by Dorothy Mack
Luc removed his attention from his heaped plate long enough to cast his sister a look of frank disbelief. “What are you playing at, Adrienne? I’ve never known you to refuse bacon or ham before, whatever the time of day.”
“Don’t prattle about matters beyond your knowledge,” Adrienne retorted, unthinkingly abandoning her punctilious manner. Since she avoided looking at Dominic, she missed the little smile he concealed behind his napkin.
“There’s no call to get upon your high ropes,” Luc replied, offended, “especially when you know I’m right.”
“Luc,” broke in Miss Beckworth hastily, “you will be sure not to allow Jean-Paul to try to read while we’re gone this morning, will you not? I know it’s next to impossible to keep him away from his books ordinarily, but the doctor has charged us with keeping him quiet in a darkened room for the present.”
“I’ll read to him if he desires it,” Luc promised with cheerful acquiescence, earning a spontaneous smile from his sister, who had forgotten her grievance for the moment.
She remembered it on the way to the dressmaker’s, however, and it was a hard-to-please young lady very much on her dignity who greeted the thin middle-aged woman who was the guiding spirit behind the successful dressmaking establishment. Shrewd snapping black eyes made a lightning assessment of her new customer while Adrienne was unselfconsciously looking around the disappointingly bare front room.
No emotion disturbed the wooden facade of the proprietress as she tallied up the client’s points. At first glance, the taille was fairly unprepossessing; the girl was scarcely middle height, not nearly tall enough to display to advantage the more dramatic creations, as well as being too young. Madame Henriette found the generality of young English demoiselles insipid and boring in the extreme. Her initial impression began to disintegrate, however, when her gaze left the slightly built figure and rose to the face. Ah! This one could never be called colourless, not with that vibrant hair and those remarkable eyes. The elixir of creativity began to flow through the designer as she considered the range of colours that would set off that marvellous hair. And wonder of wonders, the girl had escaped the complexion that usually accompanied red hair. There was not one single freckle to mar the creamy perfection of her skin.
Madame Henriette’s eyes brightened with speculation and her ears perked up when the older woman introduced her young companion and explained their situation. Lord Creighton’s cousin. Surely she knew that name? But of course — that was the wealthy man the salon’s most beautiful but least likable client, the proud and inconsiderate Lady Tremayne, had claimed as her fiancé when she had mentioned the matter of a substantial sum still owing on several gowns delivered over a month ago. Her brain ticked over rapidly as she escorted her customers to comfortable chairs. She bowed in acknowledgment of the introduction, and her clients weren’t to know that the sudden delight on her harsh features was less related to any qualities they might possess than to an instinctive realization that a weapon had been put into her hands with which to avenge herself on Lady Tremayne. Intuition told her the latter would not welcome any competition even from a relative of her betrothed. She was of the type who would always be dissatisfied in any setting unless she knew herself to be unrivalled au fait de beauté. This unfledged girl might not possess the perfect arrangement of features with which Lady Tremayne had been blessed, but that glorious colouring, complemented by the costumes she would create, and allied with the air of happy anticipation that seemed natural, would certainly draw interested looks from men with the wit to appreciate someone out of the common style. And that voice with its pure Parisian accent despite the English name! Madame was enchanted to find someone of the stolid English race who did not massacre the French tongue. The girl’s appeal would not be limited to Englishmen.
Miss Beckworth was more than satisfied with the quality of personal attention the modiste expended on Adrienne that morning. The girl herself was incapable of sustaining her attitude of indifference in the midst of such a heady experience. Madame Henriette was inexhaustible in her desire to enhance her newest client’s appearance, even to the extent of sketching out some of her ideas on the spot. Adrienne did indeed protest uneasily that they could not afford to spend any great sum of money on a party dress, since she would require one or two daytime costumes as well, but her remarks were ignored by her duenna. When she repeated them a little later, the expensive modiste explained that she would naturally be prepared to make a substantial reduction on the individual items in a large order. She then ended the discussion by producing a number of exquisite fabrics for their inspection. In the next few moments, Adrienne lost herself in the rare pleasure of being able to select from among many beautiful things. Fashion had played no part in her busy life to date, and she had never before been in a position to pick and choose what she would like. Her customary decisiveness deserted her in the presence of so many choices, each lovelier than the last. For once she was shyly amenable to suggestion and disposed to accept the judgment of her elders. Though she gazed wistfully at a bright pink satin she’d unearthed from a pile of swatches, lightly fingering its shiny surface, she dropped it obediently, albeit with a gurgle of laughter at the single gasp of horror uttered by both women.
“Not against that hair!” Madame Henriette shuddered, thrusting the pink fabric underneath the rest.
“I was only admiring the colour.” The words were meek, the mouth was demure, but the spark of mischief in Miss Castle’s eloquent eyes did not escape Madame’s narrowed observation. Ah, but the child was sympathique! There was a youthful élan tout naturel that could not fail to attract. With her rich red hair modishly coiffed, and exquisitely gowned by the foremost modiste in Brussels (Madame scorned a show of false modesty), she would offer an appealing contrast to the overripe charms of the haughty Lady Tremayne. It just needed the right setting for those jewelled eyes.
Madame Henriette returned her attention to the fabric samples, her lips pursed in concentration. In the next moment, all three ladies made a spontaneous movement forward as a swatch of silk in an intense shade of aquamarine was turned over.
“That is the exact colour of Adrienne’s eyes!” exclaimed Miss Beckworth.
“Parfait, absolument parfait with her hair and skin!” gloated Madame Henriette, holding it up near Adrienne’s face. As for the girl herself, she said nothing at all, but her eyes glowed a richer aquamarine as she raised them eagerly to meet the modiste’s glance. Obviously all that remained was to decide on a design for the gown.
The euphoria that had enveloped Adrienne in the dressmaker’s shop gradually eased its grip as the carriage neared the earl’s residence. A puzzled little frown wrinkled her brow as she went over the recent events mentally. She could not call to mind the price of the party dress they had ordered, nor, she realized, biting her lip suddenly, the cost of the three other costumes Becky and Madame had insisted were indispensable items for her temporary lifestyle. Had the modiste ever quoted a price? Adrienne had certainly inquired, that much she clearly recollected, but no numbers came into her head. Her growing uneasiness was reflected in the glance she bent on her companion.
“Becky, how much money did we spend this morning?”
“I don’t recall the amount exactly, but Madame’s charges were nowhere near so exorbitant as Lady Tremayne led us to believe. I am persuaded Lady Creighton will be pleased with the quality for the price.” The serenity of Miss Beckworth’s expression might almost be called smugness at that moment, and went some way toward alleviating Adrienne’s qualms, though she persisted weakly:
“I really didn’t need the ivory carriage dress, you know. The yellow would have been adequate, especially since I’ll be too busy with Jean-Paul in the next few weeks to go gallivanting about the town with any of these hypothetical escorts Dominic is predicting will appear out of the air.”
“It never hurts to be prepared. You would have required a new wardrobe in any case. Most of your clothes are threadbare as well as being out
of fashion.”
“Well, I don’t like imposing on Lady Creighton’s generosity and I never will,” sighed Adrienne, “but naturally I do not wish to appear ungrateful or to oppose Dominic in anything. We have caused him enough trouble already.”
“A very proper sentiment,” approved Miss Beckworth, taking careful note of Adrienne’s words in the event it should become necessary to quote them back to her when she learned that today’s purchases were just the tip of the iceberg.
CHAPTER 9
The rhythm of life in the big house on Rue Ducale quickened over the next few days as the inhabitants and staff embarked on preparations for the earl’s engagement dinner. Miss Beckworth and the chef spent hours conferring about the menu while the newly hired assistant cook scoured the local markets for delicacies that were not always readily obtainable. Moulton and the housekeeper, Madame Bonnet, acquainted Miss Beckworth with the household’s inventory of linen, china, and silverware so she might decide what additional purchases would be necessary to provide service for eighteen, the final guest list agreed upon by Lord Creighton and Lady Tremayne. The servants were set to polishing silver and washing innumerable lustres from sconces and ornate chandeliers in drawing and dining rooms.
Reports of the unusual activity penetrated even to the sickroom, lately presided over almost exclusively by Miss Castle in order to free her companion to take over the arrangements for the betrothal dinner. Jean-Paul was sleeping through the night at long last, enabling his sister to return to a more normal schedule of living. She spent most of her waking hours with her younger brother, whose convalescence must be carefully monitored to prevent the dreaded complications of rheumatic fever from permanently damaging his heart.
No one could describe Jean-Paul as a docile patient, his loving sister acknowledged to herself as she stoically bore the complaints and recriminations hurled her way when she forestalled his fourth attempt to leave his bed one morning.
“Why can’t I get up for a while? I’m tired of this stupid bed and this stupid room. I’m not sick anymore.” The boy’s eyes glittered and his chin set in a fashion strongly reminiscent of his sister’s on occasion.
“Believe me, my pet, I do sympathize with you. It must be a dead bore to be confined to one’s room, even such a bright cheery room as this one, but the doctor has decreed that you must remain in bed until your temperature has been normal for two whole days. If you continue to agitate yourself this way, I fear you will make yourself feverish again.”
“I am sick to death of doing nothing all day long. I haven’t even seen Cousin Dominic’s house except for this room, and we have been here for almost a fortnight,” Jean-Paul grumbled, but his sister was grateful to detect a lessening in the intensity of his complaint.
“If you will try to close your eyes for a short rest before lunchtime, I will play a game of cribbage with you afterward,” she promised.
“Cribbage is for old men!”
“Well, then,” amended Adrienne with exemplary patience, “I’ll read to you instead. Luc found a copy of Ivanhoe on Cousin Dominic’s shelves. You will enjoy that, I’ll be bound.”
Jean-Paul brightened a little at the promised treat but continued to protest against the recommended rest for another few minutes, complaining he was thirsty and that his bedcovers were all lumpy and uncomfortable.
Adrienne accepted the grumbling with unruffled serenity, cheerfully making the tumbled bed and plumping the pillows for the little boy. She handed him a glass of water, which he returned after taking but one sip. She did not comment on this either, but she did bite off an impatient exclamation when a knock sounded at the door just as she had him more or less reconciled to his nap.
It was Antoine, the young footman, with a message that a gentleman wished to see Miss Castle.
“A gentleman to see me?” Adrienne took the proffered card, but looked no more enlightened after reading the name thereon. “I’m afraid I do not know any Monsieur Alphonse Daubigny, Antoine. It must be a mistake,” she said, handing back the bit of pasteboard and preparing to return to her patient.
“I beg your pardon, miss, but the gentleman said to tell you that his lordship had instructed him to call and that he would take up only a few minutes of your time.”
Still somewhat undecided, Adrienne glanced over to the bed, where her young brother was sitting up, avidly taking in the scene. She sighed. “Very well, Antoine. I’ll come if you will stay with Master Jean-Paul while I’m gone.”
As she entered the small crimson reception room a few minutes later, she was slightly out of breath from taking the staircase in an impatient dash. She paused inside the door to steady her breathing. The man standing by the mantel was of uncertain age, very tall stature, and dark colouring. He set down the convoluted porcelain candlestick he had been examining with delicate precision and turned to face her fully. No trace of self-consciousness appeared on his long sallow face as he met the girl’s astonished gaze, which flashed from the candlestick to the long fingers he was fastidiously wiping on a lace-trimmed handkerchief.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Castle, I presume? I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” He calmly shook out the handkerchief with a flourish before tucking it into an inner pocket of his coat.
And what a coat! Accustomed to the neat military appearance of most of the male population of Brussels, Adrienne was hard put to refrain from staring rudely at the odd figure facing her with complete sangfroid. Even the exaggeratedly padded shoulders of the puce-coloured garment could not disguise its wearer’s extreme thinness, since it was styled with a wasp waist. Pantaloons might have helped, but he had elected to wear tight knee breeches of a cinnamon hue that warred with the puce. Yellow silk stockings that matched his striped waistcoat contributed to the spindle-shanks impression.
Adrienne blinked and elevated her fascinated gaze from the intricate arrangement of a monstrously wide neckcloth that seemed to raise his ears, to encounter smiling dark eyes that belied the lugubrious arrangement of features that nature had bestowed on her visitor. “H-how do you do, Monsieur Daubigny?” she stammered, consulting the name on the calling card. “How can I help you?”
“But it is I who have come to help you, mademoiselle!” exclaimed the disconcerting individual, sweeping her a bow that was a masterpiece of fluidity and grace, though decidedly overdone.
It was the bow that supplied Adrienne with a clue to the identity of her caller. Her own eyes began to twinkle in response to the amused gleam in his. “The footman said my cousin had sent you to me. Can it be that you are a dancing master, sir?”
“Ah, you have twigged me, as they say in your country. Your cousin, then, is Colonel Lord Creighton, who strongly pressed me to instruct you in the art of social dancing. I can come to you every morning at ten if that is agreeable, mademoiselle?”
“Every day!” exclaimed Adrienne, widening her eyes. “Is that not a bit excessive? Would not one or two mornings a week be sufficient?”
“Your cousin was most insistent that you become proficient as quickly as possible. He has even asked me to arrange for someone to play for the lessons at an additional charge.” Monsieur Daubigny pressed his point with expressive gestures miming piano playing.
“Then I suppose I had better make myself available.” Adrienne was beginning to recognize the steely determination behind Dominic’s unruffled courtesy and to reassess his apparently easy-going nature as their acquaintance progressed. Really, the man was a despot beneath the surface charm! In the short time they had known him, he seemed to have taken over every aspect of their lives.
It was a somewhat subdued and thoughtful girl who quietly re-entered the sick-chamber after completing arrangements with the dancing master. Deep in her bones, Adrienne felt a compulsion to resist being taken over by her new cousin. There was a nagging fear, not quite articulated, that her strength would be permanently undermined when the temporary support was withdrawn, as it must be in a few short weeks.
The sight of Antoine pe
rched on the side of her brother’s bed playing cards with the invalid brought Adrienne’s uneasy ramblings to a halt. Both the therapeutic rest and his earlier fit of the sullens had evidently been dispensed with in favour of the stimulation of a new presence. Jean-Paul was gleefully totalling up the score after having trounced the young footman at casino. His incipient protests at losing his victim on his sister’s return were dealt with firmly, and in truth he was happy enough to settle back for a nap almost immediately, having little understanding of the general debility caused by his illness. Still, the change had probably been beneficial, his sister considered as she warmly thanked the accommodating footman. Perhaps it was time to increase Jean-Paul’s contacts beyond his immediate family. If a satisfactory balance of stimulation and rest could be achieved, they might yet avoid the trial of wills she had anticipated during the necessarily lengthy convalescence from such a serious illness.
