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

by Emma Linfield

  “Ogbent, will you accompany me to my study?” Norman asked as the luncheon came to a close.

  The Duke was feeling a horrible energy coming from the Viscountess. She was a cynical, aggravating lady who—Norman could already see—treated her daughter a little princess and her husband a puppet.

  All through the meal, Viscountess Ogbent had vetoed her husband’s decision at every junction, declaring that he have poultry instead of beef, plain cake instead of pies, and water instead of wine.

  The sad thing was, the man had put up no fight to her domineering. Norman was starting to feel sympathetic for him, and could not understand why the Viscount was putting up with his wife’s hate. Now, for mercy’s sake, he was extending the man a lifeline and hoped he would take it.

  The Viscount’s relief laced every syllable. “I would be delighted to,”

  “Mother, Lady Ogbent and Miss Fawcett, please excuse us,” Norman said while standing.

  The walk to his study was made in silence, but there was no awkward stiffness between them. Entering the solemn study he had inherited from his father, his grandfather before him, and his two grandsires ahead, Norman gravitated to his liquor cabinet.

  “Whiskey, Ogbent?” Norman asked, mainly for politeness; he was sure the man was aching for something stronger.

  “Yes, thank you.” The man slowly settled in a wingback chair and let out a heavy breath. Norman handed him the glass silently and did not react when the older man drank the contents in one gulp.

  He cradled his glass, “I am not blind, Horenwall. I have seen the reactions to my wife, not from you alone, but from many. Amanda is not an easy person to get along with. But she loves our daughter dearly.”

  Norman shook his head, swallowed a mouthful of whiskey then settled his glass on the table between them. “Your dedication is honorable Ogbent, and I respect that. But your wife has no care for anyone but herself and your daughter. The indirect disrespect she showed Miss Hall today is still a sticking point for me.”

  Ogbent lifted a hand and massaged the back of his neck, “She is like that with all our servants, Horenwall. I have come to realize that she will not change. My wife grew up with the lines of royalty, nobility, and commoners, all drawn in her mind. The lines that cannot be crossed.”

  “Sadly,” Norman added, “I know many that share that belief.”

  “It is a tragedy, isn’t it?” The Viscount’s expression was tight.

  “It is,” Norman added. Are you hinting that Miss Fawcett is of the same view? If so, Lord Ogbent, we might not have a marriage at all…

  Chapter 7

  The rose-pink strains of dawn started to pierce the indigo gloom of night. Ribbons of orange and yellow stretched across the sky as the half-circle of the sun inched over the rim of the horizon. The colors of the sky were declaring the beginning of a new day.

  Rosaline watched with heavy eyes as the sun rose and started to banish the night away. Memories of Mary she did her best to bury were unearthed by seeing the Viscountess and feeling her ferocity.

  What did Mary do to the woman to be sent to prison? What did she do to warrant death?

  Those thoughts kept looping around to form a cycle of confusion, and Rosaline hated it. This day, however, was the start of her true test. Today, was her first day as Miss Fawcett’s dressmaker. Rosaline did not know much about the lady but she assumed that her attitude towards others was a mirror of her mother’s— obnoxious and deplorable.

  “What can she throw at me that I have not suffered before?” Rosaline was cleansing her person and getting dressed.

  Rifling through her wardrobe, Rosaline donned a deep green cotton dress, though simple in make, was flattering. Her hair was combed out and brushed into a strict bun at the nape of her neck. She was ready to leave the room, get some victuals and break her fast, yet Rosaline hesitated.

  Her hands, braced on the rim of the dresser, were slightly shaking and she swallowed. “This has to be done…this has to be done….”

  The mantra was repeated until her nerves settled somewhat, and with a deep cleansing breath, she left.

  His effort at trying to sneak out to the stables at the crack of dawn was foiled by his mother. Embarrassed, Norman felt like a boy of three-and-ten who had been apprehended while smuggling a bottle of whiskey to his room.

  The Duchess’ stare was level, but Norman knew she was not pleased. “Good morning, Mother.”

  “Norman,” the Duchess’ tone had gone to one he hated—the pleading tone. “I know you, son, and I know last evening was not pleasant for you. It was not a happy occasion for me either, but the Ogbent’s are here. Do you not think it is sensible to give them a chance? To give Miss Fawcett a chance to prove herself?”

  “Mother, the girl is just that—a girl. Yes, she is educated, and yes, she is accomplished in many ways, but she is still immature.”

  “You cannot know that from one evening, son,” the Duchess reprimanded, “She is here for a good three weeks to a month. Take a week to know her instead of dismissing her from the start. A lot of first impressions are misguided ones. For your sake, give her some time to adjust, speak with her and then make your decision after.”

  The pull of fresh air and the thud of Goliath’s hooves were calling him, but Norman knew his mother’s words made sense and it would be a demerit to him to discount them.

  “I will try, Mother, I promise. Now, go back to bed. I still do not understand how you always seem to know what I am up to.”

  “I am your mother, Norman,” the older woman smiled while tightening her robe, “we mothers are gifted with that ability.”

  Striding out, Norman headed straight to the stables, his mood lightening with every step. The scent of roses and lavender, the fresh dew, and the verdant grass was addictive to him but not as much as the feeling of Goliath charging over a stretch of land, leaping over bushes and trampling the earth underneath him.

  “Good morn’, Your Grace,” a tow-headed stableboy greeted, “Your steed is already saddled for your morning run.”

  Norman smiled, “Thank you, Henry. How is your mother?”

  “Fit as a fiddle, Your Grace,” the teen grinned, “The physician you sent over set her stomach right. She is promising to bake you the best pie this side of the country when she gets the fixings.”

  “And I look forward to tasting Mrs. Johnson’s hand,” Norman added. It always felt delightful to him to lend a hand when he could and providing a doctor for the boy’s ailing mother was such a simple act, that he had not thought about it twice. “Now, let’s get Goliath out, shall we?”

  With no idea how to approach Miss Fawcett, Rosaline had conscripted Miss Keats for help. The lady’s maid had experience with how to deal with those of the peerage, and gave advice on how to act.

  Unfortunately, she had to wait for nine for the Duchess to avail herself and ten for the Ogbent ladies to give them an audience. The drawing room where Rosaline had first met the Duchess on the matter of Lady Ogbent’s dress was to be used and walking inside, she felt as if she was entering a battleground.

  Both women, mother, and daughter were dressed in complimentary shades of green, with light teal for the younger and dark forest green for the mother. From her place, Rosaline could see permanent frown lines in the Viscountess’ face that told her the woman had a disagreeable nature.

  Miss Fawcett, however, was the epitome of beauty with a head of shimmering golden curls and large green eyes. The shape of her face, the arch of her cheekbones and the graceful curve of her neck could very well be the muse to a master painter.

  “Lady Ogbent and Miss Fawcett,” the Duchess said calmly, “Good day to you. I hope you have had a restful night.”

  “We have,” the Viscountess said sharply, “It was a decent night’s rest compared to the inns we were forced to sleep in.”

  The Duchess of Horenwall’s expression was unreadable, “I am here with Miss Hall, who, as I have told you, will be making Miss Fawcett’s dress in the followi
ng weeks. Miss Hall?”

  Stepping up, she curtsied, “Lady Ogbent, and Miss Fawcett, my greetings.”

  The Viscountess snorted derisively, but Rosaline did not let it bother her. The Duchess of Horenwall sat and Rosaline did the same. While crossing her ankles under her dress, she looked up to see Miss Fawcett’s eyes on her and demurely looked away.

  Perhaps the lady, now seeing her, was trying to match her face with that of her old maid, Mary. Though they were sisters, there were certain features that the two did not share. Mary’s hair was light brown instead of her black and Mary’s chin was a little more pronounced than hers. The soft dimples she had in her cheek were not Mary’s and the soft arch of her eyebrows were not the thick dark lines of Mary’s either.

  “Miss Fawcett,” the Duchess began, “We were preemptively discussing the color of your dress—”

  “Have I seen you somewhere before?” Miss Fawcett’s airy voice rudely cut in the Duchess’ sentence.

  Rosaline breathed through the vicious lurch of her heart, “I do not think so, My Lady.”

  “Where on earth could you have crossed paths with her, Isabella?” the Viscountess sniffed petulantly. “Please, see sense.”

  The Duchess’ lips had thinned, “As I was saying, we have decided on teal, yellow or—”

  “I am sure I have seen you before,” Miss Fawcett once again interrupted.

  “I am sure you have me mistaken with someone else, My Lady,” Rosaline said once more while praying internally for her to give up on the topic.

  “But—”

  “Isabella,” the Viscountess said sharply.

  Miss Fawcett sank back in her chair with a pout on her face. Her head was twisted to the side and a stubborn frown marred her face. Rosaline knew that look, it was the same stubborn look of many obstinate orphans.

  She is certainly spoiled.

  “I apologize, Your Grace,” the Viscountess declared, “Isabella gets a bit passionate sometimes. Please, do go on.”

  “We were considering light pink, teal and green and, was it yellow, Miss Hall?” The Duchess inquired.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Rosaline replied.

  “Your opinion, Miss Fawcett?” The Duchess asked pointedly.

  The young woman turned to them and, with a sparkle in her eye, said, “Gold, I want the color to be pure gold. It is matching to my hair, no? I want it made in an empire cut with a lovely black velvet train, white gloves… and make a waistcoat of the same cloth for His Grace too so we can match.”

  Rosaline blinked, a pure gold dress could be done but a velvet train? Velvet was expensive and very tricky to sew but if that was the choice, she could not do it alone. She would need an assistant.

  “My Lady,” Rosaline said calmly, “Would you be amiable to some white inserts to offset the gold?”

  Miss Fawcett glared, “No, I want it all in gold and trimmed with Honiton lace!”

  Her snap made Rosaline jerk and though the Duchess seemed mostly unaffected, the slight widening of her eyes told the seamstress that she was just as taken aback.

  Spoiled indeed.

  “As you wish, My Lady,” Rosaline nodded. “Is there anything else?”

  “No,” Miss Fawcett’s attitude suddenly shifted to docile, “not that I can think off now.”

  “I think a visit to London is in order then,” the Duchess said, “we can find the best cloth, buttons, and lace there.”

  Rosaline dared to look back at Miss Fawcett. “My Lady, I might need to measure you to get the lengths of cloth we might need.”

  “Why?” the Viscountess shrewish voice cut in, “Are you a professional seamstress or not? Can you not take an accurate measurement by guesswork, or are you still an apprentice? I have met many tailors who can correctly make an assessment by just looking. Do you not have that ability, Miss Hall?”

  Ire sparked in Rosaline’s chest but heeding to Miss Keats’ words, she kept calm. “I can, but it would be more accurate to take measurements.”

  The Duchess reached over and rested a hand on her knee, “I am sure there is a simple solution, we can just buy the whole bolt and adjust as we go along.”

  A superior look, one that Rosaline was getting too familiar with, came from the Viscountess and she tilted her head just right to look down her nose at Rosaline. The daughter had a satisfied smile on her face with a wicked glimmer in her eyes.

  A fitting pair if I have ever seen one.

  “Understood,” Rosaline said, “I will go and make those assessments now— if you will excuse me.”

  The truth was that the air inside the room was starting to turn Rosaline’s stomach. The two Ogbent ladies had enough haughty and dominant condescension between them to curdle milk.

  “You are excused, Miss Hall,” the Duchess said evenly.

  “Good day, Your Grace, Lady Ogbent and Miss Fawcett,” said Rosaline as she curtsied and hurried away.

  If this is what money and power do to people, I would rather be poor and humble.

  It took a glass of wine to settle Norman’s stomach before leaving his study and making it to the sitting room where Miss Fawcett and her mother were amusing themselves. It was a cool afternoon and Norman was only acquiescing to his mother’s request to give Miss Fawcett a chance to prove herself.

  His polite knock garnered the attention of the two, who both had books on their laps. Viscountess Ogbent smiled, “Your Grace, it is wonderful to see you. Her Grace told us that you were busy with some of your tenants.”

  Busy with some tenants? I have never known you to lie, Mother.

  “Something of the sort, Madam,” Norman added, “Miss Fawcett, would you do me the pleasure of taking a walk with me?”

  Delighted surprise painted the young lady’s face and she quickly looked to her mother for permission. “Of course, of course, but do you have a chaperone? We were not able to carry any of our maids, you see and I would rather not hover.”

  “Not a worry, Madam, Miss Keats has volunteered,” Norman said, and the maid stepped out from the hallway and into the room.

  “My Ladies,” she said with a curtsy.

  “It is just a walk through the garden, Miss Fawcett,” Norman added, “The paths are solid stone so there is no need to change your shoes.”

  “Well, then,” Lady Ogbent smiled. “You would better be off.”

  “Please,” Norman said while extending his arm to her. He forced a smile on his face when she grasped it.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Miss Fawcett lips serenely curled up.

  Pretending to not see the glimmer of triumph in her eyes, Norman led them down wide corridors and eventually to the outside by way of a side door. Miss Keats was following behind while giving them a generous berth.

  “Tell me, Miss Fawcett, what is your favorite thing to do?” They came upon the entrance to the main garden. The stone path, just like he had said, was solid enough but not damaging to her slippers.

  “I believe playing the harp-lute, Your Grace,” Miss Fawcett tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ears. “I mastered it and the pianoforte, but I prefer the harp-lute.”

  “Interesting,” Norman turned to face her, “A tutor of mine was bent on giving me the skill of the pianoforte. The only thing I gave him was a series of headaches from the cacophony I produced. Adversely though, I believe I can hold a note as good as another in a song.”

  The gentle breeze in the air wafted the perfume of roses, carnations, and evening primrose to them, but thankfully, the smell was not cloying.

  “I would like to hear you sing, Your Grace,” Miss Fawcett believed their feelings were mutual. “Mayhap, we can sing together.”

  “I suppose,” Norman mused as they passed an evergreen shrub, “What other interests do you have?”

  “Artistry,” she replied was well-rehearsed, “I have an eye for colors and I have done a fair share of watercolors. I do excel in painting nature, roses especially. I once tried my hand at portraits, but I never mastered the shape of the nose.�
�

  “You don’t say,” Norman inserted.

  It was implausible—he was hearing all the things that would make him attracted to an accomplished lady, who was decidedly beautiful, but, aside from a faint interest, Norman did not feel any pull towards her.

  “Admittedly,” Miss Fawcett scowled, “the model I was using had the worst lop-sided face I had ever seen in my life. I was so repulsed that I dropped my pencil and refused to make one more mark.”

  “I can wager that your tutor was not pleased,” the Duke added.