Torie smiled suddenly, grabbing Brodie by the fingertips and twirling him in an exuberant circle. “Don't fret my little man.” She laughed with the release of the strain that had plagued her since the news of the fittings. “You'll simply tell them I'm indisposed. It's not far from the truth."
"But Torie, they'll not leave until they get your measurements."
"That's all right. They can have them. Here!” She picked from the wardrobe cabinet a white muslin frock, faded but serviceable. “Tell them to make the new dress to match this one. Even a half-wit seamstress can do that and I doubt his lordship would employ a half-wit."
Brodie's small elfin face creased in a smile. “Torie, you're so smart!"
Torie smiled back. “That's why I'm here! It's certainly not for my looks!"
Brodie grasped the white dress; half dragging it out of the room as his small stature hindered him holding it up higher.
Torie fell back into a dainty, satin slipper chair. Thank heavens, that was one problem solved. Now only a thousand more to go!
* * * *
Torie gasped in delight the next week when the dress arrived. Justin and Brodie had brought it up themselves and left it spread on her bed. She had no knowledge of this and went about the day as usual. It was not until the boys went off on their ride with their father that she had time to herself. She usually straightened the nursery or picked up the boys’ discarded laundry but today was the day she tidied her own pleasantly comfortable room. Not that it was much amiss. Torie did not own enough to make a considerable mess. But still, she liked it tidy.
She was just straightening her prized possession, an ivory handled brush given to her by her mother when she was a little girl, when she caught sight of a sprig of ribbon, reflected in the mirror on her dressing table.
She whirled about. It was a cloud of gauzy muslin and silky tulle. The seamstress must have misunderstood Brodie's instructions, or maybe Brodie himself had gotten them wrong; for the gown was white. Not the faded white of Torie's other gown, or the yellowed white of her nightdress; but snow white. So bright it hurt her eyes to look at it! But she stared anyway. It was the most beautiful creation she had ever owned! Well, that she could remember since she was a child. But that was a different life and did not bear dwelling on.
Torie picked it up and held it against her cautiously, as if it were fine china that would shatter with little provocation. She allowed herself the luxury of imagining herself dancing in it, even taking a twirl around the room, with it held tightly against her. A painful bump with her elbow against the wall brought her back to reality. With resolve she hung the gown away in the wardrobe. That was one dress that was going to be worn in her imagination only! And it was as good as locked away in a wardrobe of her mind.
It might as well have not existed, as the only reminder was the boys’ clamoring around her, telling her of the fox they saw in the woods while riding. Torie listened to Brodie's high-pitched, excited tones, then turned to Justin for a more sedate, orderly confirmation. “It was really just a kit fox. Not the red fox of the hunt. Father wants to know if you received the dress and if it is satisfactory?"
Torie nodded. “It'll do, but I don't know for what."
"Just go along with it. As long as no one gets hurt, there can't be anything wrong with it."
"But Justin, if you're father ordered a dress for me, he obviously expects me to be seen in it."
"Maybe not. Sometimes father gets so busy he doesn't remember the obvious. We've told him you're shy about your looks. He forgot and ordered the dress. We'll just remind him and he won't expect you to attend the ball."
"The ball? I thought it was just dinner?” Torie's dismay made her voice catch.
"Father's guest list had escalated and now it's being called the Winter Ball.” Justin's tone held a twinge of bitterness.
"Well that settles it. I certainly shan't be in attendance,” Torie vowed.
"Chances are with all the people, Brodie and I will scarcely be noticed if we do attend. No one will notice if you don't.” Justin looked downcast.
Torie was contrite. Here she was so self-absorbed she'd missed her charges’ woes. This was to have been their social debut in the adult world. Now with the transition to a ball, they were little more than a place setting. She tried to soothe. “Justin, I'm sure he means well. At least he hasn't forbade your going."
Justin shrugged. “I know he loves us. It's just..."
"What?” Torie prompted.
"I wish we could be the first thing he sees in the morning, instead of the last thing he sees at night."
Torie gathered him to her, ruffling his head of brown hair. “Oh honey, that's more than a lot of children get."
"At least we'll always have you, Torie.” Brodie pushed between Justin and her, like a puppy demanding attention.
"Yes, you have me.” Torie did not add that always was a long time and there were no guarantee's in life. The boys were young and lived day to day. For them tomorrow was as good as never. For her; tomorrow was everything!
* * * *
Tomorrow came and each day after. The boys were readily memorizing quite a few passages. Torie moved them up to worthy novels from his lordship's vast collection. She made it a practice to sneak down in the wee hours of the night and choose suitable candidates that would tease the mind and hold young attention spans.
The library was an easily accessible room from the base of the staircase. It was no trouble for Torie to tiptoe downstairs and gain access undetected. She was so assured of complete privacy she had no qualms about wearing only her faded dressing gown and tattered woven shawl, draped over her shoulders.
She was growing familiar with the room and the sparse light from the candle in her hand was sufficient to guide her past dusty estate volumes, to the dog-eared classics. She held the candle high, scanning the bound spines, looking for Robinson Crusoe. Intent on her mission, she missed the telltale puddle of light, as someone carrying a candle was descending the staircase.
But her ears did hear muffled, slipper soled footsteps on the bottom landing. Torie froze, then collected her wits by blowing out her candle; anyone passing the library was sure to see its light. But the footsteps did not pass the library. Instead, they slowed. Torie ducked behind a large, sheltering wing chair.
Cautiously, she peered around its curves. Her worst fear was about to be realized. Clad in a dark dressing gown, hair tousled and obviously disturbed from slumber, Lord Lairdscroft had entered the room. Torie drew back and scrunched herself into a ball as his lordship approached the chair. Torie hoped his insomnia was only temporary and he hadn't come to read till sleep overtook him.
She breathed a sigh of relief as he bypassed the chair and instead went to the shelves, browsing briefly before choosing a volume. He turned and was almost to the door, when Torie dropped the candle she'd been holding. Even though unlit, the wax pooled next to the wick was scalding hot and ran down the back of her hand, blistering the skin in its path. Torie bit her lip to keep from crying out. His lordship must not have heard the slight thud of the candle hitting the rug, or his senses were sleep befuddled. He merely turned slightly, his brow furrowed, before shrugging and exiting to trudge back up the stairs, book in hand.
Torie was left in the darkness with her pain. Book now forgotten, she held her hand against her and stumbled from the room, bumping into a small tea table. It rocked dangerously but did not topple. She found the stairway and half-ran up the landings to her floor. When she reached her room, she wasted no time in plunging her hand into the pitcher of cool water reserved for morning washing. When her nerves and head had cleared she had time to reflect on her close call.
She shivered in the room's chill. Oh, no! Her woven shawl was gone from her shoulders. It must have fallen off when she'd bumped into the table. There was no help for it. She could not go down again. Even if she took the lamp from her room to light the way, her hand prevented her from doing anything but laying on her bed, her hand dangling o
ver the edge, submerged in the pitcher of water.
She must have fallen asleep. Her next lucid thoughts were of Brodie and Justin's voices calling her name. She rolled over. Her hand came out of the water bringing her crashing to reality. She bit her lip to keep from moaning piteously. The boys mustn't see her like this! She forced herself to rise but fell back as her head swam. What was the matter with her?
A small sandy head peeped around the corner of the doorframe. Brodie's small voice squeaked a little. “Torie? You're late for breakfast. Torie? Justin come quick! There's something wrong with Torie!"
Justin lacked Brodie's reticence and brushed past his little brother. “Torie, are you sick?” He saw her hand now raw, the skin peeling, resting above the covers. “Brodie, go see if Father is still at home. Bring him! Run!” He turned to Torie. “What happened to your hand?"
Torie found words hard to enunciate. “Downstairs. Last night in the library. I went for a book. Lord Lairdscroft was there. I dropped the candle."
"Father saw you?"
Torie shook her head. Her vision blurred. “I hid behind a chair."
"Torie, I think you have a fever. Your face is red and you sound strange. I sent Brodie for Father. He'll know what to do."
Distressed, Torie shook her head vehemently. “He mustn't see me!"
"But Torie, what if your hand gets worse? We have to bring him."
"Help me pull up the covers. Hurry!” The effort exhausted Torie and without Justin's help she doubted she'd have been able to lift the covers, nonetheless pull them up to her chin. “Now, go get me an extra pillow from your bed."
Justin did not question but ran to do her bidding.
When Lord Lairdscroft entered the neat, tidy room, he was puzzled to find a figure swathed in blankets and pillows. The only feature he could discern was a few wisps of golden hair peeping from beneath the covers. Covers pulled completely over mouth and nose leaving only eyes and brow above. And those features were turned away and buried in the feathered depths of a pillow.
Torie's averted face missed the impressive sight of Lord Lairdscroft clad for riding out; in Spencer coat and fawn toned breeches. She could hear, however, the decisive clip of his Hessians on the bare wood floor. She resisted all temptation to turn her head for a peek.
His lordship was given only a second to ponder his employee's strange behavior when Brodie blurted: “She's shy, Father. On account of her looks!"
Justin had little patience for eccentricities. “It's her hand, Father. Look at it! It's made her sick."
Torie felt a movement on the covers. Then her hand was gently lifted. Somehow the pain was not so bad now. She sighed. His lordship's deep voice cut into her utopia. “I'll give cook orders to prepare some goose grease salve and apply it to the burn."
"I'll do it.” Justin volunteered.
"Excellent.” Torie's hand was gently replaced on top of the coverlet. “Now, if there's nothing else, I'll carry out my agenda. Oh, by the by, I found this shawl in the library.” His next words were deliberately drawn out. “On the floor. I'm afraid some wax has spilt on it. I believe there is some wax on your hand, Miss Beauclaire. Must have burned like the devil."
In guilty surprise Torie slowly turned her head. Of course it was her shawl, looking threadbare and worn in broad daylight.
Lord Lairdscroft was taken aback by a pair of dazzling green eyes, all the more brilliant against the white coverlet. He was tempted to snatch the covers from her face, but quashed the impulse under respectability. Instead he made do by reaching out and placing the back of his hand against her smooth forehead. “You are feverish, Miss Beauclaire."
Torie shivered, but not from cold. A pair of dark blue, almost violet colored irises were boring into her own. She had the feeling he could see through the covers to all the secrets hidden beneath. Desperately Torie averted her face. The connection was broken.
"I'll be passing through the village. Just to be safe I'll send the doctor. My sons’ have become quite attached to you, Miss Beauclaire. And what my sons care about, I care about."
Torie had little choice but to make some sort of gracious reply. Her voice from beneath the covers was husky, but muffled. “Thank you. You are most kind."
"Not at all.” Then he was gone.
* * * *
The pragmatic doctor arrived a few hours later. By then cook had prepared a salve of goose grease and Justin had painstakingly applied it to Torie's hand. The doctor was village born and bred. Not the most modern thinking man, he delivered babes and calves alike, only drawing the line at swine. He also had no qualms of passing along gossip.
It was wise of Torie to withdraw under the covers all together, leaving only her injured limb visible. Justin and Brodie was his only audience as he approved the goose grease poultice and swathed the hand in bandages. He had to take Justin's word for the fever and prescribed chamomile tea and a cool, soothing cloth pressed against the forehead. Bed rest went without saying.
So it was with certain affirmation of the new governess’ horrible disfigurement that the doctor left to return to his borough. Tongue loosened by ale at the local pub, he repeated his exaggerated version of the house call, describing in detail Torie's pockmarked face and reticence to be seen.
* * * *
It was a few days before Torie was up and around. The boys took advantage and ran wild knowing Torie lacked the strength to rein them in. Then on the third day Justin brought her luncheon as usual, but instead of running off with Brodie soon after, he hung around nervously, walking about Torie's room pretending to look at her few possessions with interest.
Torie ate, reflecting on the question: Just where was that little scamp Brodie?
The answer came soon after with a thump at her doorway. Torie looked up in surprise. Not so much from the interruption as from the sight of Brodie struggling with an armful of books and dropping one with a thump to the floor.
Justin made a noise of disgust with his tongue. Brodie shouted defensively. “It's not my fault, I'm little! Why didn't you help me?"
Justin looked down on him from his great advantage of little more than a foot, with disdain. “Because I'm the one who's asking Torie!"
"Asking me what?"
Brodie dropped the rest of his load with a crash. “You haven't asked her yet? I knew I should have done it! Torie will you..."
"Shut Up!” Justin stomped a leather booted foot. “I'm going to ask."
Torie held up a halting hand. “Well, somebody better ask before I go deaf with all this yelling and noise."
"We're bored,” Justin began.
"And we want you to read with us,” Brodie finished under Justin's baleful glare.
Torie smiled. It did her good to know her efforts these past weeks were worth something. She sat up in bed, one boy on each side of her as they took turns orating verses. She reflected ... If one good thing had come from this near tragedy it was the fact she now had a valid reason to not attend the ball. It would be weeks before her hand healed enough to not show a blemish, and the ball was next week.
* * * *
As the day of the ball grew closer, Justin and Brodie's mood grew somber. Justin denied anything was wrong, but Brodie confessed to nerves. Torie could not do much to alleviate their fears. What example did she set by hiding upstairs? But what choice did she have?
Brodie explained it was his first public appearance with grown-ups that worried him. What if he spilled his milk at the dinner table? Or dropped his napkin?
Torie could offer some small comfort on this. Even adults dropped napkins occasionally. Brodie looked much relieved. He pointed at Justin. “At least I don't have to do a recital."
"What's this?” It was the first Torie had heard on the subject.
Justin broke silence. “Father says, since I'm becoming such a scholar I should enlighten his company with a few verses after dinner, and before the dancing begins."
"Why, that's wonderful!"
"I don't see how. All those people
will be staring at me. I just know I shall bite my tongue or dribble like a baby!” Justin groaned.
"And here you were worried your father would ignore you in the crowd. Now you're unhappy because he's singled you out. Well, young man, we shall just have to do him proud. With a little spit and polish, you'll be a pleasant addition to the night's festivities!"
Justin's face lit up. “Do you really think so? Oh, I do wish you could be there! I would take courage from you."
Torie replied warmly, “I will be there. Rather above. But I will be listening and I know you'll be as fine as Shakespeare or this new fellow Byron."
"I hope you're right or father is not likely to let us attend, ever again."
"Not me,” Brodie pointed out. “I don't have to give a speech. And even adults drop napkins."
Torie smiled. How she wished she could attend and see her two little men acting grown up! But there was no use crying over spilt milk, as they say. With resolve she prodded Justin into reading aloud his verse, determined he should give a fine reading. After all, her future could indeed rest on how well Lord Lairdscroft's son deported himself at the ball.
Chapter Three
The day of the Winter Ball arrived. The house was a-twitter. Every nook and cranny of the lower floor was cleaned, dusted, then cleaned again. Candelabras were polished, brass fittings shone like glass. The finest silver was brought out and the ballroom opened for airing. Carts and wagons arrived from the village carrying great baskets of fruits and vegetables.
From the kitchen came loud crashes of dissension. The cook always went on a tirade on these days. It was a sign that the food would be sumptuous. Indeed, the swine and fowl had been slow-roasted days earlier and the black pudding promised to be the very best. The beef had been raised special for his lordship's consumption; fed only the best fodder and not allowed to roam freely, lest it toughen the meat.
The wine cellar was depleted, soon to be replaced by new vintages and imported liqueur from France. There would be Madeira for the ladies and stronger libation for the men. Cigars were placed freely around the house in ornately carved ivory boxes. In the secluded alcoves, snuff was displayed in jeweled cases for those free-spirited guests who did not travel with their own. There were even small, delicate cigarillos, placed discreetly for the jaded ladies who protested it was a filthy habit, but secretly craved the vice.
The Perfect Rose Page 3
