by M C Beaton
“It is good to have female company,” said Lady Cynthia, languidly extending a white hand in welcome. “Edward will bore on so about his crops and horses. But it seems we are to have quite a party. The Marquess of Fleetwater is coming tomorrow to stay and bringing two of his friends. He seems anxious to renew his acquaintance.” She paused as Bess and Mary giggled coyly. “So we shall be quite gay.”
I shall never, never be fashionable, thought Jean. How on earth does she manage to keep her voice on that same tired, languid level?
Bess and Mary immediately started to imitate Lady Cynthia and the die-away airs sat ludicrously on the buxom figures and rosy cheeks. Overtired from the journey and slightly overwrought, Jean began to giggle. A faint flicker of annoyance showed in Cynthia’s lustrous black eyes.
“Ah, yes, Miss Lindsay is it not? I think you will wish to retire to your room to change.” Cynthia’s plucked eyebrows raised a millimeter but it was enough to indicate what she thought of Jean’s attire. She turned to the duchess. “Do stay with me a minute, Honoria, with your girls. I am sure you are not in need of such drastic repairs before dinner. You all look charming.”
Upstairs, Jean threw her reticule across the room and stared around her with wide, hurt, unseeing eyes. It seemed that a young lifetime of snubs from Uncle Hamish had not inured her to insult. Gradually she quietened and settled down to take stock of her surroundings.
The bedroom was decorated in shades of rose from the thick carpet under her feet to the chintz hangings on the four-poster. It opened into a sitting room designed in the same shades of rose, which in turn led to a small bedroom allocated to Miss Taylor. From her windows, she could look across the rolling beauty of the southern uplands and directly beneath her to the symmetric formality of the gardens, white with winter frost. Slowly the scene faded from her eyes as she escaped to dream country.
The marquess would arrive on the morrow. Lady Mary and Lady Bess would be vying for his attention. She would descend the stairs wearing—the dream faded momentarily as Jean strained to think of what she could wear that would be at all attractive. No matter. The marquess’s eyes would narrow. Brushing unseeingly past Bess and Mary, he would seize her hand and whisper…
“Good heavens, child! Are you not yet dressed for dinner?” The voice was Miss Taylor’s, the hands on the little, gilt French clock ten minutes to five and, despite Lady Cynthia’s sophistication, the Lamonts kept country hours for dinner.
Jean’s straw-colored ball gown had been skillfully altered to Empire lines by Miss Taylor and pressed by the maid. By the time Jean had slipped it on and teased her red curls into some semblance of fashionable disorder, it was several minutes past five. As they crossed the main hall, Miss Taylor whispered, “Did you give vails to the butler and housekeeper?” Jean nodded and absentmindedly dropped her fan. Immediately four footmen nearly collided their powdered heads in their efforts to be first to retrieve it. Miss Taylor stared. “How much did you give them?” But the double doors of the dining room were already being held open, so Jean was unable to reply.
“Why, how becomingly you look, my dear,” said Lady Cynthia, floating toward them with arms outstretched. “So simple and in such good taste. We invited your dame de compagnie to join us this evening so that you should not feel strange.”
The bewildered governess looked hastily around for the companion and then realized that Lady Cynthia was referring to her. Why Cynthia should be affable all of a sudden was a mystery to Jean but she was pathetically grateful for the warmth of her welcome and found nothing amiss. She could only assume that her first impression of Lady Cynthia had been wrong and that the flattering attention she was receiving from Bess and Mary was because they were copying their new idol.
Poor Jean. She did not realize the furor she had caused in the servants’ hall earlier when Wilkins, the butler, spilled out the five golden guineas she had shyly pressed into his hand onto the kitchen table in front of a breathless and admiring audience.
“She must be as rich as creetures,” exclaimed the cook.
“Croesus, Mrs. Spencer,” corrected the butler loftily. “And she gave three of them golden boys to our good housekeeper who is so faint—her delicate nerves you know—she has gone to lie down with the hartshorn.”
“But her clothes are downright shabby,” protested the lady’s maid who had been allocated to Jean.
“Do not let that deceive you,” said Wilkins. “That’s the quality for you. Them eccentric heiresses is always per-tending they ’asn’t got it when they ’as,” said the Cockney Wilkins, dropping his grand manner along with his aspirates in all the excitement.
“Take old Lady Bellows what was ’ere. Rich as Golden Ball ’er was and she made all ’er own clothes. So there!”
Just before dinner, the story of Jean’s wealth had permeated to the upper regions, Lady Cynthia having been complimented by her maid on her visitor, who was “ever-so unassuming for an heiress.” Bess and Mary considered listening to servants’ gossip positively plebeian but had nonetheless perfected an act between them capable of winkling the darkest secrets out of the most reticent retainer. They gathered that Jean had been left a fortune by some mysterious benefactor. “And never a word about it,” sniffed Bess. “I always said she was sly.”
The dinner party passed pleasantly and without incident. The food was delicious, the company pleasant. Jean happily decided that she was going to like fashionable life after all.
At breakfast next morning, Wilkins hovered solicitously over Jean’s plate, seemingly oblivious to Bess and Mary for, as he had confided downstairs, “They may be duke’s daughters but they’ve got a clutch-fisted look about ’em and treats me like I was dirt beneath their feet.”
Afterward, when the ladies took the air in the bleak winter scene of the rose garden, Miss Taylor found an opportunity to draw Jean aside. “The servants are practically falling over themselves to look after you. How much did you give them?” she asked.
“Oh, not much,” said Jean absently, crushing a shriveled, blackened rose between her fingers. “Wilkins looked as grand as a lord, so I gave him five guineas.”
“Five guineas!” screamed the little governess. “You must be mad.”
“Is it so much?” sighed Jean. “I have a lot to learn. What do we do for amusement here, for example? I am not used to being idle.”
“Well, after luncheon, we all retire to the drawing room,” considered Miss Taylor. “Let me see: one writes letters or plays on the pianoforte or nets a purse or walks…”
“Walks!” interrupted Jean. “Where?”
“Why in the drawing room, for genteel exercise, you know. And sometimes one of the gentlemen will offer you his arm and walk with you.”
“Faith,” sighed Jean. “It all sounds exceeding dull. No wonder it is easy for ladies of quality to look bored.”
“Ah, but that is the fashion,” explained the governess with a superior smile. “It reached its height at the court of Marie Antoinette where to show the slightest sign of animation or make any sudden movement was considered vulgar in the extreme. The manner was adopted in fashionable circles in London and is still very much the mode. It is quite sensible really. Excessive liveliness causes wrinkles.”
Perhaps the dashing marquess would enliven things, reflected Jean. Perhaps he had learned of her visit and had deliberately arranged to visit the Lamonts so as to be near her. Then she laughed at herself. She was in danger of letting her fantasies take over.
As they strolled to the main door of the castle, several smart traveling equipages were being led off to the stables. The marquess and his party had arrived.
The gentlemen were introduced at lunchtime. The marquess’s friends turned out to be an ebullient youth by the title of Lord Freddie Blackstone and a slightly older, soberly dressed gentleman called Mr. Harry Fairchild.
All were in high spirits and declared themselves not in the least fatigued from their journey. “Perhaps the ladies would care to join us for a
ride this afternoon,” said the marquess in his pleasant drawl. All accepted enthusiastically, except Jean.
“Do you know how to horse-ride, Jean?” asked Bess maliciously.
“Of course,” replied Jean, outwardly cool and inwardly trembling. “But unfortunately I left my riding habit at home.”
Now she really has gone mad, thought Miss Taylor.
“That is no problem,” said Lady Cynthia. “Allow me to lend you one of mine.”
Jean tried to protest but was overcome by Cynthia, who was determined to be generous to the new heiress.
When the party changed and reassembled at the stables, all the glory of a smart blue velvet riding habit with gold frogging and a dashing shako could not stop Jean from eyeing the horse led up to her as if she were facing the guillotine. Teetering on the mounting block, she gingerly hoisted herself into the side saddle and looked down at the ground, which seemed to be a long, long way away.
“That’s my favorite mount,” called Sir Edward cheerfully. “Name’s Caesar. Gentle as a lamb. Only sorry I haven’t time to join the party.”
They moved off at a sedate pace until Jean found she was being slowly outdistanced by the rest. “Giddyup, Caesar!” she said to the big roan, who merely flattened his ears slightly and continued at his own slow pace. She racked her brains. How did one get a horse to move? Of course! The riding crop. Jean gave Caesar a smart crack across his glossy rump. Gathering all his resources, the horse lunged forward down the ride in a headlong gallop with Jean clinging desperately to his mane.
“Tally-ho!” yelled Lord Freddie enthusiastically. “Look at her go!”
The marquess said nothing but immediately spurred his own horse to a gallop and raced down the ride after the fast disappearing figure.
Just as Jean felt that every bone in her body had been broken, Caesar slowed to a canter, then to a walk and then stopped dead and started to crop the long grass by the side of the path, leaving Jean, who by some miracle had managed to stay on his back, to slide to the ground with trembling legs. Lowering herself carefully onto the grass, she sat down and cursed the uncaring horse with a fluency that would have amazed an ostler.
“Don’t blame the poor animal. It was entirely your own fault, you know,” said a familiar voice behind her.
It was the marquess, impeccable and unperturbed as ever. As she blushed and stammered for words, he added gently, “You have never ridden before, have you?” And taking her bowed head for assent, he reached down to help her to her feet. Her trembling legs nearly gave way and she fell against him.
The marquess stared down into the piquant, freckled face and wide green eyes looking up into his from their frame of thick, curling lashes. Moved by a sudden impulse, he bent his head to brush his lips lightly against hers—only to find that the lips against his held and clung in a full-blooded, passionate embrace as Miss Jean Lindsay gave herself wholeheartedly up to her first kiss.
Swept by an answering passion that shook him down to the soles of his glossy Hessian boots, the marquess broke away, breathing hard as though he had been running.
“Really, Miss Lindsay… you must not… you shouldn’t. Hell and damnation!” roared the marquess. “You shouldn’t kiss me like that.”
Jean made a moue of disappointment.
“Did I do it wrong, my lord? I have had no previous experience. Is it like dancing or horse riding where one must have a certain expertise?”
“No, of course not,” snapped the marquess, the angry flush dying out of his thin cheeks as he struggled for composure. “It was meant to be a friendly caress. I did not mean…”
“You are trying to say that you were only flirting,” suggested Jean helpfully.
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean… oh, let us go back and find the others.” The marquess threw her up into the saddle and mounting on his own magnificent bay, leaned across to take the reins of her horse and lead her sedately back down the ride.
When they joined the party, the twins, Bess and Mary, avidly took in the details of Jean’s flushed face and the marquess’s stormy expression. There was obviously going to be little competition from Miss Lindsay when it came to attracting the handsome marquess.
As they retired to their rooms, Jean began to feel a stirring of excitement at the thought of the evening ahead.
“If only I had something special to wear for dinner, my dear Miss Taylor. I am become positively obsessed with clothes. Uncle Hamish would say it is all the work of the Devil and mere vanity.”
“Nonsense!” said Miss Taylor robustly. “It is nobody’s fault but that old miser of an uncle of yours. And if he were as concerned with his immortal soul as he seems to be with yours, life would be more comfortable all around for his parishioners.”
A surprise awaited Jean as she reached her bedchamber. Lady Cynthia’s maid arrived carrying armfuls of beautiful dresses, which she proceeded to hang in an enormous William and Mary wardrobe in the corner.
“Lady Cynthia’s compliments, miss. Her Ladyship says that as you will be ordering your wardrobe in London, perhaps you would like to wear some of her clothes for the time being. And miss, if you please, I am to dress your hair. My name is McWhirter.”
Jean gazed rapturously at the line of robes swaying on their hangers. “I am so bewildered I know not what to choose.”
“Leave it to me,” said McWhirter. “I select all Her Ladyship’s dresses for her. Now this”—laying out an aquamarine silk gown—“will be perfect. But you must hurry, miss. We have only a little time before dinner.”
Jean glanced at the clock. “There is a full two hours.”
“It will take all of that to get you ready,” was all the maid would say. Setting the curling tongs on a small spirit stove to heat, McWhirter advanced with the scissors and despite Jean’s protests began snipping away busily.
Jean had wondered why the elegant Lady Cynthia had such a robust and countrified attendant but the maid turned out to have as deft a touch as any French hairdresser.
Jean waved away the rouge pot but allowed her face to be lightly dusted with the haresfoot. The aquamarine dress slipped over her head like a sigh and Jean turned to the pier glass to let McWhirter fasten the long row of tiny buttons at the back.
An elegant green-eyed stranger stared back at her. Her hair rioted in seemingly careless curls on top and one ringlet was placed on her right shoulder. The dress was cut low over the bosom with little puffed sleeves, falling in simple Empire lines to the glory of two deep flounces at the hem.
In an ecstasy of gratitude, Jean pressed two guineas into McWhirter’s plump hand. “This is an awful lot of money, miss. You must be very rich,” said the maid, rocked from her customary tact.
“Oh, I am! I am!” sang Jean, pirouetting around the room. She thought she told the truth, for a hundred guineas seemed a fortune to a girl who had never been allowed a shilling of her own to spend.
Jean bent over to tie the straps of her slippers and two well-endowed breasts popped out of the top of her gown.
“Quick, McWhirter. Fetch needle and thread,” cried Jean.
“There, there,” said McWhirter. “It’s well seen you’ve been tucked away in those heathenish Highlands. All gowns are like that these days. Just don’t bend over.”
Clutching her gold, McWhirter retired from the room and fled down the back stairs as fast as her motherly bulk would allow and exploded into the kitchen to spread the further news of Jean’s wealth.
As Jean slowly descended the staircase, the marquess with Lord Freddie and Mr. Fairchild were chatting in front of a huge fire in the hall. Appreciative murmurs of admiration wafted up to her. As in her fantasies, she kept her head high, a faint other-wordly smile curling her lips—missed the third step from the bottom and collapsed face downward in the hallway.
A concerted rush of guests and servants eager for gold threatened to overwhelm her. “Leave me alone!” she shouted, terrified to be pulled to her feet and find her bosom exposed. She writhed desperately away o
n her stomach from their outstretched arms.
“Dear God,” said the lazy voice of the marquess. “I think the child is having a fit.”
Under the company’s astonished gaze, Jean wriggled over to the banister and with her back to them, pulled herself slowly to her feet.
“I am so sorry. I am all right now. I am so sorry to have startled you,” she said in a tremulous voice. There was a burst of masculine denial and only poor Miss Taylor heard Lord Freddie Blackstone’s aside to the marquess.
“Who cares if she’s queer in her attic. All that money and a looker too.”
As she followed her charge into the dining room, Miss Taylor reflected bitterly on the damage of servants’ gossip. She had descended to the kitchen before dinner to scotch the rumor of Jean’s wealth only to be disbelieved in general and snubbed by Wilkins in particular. “Wants it all for ’erself,” she heard Wilkins say as she closed the kitchen door, defeated.
The long dining room was resplendent with crystal and silver. Miss Taylor was seated well away from Jean who was placed on Sir Edward’s right with the marquess on her left and an enormous silver epergne in the center of the table blocking her completely from the governess’s anxious eyes.
It seemed almost indecent to eat so much food but Jean set to with a hearty appetite as remove followed remove. As instructed by her governess, she left her wine untouched in front of her.
John, the Marquess of Fleetwater, maintained an easy flow of conversation, making no reference to the events of the afternoon. Jean blossomed under his flattering attention, oblivious of Lady Cynthia’s calculating looks from the far end of the table. For Cynthia found the marquess exceedingly attractive and failed to see what he could find so amusing in an unsophisticated chit barely out of the schoolroom.
The marquess was hard put to understand it himself. The girl was pretty but decidedly naive. He decided her enthusiasm for everything was refreshing and with a rare grace set himself to please.
