The Silver Lord

by Miranda Jarrett

  Leggett’s brows came together in a wounded, sorrowful arc. “’Course I’m certain, mistress. He wouldn’t’ve sent me if he didn’t wish you to come to him, and handsomely, too.”

  “Very well. I’ll be back as soon as I can to see how you’re all faring.” She handed her broom to one of the men and followed Leggett, smoothing her hair and then her apron as she hurried along the hallway after him. She couldn’t imagine what George wanted her for, especially when he must know how much remained to be done with his party only four days away.

  At the door to the parlor, she paused, barely remembering to unroll her sleeves over her forearms. Though she could not make out the words, she could hear the high pitch of a woman’s voice from inside the room, followed by George’s lower rumble. That made her hesitate another moment, both wondering and dreading what she might be interrupting. George didn’t entertain ladies, especially not so they’d laugh and trill like the one now was in the parlor. Yet he was the one who’d ordered Fan to come at once, and with her head high she rapped her knuckles on the door, heard the reply, and entered.

  And gasped aloud with amazement at what she saw.

  The parlor was one of the oldest rooms in the house, with its dark, heavy chairs arranged in a somber row along the tapestry-hung walls, the same room that had inspired Lady Blackerby to such high rudeness. But magically, since the morning when Fan had opened the shutters, the parlor had been transformed into a shop filled with costly ladies’ wares.

  The tall-backed old chairs had been drummed into fresh service displaying ribbons and plumes, garters and stockings, while the long sideboard now served as a parade ground for brightly colored silk slippers. On the floor were the trunks that had held so many wonders, their lids propped open to show off the gloves and laces and pocketbooks that still remained inside.

  An exquisitely gowned older lady stood with her hands spread before her and one slippered toe extended from the hem of her dress, as if waiting to begin a dance, while two younger ladies, dressed less extravagantly but with no less style, held a pair of elegant, costly gowns draped over their arms.

  They were beautiful women, surrounded by beautiful things, and more than enough to make Fan feel hideously aware of the faded old gown she’d worn today for cleaning, her skirts mussed and daubed with white spots from soap suds and her hair coming unpinned in messy wisps beneath her cap. She might know everything there was to know about sweeping a floor, but she knew nothing—worse than nothing—about silks and muslins, and these other women had realized her ignorance the moment Fan had opened the door.

  She could feel her spine stiffening, her shoulders drawing back defensively, and she would have gladly faced down a whole ship’s worth of revenue officers if in turn she might be spared the scrutiny of these three sharp-eyed women of fashion.

  But perhaps this was some sort of extra fillip for his lady-guests, a benefit at parties that, in Fan’s inexperience, she hadn’t known existed. Perhaps every host and hostess also included a makeshift shop along with the extra powder, hair combs, and scented soaps in the ladies’ withdrawing room.

  “This is the lady in question, Your Grace?” purred the older woman with a winning smile for the duke, and none for Fan.

  “The very one, Madame Duvall,” said the duke, standing beside George. “This is Mistress Winslow, Feversham’s housekeeper, captain, and queen. Mistress Winslow, this is Madame Marie Duvall, come clear from Bond Street in London to turn you out properly.”

  Fan gasped again, too stunned to reply. This was the garnet earrings all over again, only a thousand times more sinfully wrong.

  “Now you should know, Mistress Winslow,” continued Brant, misinterpreting her gasp as pleasurable surprise, not outrage, “that Madame Duvall dresses all the most fashionable ladies at court, and it’s only on account of my brother’s heroics and heartfelt invitation that she’s agreed to grace this benighted corner of Kent.”

  But George wasn’t looking particularly heroic right now. Instead he was standing off to one side, tugging at his coat’s cuffs and steadfastly looking out the window instead of watching the scene before him. Everything about how stiffly he stood betrayed exactly how uncomfortable he was with this fashionable, feminine invasion of his parlor.

  And yet his attitude made no sense. This was all George’s doing, wasn’t it? He was the one who wished to treat her like—like his mistress, buying her favors with parasols and handkerchiefs. Hadn’t the duke just said that Madame Duvall and her assistants were here only at George’s express invitation?

  “Mais oui, we shall do our best with your housekeeper, Your Grace,” said Madame, studying Fan as she glided forward with pitying amusement. “She shall be our greatest challenge, eh?”

  But Fan didn’t want to be a challenge, pitiful or amusing, and she wasn’t going to let this mincing Frenchwoman humiliate her for the sport of it. And blast George for putting her in such a position!

  “No, thank you, M’dame,” she said as proudly as she could, folding her arms in their rumpled sleeves across her chest. “I am sorry you have come such a distance for no reason, but I’m perfectly content with how I dress myself respectable-like, and not pretending to be some strumpety London harlot.”

  “But dressing yourself respectably is the entire point!” declared George so forcefully that every head in the room turned his way. “Why the devil should I wish you to be rigged out like a strumpety harlot, when you aren’t one? You are Feversham’s housekeeper, and yes, the household’s captain, as Brant noted.”

  Furiously Fan shook her head. “But that still doesn’t mean I must—”

  “Hold now, Fan—mistress—and hear me,” he interrupted, cutting her short as he sliced his hand through the air. “When you stand by my side to help me greet this infernal pack of guests, I want you to look worthy of your position in this house, a woman who is honest and just and intelligent—a woman I trust with my affairs and my property. That is why I have asked Madame Duvall here. What you wear now does well enough when it’s only us, but before others I wish you to be well clothed, as befits your responsibilities. And I ask you, Fan, where is the sinfulness it that?”

  “Absolument,” said Madame, lightly clapping her hands in agreement. “There is nothing sinful in dressing well. Now come, permit me to show you what has been chosen especially for you.”

  But Fan wasn’t listening, her mind still trying to sort out what George had just said—no, what he’d declared, to her and everyone else in this room.

  “You wish me to wear finer clothes as a sign of respect, and not the other way around?” she asked incredulously. “You wish to buy me gowns as a way of honoring me?”

  “Damnation, yes,” growled George, but his smile was meant only for her. “Why is that so blasted hard to understand?”

  Because it’s me, she thought but didn’t say. Because no one has ever thought so much of me to make such an offer, or pay me such grand compliments for all the world to hear. Because if they’d been alone, she would be in his arms now. Because he was Captain Lord George Claremont and he cared for her as she was, and wished to protect her, and let her dare wish and dream for more….

  “I understand, My Lord Captain,” was what she finally said, though the words sounded breathy and odd to her own ears, as if she didn’t quite trust them. “On account of your explanation, that is.”

  His smile widened, and she felt the warmth of it across the room, enough to make her feel like butter left in the sun.

  “Consider a new gown rather a uniform,” suggested Brant. “Just as George trusses himself up in gold lace and buttons to do battle with the enemy, so must you.”

  “Enemy, ha,” said George with a groan. “When you meet Sir Simon and his villainous wife, you’ll see how truly you speak.”

  “But with the proper armor,” said Brant with an easy wave of his wrist, “our Fan will take the day. Now run your paces for Miss Winslow, Madame, and mind, she is to have whatever pleases her. Come, George, and let
us leave the ladies to it.”

  “Vite, vite, quickly, quickly,” ordered Madame, clapping her hands again to hurry her assistants into action. “You have heard His Grace. We must please this lady, and we’ve little time to do it.”

  Longingly Fan looked after the brothers as they left, and watched them through the window as they walked across the rough lawn, their heads bent in some deep discussion. She’d been foolish to fear she’d come between them; even with the great differences in their lives and personalities, their bond was deep and lasting, and wistfully, she’d always envy them that. How much she’d rather be with them now with their scuffling and mock insults, outside where the familiar salty wind would be blowing from the water, than in here with these women, where she so obviously didn’t belong.

  “Sit, sit, s’il vous plaît,” ordered Madame as one of her assistants held out a chair for Fan to take a seat. On the long table before her were already arranged oversized books that Madame opened facing Fan. Each page featured illustrations of one or two elegantly attired women, showing not only the stylish cut of their gowns, but also the details of their hats and headdresses, fans and muffs and gloves—possibilities and choices bewildering enough to make Fan’s head ache.

  “First we shall decide upon what fashion, what colors, what lines, shall suit you best, mistress,” continued the Frenchwoman, “and then proceed with measuring. We must cut this day and stitch tonight, so that we can fit you tomorrow, with the gown complete for Captain His Lordship’s ball the evening after that. Vraiment, it is most costly to work with such haste, but when a gentleman insists, eh, we oblige, oui?”

  Especially, thought Fan, if the gentleman was willing to pay too much for such service.

  “One gown,” she said firmly, wanting to make sure the mantua-maker understood. “Only one. I’m sorry you brought so much else with you for no reason.”

  But the Frenchwoman only shrugged, and smiled coyly. “When a gentleman is being generous, most ladies discover there is more that they require than they first thought. It is wise for me to anticipate their desires.”

  “Perhaps with other ladies,” insisted Fan, “but not me. I am not by nature greedy.”

  Madame clicked her tongue, as if the very notion of mercenary greed was unthinkable. “One gown, oui, but even one gown needs the proper slippers, stockings, a fan, ribbons for the hair.”

  “Perhaps,” admitted Fan reluctantly, for even she could see that her sturdy buckled shoes and thick thread stockings would be out-of-place. “But no more than is necessary, Madame.”

  “As you wish, Mistress Winslow,” murmured Madame, but there was an unmistakable gleam of anticipation in her eyes as she turned the pages of the big book. “Captain His Lordship will be in his dress coat, certainement, a deep midnight blue. You must contrast with brightness. You should not wear white, no matter the fashion. You need the strength of color. Unless, forgive me, you are wearing this black for mourning?”

  “Oh, no,” said Fan quickly, trying not to think of her father. Her severe black gowns with the long sleeves had nothing to do with him, for it seemed she’d always worn black or dark gray. That had been her uniform, with a dark green apron over it. Her aunt had deemed it the proper color for housekeepers, carrying a somber authority with it, and besides, it was practical and didn’t show soil. “It is by my choice.”

  “Then it is a wrongful one,” said the mantua-maker severely, appraising Fan with a frown. “It is not becoming to you, and hides your beauty. Color, that is what you need, a rich shade to set you apart from all the others who will be in white.”

  Rapidly she flipped through the book’s pages, searching for an example. “Your figure is straight and handsome, without any ill features that must be disguised. That is an advantage, vraiment.”

  She paused, studying Fan again so closely that Fan blushed, as if the woman had looked clear through her clothes.

  “You still wear the old stays, don’t you?” asked Madame, faintly accusing. “Stiff, stiff, and so very ugly! We must at once put those aside, mistress. You must be graceful, élégante, like sweet Venus herself. You see, here, this picture, how the true curves of the body are revealed. Maryanne, fetch the plum Italian lutestring, and the peacock green shot sarcenet to show Mistress Winslow.”

  Appalled, Fan stared at the illustration Madame was showing. The gown certainly did reveal the true curves of the body, along with a good deal more: the waist was raised very high and the neckline cut so low that that the bodice seemed no more than a strip of straining fabric that scandalously covered only half the breasts. Tiny gathered sleeves clung to the tops of the shoulders and went no further, leaving the arms almost entirely uncovered, and the skirts were so narrow and worn without petticoats that the shape of hips and bottom and even the legs were shamefully apparent. There would be no security in dressing like this, let alone decency, and Fan shuddered to think what would happen in such a low neckline the first time she bent over to adjust a fire or retrieve a dropped spoon.

  “I cannot display myself in such a manner,” she protested, all too easily imagining what would be said of her in Tunford and in the Company if she did. And her father—Father would be most direct of all, saying she looked like a Brighton whore. “’Tis neither modest, nor decent. And I should also be quite cold.”

  Once again Madame clicked her tongue, almost scolding. “But it is both modest and decent, mistress, especially for evening, for ladies of fashion. His Grace and Captain His Lordship would agree. And if you fear a chill, we have the softest, the warmest of cashmere shawls. Not—what was it you said?—nothing slatternly.”

  As if prearranged, one of the assistants draped an oversized cashmere shawl around Fan’s shoulders, as soft as a new kitten. She’d never in her life felt anything so seductively luxurious against her skin, but she refused to be seduced.

  “This is Kent, M’dame, not London,” she insisted, “and what’s proper there is different from here. Recollect that I am not a lady of fashion, but only the housekeeper here at Feversham.”

  Madame only smiled knowingly. “If my eyes do not mistake the signs, you are a great deal more to Feversham’s master than only his housekeeper, a good deal more. I see many gentlemen, mistress, and I can see how they regard the women they hold most dear. Love, Mistress, love makes gentlemen forget which is a lady, and which a housekeeper.”

  Unhappily Fan looked down, her fingers twisting in the ends of the cashmere shawl. “That cannot be so, M’dame. That—that would take a miracle.”

  “All I can do is dress you so that he will forget every other lady in the room,” said Madame gently, reaching out to pat Fan’s arm. “But the miracle—ah, mistress, that you and your handsome lord captain have already made on your own.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Carefully Fan twisted the spermaceti candles into the final wall sconce, then climbed down from the wide cushioned bench, rubbing the stickiness from the wax onto her apron and slipping her shoes back on her feet. She wouldn’t trust anyone else with such costly candles—she’d gasped aloud when she’d seen the reckoning that had come in the box from the London chandler—but the duke himself had assured her expansively that only spermaceti candles would do for such a grand gathering, and the cost was nothing compared with knowing such candles would neither smoke nor drip down upon the guests. She wanted everything exactly right for tomorrow, everything perfect for George.

  She’d waited until this last night to put the candles in all the sconces and chandeliers in the ballroom. Though the effect would surely be different tomorrow night when the eight dozen candles would be lit instead of the single lantern on the floor at her feet, the silent room already seemed to be alive with anticipation.

  And in a way, so was she. Madame Duvall had delivered her finished gown this afternoon, and now it hung waiting in her room like some elegant visitor come to call. Madame had had her way with the color, a brilliant shot silk sarcenet that the mantua-maker had called peacock, a shade that shimmere
d from blue to green as Fan moved, and made her pale skin glow and her eyes bright in a way that plain black wool never could. Along with the gown had come insubstantial slippers in matching silk with beaded flowers on the toes, fragile thread stockings the color of rose petals, and yellow ribbon garters because, as Madame had wickedly warned, a lady never knew when a gentleman might wish one for a souvenir.

  There was, of course, only one gentleman in Fan’s life who’d any such right, and Fan smiled, every bit as wicked as Madame as she tried to imagine George’s reaction to discovering that incongruously bright yellow garter. She’d scarcely seen him at all these last days, and never without the duke in tow, and though she liked Brant, she couldn’t help looking forward to the time when it would once again be only her and George at Feversham.

  Tomorrow night would be like that, the two of them together, side by side, despite the crowds around them, and her smile widened in anticipation. It would still be a challenge, and the other guests would likely still be as shocked by her presence as she’d first feared, but the preparations had served to make her feel confident and assured, and the gown had done the rest. Now, as hard as she’d worked this week, as late as it was now, she doubted she’d sleep at all from purest excitement, and humming to herself, she gathered her skirts in one hand and swept with giddy enthusiasm across the wide, empty dance floor.

  Her shadowy image skipped with her, reflected and fragmented over and over in the lantern’s light across the rows of tall windows like some fairy-wraith from the marshes. And why not, she thought wistfully. The entire evening ahead, from the gown to the candles to even George himself, would be as unreal and short-lived as any fairy-magic, to be enjoyed before it vanished except for the dearest of bittersweet memories.

  The notion sobered her, and she stopped before the window, hugging her arms across her chest as she stared out across the lawns. The dew had fallen, twinkling in the lantern’s light on the grass closest to the house. No moon, no stars, and patches of hazy damp drifting from the water: a perfect night for smuggling, and that hard, unforgiving reality flattened the rest of her lighthearted anticipation.