by Diane Gaston
‘It is all right, Miss Tilson,’ Pamela said. ‘Mama never wore these. They were delivered after...after the accident. Nobody has ever worn these.’
‘But I could not...’
Pamela put her hands on her hips. ‘Did not Uncle say that our mother’s things belong to Ellen and me now?’
He’d told them that at breakfast many times.
‘Then we can say who wears these dresses,’ Pamela added.
‘Miss Ellen! Miss Pamela!’ Mary’s voice reached them.
Ellen ran to the doorway. ‘Up here, Mary!’
Mary’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. ‘You girls know you are not supposed to play up here.’ She reached the top. ‘Oh, Miss Tilson.’
Ellen looked up at her. ‘Miss Tilson is going to the dinner party and she doesn’t have a pretty dress and Pamela and I want her to wear one of Mama’s—the ones Mama never wore.’
‘You’ve been invited to the dinner party?’ Mary looked surprised.
‘I am afraid so,’ admitted Rebecca. ‘Lady Agnes has demanded I attend.’
Mary rolled her eyes. ‘The dinner party. She has everyone below stairs at sixes and sevens over it. Except Mrs Dodd. Mrs Dodd is over the moon that there will be a party.’
‘The children want me to wear one of these dresses.’ Rebecca gestured to the trunk.
‘Oh, the dresses that came after.’ Mary knew instantly which dresses she meant. ‘We did not know what to do with them so we simply put them in this trunk in the attic.’
‘Otherwise she’ll have to wear an ugly dress,’ Ellen explained.
The children’s maid laughed. ‘We cannot have that. Not if Miss Tilson is invited to the dinner party.’ She put an exaggerated emphasis on dinner party. ‘Let’s have a look.’ Mary knelt next to the trunk and lifted one dress out. ‘It is too dark here. Let’s look at the dresses in Miss Tilson’s bedchamber.’
Mary pulled out three dresses and draped them over Rebecca’s arms. Mary carried three more. ‘Miss Pamela, you carry the lamp.’
‘What can I do?’ Ellen whined.
‘You must close the door,’ the maid said.
They made their way to Rebecca’s room and spread the dresses over the bed. There was one dress Rebecca could not help but love. A deep green patterned silk with a flounce at the hem and a gold ribbon tied under her breasts. It was plain, but elegant. She knew instantly that it would complement her colouring and make her eyes turn green.
It was just the sort of dress Rebecca would have worn in her real life.
‘Which one?’ she asked, thinking the girls would like to choose for her, since it had been their idea.
‘The green one,’ Mary, Pamela and Ellen said together.
Rebecca laughed. ‘That is the one I like the best.’
Ellen came over and hugged her. ‘We will dress you up and you will be as pretty as Mama.’
* * *
That night at dinner Lady Agnes seemed especially cheerful. No doubt it was due to the impending dinner party. She hardly talked of anything else.
Garret wished it would never take place, but not because guests were invited. He’d known these people most of his life. He objected because Lady Agnes manipulated the whole event and he disliked being manipulated. More reason to dread marrying her.
‘How was your day?’ he asked Lady Agnes out of politeness.
‘It was lovely!’ Her colour was heightened, which made her even more beautiful. ‘I went to Ambleside to do some shopping and you will never guess who I encountered there.’
He detested guessing. ‘Who?’
‘Sir Orin.’ She took a sip of her wine.
‘Sir Orin, yes.’ Her aunt who sat across from her nodded approvingly. ‘You told me about him. A baronet, you said.’
Sir Orin? Garret remembered him. Miss Tilson’s former employer. ‘He is still here?’
‘He is indeed,’ Agnes responded. ‘I invited him to the dinner party.’
‘How very nice, dear,’ her aunt said.
Garret put down his fork. ‘You did what?’
‘I invited Sir Orin to the dinner party,’ she repeated.
This was too much. ‘Un-invite him, then. He is nothing to me.’
She spoke calmly. ‘Now, Brookmore, another couple is needed to balance out the table. And he is a baronet. This area is quite thin of aristocracy. A baronet will improve the company.’
Sir Orin Foley had pressed Miss Tilson to return to his employ. He’d used her Christian name. ‘This dinner was supposed to fulfil a social obligation to my neighbours. Sir Orin is not a neighbour. I do not want him here.’
Her eyes twinkled. ‘There is another reason,’ she said, but did not immediately elaborate.
‘What other reason?’ he asked finally. Why the devil did she not simply tell everything instead of feeding it to him piecemeal?
‘He confided in me.’ She leaned towards Garret. ‘He is sweet on Miss Tilson.’ She laughed as if that idea was amusing. ‘He wishes to convince her to marry him. That is why he has remained in the area.’
‘Marry him?’ Garret felt his skin turn cold.
‘How nice,’ her aunt broke in.
It was not nice. It was decidedly not nice. ‘How can you think she will welcome his suit? She sent him away when he called here.’
‘Yes, but that was when she thought Sir Orin merely wanted her as governess.’ Lady Agnes speared a piece of roast fowl with her fork. ‘It is quite another matter to be a baronet’s wife.’
Garret’s appetite fled. ‘I fail to see how inviting him to the dinner party furthers his aim to marry Miss Tilson.’
Lady Agnes swallowed and took another sip of wine. ‘Oh, I invited her, too, of course. She evens out the numbers.’
Garret frowned into his plate. Miss Tilson would not desire this. ‘I dislike these machinations, Lady Agnes.’
Her aunt wiped her mouth with her napkin. ‘Agnes, dear, I am feeling a bit ill. I believe I will retire.’ She turned nervously to Garret. ‘With your permission, sir?’
He nodded.
Lady Agnes avoided looking at him until her aunt left the room. Then she turned to him with a wounded expression. ‘These are not machinations, Brookmore dear. I did need one more couple for the dinner party. And more elevated company. And I can only see this as a favour for Miss Tilson. You must admit, her life would more vastly be improved by marriage. She would have a household of her own to manage. She would have wealth and security.’
Everyone knew the life of a governess was a dismal one. Long hours. Little chance of meeting a respectable suitor. A victim of those on whose employment she was dependent. Was he right in wanting nothing to take her away from here? From his nieces, he meant.
‘Am I not correct?’ Lady Agnes pressed.
He faced her. ‘Does she know all this?’
Lady Agnes glanced away and back. ‘Well, she does not know he seeks her hand in marriage. To tell her seemed like too much interference.’
It all seemed like too much interference to Garret.
‘And she is willing to attend the dinner?’ he asked.
‘Certainly she is,’ Agnes said brightly.
He didn’t believe her. He hoped he could contrive an opportunity to ask Miss Tilson if she wished to attend this cursed dinner party.
They finished the meal with little conversation.
Lady Agnes took his arm to be escorted from the room. ‘Do not fear, Brookmore, dear. This dinner party will be a success, I assure you. I know precisely what I am doing.’
Chapter Sixteen
The night of the dinner party came quickly. Mary and the little girls were so excited for Rebecca she couldn’t help feeling a bit of their enthusiasm herself. The only detail she knew about the party was that she was expected to show up in the drawing room at se
ven-thirty. Mary and the girls insisted they devote the whole afternoon to preparing for it.
Rebecca had successfully avoided being alone with Lord Brookmore the last three days. He’d spoken of the dinner party at breakfast, letting her know she was free to decline.
But she wasn’t really free. To decline only brought more attention on her. She would attend and be precisely what Lady Agnes wished—a person in a chair so the party had symmetry.
After the girls ate their midday meal, they would join Rebecca in her bedchamber. Lady Agnes did not know—no one knew—that Rebecca knew exactly how to prepare for a party, although she did not have any tools to do so. She would do the best she could with what she possessed.
‘Look what we found,’ Ellen cried from the hallway.
Rebecca stepped out of the room.
Pamela and Ellen carried a big wooden box, so large it took the two of them to manage it.
What had they got into now? Rebecca took it off their hands before they dropped it and did themselves an injury.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
Ellen jumped up and down in excitement. ‘Bring it to your room! You will see.’
She carried it into the bedchamber, the two girls following at her heels. She placed it on a table. Ellen immediately pulled up a chair and knelt on it. Pamela was tall enough to open the box.
‘Oh, my!’ Rebecca picked through the contents.
‘This is everything I need. Where did you find it?’ There were curling papers, pomade, rouge, ribbons and hair pins.
‘It is Mama’s things,’ Pamela said solemnly.
The girls somehow discovered the box in which their mother’s dressing table had been packed away.
Rebecca closed the box again. ‘Oh, no. I cannot use your mother’s things.’ The items were too personal, too intimate.
‘You must,’ Pamela pleaded. ‘We used to watch Mama make herself ready for parties. We want to see you do it, too.’
‘She looked very pretty.’ Ellen’s bottom lip trembled.
‘We want you to look pretty, too,’ Pamela said.
‘Prettier than Lady Agnes!’ Ellen added.
Rebecca opened the box again. Was she to live this part of Lady Brookmore’s life, as well as living Claire’s? Perhaps she could use Lady Brookmore’s things so her little girls could once more watch her dress up.
She could make it a lesson, as well. Some day the girls would be dressing up for some social event. They needed to learn.
‘Shall we start with my hair?’ Since she’d become Claire, she’d not arranged her hair in any way more decorative than Claire’s plain hairstyle.
Rebecca took out the curling papers, triangle-shaped tissue paper. She searched through the box and found what else she needed at the bottom.
‘Here it is!’ Rebecca pulled out an iron instrument similar to a small coal tongs, but with disc shapes on the ends.
‘What is that?’ Ellen asked, reaching for it.
Rebecca let her hold it. ‘It is a papillote. We will use it to curl my hair.’
There was a quick knock on the door and Mary entered, carrying the green-silk dress. ‘I’ve cleared away the girls’ meal and have everything else done, so I am at liberty to assist you.’ She saw the box. ‘Lady Brookmore’s things. I packed them up from her dressing table when Lady Agnes arrived.’
‘The girls brought them in,’ Rebecca explained.
‘Miss Tilson is going to curl her hair.’ Ellen held up the papillote.
Mary put one hot coal from the fireplace into the coal scuttle and brought it over to Rebecca’s dressing table. She placed the papillote in it. ‘Now you girls must not touch it. It will become quite hot.’
Rebecca took the pins from her hair and brushed out the tangles. She separated her hair into sections. ‘Now I will show you how to make papillote curls, Pamela, Ellen. Watch carefully.’
Explaining each step as she performed it, Rebecca placed a tiny amount of pomade on to a strand of hair and wound it around her finger, so that it was the size of a coin. She wrapped it in the curling paper and Mary carefully pressed the curl with the heated papillote. She continued until every strand on her head was wrapped in paper.
‘Now I let it cool and you will see what comes next,’ she told the girls.
‘I remember!’ Pamela cried abruptly. ‘Mama’s head was all full of curls.’
‘That’s right,’ Rebecca told her.
The girls’ eyes had been large as saucers as they watched her wrap her curls. They were eager and happy observers. At least this measure of fun, sharing her preparations with the girls, would make this event worth it.
‘Would you girls like curls, too?’ she asked impulsively.
‘Yes! Yes!’ they both cried.
She and Mary carefully curled the girls’ hair, then the girls insisted Mary have some curls, too, and the four of them laughed at how silly they looked with paper stuck all through their hair.
Mary had Rebecca try on the dress which needed more minor alterations. Mary had lengthened it by letting out the hem and sewing the flounce at the very bottom. With another tuck or two, the gown would fit Rebecca perfectly.
While waiting for the dress to be finished, Rebecca went through every item in the box of Lady Brookmore’s things, making the girls guess at items they should know and giving the names and purpose of items they did not.
They all stopped for tea as the afternoon headed into evening and soon it was time for her to complete her toilette. Rebecca enhanced the colour and shape of her eyebrows with burnt cloves. She dabbed her cheeks and lips with a faint tint of rouge and she dusted her face with a tiny bit of powder.
‘Is it too much?’ she asked Mary.
‘No!’ the girls replied.
Mary surveyed her carefully. ‘It looks very natural to me.’
She took a deep breath and looked into the mirror. ‘Time for the hair.’
She pulled out the curling papers and her head was a mass of curls. She pulled her hair on top of her head, secured it with ribbons and pins and let the curls cascade wherever they wished. The shorter hair curled around her face in a nice frame.
She turned to see what her audience thought.
Ellen threw her arms around her. ‘You look so pretty!’
After fixing the girls’ hair in a similar style and Mary’s into some curls that would not cause her trouble with Mrs Dodd, it was already seven-thirty and she would be late.
As if she cared to be on time.
Mary helped her into the dress and she donned a pair of slippers and gloves they’d found in the attic. Mary gasped. ‘You need to see yourself! Come with me.’
Mary picked up a lamp and took Rebecca’s hand. She led Rebecca and the girls to one of the bedchambers on the hallway near Lord Brookmore’s room. She stood Rebecca in front of a full-length mirror.
Rebecca took in a quick breath. Her legs trembled.
The reflection in the mirror looked nothing like Claire Tilson, the governess. In the mirror stood Lady Rebecca Pierce.
She’d almost forgotten about her.
This evening would be a social engagement much like those Lady Rebecca would have attended. The company would be like the company with whom she would have conversed. Lady Rebecca was the social equal of Lady Agnes. She might even have precedence over her.
Lady Rebecca was also the social equal of Lord Brookmore.
Tonight, just this one night, she would be Lady Rebecca again, she decided.
She turned to Mary and the girls with a grin. ‘Will I do?’
The girls ran to her and she hugged them close, not even thinking about how her dress might get a wrinkle. When she released them, she kissed them goodnight and promised to tell them all about the party the next day.
They walked her back to the hallway where she hugge
d the girls again and hugged Mary. ‘Thank you, Mary. Thank you, Pamela and Ellen.’ She swept her arms from her head to her toe. ‘This is all due to you.’
Rebecca hurried to the stairway, turning to wave at the girls one more time. When she descended to the first floor and entered the hall, she straightened her spine and lifted her head and again became Lady Rebecca.
* * *
All the guests had arrived and had been served glasses of claret, but Garret kept glancing towards the door.
Had Miss Tilson decided not to come?
Lady Agnes approached him when others were not close by. ‘I do hope your governess has the courtesy to show up. I shall be excessively peeved if she ruins the numbers in my dinner party.’
He said nothing, knowing he’d given Miss Tilson permission to stay away. He refilled Lady Agnes’s wineglass and poured another to hand to Mr Henson, Reverend Elliman’s curate.
Sir Orin walked up to him and handed him an empty glass. ‘It was kind of you to include me in your party, sir. I have been missing good company.’
Garret filled his glass. ‘You must thank Lady Agnes. She tendered the invitations.’
Sir Orin smiled charmingly. ‘I do thank her, then.’ He lifted his glass to Garret and glanced at the door.
He’s waiting for her, too, Garret thought. He looked at the clock. Ten minutes to eight. Lady Agnes had been clear that Glover should announce dinner precisely at eight.
Glover stepped inside the drawing room. ‘Miss Tilson,’ he announced.
All eyes went to the door. Garret worried on her behalf. She would not expect this attention.
She appeared and Garret felt the air leave his lungs.
Here stood a different person, tall and regal, wearing a fine green dress that perfectly complemented her colouring and her statuesque figure. Her features, always striking, could only be described as beautiful.
‘Who is she?’ gasped the curate.
‘My nieces’ governess.’ Garret stifled an urge to laugh in appreciation of her triumph. She outshone every woman in the room. Especially Lady Agnes.
Sir Orin took a step towards her and Lady Agnes put a stilling hand on his arm, showing more consideration than Garret gave her credit for.
