Smiling at the image, Bristol leaned against the upholstered seat cushions and turned her eyes to the window. The carriage had left behind teeming lanes and tall leaning buildings, and they turned into Pall Mall, a wide cobbled boulevard faced by impressive estates, enormous sprawls of stone and brick with velvety lawns stretching behind. The coach rocked to a stop before one such palace, and Bristol peered forward to marvel at the sheer immensity.
“Niece!” Lady Hathaway had wedged herself half in and half out of the carriage door. “Come along, girl. Push!”
Dusting off her hands, Bristol placed her palms on Lady Hathaway’s swelling bottom as she’d seen Bridey do. She drew a breath and shoved. Resisting flesh conformed to the space available, and Aunt Pru popped through the door, caught by the green-liveried driver, who spun and balanced her expertly.
Aunt Pru smoothed her gown and adjusted her headdress over the orange mound of bobbing curls; then she huffed up three wide steps to a pillared porch. Imperiously she paused and waited for Bridey to dash forward and open heavy carved doors.
Bristol followed more slowly, her eyes wide and incredulous. The towering brick house was undoubtedly the grandest thing she’d ever imagined. When Noah spoke of Queen Mary and King William, it was in a palace such as this that Bristol pictured them. She hid a wry smile. The imposing edifice before her was so far removed from the rural cottage she’d expected, that she found it difficult to reconcile the two pictures.
Inside, a cadaverous man glided silently forward and took Aunt Pru’s light cape and folded gloves. Following suit, Bristol allowed him to take her cloak and mittens. He looked at her homespun cloak with a sniff, then glided away like a shadow, disappearing down a long polished hallway.
Bristol thrust her hands in her apron pockets and drew a small breath; she felt overpowered by the massing of ornate detail wherever her eyes fell. The entire Adams house could easily have fit within Lady Hathaway’s entry hall. Gilded cupids frolicked around the edges of a lofty ceiling, and beneath Bristol’s feet lay a brilliantly colored rug twining with exotic woven flowers. Vases and statues and fresh spring roses overflowed tables against silk-hung walls, and several satin settees had been placed at intervals near doors opening into hallways and other rooms.
While Aunt Pru examined a stack of cards on a silver tray, Bristol wandered about the entry peeking into other rooms. She glanced inside gleaming French windows to see an enormous parlor larger than John Proctor’s Salem tavern. She stared at fireplaces dominating each end of the room, and gazed at groupings of delicate furniture, some upholstered, some of polished gently curving wood. Nowhere did she see any hint of a spinning wheel, or loom, or any of the working tools that made a home function.
Such prosaic items must be buried in the depths of the house, Bristol thought wistfully. For an instant she longed to see a bubbling pot or a scarred kitchen table—something homey in a familiar world, something she could touch base with. This luxury and opulence fell so far outside her experience she felt uncomfortable just looking at it. It seemed inconceivable she could ever sit in these massive rooms with any degree of comfort.
Aunt Pru was watching. “Do you like everything? Or is it too bland? At first I tried shades of blue, but last year I changed everything to cream and green.” An uncertain note hovered in Lady Hathaway’s tone, surprising Bristol. Perhaps more remnants of a humble past survived in Aunt Prudence than showed on the surface.
Anxious not to offend, Bristol nodded and lifted her arms. “Aye.” She searched for words. “This is all so... overwhelming! I couldn’t have imagined a house like this in my wildest dreams!”
Satisfied, Aunt Pru bobbed the orange curls and smiled. “Say ‘yes,’ don’t say ‘aye.’ ‘Aye’ is definitely lower-class, dear. You must think of such things now.” She started toward a sweep of curving staircase. “Come along, I expect you’ll want a rest before dinner. I’ll show you to your room, and later, Molly Whitney will help you dress for dinner.” Her clear blue eyes slid to Bristol’s gown. “You haven’t anything... more suitable, have you?”
Bristol shook her head, looking at the stern faces framed along the sweep of staircase. Hathaways? Certainly not Adamses; there wasn’t a red head among them. Even so, the faces seemed oddly familiar.
Aunt Pru sighed. “I thought not. Well, no matter. I’ll arrange a visit to Collette’s tomorrow; Collette is my seamstress. And we’ll urge her to rush. I’m staging a ball on Friday to celebrate Robbie’s return. Collette simply must finish something for you before then.”
“Robbie? Has your husband been away?” A bewildering maze of carpeted hallways opened at the top of the stairs, and Bristol waited for Aunt Pru to indicate which they’d take.
“What?” Aunt Pru puffed down a corridor filled with tables and vases and hung with richly framed paintings. “Oh, no, no. Robert’s health is poor, he hardly leaves the house anymore. But Robbie! Robbie, on the other hand, is hardly ever here.” Seeing the confusion in Bristol’s glance, Aunt Pru laughed. “Robbie is our son.”
Bristol blinked. The day continued to reveal more surprises. A marriage and a son were almost more than she could absorb. “I have a cousin?”
“Yes, but I must confess: he works!” Aunt Pru sniffed and lowered her voice as if she confided an embarrassing secret. She frowned. “He insists on it. He’s even amassed a fortune.” There was a grudging admiration in Lady Hathaway’s tone, but she clearly believed there was something disreputable about succeeding in business. “His father and I hope he’ll settle down and forget such nonsense once he’s married.” She sighed. “But that’s not likely, considering the girl involved.” Aunt Pru pushed open a door near the end of the corridor. “Never mind that,” she said, irritated with herself. “We’ll have ample time to lay bare the family concerns when you’re rested.”
Bristol followed her aunt inside and gasped, her hands rising to her cheeks. Slowly she looked around an enormous room, and her eyes rounded in delight. Shimmering pink silk covered the walls and was repeated on the bed covering and again in the curtains falling from the ceiling to frame the bed. Green damask draperies hung beside tall wide windows, and green carpets were scattered about a polished wood floor. All the furniture was upholstered with cream-colored velvet.
Bristol stopped before a fire flickering in the grate and warmed her back against a chill in the spring night. She looked about the room, admiring everything. Despite the size, glowing candles in silver holders imparted a warmth to the room. More candles than her family in Salem would think to use in a month, Bristol noticed, and all of them good-quality wax, not tallow scrapings.
“It’s lovely!” Bristol breathed. She stroked the top of a velvet chair hesitantly, trying to picture herself living in this magnificent room.
Pleased, Aunt Pru bobbed her head. “Good. I’m glad you like it. Now, then, dinner is at eight o’clock. You’ll have time for a half-hour nap before Molly comes.” She pointed to a pink velvet rope near the bed. “If you need anything, just pull that, and Molly or Bridey will appear.”
Shyly Bristol lifted her eyes. “I don’t think Bridey approves of me.”
Aunt Pru snorted. “Bridey Winkle was born hating the world, and she’s not seen anything to change her opinion. She disapproves of everyone and everything. But she runs this house with an iron hand, and I couldn’t manage without her.” Aunt Pru swept off her headdress and rolled her head on a stout neck. “Just remember the blood, dear. Bridey’s a servant; you are quality—a lady.” Aunt Pru smiled and stepped into the hallway. She bellowed, “Bridey! Where are you? I want help with my...” The door closed, cutting her final words.
Carefully, as if she might break it, Bristol eased into a velvet chair and leaned back with a deep sigh of pleasure. It felt wonderful not to be rocking on a ship or ferry, or rattling in a noisy carriage, or forced to think about anything. She doubted she could.
Her mind tilted toward overload with a multitude of new impressions and the staggering information she’d
accumulated. Bristol turned a wistful eye toward the pink bed, wondering if she could sleep, even as weary as she was. Too many things clamored for her attention. Her only regret was the lack of someone to share these new experiences.
Stretching in the warmth of the fire, Bristol felt her eyes drift shut against her will. If only Charity were here to share that enormous pink bed and marvel at the blaze of so many candles. Bristol yawned. Her friends in Salem wouldn’t believe such luxury existed.
Or believe she could doze instead of exploring her new home. Bristol forced her eyes open a crack. Then she sighed and gave it up. Everything would still be here after a short nap.
At least she hoped this wasn’t a dream; Bristol had a guilty suspicion she could easily grow to like this way of life. She snuggled deeper into the soft velvet chair.
Her last sleepy thought was a painful curiosity. Where was Jean Pierre tonight? Was he thinking about her? Did he regret the way they’d parted as much as she? Bristol fell asleep with her fingers tangled in the gold chain at her throat. And his laughing face in her mind.
13
To Bristol’s relief, the Hathaways would not dine in the cavernous dining room young Molly Whitney described. Instead, dinner would be served in a more intimate setting—in Lord Hathaway’s study, just off his bedroom.
“His lordship be down with gout again,” Molly Whitney explained. She shook out Bristol’s gowns and carried them from trunk to wardrobe. Sturdy rather than plump, Molly, with her apple cheeks and bustling air, struck Bristol as out of place in sooty London; Bristol could more easily picture Molly as a dairy maid in a fresh country setting.
“I’m sorry to hear of his lordship’s gout,” Bristol murmured. Sorrier than she could adequately express. She wondered anxiously how a painful case of gout might affect her new uncle’s disposition. Uncertain as to the length of her stay in Hathaway House, a recipient of Lord Hathaway’s generosity, Bristol fervently hoped his lordship would be in a mood to welcome her. Additionally, she felt decidedly nervous about meeting a real lord of the English realm. Despite Aunt Prudence’s description of her husband as an “old fool,” Bristol doubted the man could be a fool and still be a lord and amass such wealth as she saw in evidence wherever she looked.
Molly finished unpacking Bristol’s trunk and held up the pewter mug. “Where shall I put this, miss?” Her voice was carefully devoid of expression, but Bristol guessed Molly thought the pewter cup a distinct curiosity.
Bristol glanced about the pink-, green-, and cream-colored room filled with exquisite vases and gleaming silver pieces. Her pewter mug seemed a shabby residue of her previous existence. Lifting her chin, Bristol pointed. “Set it on the table near the bed, please.” No matter what anyone thought, the mug was her shabby remnant, and her only physical link with home. Home. Bristol sighed. Salem Village had never seemed so distant, either geographically or mentally.
Molly placed the mug near the bed and dusted off her hands, dark glossy braids swinging from under her dust cap. “Do that be the onliest one, miss?” she asked doubtfully, nodding toward Bristol’s trunk.
“Aye,” Bristol replied. And quickly amended her answer to “Yes.”
Molly frowned. “But all the gowns... they be such dark colors, miss! Do there be nothing gay and cheerful for the supper table?”
“I’m afraid not.” Bristol looked at her hands. Even the servants disapproved her clothing. She thought of the hours she and Charity and Hannah had spent carding, spinning, dyeing, and weaving. Bristol’s shoulders wilted, and she cast an apologetic glance toward Molly. “What do you think is best?” She stepped out of her rumpled traveling clothes, wishing she needn’t wear them ever again. Immediately she felt a guilty pang of disloyalty toward her mother and sister.
“Well,” Molly said thoughtfully, “I suppose this one.” She shook out the dark green velvet Bristol had worn for the shipboard whipping. Bristol looked at it with a twinge of painful memory. Where was Jean Pierre tonight? Molly’s curious voice cut into her thoughts. “Are you one of them roundheads?” Molly asked.
“Roundheads?” Bristol repeated. She didn’t understand the term.
“Aye, you know. Roundheads. Puritans. Do you dress so plain because of religion?”
Bristol laughed. “I guess so. That’s how everyone dresses in New England.” She wondered what Molly wore off duty; the frilly dust cap and white apron over a green low-necked gown suited Molly’s rosy cheeks and sturdy figure.
“New England must be a dreary place,” Molly commented cheerfully. She dropped the dark velvet over Bristol’s fiery head and stepped back to judge the effect.
Turning to a full-length mirror, Bristol saw that her face matched the dismay in Molly’s. She saw a drab heavy gown of undistinguished cut. Bristol instantly decided to omit her collar and apron; they would only make it worse. And her dust cap.
“Do you have any jewelry, miss? Something to add a bright touch near the throat?”
“Aye... yes.” Bristol pinned Mr. Aykroyd’s brooch to her shoulder and lifted Jean Pierre’s gold chain over the neck of her dress. Her fingers lingered on the cool metal. None of that, she silently chided herself. But where was he... where was Jean Pierre... would he try to find her? “What do you think?” she asked aloud.
Molly cocked her head and laughed. “I think it be a shame to hide such a figure!” She pointed Bristol toward a chair. “But I imagine Lady Pru will see to that.” Molly lifted the wealth of red curls tied loosely at Bristol’s neck, judging weight and texture. “We can do something here right now.” Molly brushed Bristol’s long hair with vigorous strokes, her smooth face creased in concentration.
When she’d finished, Molly gave Bristol a gentle push toward the mirror.
Bristol stared. Her hair flowed from a center part, sweeping high on the crown of her head, then dropping in a shimmer of long gleaming coils. She lifted a hand, but didn’t dare touch Molly’s artistry. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “I look so... different.” The arrangement seemed to lift her face, to pare away the rounded youthful look and give greater emphasis to her high cheekbones. Even with the unremarkable dress, Molly had made her appear interesting, more a woman than a young girl.
Pleased and happy with Bristol’s reaction, Molly grinned. “I’ll show you the way.”
Bristol followed Molly’s swinging hips through a bewildering puzzle of hallways and into another wing of the vast house, past numerous carved doors and a gallery filled with sharp, chiseled faces. And with every step Bristol’s nervousness increased. Would Lord Hathaway like her? Would he resemble the distant, chilly faces of his ancestors?
Halting before a set of heavy double doors emblazoned with the Hathaway crest, Molly leaned forward and rapped sharply. Before the door swung in, she squeezed Bristol’s arm and whispered, “Don’t worry, you’ll like them. They’re both dears.” Molly then disappeared down the long hallway.
To Bristol’s surprise, Aunt Prudence opened the doors herself, resplendent in brilliant blue silk with diamonds and sapphires at her neck and ears. The pumpkin hair teetered atop her head in wide rolls and dripping curls. “Well, don’t just stand in the hallway, come inside! Hathaway is impatient to meet you.” Aunt Pru led the way into a mammoth bedroom glowing with candles. A small fire snapped in the grate. Spring flowers and gay rugs provided spots of bright color in a green-and-white room.
Aunt Pru nodded approval at Bristol. “Your hair is wonderful—not too elaborate, not too simple, just right!” Her booming laugh rippled the blue silk. “Your dress, of course, is awful!”
Bristol smoothed her hands over the well-worn velvet and managed a nervous smile. “It’s the best I have.” Hannah’s finest dyes and careful needlework counted for little in London Town.
“Well, we’ll change that.” Aunt Pru waved a glittering hand, her flashing rings catching the light. “Collette expects us in the morning. The woman is magic. More important, she’s quick.” Prudence leaned to inspect Bristol’s necklace and came
o. “Simple, but good,” she pronounced, her orange curls wobbling. “Quite suitable for a young girl just beginning her social career.”
Aunt Pru advanced toward a door opening into the west wall, her blue silk skirt fluttering behind her. At the doorway she paused and covered her mouth. “If Hathaway isn’t feeling well, you and I will retire immediately after dinner.” She swept through the door, leaving Bristol to follow in her wake.
Lord Hathaway’s study provided a pleasant surprise. It was the only room Bristol had seen that approached normal size, and as such, seemed a mistake in the large house. Immediately Bristol sensed this was the heart of Hathaway House, the core around which all else centered. Dark paneling covered the walls and shone behind rows of books in floor-to-ceiling shelves. At one end of the room, the working portion, stood a cluttered desk and matching cabinet; the opposing end of the study was arranged as a small sitting room, furnished with deep comfortable chairs, a low table, and worn footstools. The chairs and stools were upholstered in faded red velvet showing the effect of much use, and red carpets lay on a polished floor. The overall effect was one of welcome and quiet warmth.
One chair sat very near a cheery popping fire, and from within, a thin man wearing a shawl over an elegant brocade dinner jacket waved Bristol forward. Extended before him, one bare leg rested on a pillow placed upon a low footstool. The foot was swollen, and characteristic of gout, gleamed a shiny purplish red.
“Miss Bristol!” Lord Hathaway greeted Bristol in a strong deep voice belying his fragile appearance. “I’m honored to meet one of my wife’s relatives after so many years. Forgive me for not rising.” He waved a hand toward his foot. “This is such a nuisance.” Nothing in his voice or expression asked for pity; he simply stated a condition.
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