by Edith Layton
“It’s a simple tale, really…” Squire said now, and paused. He stared down into his wine. “Thing is, we wanted to give a grand ball for our Mirabelle’s eighteenth birthday. Something to talk about. So we tried to make the place look like an enchanted castle. Was the theme of the thing, don’t y’know? Right down to the dust and spiderwebs and such. Overdid it, I suppose. Well, we didn’t set a scythe to the grass for weeks, y’see. Tarted ourselves up too. Expect we look antique to you, don’t we?”
“You succeeded very well, sir,” Skye said. “You look like you might have stepped down from a family portrait.”
Mirabelle frowned. “But what are they wearing in London these days?”
Her father laughed uproariously. Her mother looked down at her fan.
Squire frowned. “We are provincial, old-fashioned as the family of recluses we are. Don’t have much contact with the outer world. There’s a reason for that too.” He shot a glance at his wife. She nodded. “Well, cat’s out of the bag, ain’t it?” Squire sighed. “The other thing is that I had an enemy. A powerful, unreasonable one. Oh, it’s a sad tale and not for such a bright day. But there you are—one day I found I had me an implacable foe. Didn’t know what would happen next. But I did know the best way to protect my family was to lay low. So we did. For years and years.
“Aye, missy,” he told his daughter, who sat up straight and watched him, startled, “never told you neither. Didn’t wish to frighten you. Just let you think me daft, or mean—didn’t I, my poor honey? Don’t deny it. Never let you go out with t’other lasses, or travel far, or even learn much about the wide world lest you desire it too keenly. The only folk we let you see were old friends and relatives, and most of them bided with us for safety’s sake as well. Sad stuff, you said, and so it was for you. And for us. Me and your mama kept the peril to ourselves.”
Squire grinned. “But the gladsome thing is I had an enemy. For I’ve learnt the danger’s past! Aye! I thought it might be done with soon, which is why I made such a Ball for you, and made so merry at it. And we got word this very morning. ’Tis over! At last. Praise be!
“So we can come out of the shadows and live like normal folk again. You can stop your nagging,” he told Mirabelle. “Aye, get to know our neighbors now, socialize like a young gel ought, do it all. Go to town—to Chester even, eh? Mayhap even London, someday. Get new gowns and suchlike… As to that, I’ve got to smarten myself up too. What are they wearing in London Town these days?” he asked curiously, looking Skye up and down. “Do I have to give up m’britches and put on a pair of them things? How do you get ’em on? Fit like a second skin, methinks, eh?”
Skye’s eyebrow twitched as he fought the impulse to let it fly up. They were more outspoken in the country, and the fellow had just admitted how out of touch with Society he was. But no gentleman he knew would mention the fit of breeches in front of his ladies.
“Just so, sir,” Skye answered calmly enough. “They’re called inexpressibles.’ Not only because they don’t like to talk about them in polite company, but also because I think it’s hard to express so much as a sigh when you’re wearing them.” He chuckled, to take off any hint of criticism. “Jackets fit close too. But you can keep your knee breeches. Shoes too, complete with buckles. They’re too formal for everyday wear, but are still worn for the most elegant soirees and all affairs of state.”
“And the ladies?” Mirabelle asked anxiously.
“Your beautiful gown would be fine for an elegant ball too,” Skye answered gently, “or presentation at court. Not at informal parties. It’s too grand. And not with the powder and paint, of course,” he added with a chuckle.
“Of course,” Mirabelle’s mother echoed weakly. “Well, now we’re free, we must get some fashion plates, mustn’t we?”
“I took a stack of periodicals with me because I didn’t know what my friend’s library held,” Skye volunteered quickly. “More than the Gentleman’s Magazine too. I scooped up everything I saw at Hatchards. Would you like me to bring some over tomorrow?”
“Oh!” Mirabelle said, clapping her hands together. “Would you?”
“I can’t think of anything that would stop me,” Skye said, gazing into her amber eyes. “Except not being invited back, of course,” he added with a great deal of false anxiety.
They all laughed. “Foxy fellow!” Squire said, rising to his feet to signal the end of the visit. “As though I’d dare not! My women would slay me! But now I needs must get the house back in order. The Ball’s over. My worries too. Time to set the place to rights in every way, and the sooner the better, methinks!”
Squire walked his uninvited guest to the front door. Skye took Albion from an abashed-looking stable boy, obviously recently awoken to his duties. He swung up into the saddle, waved to his hosts, and took off down the drive. The wind had swept his path clean, the sun was shining brightly now, and he had no trouble finding his way. He grinned to himself, knowing he’d have no trouble finding his way back now either. Although it was only a matter of hours until he could do that, he could hardly wait. He let Albion have his head, and as they raced along the country road, Skye threw back his own head, laughing with pure pleasure.
*
“Sooth! But I look naked!” Mirabelle gasped when she saw her reflection in the mirror. But she gasped in shocked delight. “But it feels so good! I feel free as air, loose as a cloud, floating and unfettered and.…” Then she grew worried, and swung around to face her mother. “You’re sure? Quite sure? I shouldn’t want to look absurd.”
“Well…” her mama said hesitantly, “…you do look lovely. Don’t she, Samuel?”
“She looks a shame and a right trollop and a scandal to our name,” Squire said, shaking his head. “But so they all look these days. Haven’t I seen it with my own two eyes? Rode all the way to the village last evening and parted with a pretty price for the gown… Ho! ‘Gown’? There’s a jest. Less fabric in it than it takes to make a handkerchief. So little it ought to have cost naught ’stead of the earth, as it did,” he grumbled. “But it was all ready made—though how long it took to stitch such a meager thing up…never mind. I never did skint on my girl, did I? It ain’t much, and it looks like even less on her. But I saw all the other lasses, and the fashion plates they showed me in the shop as well.”
He sighed. “So if she looks a treat ready to spread on a Sultan’s bed—why then, so does every last female in England these days. There we are, and there it is. And put down that rabbit’s foot, missy,” he told his daughter. “Nary a speck of paint, mind. It’s just as the fellow said. For as he didn’t say, only tarts wear it these days. And don’t pull such a face, it will stick that way.”
“Not even a dusting?” Mirabelle pleaded, touching her cheek. “But I look half dead, wan as a glass of new milk, I vow.”
“That you do not,” her father said. “We live out here in the neck end of nowhere, and I suppose we raised you too free, with every day a costume party and a frolic. But you’re grown now and we’re back in the world. Do you want to look freakish? Fashion changes like the wind, but this is a fair wind, for you look fine exactly as you are.… Stop frowning, Mother, you’ll give her the wrong idea. I thought you agreed.”
“I do, about her face,” his wife said uneasily, “but the gown is so…drafty looking.”
“It’s all the crack,” Squire insisted. “That’s what the dressmaker said. Means it’s what she should wear. Can’t have her looking odd for the lad, can we? Now I think on, you’d best get yourself into that flimsy thing I brought back for you too. I don’t want either of my gels looking old-fashioned. You’ll look a treat in it too, I’ll wager. Why, with two such sirens, I’ll be beating the fellows off my doorstep!”
Her mother blushed like a girl. Mirabelle could only stare into the looking glass. The girl in the mirror was only veiled, not decently dressed at all. Her face was bare, but so was she. All that clothed her was a thin film of white muslin sprigged with yellow rosebuds. The go
wn had a round neck and puffed sleeves. That was all it had. The rest was all Mirabelle. Her bosom was covered, but it might as well not be. The thin undershift she had on hid some of the more obvious points, but pointed up most of the others. It didn’t support her high breasts, so they moved when she did. No corset hugged her narrow waist, no belied skirt hid the swell of her hips. And when she moved, everything under her gown did too. She giggled. “I’m expected to actually stand in company in this?”
“But you wear this too,” her mother said, handing her a beautifully patterned paisley shawl.
Mirabelle threw it over her shoulders and snuggled into it. It was scented like the garden of the Sultan her father mentioned, and for all she’d celebrated her freedom, it made her feel more secure. She sighed as she drew it close, still gaping at herself. “I knew we were backward and retiring before, and I suppose I understand why, and am glad to be free at last. But now!” She spun around to face her parents. “How will I get on?” she asked in sudden fear. “I don’t know a thing about Fashion or Society!”
“You have manners and breeding, a brain and a heart, my girl,” her father said. “You’ll learn fast, and know more. Can’t have you looking like a…quiz… Aye, such it was the dressmaker said a dowd was called these days in London Town.”
Mirabelle’s face remained sober. “Papa…this enemy you spoke of. You’re sure the danger’s past? Now I think on, it must have been fierce. You kept me so close all these years. Was it something to do with your brother who died so long ago? Or maybe Mama’s family? You said they were at odds with the Queen?”
“Neither. I don’t wish to speak of it now,” her father said sternly. “No point to it. Rest easy knowing it wasn’t our fault—not really. And it’s over. Now. Best get yourself ready. The lad should be arriving soon. You do like him, don’t you, lass?”
“I do, though I hardly ought. At least not so soon. For I don’t know him, do I? It’s just that he seems so right…” Mirabelle’s eyes grew wide. “’Od’s Fish! Is he the one you said I’d meet at the ball?”
“Never in so many words,” Squire said merrily, shaking a finger at her. “Just said it wouldn’t surprise me if you met the man of your dreams. Your dreams did the rest, lass.”
But they didn’t do justice to her caller, Mirabelle thought when she saw him again.
He was so much of that outer other world she’d been protected from that though she thought he looked wonderful, he looked equally strange to her. Not for him the powdered wig country gentlemen affected when they went calling on a lass. Nor even a plain unpowdered queue. Short shorn hair instead. Glossy dark hair brushed forward, shining so clean in the sunlight it made her fingers itch to touch it. Nor did he wear a voluminous jacket that swung away from his body with every step. Nor baggy breeches, high stockings, and stout shoes. All his clothing—from jacket to waistcoat to britches—were fitted so close it made him look slender as a whippet, while showing he was strong as an ox. He’d wide shoulders and a deep chest and…sooth! The legs on the man! And in skintight knit breeches! They were cased in high shining boots with gold tassels to further tease the eye toward them… Unless a girl used her good sense and looked away before she showed her appreciation too clear. Mirabelle did—and hoped she hadn’t let him see how much she’d been impressed before she did.
But he didn’t notice. He was too busily drinking in the sight of her dressed in the latest fashion. However lovely she’d looked before, he couldn’t regret the loss of her antique finery. Because now there were no stays or hoops or panniers to disguise her shape. Her gown showed every delightful line of it, from her high breasts to her rounded hips. The pale peach blush of color was echoed in her unpainted cheeks. At last he lifted his gaze and saw her soft nutmeg brown hair, pulled back and drawn up in a mass of curls at the top of her head, to crown that lovely face.
He realized she must have seen the stunned admiration in his eyes, because she averted her gaze, in modesty, no doubt. He was enchanted anew. She might be in modern dress but she was obviously an old-fashioned girl. He’d have to go slow. But time was all he had here in the countryside…time, and her. He hoped.
“Mirabelle,” he said, and took her hand. “Mirabelle,” he breathed as he brought his lips to it. “Mirabelle,” he sighed as he gazed down into her wondering eyes.
“Come, fellow!” she laughed. “Is’t the fashion in London Town to only tell a lass what you think she wants to hear? I like sugar, but I need a little spice. I know my name—it makes no matter how nicely you say it. Tell me something I haven’t heard before!”
He chuckled appreciatively. Old-fashioned, perhaps. But not backward. He put a hand on his heart. “I spoke from my heart. But it’s not the best conversationalist. What would you like to talk about then?”
“Tell me what’s new, what’s happening in the world. If I’m to enter it now, I have to know. Tell me about London. About Spain. About everything!”
He did. Or tried to. They sat in the front parlor and he told her about the war, the hopes for peace, the fashions and trends. She sat, entranced, asking questions now and then.
“Tsk! ’Tis a terrible thing,” she exclaimed at one point, shaking her head. “Why cannot our Good King George set down this upstart, Napoleon?”
“Because the gossip is that he can’t set down so much as his own cup now, Mirabelle,” Skye said. “They say he’s run quite mad. Perhaps soon his son will get a chance to do it.”
“Huh!” Mirabelle said. “That one! He likes his pleasures as much as he hates his father. There’s a scandal we heard about even here in the wilds of nowhere!”
“But he’s our only hope. He, Wellington, and our good men. We’ll see. The latest news isn’t bad. At least we’ve got the French on the run at last.”
“And the Spanish?” she asked.
He smiled. “Poor people. But we’re doing our best for them, I saw that with my own eyes.”
“It’s clear you’re a compassionate fellow,” she said, looking at him with admiration. “But enough sad stories. Tell me what plays you’ve seen, what music you’ve heard… Oh! I’m starved for news! I feel as though I’ve lived in—the Antipodes, or on some far-off star, I’m so far from what is happening.”
“You look as though you’ve dropped down from a star,” he said, and laughed as she crinkled her nose. “No, don’t give me a set-down, I can’t help complimenting you. I think I’ll dole out my news so you’ll want me back again soon.”
“But I want you back even though you haven’t left yet,” she said earnestly.
Now, no London lady would ever have admitted that! Skye thought later, as he took Albion down the road toward his cottage after the luncheon they insisted he stay for. That absolute honesty of hers. It was only one of the things he liked about her. That, and her quick wit. Her quaintly curious air. Her honest reactions. Her face, her voice…
Skye visited every morning, took luncheon with the little family every other day, and dined with them every night. He and Mirabelle went for bracing walks, they engaged in bracing talks, they played at cards and the old harpsichord in the music room. He taught her new songs, she reminded him of old ones. They played like children, and were treated by her family as such. Skye was amazed at how much her father trusted him, and resolved to be worthy of it.
Her education was remarkably extensive for a girl of her age and situation, but as her father had desired, it stopped short of current events and fashions. She knew all the doings of the Greek goddesses, but nothing of the Prince’s mistresses; could converse prettily in French but knew nothing of their latest styles; played the harp like an angel, but couldn’t even hum Haydn. She could quote Shakespeare profusely, but knew not one word of the most popular wicked farces on the London stage. She danced like a sprite when her mother played the pianoforte for them. But her eyes grew round and she was literally breathless when Skye taught her to waltz, long before he whirled her around the room, humming the tune so she could keep to the steps. He liked
to think it was he, and not the dance, that took her breath away. Holding her in his arms certainly robbed him of his.
Her one-sided education gave her a curiously knowing but innocent perspective on life. Her father had kept her ignorant of much so she wouldn’t miss it or desire it there in their country fastness. Skye didn’t mind, even if she obviously did. It lent her an otherworldly air that enchanted him. And gave him an excellent excuse for his constant visits.
Her family let him run tame at their home. He wanted to be nowhere else—except in her arms, and she in his bed. But she was young, he was the experienced one, and there was a way to go about these things. Or so he kept reminding himself when he was in danger of drowning in the depths of her eyes, or drifting along the currents of her sweet scent until he had to forcibly pull himself back from pulling her into his embrace. He wanted her conversation, her good opinion, her lips, her breasts, her…
November slowly drifted into December, and he realized he never wanted to leave.
Neither did Mirabelle want him to.
“Yes. I know it’s only been a matter of weeks,” Mirabelle told her parents seriously, after they’d asked, “but I feel I’ve known him forever. Still, you’re right. What I don’t know is how serious he is about me.”
“All we were trying to say, my love,” her mama said gently, “is that though he’s charming as may be, he’s not from hereabouts, in manner or…perhaps morals.”
“Aye,” Squire put in. “He’s as different from the lads you’ve known as a man from the moon might be, because London Town—and the times he’s known there—are as different from what you’re used to as that would be.”
“Sooth,” her mama put in, “I confess we’re wondering if he’s merely amusing himself until spring.”
