by Tuft, Karen
“I completely understand,” Elizabeth had replied, and she did. Gibbons had been hired to be her personal maid right before Elizabeth had made her come-out, and she’d been as much a friend to Elizabeth as a servant. But families must eat, and that meant they must earn a living, despite what the nobility thought of the matter. Elizabeth had learned that much since Papa had abandoned them last summer.
As much as she’d prefer to sit here the remainder of the afternoon and hide from Mama and everyone else after suffering such an embarrassment, she knew she did not have that luxury.
Now that the fire was going, Sally stood and brushed her hands off on her apron. “I’ll take those clothes down to the laundry, my lady. And if you’ll let me, I could help you dress and style your hair when I get back. I’d be that honored.”
“Thank you, Sally. If Mrs. Reed and Stokes don’t need you, that would be very helpful.”
Sally puffed an odd little burst of air. “Who are they compared to you, Lady Elizabeth? I’ll be here; you can be sure of that.”
Elizabeth offered the girl—although, really, she wasn’t much younger than Elizabeth herself—a smile. But then, Elizabeth felt old—old and worn and broken.
***
What Kit had wanted to do after seeing Lady Elizabeth in such a state was drag her from the parlor and then peel himself out of his jacket and wrap her in it. What he had done instead—offer a meager apology while attempting to hide the extent of her dishevelment from the others—had been pathetic.
But then, how was he—or anyone else, for that matter—to have known she’d show up at the parlor looking as though she were a stray cat that had fallen into a water barrel? For that truly was how she’d looked. Her day dress, recently dyed black, no doubt, had clung to her like a second skin, revealing a figure that was too thin. Her light-blonde hair, which must have been fashioned into an arrangement of some sort at the top of her head earlier in the day, had been completely drenched and falling out of its pins, strands of it hanging on her cheeks and down her back and shoulders. Her skin, that he and others had oft described in glowing terms as porcelain, had seemed almost transparent, especially when contrasted with the darkness of her gown, and had made the veins along her throat and on her hands stand out in an almost ghoulish way.
Although he was still a bit dazed by what he’d seen, he managed to lead Lady Walmsley back to her chair by the fireplace and find a small upright chair he could place next to hers. And then he sat.
His first reaction upon seeing Lady Elizabeth may have been to recoil. His second, which thankfully had followed swiftly upon the heels of the first, had been to protect her from the others. It had been instinctive on his part, and he was glad of it—for her uncle and aunt now began to enumerate all the details of her appearance with feigned shock and horror. Feigned, for there was no real shock or horror here, only vengeful disdain on all their parts.
“Well, I must say that I was taken aback,” Elizabeth’s aunt was currently saying. “Such reckless behavior; I hope she doesn’t catch her death—oh, I’m dreadfully sorry.” Her hand fluttered to her mouth. “Forgive me for mentioning death at such a time as this. But at her age, one would think she would know better than to traipse about in the rain in such a manner.”
“It does make one wonder,” her uncle observed, tapping his chin in thought.
“Rubbish,” Lady Walmsley said, beating Kit to the punch. “A little rain never hurt anybody.”
“It isn’t a little rain,” the duke argued, gesturing toward the window. “It’s a deluge out there.”
“Who in their right mind would want to spend any amount of time in it, I ask you?” his wife said. “I fear the trials of the past year may have pushed our poor, dear niece to the brink of delirium. It is something worth considering, for her own good.”
Kit was nearly to the point of stating that he’d prefer a deluge of fire and brimstone to spending any more time with this lot, Lady Walmsley excepted. “Lady Walmsley and I would have been nearly as drenched as she had I not successfully persuaded the butler that we were in need of an umbrella when we arrived.” He shot a pointed glance at the former duchess. “The staff should be prepared to assist all guests and callers, to say nothing of coming to the aid of those who actually live here. As a result, I believe you are jumping to conclusions. We do not know at present what happened to Lady Elizabeth before she arrived here at the parlor door.”
“What say you, Cousin?” the duke asked, ignoring Kit and turning to Lady Elizabeth’s mother. “You have been her constant companion these last months. And I would add that I rather think my wife will have made the better observation here, being a sensitive female who would understand such things much better than a young, unmarried gentleman.”
Lady Elizabeth’s mother had been conspicuously silent up until now regarding the matter. She looked at the duke, she looked at Lady Walmsley, and then she looked back at the duke. She was clearly deliberating the best approach to take. Kit wondered if she was trying to decide whom she disliked more.
“My daughter is not delirious,” she finally said.
“There, you see—” Lady Walmsley began.
“This is how she torments me,” the former duchess added, interrupting Lady Walmsley. Her face became rigid and tautly drawn. “She resents her father and me, and I have had to bear the brunt of her offenses all on my own throughout this past, long, terrible year.” It was her turn now to retrieve her handkerchief from her pocket and dab at her eyes, although Kit, skeptic that he was, did not actually observe any tears.
“Oh, poor Cousin!” the new duchess said, crossing the room to place her hand on the former duchess’s shoulder. But she stood there as though presenting herself in a way that would show her having the higher rank of the two of them now.
“To have only one child and to be so terribly mistreated,” the duke said. “Such a grave disappointment. And her appearance does cause one to speculate on the state of her mind.”
“Before we have Lady Elizabeth tried and convicted and sent off to Bedlam,” Kit said, disgusted, “I believe we should allow her to collect herself and join us here. I should be terribly irate if someone based my sanity on getting caught out in the rain.” Good heavens, what was wrong with this family of hers?
“And it only proves further that Lord Cantwell and I arrived, along with the new Duke and Duchess of Marwood, at your hour of need, when we can be of the most service, Duchess,” Lady Walmsley said emphatically. “They are here to comfort you while you assist them in assuming their new roles, and I am taking Lady Elizabeth off your hands. It is a solution that works for everyone.”
“Precisely, Lady Walmsley,” Kit said.
“Oh, but I could not allow that,” the former duchess said, apparently not willing to admit defeat yet. “It is a burden I would not wish—”
“I’m afraid that I must insist,” Lady Walmsley said, smiling.
“Tea is—once again—served,” Stokes announced behind them all.
“Allow me to do the honors,” the new duchess said, patting the former on the shoulder and moving to the table where Stokes had set the tray. “You rest, dear Cousin.”
It was another subtle move on the new duchess’s part. She was letting it be known that she was hostess of Marwood Manor now. Lady Walmsley wasn’t the only lady present who could have helped Wellington against Napoleon if they’d only been born male, Kit thought.
“Oh, young man,” Lady Walmsley said, waving at the retreating butler, Stokes, who was probably nearly Lady Walmsley’s own age. “Please see that Lady Elizabeth’s trunk is packed as soon as you can. She will be going with us when Lord Cantwell and I take our leave shortly. And inform our coachman of that, as well, would you? Thank you so much!”
Then Lady Walmsley and Kit, who knew he was to follow Lady Walmsley’s lead, both turned placid faces toward the former duchess to see what her next mo
ve might be. The duke sipped his tea and looked on with amused interest. The duchess took a bite of fruitcake. “Stale,” she muttered, shaking her head in disgust before setting it down.
It was the moment of truth.
The former duchess’s mouth was pressed in a firm line, her eyes narrowed and glittering. “She won’t go with you,” she finally said. “She will not leave me. She owes me too much.”
“We shall see,” Kit said.
“Indeed, we shall,” Lady Walmsley echoed, settling into her chair and folding her hands in her lap.
***
“I can’t bear to pick out another black dress for you to wear,” Sally said as she rummaged through Elizabeth’s wardrobe. “You’ve already been wearing mourning colors for most of a year—gray, gray, gray, black, and back to gray again.”
“Nothing else seemed appropriate under the circumstances,” Elizabeth responded while she continued brushing her hair. It was nearly dry now. “It would have been indecorous to be seen in light colors. And particularly now, mourning is even more important. For Papa, you know.”
“Well, I shouldn’t be so bold as to speak out of turn, but I think you’ve mourned long enough, ‘under the circumstances,’ to use your own words, especially since you hardly left the manor, so there was no one to see you dressed that way. And anyway, I don’t think it’s expected for a person to mourn before a body passes, especially when no one expected him to pass.”
“But I must show my respect,” Elizabeth said, setting the brush down. “For Papa and for Mama and Uncle and Aunt too.”
Sally made a grumbling sound and began fishing around in the wardrobe again. “Very well, but it goes against my nature to help you do so.”
“You’re a dear, Sally. I don’t know what I would have done without you the past few months.”
Sally produced a day gown of deep blue. “Is this close enough to suit?”
It wasn’t, not if Elizabeth was to present herself in correct mourning attire, but she was worn down after the events of this afternoon. She rose from the chair and slipped behind the dressing screen and out of her dressing gown, then pulled on her chemise.
Sally assisted her into the gown and attended to the fasteners in the back. “Yes,” she said, looking Elizabeth over from head to foot. “That color makes you look much better—although it fits more loosely than it did before, but then, you’ve lost weight, haven’t you? Perhaps I can put a couple of tucks into the gown, here at the sides,” she said, pinching in fabric at the bodice to gauge how much extra there was that would need to be taken in. “My ma taught me some skills with the needle when I was a girl, and I think I do well enough at it.”
If Mama was to be upset by the fact that Elizabeth was wearing blue, she might also be upset if the dress didn’t fit properly. Wearing a dress that at least looked as though it fit wouldn’t add to her ire. “Thank you,” she said. “If it can be done quickly, I believe that would be a prudent idea.”
She removed the gown once again with Sally’s assistance and then sat and watched while Sally went swiftly to work altering the gown. Sally had been employed here at the manor for three years and was now showing a set of skills that deserved more attention than she’d gotten here before. Elizabeth could tell, watching her sew, that she did better than “well” at it; she was a dab hand with the needle. Elizabeth wished she’d recognized Sally’s talent sooner, but she’d been so caught up in her own troubles that her eyes had been closed to those around her. What a wretched admission to make about oneself.
Before much time had passed, Sally stood and shook out the gown, giving her work a quick inspection. “There you go,” Sally said at last. “I believe it will fit better now. Let’s give it a try.”
She assisted Elizabeth once more into the gown, and for the third time this afternoon, Elizabeth stood in front of the mirror to inspect her appearance.
Sally had done wonders. The gown fit much better now, and the excess fulness of the skirt swished around her as she turned from side to side as though a modiste had designed it that way.
“You shouldn’t be working here at the manor,” Elizabeth said. “You should be employed by a seamstress, a good one. You would make her a rich woman, I think.”
Sally blushed and smiled. “It’s kind of you to say those things. Now that I’m older, I could consider moving away from Ma and Pa and the children, because my brother and sister are both working now, and the family would be fine without my pay—not that I’ve been bringing home—” Her words skittered to a stop. “I’m sorry, my lady. I shouldn’t be saying such things.”
Elizabeth sighed. “If you are able to find better employment, I will understand completely, although I will be sad to see you go. Now, I suppose we ought to do something about my hair so I may return to Mama and her guests before she sends Stokes after me.”
“I don’t particularly like Mr. Stokes,” Sally said in a soft voice as Elizabeth crossed the room to sit at her vanity. “Pardon me for saying so, my lady.” She picked up a strand of Elizabeth’s hair and began brushing it. “How would you feel about a nice bun with a few braids woven into it? I think it might be lovely, and it won’t require a curling iron.”
“That sounds nice,” Elizabeth said.
“And you can wear a pair of ear bobs, and they’ll add a touch of sparkle.”
“Oh, not while I’m in mourning . . .” But Lord Cantwell was here. And last summer, Lord Cantwell had been kind to her and had danced with her, and they’d even run a three-legged race together. Having their ankles tied together, with his arm about her waist to keep her upright as they’d run, had been shocking and exhilarating and surprisingly intimate. His hand had felt strong, and she’d been able to see the beginnings of afternoon stubble on his chin, the whiteness of his smile, and the little creases at the sides of his eyes, which she imagined to be the result of years of smiling—and laughing.
Her hand rose to touch her cheek, and she looked in the mirror, turning her face from side to side, slightly, so as not to interfere with Sally as she parted and braided Elizabeth’s hair. There were no lines on Elizabeth’s face. It was smooth as marble, although her cheeks were decidedly thinner than they’d been last year. She’d heard others describe her skin as porcelain. But marble and porcelain were cold and lifeless.
She studied her mouth next. It was set in a way that was neither smiling nor frowning. The correct expression, Mama and Papa would have said, for the daughter of a duke. Last summer Amelia had invited her to join her in entertaining the children at the fete that had been held in Lord Halford’s honor. Elizabeth had been surprised and nervous, never having entertained children before, but Amelia had known what to do, and Elizabeth had soon relaxed and enjoyed herself immensely. She’d smiled. She’d laughed, just as she’d laughed when she and Kit—Lord Cantwell—had fallen during the three-legged race.
What a rare afternoon it had been.
“There you go, my lady,” Sally said after putting the last pin in place. “Looking as lovely as ever now, if I do say so myself. I’ll just fetch your jewel box so you can choose some ear bobs.”
A blue gown and ear bobs. Mama would be incensed.
But Lord Cantwell was here . . .
She chose a pair with very small sapphires and put them on.
***
Kit had not been prepared for what he’d seen today.
The Lady Elizabeth who’d arrived at the parlor was not the one he remembered, and it went beyond her rain-soaked appearance to something much deeper. She was horribly thin, to begin with. But worse than that, there had been no light behind her eyes, no smile, formal or otherwise, at her lips—dull shock on her face at seeing anyone besides her mother, perhaps, but not much else. Lifeless.
He was restless as he awaited her return. He looked at Lady Walmsley, poised to do whatever was needed to take their leave of these wretched people, and take L
ady Elizabeth with them. He had not served in the military; as eldest son and heir, his responsibility had been to remain at home, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine what it must be like—taking up arms, standing firm, ready to face the enemy. Ready to protect the vulnerable.
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” Lady Walmsley said. “You look very much recovered.”
Kit arose from his chair at Lady Walmsley’s words and turned his gaze to the parlor door.
Lady Elizabeth stood just inside, a thin waif of a figure in a deep-blue gown.
“That’s more like it,” the duke said.
“Hmm,” his wife said.
Kit once again crossed the room, took her hand in his and bowed over it. “How lovely you look, Lady Elizabeth,” he said. The gown brought out the color of her eyes, at least, although her ear bobs held more sparkle. “What an honor it will be for me to escort you and Lady Walmsley back to London tomorrow.”
His statement raised a question in her eyes. Ah, so she hadn’t been told yet. No surprise there, if the words were to have traveled to her from the butler, Stokes.
“I have been longing to resume our acquaintance, you see,” Lady Walmsley said. “And now I shall have the opportunity to comfort you as well. What an honor and blessing for me in my advancing years to be of service to such a sweet young lady as yourself.”
Lady Walmsley was laying it on a bit thick, Kit thought as he offered Lady Elizabeth his arm and led her to his chair—the only one near the fireplace not currently occupied.
“What is she talking about?” Lady Elizabeth asked him in a low whisper.
“We are taking you with us,” he whispered back. “If you’re willing.” He moved to stand next to the fireplace and rested his shoulder against the mantel. Now that he was on his feet, he was not inclined to sit.
