Reckless in Red

by Rachael Miles

  Lena immediately imagined a discordant mix of tartan plaids next to delicately rendered cherry blossoms.

  “Other than Lady Agatha and the duke, which of my siblings are in residence?” Clive returned the conversation to its purpose.

  “Your sister Lady Judith and the newlyweds, Lord and Lady Colin. Lord Edmund was here yesterday, but he left again this morning, and Lord Seth is expected this evening.”

  “I see.” Clive looked thoughtful. “I assume the duke indicated that Miss Frost will be staying for several days. Given the number of my relatives here, is the Rowan suite free?”

  “The Rowan, my lord?” His tone was quizzical, as if Clive had just asked for a monkey or pet eel. “Of course it is free. That is always the last suite given out.”

  “Miss Frost will take the green bedroom and sitting room.” He explained to Lena, “When so many of my relations are present, the Rowan suite is the best in the house. A late addition to the house, it connects to the guest rooms and the family wing by a rather circuitous path, but it has easy access for the servants by way of a dedicated stairwell.”

  “I will have the housekeeper prepare those rooms.” Barlow looked her over carefully but not unkindly, then said to Clive, “I assume you wish to call for a warm bath in advance of dinner.”

  Clive nodded, and Barlow withdrew.

  “Kubla Khan?” she whispered.

  Clive laughed. “Barlow is a voracious reader, and he’s particularly fond of William Shakespeare and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. He can recite the whole of ‘Kubla Khan’ for you, if you’d like.”

  The sound of hearty laughter coming from behind a door at the end of the hall drew their attention. Within moments, the door opened, and Lord Forster and his fiancée, Lady Wilmot, entered, still smiling. The duke had his hand on the small of Lady Wilmot’s back. The pair were clearly in love.

  “Ah, Miss Frost,” Lady Wilmot greeted her graciously. “We have only a moment. Luca and Ian will be dressed well in advance for tonight’s dinner, but my Lilly still needs a parent’s encouragement.”

  Lord Forster laughed, shaking his head in mock dismay. “Our little hellion has become quite particular about her clothes. But there’s no predicting which dress she will like or hate. She simply refuses to wear some and won’t let go of others.”

  Lady Wilmot nodded in agreement. “But given the difficulties of her last year, we have determined that letting her pick her own dresses isn’t too much of an indulgence.”

  From behind the pair, servants appeared with the duke’s greatcoat and Lady Wilmot’s fur muff and heavy cloak.

  “I was like that as a child. I hated the feel of anything that was too heavily starched.” Having met Lilly, Lena felt somehow obligated to help her. “But the starching happened before the clothes came to me, so I couldn’t explain why one dress felt fine and the other unbearable.”

  “That’s a fine observation, Miss Frost.” The duke tucked Lady Wilmot’s reticule under his arm and held out her cloak. “We will test your theory this very night.”

  “As to dinner, we are so pleased that you’ve decided to join us this evening at Mrs. Mason’s.” Lady Wilmot fastened the brooch that held her cloak in place. “How did Clive convince you?”

  Lena searched her memory for an invitation. With chagrin, she realized that Ophelia Mason had invited her to a family dinner when they met at the African’s Daughter. If she were staying at the duke’s house, it would be difficult to refuse, but even so, she could hardly accept. “I am afraid that I haven’t anything appropriate to wear for a dinner at Mrs. Mason’s.”

  Lady Wilmot studied her for a moment, taking in her odd work clothes, smeared in places with paint, pausing at her bandaged hands. “Knowing Clive, he has already considered the problem of clothes.” Lady Wilmot patted Clive’s arm. “Haven’t you, Clive?”

  “Of course.” Clive spoke without hesitation.

  “Excellent. The duke has left instructions for the large family carriage to collect you two, Lady Judith, and Boatswain around seven. Lord and Lady Colin have already ridden over on their new matched pair. As I understand, they are remaining several nights with the Masons.” Lady Wilmot bid them farewell in continental fashion, kissing both their cheeks. “Barlow will send a maid to help you dress.”

  Lady Wilmot and the duke left arm in arm.

  Once the door shut behind the pair, Clive looked Lena over, head to foot, as if he hadn’t seen her before. Under his attentive gaze she suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable—she liked neither feeling. His tone, when he finally spoke, was somewhat cautious. “You can leave the matter of your dinner clothing to me.”

  “To you?” Lena bristled, knowing it was unreasonable. But he might have asked if she had a suitable dinner dress pressed down tight in her carpetbag (though of course she didn’t). She’d had clothes before as beautiful as Lady Wilmot’s, and on the Continent she’d danced with dukes. Of course, those dukes were in exile, but they were dukes nonetheless.

  “Or rather you can leave it to my family. Lady Judith is too short to be any help, but Lady Colin likely has something appropriate for you to wear. Alternatively, if you prefer, we can call on Lady Wilmot’s modiste. She always has a few dresses ready for situations such as this.”

  “I have no money to buy a dress, and I don’t wish to be indebted to the duke.” She raised her chin and straightened her shoulders. Unfortunately that placed his all-too-inviting lips at her eye level.

  “I’m not a dependent, Lena. I have my own funds,” he corrected, studying her face as if she were his patient.

  “You live in his house.” She seemed to have little control over her emotions this late in a long, difficult day.

  “I live at my club. I teach at the surgery school, as I told you, though I do at times work for the estate as well.” His voice was calm and even, and that annoyed her.

  “What does work mean for the son and brother of a duke? An hour or so, here or there, when you find yourself at loose ends?” She glared at him, a foul mood swirling unpleasantly in her belly.

  “My work . . .” His eyes flashed with frustration, and she waited, prepared to object to whatever he said. As the clock counted the passing seconds, she tucked an errant curl under her cap with her bandaged hand, and Clive’s face changed in an instant.

  “I must apologize. You are the most resilient woman I have ever met.”

  “That’s an odd apology.” She stared into his face.

  “I am a physician. I know—or I should know—that fear or fright commonly produces a disorder of the emotions. Today you have met with three frightening experiences, but in each instance, you have rallied admirably. To help you recover, I should have provided you with a quiet residence, not a house filled with interfering strangers . . . and family dinners.” He paused again, but Lena said nothing. “I’ll have Barlow escort you to your room, and you can at least have some quiet before our trip to Kensington.”

  His explanation, awkward as it was, soothed her worn nerves. Though she wouldn’t admit it, she did need some quiet to gather her thoughts and energies, but at the same time, she didn’t wish to be left too long alone. “What will you be doing while I . . . rest?”

  “I will be searching for clothing that hasn’t been heavily starched.”

  * * *

  When Lena reached her rooms, the fire was already blazing, her bath ready before it. A tall screen separated the fire and tub from the rest of the room, creating a warm oasis for her bath. A maid stood by to help her out of her clothes. She hung her outer clothes over the screen, stripping to her underwear. Stepping behind the screen, she changed into the shift provided for her to bathe in. She heard the maid shut the door.

  The tub was large and deep, obviously made for the Somerville men. She dipped her hand in the water. Warm, oh-so-warm, almost hot. Perfect. Next to the tub was a pot of soap, scented with lemon and rosemary, and a hand mirror. Catching a glimpse of herself, she gasped and touched her face and hair.

 
How had Lady Wilmot not commented on her appearance? A bruise darkened on her forehead and temple where her head had hit one of the boards as she fell. Her mob hat was ripped on one side, and her hair stuck out at odd angles. One long hank of hair appeared to be painted a rich scarlet. Her color was muddy, and her cheeks were sunken.

  As if on cue, her stomach rumbled and twisted. When had she last eaten? She thought back. A slice of bread and cheese with Constance before retiring for bed the night before. Then nothing. Horatio had eaten the food they kept at the Rotunda before he scampered, and Lady Wilmot’s advance had gone to pay her crew. It wasn’t the first day she’d gone without food, but it felt longer. Suddenly, she was less averse to a family dinner with free, well-prepared food.

  She twisted the scarlet strand between her fingers. She would have to apologize to Clive. He had been generous, helpful, and conciliatory, while she had been consistently suspicious and irritable. She pulled off the mob bonnet, removed her hairpins, and began to unplait what remained of her braid. Her dark-brown hair fell long around her shoulders. She hadn’t intended to wash her hair. But now that she’d seen herself, not to do so would be inconsiderate, particularly to Clive, who would be her escort. She considered her hair in the mirror. A low bun would be suitable for a family dinner, and it would require little extra time and no help from a maid.

  Lena pulled off the shift. She hadn’t had the luxury of immersing herself in a warm bath since she’d left France, and she wanted to be nude.

  She stepped into the tub slowly, then settled under the water. She couldn’t imagine how much it cost to draw and heat so much water. At Mrs. Abbott’s, a bath cost more than a man going upstairs twice, and the water was never warm. Lena had to be satisfied with a hand bath, using water in her basin and pitcher, and, in the winter, when it was especially cold, she’d heat the water in her fireplace. But Mrs. Abbott was stingy with the water in the basins as well, and Lena had learned to be circumspect.

  She closed her eyes and reclined in the tub, letting her weariness melt into the water. Prompted by her appearance in the mirror, she paid attention to each part of her body, cataloging her wounds. Her ankle was swollen and sore, but not badly hurt. The muscles in her back and shoulders were tense and tight. Her hands were still bandaged, the linen stuck in places to her wounds. She held them under the warm water until the bandages loosened and were easily removed. Her palms were badly abraded, but the scrapes had all closed up, and nothing yet was red or festering. They looked—and felt—better than she’d expected. She let herself drift, thinking of nothing, until time itself seemed to slow. Some time later, refreshed, she began to wash her body, letting the scent of lemon and rosemary invigorate her senses.

  She submerged under the water, wetting her hair through, then she washed it, one section at a time, with the deliciously scented soap. Rinsing it, she sunk down in the water once more, letting her hair float out from her head. Did she look like Caravaggio’s Medusa? Or would Barlow say the mad prophet from Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan”? In an instant, she could see Horatio, declaiming Coleridge’s poem from the Rotunda platform. When she’d asked what he was doing, he’d explained, with arms extended wide, “It’s a stage, my dear. We must learn how the sounds move in this space, so that we can manage them.”

  Oh, Horatio, where are you?

  She opened her eyes in alarm. Horatio’s note. She’d left it in her pocket. She scrambled out of the bath, looking for her clothes. She’d hung them on the back of the screen. But they were gone. Given her own appearance, she doubted if the maid meant only to brush them. What if it were laundry day?

  Still wet, she pulled on the shift, trying to imagine a way to retrieve Horatio’s note. The linen stuck to her wet body. She looked for some other covering, but found only a thin towel. She couldn’t wait. She wrapped the towel around her shoulders like a shawl and pulled the clinging material of the shift away from her body. If she used the servants’ stairwell, she could perhaps avoid a scandal: once below stairs, she would call out from behind the half-opened stairway door for someone to assist her.

  She opened her bedroom door and rushed into the hall, just as Clive emerged from the main stairwell.

  The thin shift, still wet and clinging to her body, revealed as much as it concealed. Clive stopped abruptly midstep. He stared. But whether he felt shock, dismay, or desire, she couldn’t tell.

  Her feet felt as if they were part of the floor. She couldn’t speak.

  Clive recovered his words first. “Lady Wilmot has sent word that she has two or three dresses that might suit you. Her house is only a block or two away.” He held up a folded piece of paper. “I was about to leave a note under your door, telling you that I’d be back before you finish . . . your bath.” He swallowed visibly and looked down at the floor. “Are you in need of something?”

  “The maid. She took my clothes.” Lena’s words came back in a rush.

  “Yes, we are in luck.” His eyes continued to examine a spot on the floor in front of his boots. “It’s washing day below stairs.”

  “No!” She rushed forward, then stopped before she reached him. “There’s a pocket sewed into the side of my skirt. In it, there’s a note. It’s important to me.”

  “There should be a blanket in the wardrobe of your room. You can wear it until your clothes arrive.” He looked pained. “I’ll see if I can retrieve your note.” He turned on his heel and ran away.

  * * *

  Back in her room, she found the blanket as Clive had indicated and wrapped it around her shoulders in anticipation of his returning. But he did not. Instead, several moments later, a maid brought her two notes on a silver tray. Horatio’s was still folded into a small packet. She clasped it to her breast. The fire was still blazing, but there was no time to examine the note again. She opened the second. The handwriting was a firm round hand, distinctive for its lack of embellishment: “Perhaps a red dress—to go with your hair. Clive.”

  After a tap at the door, the housekeeper, Mrs. Tracy, a slender, blond woman with a placid face, entered, followed by a battalion of maids, carrying dresses, headdresses, reticules, slippers, and finally irons and cosmetics. The silence of the maids surprised her, so unlike the servants she had known. But this was a duke’s home, and it clearly operated by a different set of rules.

  Under Mrs. Tracy’s quiet direction, each pair of maids displayed a dress for her consideration. Each dress was more beautiful than anything she had ever owned. Each one—even the ornate, silk confections rich in ribbons and bows—was fit for a princess. Nothing was overblown or tasteless. Even the large feather in one of the hats seemed a fashionable statement rather than a pompous display.

  Hoping to please Clive by taking his recommendation (it was the least she could do given her earlier ill temper), she tried on Lady Wilmot’s coquelicot velvet first, hoping the rich soft dress might work. But it and her Pomona green silk were far too long (both without hope of pinning). Lady Colin’s jonquil evening dress was too short and the fabric scratchy, and the cut of Lady Judith’s severe slate gown was wholly unflattering. She began to feel like the intruder in Robert Southey’s children’s story of the three bears: too big, too small, too everything. Nothing came close to fitting.

  With each dress that the maids removed, Lena’s spirits drooped just a little lower. If it weren’t a dinner party and if her hosts were not a duke and his relations, she could ask for one of the footmen to retrieve one of her business dresses from the Rotunda. But that dress would be equally as inappropriate as the work dress Mrs. Tracy was having washed. The prospect of appearing at the party in inappropriate— or ill-fitting—clothes made her wish she could run away in her shift and hide.

  Eventually, only she, the housekeeper, and two maids—Trudy and Elizabeth—remained. Mrs. Tracy, taking on the expression of a solicitor examining a particularly complicated legal document, looked her over carefully. “Turn around now, slowly, let me see your figure.”

  Lena obeyed, trying not to wonde
r at the whispering behind her back. By the time Lena had made the full circle, the maids were gone.

  “It’s obvious you are no society miss,” Mrs Tracy said mildly. “No one gets strong arms and a firm middle without work—and a bit of hunger.”

  Lena wondered if she should be offended, but Mrs. Tracy’s tone was matter-of-fact, not critical. All such considerations were quickly lost, when Elizabeth returned, followed by two footmen. One carried a tray full of ham, bread, cheese, biscuits, butter, pots of various jams. The other a small tea service suitable for one. Wordlessly, they set both on a nearby ottoman, then retired.

  “Mr. Barlow is a fine valet, but the butler would have noticed that you needed a bite to eat. And don’t hesitate to eat your fill: Mrs. Mason lives in Kensington, and unless Lady Judith drives, the travel alone will take the better part of an hour.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if I declined the invitation,” Lena said, surprised at the depth of her disappointment.

  Mrs. Tracy patted her arm. “We still have an hour before you have to leave. I’ll send your measurements to Lady Wilmot’s modiste to see if she has something suitable already made.” Pulling a measuring tape, pencil, and piece of paper from the basket of cosmetics, Mrs. Tracy scribbled on the paper.

  Trudy returned, speaking low in Mrs. Tracy’s ear. The housekeeper nodded with a slight smile, handing Trudy the paper with Lena’s measurements.

  “Eat now.” Mrs. Tracy patted her arm reassuringly. “We’ll have a dress for you before you finish your tea.” As the housekeeper and the maids left, Lena wondered if there were a school for housekeepers that taught them to respond to each crisis as if it were nothing more significant than a bit of dusting.

  * * *

  “Are you superstitious, Miss Frost?” Mrs. Tracy entered the room, wearing her typical placid expression.