The Sullen Seamstress of Horenwall Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  His head canted to the side and a thoughtful look dimmed his eyes, “It could be…but I think it is rather that I want to get to know you, Miss Hall, without any animosity.”

  He wants to know me…why would he want to know me?

  “Miss Hall?”

  Rosaline shook her head, “Your Grace, I am touched that you would like to know me, but all I am can be said in one sentence. I am an orphaned child who grew up under the gracious benefaction of Mrs. Caddell, my tutor in dressmaking, and I took the same profession.”

  The duke stepped forward and Rosaline had to slightly tilt her head up, “I did not say I wanted to know who you were, Miss Hall, I want to know you, fire and all.”

  His tone had dipped to a cadence that sent soft tremors through her, and up this close, she could see the scar on his cheek. If he were serious about getting to know her, maybe, sometime in the future, she would be brave enough to ask him about it.

  He stepped back and bowed to her with an exaggerated flourish, and the amusement in his eyes sparked the tempered ire inside her. This time, however, her anger was not based on thinking he was obnoxious. Instead, it was exasperation.

  “Good day, Miss Hall,”

  And before she could return the sentiment or make out a curtsy, he was gone. She turned in place and grinned. “Your charm, Your Grace is dangerous.”

  Half a manor away, Norman knew that he had managed to throw Miss Hall for a loop by telling her he wanted to know her. Thank God, she had not misconstrued his words for anything carnal which told him that she was still naïve in many matters.

  Her beauty, Norman could not deny, was stunning. Her face was gracefully proportioned with sculpted cheekbones, eyes that could not hold back her emotions and a slender nose that led to lips that, when not thinned in exasperation on his account, were full and inviting.

  What can I do to make you smile, Miss Hall?

  He was approaching his study when the butler, Mr. Ambrose Colden, hurried towards him. “Your Grace, your steward. Mr. Dodge is here, and he says the matter is urgent.”

  Norman frowned, “Urgency…that sounds unfortunate. I know Mr. Dodge is very capable so this must be serious. Please, show him to my study.”

  That night, Rosaline laid out her best dress once more that would be worn at the arrival of the Ogbent family. In mere hours she was going to be acquainted with the family that had sentenced her sister to death.

  Anxiety was flowing through her like a river while hope and faith intermixed with fear and worry. Would she be discovered on sight or not? Would her secret be revealed to the Kinsley family?

  Just a few hours separated her from either victory or defeat. I want to win…but why do I feel as if I am doomed to fail?

  Chapter 6

  The housekeeper—a Mrs. Sarah Coulbourne—the butler, Mr. Colden, Miss Keats and she, were standing at the bottom of the entrance stairs while the Duchess and the Duke stood at the top. They were all waiting for the carriage carrying the Ogbent family to arrive.

  The day was calm, but Rosaline felt it was deceptively daunting. She had not rested the night before, her breakfast hours had passed with her not touching a single thing and now, as the time neared ten, her nervousness had doubled.

  Standing with the other servants, Rosaline felt self-conscious as her dress was dark-green muslin while the others had on black and white cotton. She was sure she stood out like a sore thumb. The Duchess was in a pearl colored dress of Indian muslin with a thick shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was in a lovely turban and the fan in her hand sporadically fluttered.

  The Duke was dressed formally as well, in sterling white breeches, a deep-blue morning coat, and matching waistcoat. His cravat, once more, was pinned with the blue gem. A thought of asking him if the pin had some significance to him flitted through Rosaline’s mind.

  With her eyes trained in the distant end of the driveway, she kept fervently praying that she would go unnoticed by the Viscountess.

  Please let her forget or not know about me at all.

  Then, horses rounded the bend, cantering proudly towards them. The steeds, all uniformly dapple grey, drew a stagecoach made of dark redwood, which under the sunlight, gave off a deep and rather bloody burgundy sheen.

  Her palms felt damp and her stomach was tight. For fleeting moments, Rosaline wondered if she could run off and claim illness, but forced herself to stand strong. She had to do this, come what may. Her spine straightened and her fists unclenched as the coach came to a stop.

  Livered footmen appeared out of nowhere and waited for permission from the carriage driver before placing the mounting block.

  Wouldn’t the carriage driver do that? Rosaline wondered. Swiftly she looked over her shoulder to see the impassive faces of the Duchess and the approving nod of the Duke. They want to make a good impression.

  Turning back, she breathed deeply through her nose as the carriage door was opened and one footman stepped back to allow a man—the Viscount she assumed—to alight. He was covered in a traveler’s hat and black coat and the most Rosaline could see on him was his face.

  He stepped away to allow the men to assist a lady, who by the age on her face had to be the Viscountess. She was thinner than Rosaline had expected with dark-blonde hair pinned away from her face. She too was clad in a traveling cloak only hers was dark blue. She had a word with the footman before standing aside.

  Rosaline briefly wondered why the footman’s face had gone so tight and pale but could not analyze it further. A slender, gloved hand emerged before a body followed and was helped out—this must be Miss Fawcett. The seamstress slightly blanched when she saw what the Lady was wearing.

  How did she drive in that? Did she sit on a bed of pillows?

  The cloak Miss Fawcett had on was a dark gold color with a decidedly silky sheen to the material. There was a quilted stand collar with an oversized drawstring hood leading to the folds of the fabric softly cascading over her body.

  It’s a cape, Rosaline realized not a traveling cloak, they must have stopped somewhere so she could put it on and make a grand entrance.

  Suddenly she was aware that the people beside her were bowing and curtsying while she was not and hastily dipped her own. Her heart was beating so hard that she thought it a miracle that it hadn’t burst through her chest. Her mind was also furiously castigating her from losing focus and drawing attention to herself.

  She and the women held their poses as the butler went to receive the family. Rosaline heard the formal welcome and the use of the official titles through ringing ears. She was doing her best to keep her stance while trying not to outwardly stare at the Viscountess.

  “Here are, Mrs. Coulbourne, the housekeeper, Miss Keats, Her Grace’s lady’s maid and Miss Hall, the seamstress who will be making Miss Fawcett’s dress.”

  Rosaline stood with her heart in her throat, and directly, her eyes connected with the Viscountess’ whose blue eyes had all the warmth of a midnight frost. Her throat went dry.

  The piercing look she was pinned with made her fear of being discovered rear its ugly head again. There was a shrewd perception in the lady’s eyes—I have been found out, I am sure—and Rosaline was already about to give up when the lady just sniffed and turned away.

  Her breath was still stuck in her lungs as disbelief slowly registered in her mind. The Viscountess did not know who she was! Her victory was short-lived as the lady turned back to her with clear contempt in her eyes.

  Oh no...she remembers!

  “I trust that you will tailor this dress to absolute perfection,” the Viscountess said snobbishly as her eyes traced over Rosaline with scorn.

  Before Rosaline could say a word the Duchess smoothly cut in.

  “I vouch for her, Viscountess,” the Duchess’ tone was direct and commanding. “I am confident in Miss Hall’s talent and I am certain she will do justice to Miss Fawcett’s dress.”

  Rosaline was once more treated to the woman’s icy stare but did not utter a wor
d and even if she had wanted to, her tongue had cleaved to the roof of her mouth.

  The Viscountess snorted and dismissed Rosaline with a vicious cut of her eyes, stepped away towards the stairs, but not before Rosaline heard the word urchin being muttered under her breath.

  Her daughter, who had not looked at any of them followed her lead, and lastly, so did her husband. Rosaline stood there, unmoving, while she heard the formal introductions that were being made to the Duchess and the Duke.

  Her embarrassment burned through her chest, but her mind was somewhat relieved—the Viscountess did not know who she was. Rosaline wanted to believe that she had escaped recognition but she could not hold it as a surety yet. She only had a temporary reprieve, but she still had to be cautious.

  I am safe…for now anyway.

  Anger had laced through Norman’ veins when the Viscountess had first looked at Miss Hall. Was she looking at a pile of mud? But that was not what had got his blood boiling. That had happened after the lady had stepped away and then Miss Hall’s cheeks had gone scarlet.

  Did she do something to her?

  They were now inside the foyer where the cloaks, hats, and bonnets were taken. Viscount Ogbent, relived of his extras, was a tall man, on the same level as Norman’s height. Even middling his forties, he was still handsome, with a head of thick dark brown hair and deep green eyes.

  “Duke,” the man said while shaking his hand inside the sitting room, “Thank you for having us. It is a relief to not be in that carriage any longer.”

  “My pleasure Lord Ogbent, or may I just call you Ogbent?” Norman inquired.

  “Ogbent, would be best I think, seeing as my purpose here is to gain you as a son-in-law,” the man said followed by a genial smile.

  “Come, let us go to the sitting room,” the Duchess said calmly, “We can speak more there.”

  Norman’s stride was clipped with his anger and the line of his jaw showed it. With brief glances to his mother, Norman knew that she recognized his state and was worried.

  You do not have to be anxious Mother, I can be polite even in fury.

  “Isabella, darling, don’t you think it time to remove that hood?” the man finished.

  “Yes, Father.”

  Slender hands, now degloved, lifted and removed the hood to reveal a defined oval face, with large green eyes rimmed with long lashes. Miss Fawcett was as beautiful and pale as his mother had described. Briefly, Norman wondered if she took tinctures to make her skin that pale or if she just avoided the sun.

  “Kinsley,” the Viscount said with pride gleaming from his entire posture, “May I present my daughter, Isabella Marie Fawcett.”

  He nodded, “I am pleased to meet you, Miss Fawcett.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace, and may I also extend my appreciation for our accommodations.”

  Her voice, smooth and lyrical, was one probably trained to sing beautiful arias. Her eyes were demurely on the floor, but Norman did not feel any humility coming from her. Over her shoulder, the Duke saw the snobbish smirk the Viscountess had on her face, and Norman could feel her arrogance.

  She has probably trained Miss Fawcett to be like her.

  “You are all welcome in my home,” Norman’s steady voice was one he had tailored to hide his anger over the years, “Lady Ogbent, I second my mother’s faith in Miss Hall. She is very capable of doing her job.”

  Norman was resolute, he was not moving another step until she replied to him with a decent apology.

  The woman’s face soured but she did speak, “Forgive me, Your Grace. I was expecting another, someone with greater years I suppose.”

  Not much of apology, is it?

  “I am sure you will recognize Miss Hall’s talent in time, Lady Ogbent,” Norman said with a tight smile. “I believe we may now continue.”

  The air as the five sat and began to converse was severely strained but, the Duchess, as the consummate socialite she was, soon had the air eased and the conversation flowing. Admittedly, most of the talking was done by Norman, his mother and the Viscount with the Viscountess, and Miss Fawcett sporadically adding their opinions.

  By the time they were called to luncheon, Norman had formed an opinion of Miss Fawcett that, sadly, had met his dour expectations.

  She was smart, well read and able to follow conversation with ease, but she was the vainest creature Norman had ever beheld. It did not show in her speech, no, it was by her actions. When she thought no one was looking, she would pinch her cheeks, pat her hair or smooth down her powder-blue dress.

  Still, he had to be polite and offered to escort her to the dining room. The Duke could count on one hand the number of times he had eaten luncheon in the manor and even less when it was in the formal dining hall.

  This time, the cooks had laid out a splendid repast. The best cold cuts of beef and poultry, freshly-baked bread, a variety of cheeses, and a colorful arrangement of fruit were arranged beautifully on the table. Decanters of wine and pots of tea or coffee were present also.

  “The leanest meat cuts for Isabella,” the Viscountess sharply ordered a server who calmly readjusted her knife.

  “I am feeling a bit wearied,” the Viscount said, “A cup of coffee would serve me well.”

  Lady Ogbent’s gaze was knife-edged. “You will have tea, Richard, coffee does not sit with you and you know that.”

  This is interesting, what will he do?

  Norman watched closely as the man visibly shrunk under his wife’s pointed look and snorted to himself. Looking over to his Mother, who, as usual, was impassive, he arched his eyebrow. Her lips thinned. Sighing, Norman resigned himself to a long luncheon.

  The comfort of the room that she had expected to feel was non-existent. Rosaline felt only cold. To be degraded in such a horrible manner was normally the starting chip. It was the beginning that would lead to a splinter, then a break and then the canyon that would split the tenuous self-confidence Rosaline had tried to build over the years in half.

  She experienced first hand the dichotomy of their words. No one had taken time or given any effort to help orphans rebuild their broken souls. They were not thought of as any productive part of society. Most of them were degraded as thieves, cheats, tarnished souls and worthless. Sadly, a lot of them succumbed to those titles. But, she and her sister had risen above the stigma, and it had cost them long cold nights and beds soaked with tears to do so.

  She heard those slurs before, but she would not allow them to intimidate her, especially not in the stage she now was in. Could she just give up when the chance to discover what had happened to her sister was right in front of her? Could she bow?

  Rosaline felt a part of her heart harden and decided that no matter what, she was not going to allow the words of a bitter, self-centered woman rob her of the chance to lighten the darkness about Mary that she had suffered under for years.

  I vouch for her, Lady Amanda,” the Duchess Horenwall had said, I have proven Miss Hall’s talent and I am assured she will do justice to Miss Ogbent’s dress.

  At least she had someone in the corner, and that was enough. The Duchess had already expressed her faith in her, what more did she need? After all, she was not working for the Ogbent’s, she was contracted by the Duchess Horenwall.

  Did the Duke…did His Grace condone them…does he agree?

  A memory from the day before ran through her mind and she felt, without any definitive information, that the Duke was not one to be trifled with.

  She felt he would have stood up for her against those of his own tier. However, it was only a feeling, and a fanciful at that, if Rosaline decided to consider the reality of her position. But, somehow, even if he had not, she wanted to hold on to the fantasy that he defended her.

  Now that her feelings towards him were changing, she did not know what exactly she felt about him. He was handsome—that was clear—and smart, too. He would not be a successful and respected duke if he wasn’t. But she wondered what else was there to him.

&nbs
p; He had gone to University, but what else was there? Was he the type of person who loved balls or soirées? What type of books did he like? Did he have a favorite food? Was he an aficionado of operas, singalongs, traveling theaters? What was his childhood like? Did he have cousins, aunts, uncles?

  His friends, she remembered his friends—Lord Edgehill and Lord Belthyne—were coming to dinner soon, and she hung her head and stared at the floor. Unlike her, he had companions, and most likely, she would never get to meet them.

  “If he wants to get to know me…” Rosaline wrapped her arms around herself and mused to the ceiling, “I think I would like the same…”