Yes. Carstairs had always been her father, and Iris’s father too, in everything but name. And names, after so many unusual marriages, did not seem nearly as important as they had been.
She looked at Iris. The happy tears in her sister’s eyes confirmed it; what she was seeing was no mirage. This, then, was their family.
‘Come.’ She opened the door, smiling at the group in the carriage. ‘It seems we have much to celebrate.’
THE END
Dukes and Devilry: The Complete Blooming Regency Collection
A Duke in the Daisies
Much had changed since Jean LeClerc, a penniless French tailor, had found a sparsely furnished workshop down an anonymous alleyway in the centre of Bath. Three years after the House of LeClerc had opened its doors to the public for the first time, the dark green doorway had become a hub for all of England’s most fashionable ladies and gentlemen. The bell hung over the threshold rang at all hours of the day, announcing the arrival of women in need of silks, satins and fripperies—not to mention the mothers of marriageable daughters, desperately searching for the most attractive way to clothe their girls.
Anne Hereford did not need silks, satins or fripperies. Neither was she a mother—although with her own mother dead and three younger sisters to take care of, she felt distinctly maternal. As she looked at the House of LeClerc, her serious face softening a little at the sight of such a glittering palace of commerce, she felt exactly who she was.
Twenty-eight. Unmarried—soon-to-be-married, almost, if she thought about it, but she tried not to think about it. Responsible for the management of three young women, each with very definite ideas as to their preferred futures. Also responsible for the management of her father, who had slid into degeneracy with surprising speed after the unexpected loss of Anne’s mother… and responsible for creeping into his room as he slept off yet another night of gambling, to take his winnings from his purse.
She felt her pocket against her thigh, weighty with notes, and fought off a tide of guilt. He wouldn’t remember winning it—not if this morning was like every single other morning. And given that he appeared to have actually won something, Anne knew that she had to seize the opportunity to settle at least some of the family’s innumerable debts.
Before she and her sisters had left for the centre of Bath, she had managed to pay both the charwoman and the baker. At evening’s end she would seek out The Wounded Lion, the pub her father usually drank in, and settle his bill before he inevitably arrived there. But in-between those two hours, there was the House of LeClerc—and four women, Anne included, who were more than in need of new gowns.
She smiled to herself. New gowns were a necessity, given both her and her sisters’ unmarried state—but they were also luxuries to be delighted in. Given the hardships she and her sisters had faced in recent years, delight was always welcome.
‘Herefords? Gather round.’ She stood below the glittering sign that read House of LeClerc, the morning sun shining on the faces of her three sisters as they moved closer. She squared her shoulders, speaking to her sisters in the soft, low murmur that meant certain trouble for anyone who misbehaved. ‘Now. What are we to do?’
‘Really, Anne. It’s hardly fair to speak to us as if we are all still children.’ Lydia Hereford rolled her eyes. ‘If you are going to harangue us like this, at least have a reticule full of comfits for when we behave well.’
‘Lydia.’ Anne stared at her younger sister with the patience of a rock. ‘What are we to do?’
With a deeply annoyed sigh, Lydia folded her arms. ‘I am not to say distressing things to either the seamstresses, or the other ladies.’
‘Well done.’ Anne turned to Henrietta Hereford, who at nineteen years old had the mulishly defiant expression of a thrice-widowed dowager. ‘And what are we to do?’
Henrietta recited dully, as if she knew there was no hope in resistance. ‘I am not to pocket handfuls of pins in order to enact petty revenge on unworthy gentlemen.’
‘Excellent. And neither are you to deliberately overhear private conversations between couples, and use said information to enact petty revenge at a later date.’ Anne turned away from Henrietta as her sister sighed again. ‘And Agnes? What are we to do?’
Agnes Hereford, peering timidly from beneath her bonnet, appeared to already be on the verge of a blush. When she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet that Anne had to strain to hear it.
‘I am to present myself to the seamstresses, and tell them firmly if I do not like something.’
‘Yes, my dear. You are. Or you will end up in light blue again, feeling perfectly awful, and having no-one to blame but yourself.’ Anne smiled kindly at her youngest sister, whose blush had begun to creep down from her hairline. ‘Let us seize this hour. Fortune has granted us a—’
She looked past her sister, briefly distracted by the sight of a dark green coat. Many men had such a coat, of course; it was most foolish to stare openly at the owner of such a coat as he walked down the street, his face invisible…
‘Anne?’ Lydia’s curious tone interrupted her wandering line of thought. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No.’ Anne smiled, even as her inner voice disagreed. ‘Nothing at all. As I was saying… fortune has granted us a LeClerc gown apiece.’ She smiled as she significantly patted her reticule. ‘Joy awaits.’
Her sisters, suddenly all smiles, vanished inside the House of LeClerc one by one. Anne, pausing on the steps, looked into the crowd of chattering Bath-dwellers with a feeling of sudden, intense wistfulness.
It couldn’t possibly have been him. Why, it had hardly even resembled him, now that she thought about it. She had only seen the coat once, and long ago at that—it couldn’t be him at all.
Her mind, normally so docile, had begun to play the cruellest and most stupid tricks it could possibly play.
She hadn’t even liked Henry Colborne. To like someone, one had to know them—and Anne had certainly never counted herself among the bright, glittering creatures that made up Henry’s social circle. Good lord, she had hardly even admired him; if anything, his unrepentant rakehood from the age of seventeen had left her almost fearful of the blonde-haired, high-cheekboned king of every ball the Herefords had managed to attend.
Still. She had been deeply aware of Henry Colborne, if awareness was the correct word to use. She had been aware of him, and his various escapades and dalliances, until a particularly shameful night involving a Covent Garden rookery and the daughter of a fellow peer had seen the twenty-year-old Duke of Longwater placed firmly on a ship, bound for any number of extremely strict German boarding houses. After that, with a veil of secrecy drawn over all proceedings, Anne had considered it unseemly to remain aware of Henry Colborne at all.
And now? After so much time had passed; after eight years of growth, and loss, and slow hardening to a world that had once been so full of promise? Why, she had considered herself indifferent to Henry Colborne. She frequently spent time with his sister, Susan, without Henry ever coming to mind…
… But all it had taken was a particular jacket, on a particular frame, and she was a girl all over again.
You are to be married. Anne’s sly inner voice crept through her mind, reminding her of what she wanted so deeply to forget. Well, almost. Maybe. Perhaps you should clarify things with Eustace?
After gowns. Anne closed her eyes, briefly bargaining with herself. First gowns, then Eustace.
Maybe.
The House of LeClerc had the hushed, breathless atmosphere of a church on Easter Sunday. Anne and her sisters stood looking about them, quite overcome at the splendour of the furnishings and evident importance of the clients, while rapidly stitching groups of seamstresses adjusted gowns on mannequins with the speed and gaiety of swallows.
‘Well? When are we going to be looked at?’ Lydia had begun to fidget. ‘I’m already fearfully bored.’
‘We will have to wait. We are not important enough to demand attention.’ Anne looked at a
group of women dressed at the very height of fashion, who were regarding her and her sisters with cautious curiosity. ‘I sincerely doubt anyone here had heard of the Herefords.’
‘Oh, I imagine they have.’ Henrietta looked darkly at the group of women, who all hurriedly looked away. ‘Nothing good, I suspect. People have begun to forget Mother, with all of the nonsense that Father had managed to accomplish.’
‘Ssh.’ Agnes was already blushing scarlet. ‘People will hear you.’
‘Agnes is right, Lydia. Hold your tongue.’ Anne looked defiantly at Lydia, who turned away with a slight huff. ‘Just a little more time to wait, and—ah! I think we have been noticed.’
One by one, in a flutter of genteel greetings and compliments, the Hereford sisters were whisked away behind delicately-patterned screens. Anne only had time to whisper day gowns, nothing for the evening, before coming face-to-face with an elderly, smiling woman.
‘Anna, ma’am. I’ll be taking your measurements.’ She looked Anne up and down with the professional eye of a true dressmaker. ‘Measurements, then the style of gown, then fabric, then colour. Something for the Season, ma’am?’
‘Oh, no.’ Anne knew that their family’s purse would never survive a London Season. ‘Something for the daytime.’
‘Of course, ma’am. Far more practical.’ Anna smiled; Anne felt a small throb of sadness for her mother, who had given off the same air of welcoming comfort. ‘Now put out your arms, if you please.’
Measurements took quite some time; Anne bore it humbly, knowing that the quality of a LeClerc gown would be far higher than the ones she usually purchased from the village seamstress. Only Anna’s silence confused her; after a little while she decided to speak, hoping that she could draw the elderly woman into conversation.
‘You do not need to keep quiet, if you do not wish to.’ She smiled at Anna. ‘It makes me feel better if you talk.’
‘Oh no, ma’am. I’m the silent type.’ Anna took a deep breath, her voice taking on the confidential tone of a woman who had much to say and little opportunity to say it. ‘Why, you wouldn’t believe the way some of the fine ladies carry on when they come in to be measured…’
She carried on speaking, her soft tones creating a comforting bubble of sound as Anne sank dreamily into contemplation. If Anna were the silent type, she reasoned, that made everyone else practically mute.
She let herself drift on the gentle sea of talk, finally finding a measure of peace, before frowning as she realised her thoughts were leading her, steadily if slowly, towards Eustace. Much like an error in the household accounts, or her father’s drinking, her brain tended to treat Eustace like a small but unavoidable nuisance.
Eustace Wakely was perfect, if one looked at him through completely impartial eyes. He was respectably rich, and titled—only a baron, but still, titled. He took excellent care of his small but flourishing estate, gave freely to charitable causes, and had never been seen frequenting any of Bath’s most infamous palaces of pleasure. He was even handsome, in the slightly insipid way that was considered fashionable; people were known to comment favourably upon his choice of waistcoat, which inevitably reflected the mood of whatever social occasion in which he happened to find himself.
Yes. Impartially perfect. Unfortunately, under Anne’s own decidedly imperfect and partial gaze, Eustace had revealed himself to be quite the dullest man of her acquaintance—a man designed to make pleasant conversation, and do very little else. Equally unfortunate, perhaps more so, was the fact that he would almost definitely be her husband.
There was An Understanding. Anne wasn’t sure quite who had understood it first; certainly not her, and probably not Eustace. Some lorgnette-twirling grand-mama had seen the two of them at the same ball, declared it a Perfectly Good Match, and set the wheels of matchmaking in motion without so much as a by-your leave. Soon they had been sat next to one another at dances, placed near one another at fairs and games, pushed towards one another with such firmness and consistency that it was a wonder they hadn’t simply stuck to one another, becoming a sort of jellified mass…
‘Ma’am? I asked if you wanted a stripe.’
‘Oh? Excuse me.’ Anne snapped abruptly out of her reverie. ‘No, thank you.’
‘You were far away, ma’am.’ Anna’s gaze narrowed, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘A gentleman?’
The woman was being slightly too forward, but Anne didn’t have the energy to take offence. Neither did she wish to lie. ‘Yes.’
‘How wonderful they are, those first days. Like me and my Jim. I remember the letters he used to send when we were courting.’ Anna’s gaze softened. ‘Rare for a man to read and write, back then.’
Anne thought about Eustace’s letters. Well, not letters—notes. Very short notes, written in an impeccably elegant hand, saying nothing that was in the least bit beautiful, useful or important.
Often, tucked into the envelope, was a small, highly-coloured painting of a kitten. Anne liked kittens, but she certainly couldn’t recall ever having expressed a preference for pictures of them. Not even hand-painted pictures, if she thought about it; the kind that could be purchased at any haberdashery or ribbon-seller, give or take. Nevertheless, she was now the slightly confused owner of at least seven or eight pictures of anonymous kittens—as if Eustace were simply following a predetermined script, with her own sentiments peacefully ignored at every turn.
He was, however, a baron. This needed to be remembered at all costs. The word baron, and the images of paid bills and settled accounts that necessarily followed such a word, was worth all the nameless kittens in the world.
‘Yes.’ She smiled blandly, aware of having nothing of use to offer. ‘Letters are wonderful things.’
‘Indeed they are—as will be this gown. A sensible day-gown, then, in one of the new cottons. Something patterned, but not too bright—and no stripes.’ Anna smiled, getting to her feet with a flourish. ‘Are there any particular adjustments you wanted to make to the basic design, ma’am? Ribbons at the sleeves, pearl buttons…’
Anne paused. Her mouth moved to say no, but the rest of her was suddenly assailed with deep, uncontrollable panic.
Twenty-eight. Soon to be married, and to a man she didn’t care about in the slightest. Responsible for three growing sisters, and a father who had decided to abandon every vestige of paternal duty… and haunted by the image of a man in a green coat. A man she had thought of so very much, for so very long, before time and tide had hardened her heart.
This was insupportable. Her life was insupportable. So far, she had found only one way of assuaging the dreadful storm of anxious thoughts once they began swirling in her breast… but it was deeply private, and somewhat shameful, and certainly couldn’t be done in the middle of a dressing room.
It could be done later, though. Next week, perhaps. Standing in front of the seamstress, torn between panic and despair, Anne had a most unusual idea.
‘... Perhaps I am in need of an adjustment.’ She leaned closer, speaking in such a low whisper that Anna had to cup a hand to her ear. ‘To the gown.’
‘Yes, ma’am?’ Anna’s patient, slightly confused whisper calmed Anne a little. ‘Tell me.’
Anne closed her eyes, briefly visualising it. Yes, if it were possible, her somewhat unusual way of finding peace would be aided by such an adjustment.
‘I…’ She took a deep breath. ‘I… would need skirts that could be easily detached.’
Anna’s eyes widened. ‘How easily?’
‘Very easily.’ Anne coughed, suddenly realising how her request sounded. ‘Not—I mean—’
‘No need for the details, ma’am. It could be done.’ Anna winked. ‘Large buttons could be easily concealed beneath the bodice.’
‘I—oh.’ Anne looked at Anna, dumbfounded. ‘Am I not the first person to have asked?’
‘Ma’am, you should hear what some of the Covent Garden ballerinas ask for.’ Anna laughed, wheezing. ‘Why, one of them—�
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‘I can imagine.’ Anne smiled blandly, wondering what on earth she would discover if she continued the conversation. Now now; not when she had just done something so potentially ruinous. ‘My goodness.’
Ten days later, under unrelenting sunshine, the grounds of the Longwater Estate shone in all their splendour. Well-known throughout the region for the remarkable fecundity of the kitchen gardens, as well as the dizzying variety of roses, a picnic in the Longwater gardens was considered a privilege beyond price—a privilege that only ten or so people had ever enjoyed, Longwater heirs excluded.
Anne Hereford had never picnicked in the Longwater gardens. She had, however, wheeled seventeen large piles of compost into the kitchen gardens—and planted an astonishing number of lettuces, following a pattern she had painstakingly drawn out on the back of an envelope. She had also trimmed hedges, pulled slimy tangles of duckweed out of the lily pond, and climbed an oak tree to put a blackbird’s egg back in its nest…
She looked at the rose bush in her gloved hands, taking a moment to cup a flower and sniff the bloom. Yes, of all the Longwater gardening tasks, this had to be her favourite.
Before her new day-gown had arrived, her snatched hours of gardening had involved a furtive, embarrassing change of clothes in one of the garden sheds. There had always been the ever-present threat of discovery; she had observed the comings and goings of the Longwater gardens from the Hereford residence, lying as it did along the same street, but one could never be sure of who had decided to stay behind. That, and the danger of a torn skirt or suspiciously muddy hem, had made her peril more moderate than mild.
She looked down at her breeches, shaking the rose bush free of the earth that clung to its roots. Now she could simply leave the house with breeches already on, under her skirts—snatched from her father, who certainly wouldn’t be able to fit into this particular pair anymore. That, and an old shirt concealed about her person, made for a most effective disguise once she had made her way through the Longwater gates.
Private Passions Page 51
