“You don’t know that,” Bess said, adding quickly, “My Lady.”
She laid the armful of silk she carried down on the bed, stretching it out until Lydia could see all the fine points of her gown on display. It was a pale pink, with filmy gold overlay and tiny embroidery roses dancing along the hem and across the sweeping neckline. Lydia brushed the soft fabric with a loving hand.
“You may be right about my designs, but I’m not sure you’re right about the tailor. This is a lovely thing to behold.”
“Come, miss. We must freshen you up and try to get all that long hair into some sort of arrangement.” Bess hustled her mistress behind the screen and helped her undress down to the thin under shift she always wore, handing Lydia a cloth with which to clean, and carrying her day dress out for pressing.
Lydia bathed with the cloth and switched to a fresh muslin shift, stays, and a petticoat, submitting to Bess’s assistance to shake into the undergarments before lifting her slim arms and letting the pink gown slide over her head. It just brushed the floor, and in a moment, she had her stockings and shoes in place as well. Bess laced the back, buttoned the three top pearls, and brushed everything down with a final fuss of attention.
“It’s fine, My Lady.”
Lydia looked down at the generous neckline and the elegant sweep of satin and blushed. “Yes, it will do, Bess.”
“Now for your hair.”
Lydia perched on a stool while Bess brushed out her thick brown hair, which still hung long down her back and had developed a loose curl as the years passed. Bess twisted the bulk of her hair into a high bun, leaving tendrils around the face and at the nape of the neck, and then began gently winding a pale gold ribbon through the dark waves.
“You’ll be at the squire’s home tonight?”
“Yes, although it belongs officially to Marilyn’s father now. The manor will be beautifully outfitted for the ball – Mrs. Winston always sees to such things,” Lydia raised an arm to pull part of the ribbon flat against her head. “I think Mr. Winston plans to announce something very special tonight.”
“About Miss Winston?”
“Yes, Marilyn and Mr. Elwood have been in agreement for some time, and I think tonight will signal their official engagement.”
Bess smiled indulgently and took some small star pins from the side drawer to put the finishing touches on Lydia’s elegant hairstyle. “It’s a fortunate match. Mr. Elwood is very respectable, I hear.”
“And Miss Winston seems to love him,” Lydia said wistfully.
Lydia looked at herself in the mirror in sober contemplation. Her gown was fine, her figure slender. Her arms, when in gloves, would be a picture too. And her hair was all that it should be with the stars shining inside it. She leaned forward and winced at her green eyes, stricken as they’d always been with the single dark spot amid the glowing iris.
“It is what it is,” she said with a shy shrug.
Bess pretended shock. “My Lady, you needn’t be modest,” she said. “You’ll catch every eye in the ballroom if you walk in arrayed like this.”
“’Tis not I who should be catching every eye tonight,” Lydia said with a smile, brushing off the usual discomfort she felt in the face of open praise. “You know Marilyn – Miss Winston, I mean – is fully deserving of the adoring attention of the masses. I helped her pick out her gown last week, and she’ll be glowing in white taffeta with a headdress of peacock feathers and diamonds.”
Bess nodded and, gathering her hair supplies and the discarded day dress, took her leave of her pretty little mistress with a curtsey and a smile. Lydia watched her go with a warm heart. Tonight would be a lovely night, with all the people she cared about close at hand and her best friend’s imminent happiness the star of the show.
Marilyn had managed what Lydia had always dreamed of – an admirable and respectable match without sacrificing matters of the heart. Mr. Elwood proved himself a fine looking and well-mannered man, and though he was a bit dull for Lydia’s taste, he seemed to capture Marilyn’s sweet heart easily enough.
Lydia sighed and shook her shimmering evening shawl about her shoulders. Let the festivities begin.
Chapter 2
“Check.”
Anthony Foyle put forth his carved wooden bishop with flair, knocking back one of the pale oaken pawns and placing his own dark piece in full view of the vulnerable king of his opponent.
“That’s happening more often than not, fellow,” Gregory said with a frown, leaning back and surveying the board in his usual manner. “But you’re too impetuous. You set out on such conquests because you see an easy route to the king, but you don’t tend to what’s happening back at home.”
“If I wanted a sermon, Gregory, I would have gone down to the parson. You’re stalling.” Anthony stood and strode down the length of the veranda, looking out over Rosebury with a keen eye. It was a beautiful estate, well-manicured and possessing of some of the finest fishing lakes and walks in the region. He caught sight of a farmer in the distance driving a flock of sheep out to pasture and turned lazily to view his opponent. “Have you made a decision?”
“Of course I have,” Gregory said, shooting his knight over enemy lines and landing squarely in range of both Anthony’s queen and bishop. “That’s called a fork, my good fellow.”
“I didn’t mean about that, of course,” Anthony said, annoyed despite himself at his friend’s cunning on the chessboard. It was usually Anthony’s game, and he rarely lost – never to Gregory. “I meant about your father’s estate and the investment. Have you and Lord Holden decided whether or not to let the outer corners of your home to the village, or are you intent to keep it as one solid property?”
“I’ve not a mind for business like you have, but I can say I’ve heard my father drone on about the trouble with change long enough to imagine he would sacrifice almost anything to avoid selling the estate piecemeal.”
“Or renting,” Anthony laughed, came back to the table, and motioned to the footman to request a scotch. “It’s amusing that you think I have a mind for business. It casts a poor light on you, I’m afraid, if in contrast to your lordship I seem intelligent and quick with numbers.”
“Oh, Anthony. If you set aside that rakish nature and put your mind to the matters of estate and preservation, I’m sure you’d be as responsible as the rest of us.”
Anthony reached forward and fingered the bishop almost tenderly. Gregory, the tall, rough, sprawling heir to Parkfield and Lord Holden’s title, knew him better than almost anybody else, and still there was much he didn’t know about the heir to Rosebury.
Anthony cared more than he was willing to admit about loyalty to the estate tenants and preservation of the family title, but he was a young man with good prospects and an excellent income. He was expected to enjoy life a little. To hunt and fish and squander thousands in London. Anthony smiled inwardly at the sombre tone his thoughts had taken. What a poor man you are, he mused to himself, forced to enjoy life to its fullest. How the urchins of Cowley Street must envy you!
He set the bishop back on the board, moving it to a different square. Gregory looked at him in surprise.
“This may be the first time in the future Lord Carlisle’s life that given the choice between the church and the skirts he’s opted for the former.”
“Not all queens are worth dying for,” Anthony shot back.
“It’s your funeral,” Gregory took the queen with his knight, sitting back in triumph.
“Pardon me, but I fear you are misinformed.” In the space that Gregory’s knight left behind on the field, Anthony moved his castle into prominence, blocking all exits for the opposing team and supporting one solitary pawn for the final death move.
Gregory countered, but it was not enough. Anthony tucked the pawn into place with a swirl of his lace-encased wrist and then looked up with a wink. “Checkmate.”
“It’s a marvel that I keep falling for this rubbish,” Gregory said, throwing aside his kerchief in
disgust. “I ask you to play hazard or to ride the length of the field on horseback, both sure-fire wins for me, and yet I find myself again and again submitting to humiliation in the field of your forte.”
Anthony laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Then you have my word of honour as a gentleman. Next time it shall be a horse race on open land.”
Gregory stood and stretched his legs, quickly regaining his good humour. “Your word of honour as a gentleman? A funny thing, that. If I’m not mistaken, you were once scolded very terribly for ungentlemanly behaviour towards my sister.”
“You make it all sound very untoward,” Anthony said grimly, annoyed as he always seemed to be at the mention of little Lydia Gibbs. “It was a cat fight and I was simply trying to stay alive.”
“She pulled you out of a tree,” Gregory said with a barely contained smile. “I’d call that skill.”
“Or raw luck.”
“It wasn’t lucky for her. Mama had her consigned to her room for days afterwards, tending to her sewing.”
Anthony turned away, placing both hands on the railing. “It was easier than my punishment. When you’re thoroughly beaten by your best friend’s younger sister you live with the disagreeable experience for all eternity.”
“Are you going to the ball tonight?”
“Of course I am. I hear it is to be Miss Winston’s shining moment.” Anthony turned and cast Gregory a glance. “I always thought you were destined for the fair Miss Winston. I’m amazed you allowed the dashing Mr. Elwood to upstage you.”
Gregory rolled his eyes and motioned to the footman to bring his coat and hat. “The fair Miss Winston, as you call her, is a sweet enough girl, but a bit too fragile for me. I shall find someone at the heart of London society, swirling amid the drama without being afflicted by self-consciousness or false modesty. I can abide neither.”
“In that, we agree.” Anthony had had his share of pleasant companions, but while fair looks and figures abounded, he found genuine conversation and heart vulnerability was far less common. He had never courted a girl the equal of his wit and ingenuity, and he felt until such a one was met, he would attend to no one with any serious understandings.
“Why is it that young ladies always feel the need to act as though they have no accomplishments, when we have all seen them cultivating the skills since they were girls. Take your sister, for example. She was always away drawing and painting, but when you try to look at her latest work, she pretends ignorance of the entire craft and blushes as though she’d never before held a brush.”
“Modesty is assumed to be a good quality,” Gregory said with a shrug.
“Well, so is symmetry, but then the greatest artists believe you must break the rules of perfection to achieve true beauty.”
Gregory looked at his friend in surprise. “Come, now there’s a serious thought for you. What has got into you, Anthony, speaking of art and beauty as though you really cared for such things? You’ve only ever asked a pretty girl with a graceful figure to accompany you around the ballroom, and I don’t expect such things to change any time soon.”
“Of course,” Anthony said, trying to laugh off his discomfort. “I don’t expect to change my standards any time soon.”
“My Lord,” the footman appeared at the door with a dignified bow. “We have brought round the gentleman’s horse, and I’ve a message from Lady Carlisle.”
Gregory nodded and, taking his hat, made for the door. “I’ll see you tonight, old chap.”
When he had gone, Anthony nodded encouragement to the footman. “Go on. What does Mother need?”
“She says to remind you that we are leaving in the carriage in just a few hours, and you will be required at tea before that. She asks that you consider dressing now, before the gong.”
Anthony restrained the urge to roll his eyes at the severity of the schedule to which they adhered in the great house. He cared deeply for his mother, who was thoughtful and kind, despite her sometimes overbearing manner. But she ruled Rosebury with an iron fist.
“Thank you, Stuart,” He said with a bow. “Send my boy up at once and I will put Lady Carlisle to rest as to the strenuous matter of my wardrobe.”
“Just so, My Lord.”
The footman retreated as quietly as he had come and Anthony took one more look out across the estate before heading upstairs. It was a peaceful and beautiful property, and he felt the weight of responsibility as he looked at it. Whatever the young and the wealthy might deserve, he felt his father and mother and Rosebury Park deserved more. Quietly, he vowed to spend more time poring over the books and acquainting himself with them. Then he walked into the house to prepare for the ball.
Chapter 3
“Miss Gibbs,” Mrs. Winston greeted her with a warm smile. “It’s so lovely to see you here. Marilyn has been all about the house in search of you, and now that you’ve arrived her heart will be quite at rest.”
“You do me an honour,” Lydia replied with a gracious curtsey. “Although I think we may have Mr. Elwood to thank for the peaceful state of your daughter’s heart.”
Mrs. Winston smiled warmly back and waved Lydia through into the great hall and the drawing room beyond. The manor, usually a plain and simple affair, had been decorated with more splendour than Lydia had ever seen the Winstons expend. The inner walls were hung with garlands and bouquets, and the outer garden beyond could be seen resplendent in the light of nearly one hundred paper lanterns.
Strains of sweet violin music moved about the place, and all around Lydia heard the rush and murmur of guests preparing for the dance. She passed through the greeting hall and into the ballroom, a small affair compared to that with which she’d grown up, but hardly diminished under the hand of beribboned decorators and sparkling under a magnificent chandelier.
Across the room she caught sight of Marilyn, robed in white with a brilliant smile, hanging on Mr. Elwood’s arm. The two caught eyes across the room and Marilyn came across with her beau by her side.
“Lydia, you look beautiful.”
“And you as well.” Lydia cast a coy glance at the handsome Mr. Elwood. “You’d best keep a close watch on this lovely girl. She’ll have the hearts of all the men in the room before the first reel has drawn to a close.”
“Will there be reels? How very northern of you,” Mr. Elwood said with a raised eyebrow.
“But it’s the Winstons,” Lydia countered with a smile. “If there’s enjoyment to be had, they will of course be indulging, and there is no such thing as an enjoyable ball without a resounding reel.”
“You know us too well, friend,” said Marilyn. Then, leaning close, she whispered, “Come steal me away after the first few dances. I so long for a chat.”
Lydia nodded her solemn agreement and the two parted ways to return to the giddy party, which was already drawing up lines for the dance.
“Miss Gibbs,” came a voice at her elbow. It was Will, still round and good-natured as he’d been when a child, with a lopsided smile on his face. “Will you open the first reel with me?”
“Will!” She exclaimed with delight, clasping his hand. “I would be delighted to open with you, and I’ve been longing for a reel since the close of last season. Let’s step to it and make the whole room jealous with our skill and enthusiasm.”
“The whole room will be jealous,” interjected Will’s friend, who stood nearby, “if William is to walk forward with the lovely Miss Gibbs on his arm.”
“Will, I don’t believe I know your friend,” Lydia said with a smile. “Do introduce us.”
“Of course, I’ve been remiss. This is the Honourable Sir Fredrick Bartlew, visiting from London for a few weeks.”
Love Stories of Enchanting Ladies: A Historical Regency Romance Collection Page 86
