sir Joseph, looking far less amused by Harry’s antics than anyone else. “No wonder we can’t find a single girl to marry one of you if you caper about like you have hooves instead of feet.”
Anything but Love (The Putney Brothers Book 1) Page 8
