By a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  “But, I’m not . . . ,” C.J. began, and was hushed by her patroness.

  “Are you an honest girl, Cassandra?”

  “I should like to believe so, your ladyship,” C.J. replied carefully, completely aware that her daily existence in 1801 was based upon a series of lies that seemed to grow more elaborate by the hour.

  “Then all I ask of you, in return for your lively companionship, is to indulge an eccentric old woman. My schemes may be fond and foolish, but I crave your trust.”

  C.J. fingered her amber cross as though it were a string of worry beads. “You know next to nothing about me,” she protested. Were Lady Dalrymple ever to hear the truth, the countess would be hard pressed to discern which one of them had the wilder imagination.

  “You appear to me to be a young person of quality. That satisfies me for the nonce.”

  The coach-and-four rumbled up a hill and ground to a halt in front of a huge town house at the edge of the Royal Crescent, the magnificently designed semicircle of elegant residences built by John Wood the Younger only a couple of decades earlier. To reside here was to be in the very pink of fashion.

  A uniformed manservant preceded them up a short flight of steps and opened the bright red lacquered door to the entryway. Lady Dalrymple nodded to her footman. “Thank you, Folsom. How is your new son faring?” Even C.J. knew that gentry did not converse with their servants as though they were equals. Either the Countess of Dalrymple was indeed the very avatar of equality or else she was a counterfeit noblewoman and had managed to deceive even the hawkeyed Lady Wickham.

  Folsom made a polite bow. Like Lady Wickham’s beleaguered Tony, this man, too, bore the marks of having survived the pox, his pitted face making him look considerably older than she guessed he might have been.

  “Jemmy is quite healthy now, your ladyship,” the servant replied in a thick Scots burr. “A touch of the whooping cough, the wife and I were given to understand. Fair racked his little body with convulsions. It was so kind of you to send for your own doctor. The wife and I are greatly in your debt. Your ’umble servants always.” Folsom bowed again to Lady Dalrymple as she passed.

  “Saunders,” her ladyship said, addressing the dour-looking maidservant in the process of making every effort to appear as though she were not eavesdropping, “ask Cook to make us some tea. We shall be in the drawing room.”

  The maid dropped a quick curtsy and disappeared in a flash of starchy white efficiency. C.J. had never seen an apron quite so bright, and so crisply pressed, and she wondered why Saunders should look so gloomy when the rest of Lady Dalrymple’s staff seemed as content as anyone would be who had been relegated to a life of servitude.

  The countess motioned for C.J. to follow her into a large, sunny room. The pale yellow-gold walls were set off by white plaster cornices and elaborate triple moldings, lending the salon the appearance of a Wedgwood vase or—to C.J.—a Sylvia Weinstock wedding cake.

  It was all she could do to maintain her wits, for she sensed that she was about to be cross-examined. This is really acting without a net, she thought to herself. Her improvisational abilities were about to be severely tested.

  “Is it true that Lady Wickham discovered you, as it were, in the prisoner’s dock?”

  C.J. was careful to choose her words, speaking slowly as she formulated her response. “I am afraid so, your ladyship. I had traveled very far to come to Bath, and found myself all at once penniless and friendless. Upon my arrival I wandered the city and slept under a colonnade that night, as I had neither a place to lodge nor the means to pay for it. The following morning, my hunger got the better of my wits, and I plucked an apple from a fruit seller’s cart to satisfy my stomach’s siren song.” Was this a bit too much drama? she worried. C.J. lowered her eyes, genuinely ashamed. “Believe me, your ladyship, I have never stolen anything—ever—before this single transgression, which I freely own I regret mightily.”

  “You poor child. If you had only been familiar with our city, you might have known that every morning a public breakfast is offered in Sydney Gardens. I am certain that some charitable soul would have seen fit to feed you.” Lady Dalrymple reached out to touch C.J.’s hand reassuringly. “But good heavens! I daresay the punishment did not fit the crime.” She adjusted her skirts and arranged herself on a settee upholstered in pale green striped silk, patting the seat beside her.

  C.J. warily sat. “I suppose I should be grateful to Lady Wickham. After all, if she had not taken me in, I have no idea what might have become of me. Perhaps I would have been sent to a workhouse. Or worse. She treats her servants abominably, though. Can nothing be done about it?” C.J. had indeed been monstrously appalled by Lady Wickham’s cruelty, and her question served very well to deflect attention from herself.

  “Eloisa’s methods are deplorable,” Lady Dalrymple concurred. “But her domestics consider themselves fortunate to find a roof above their misbegotten heads. Situations are scarce, particularly in the finer homes, and since Eloisa uses the courts of law as a statute hall, her staff are unlikely to locate such opportunities elsewhere. No respectable servant registry will accept a convict, leaving the poor souls no alternative but to survive by their wits on the streets upon gaining their release.” Lady Dalrymple rose and paced the large, airy room. C.J.’s eyes followed her, affording the opportunity to more fully take in her new surroundings.

  A rather large brass telescope faced the south window of the room. In one corner C.J. spied a vividly colored parrot in a gilded cage, and opposite it, a Chippendale-style curio cabinet of brilliant flame mahogany that appeared to be filled with an assortment of exotica from the natural world; odd-looking mechanical instruments, which she could not readily identify; and several crystal balls of varying sizes, displayed on cunningly fashioned tripods.

  The parrot cawed as his mistress passed his perch. “Here you go, Newton,” Lady Dalrymple cooed, offering the bird a small, square biscuit. For a fleeting moment, C.J. wondered if this was when Fig Newtons were invented. She marveled, open-mouthed, at the countess’s unusual possessions and at the elegance of her home, a substantial contrast to Lady Wickham’s ascetic tastes. Thus far, C.J.’s nineteenth-century experiences had been viewed through the eyes of the defeated, choiceless, and impoverished. What a fresh adventure she was about to embark upon! Now it appeared that she would learn to become a lady of quality in order to fit the mold into which she had been newly cast. But how long would favor smile upon her, C.J. worried, before her deception would be detected and cruelly exposed? And what then? She had learned the hard way that for those who had been cursed with the misfortune of having neither title nor means, it was a harsh world indeed.

  Lady Dalrymple marked not her new protégée’s wonderment, nor did she observe the fearful expression that clouded the young woman’s otherwise lovely countenance. Having arrived at what she considered a fitting plan of action, her ladyship came to roost once again on the edge of the upholstered settee. She drew a deep breath, no doubt for dramatic emphasis, and her face dimpled into a mischievously triumphant smile.

  “As I told you in the carriage, I am a lonely old widow, Miss Welles. My late son, Alexander, was unmarried and left no issue—that I am aware of, in any event—and consequently, there is no heir apparent to his title. Were you indeed my brother’s only living child, you would be the heir presumptive in the absence of a male heir. You are evidently a young lady of breeding and intelligence, despite your unknown birthright. You will learn in time, Miss Welles, that I have singular views on the inbreeding of the English aristocracy. One has only to look at the Prince of Wales to see the unfortunate result. It would give me unalloyed glee to manufacture a noblewoman according to a mold of my own invention.”

  C.J. gasped in disbelief, not quite knowing what to make of the madwoman seated beside her who would single-handedly transform the English ruling class into a meritocracy. “But this is too much! Your ladyship is more than kind.”

  “Nonsense! There is no alternati
ve. I make situations as I find them. You are of age, of course?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “When did you attain your majority?”

  Certainly C.J. could not confess that in fact she would not even be born for another hundred and seventy-five years or so! She did some quick calculations and shaved a number of years off her true age. Could she pass for a young woman of prime marriageable years? “I came out two seasons ago, your ladyship. I am twenty now,” she fibbed. Another lie. And here she had represented herself as a young person of integrity.

  Lady Dalrymple seemed pleased with C.J.’s response. “Twenty. A perfect age, my dear. And I shall see to it that you are advantageously matched before the end of the season.” Her gray eyes twinkled at the prospect.

  C.J.’s acting training had been thorough, her education comprehensive, and her aptitude quick, but never could she have imagined being thrust into such an elaborate charade. At any moment she might unwittingly reveal herself to be the adopted daughter of a deceased New York businessman from another century! How was she to manage the correct etiquette of a gently bred Georgian, and who would believe that she was the daughter of a marquess—however disgraced—and the niece of a countess? Still, Lady Dalrymple’s astonishing offer merited serious consideration. Besides, C.J. reasoned, until she might contrive a way to return to the twenty-first century, it was difficult to imagine a more pleasant alternative.

  Chapter Seven

  Suspicions are aroused; a garment presents surprising challenges of its own; and we meet two persons of extreme importance to our story.

  YOU ARE CONFOUNDED, my pet,” Lady Dalrymple remarked. “It does not astound. I have given your young head quite a shock. I’ll allow that my somewhat original behavior has been often remarked upon, even by those whom I hold dear, but I assure you, Cassandra, I am quite in my proper mind.”

  They heard footsteps approaching, followed moments later by the opening of the enormous double doors at the far end of the room.

  A distinguished older gentleman liveried in green and black stopped at the entrance. His very presence demanded silence.

  “Lady Oliver and her nephew, the Earl of Darlington, your ladyship.”

  “Heavens, Collins! It had completely gone out of my head that we were entertaining Augusta and Percy for tea this afternoon. I have already had a nibble—such as it was—when I called upon Lady Wickham to wish her many happy returns of the day, but the sudden arrival of my niece has put me completely out of sorts.”

  The butler discreetly arched an eyebrow.

  “My brother Albert’s child. Lady Cassandra Jane.”

  Collins missed nothing. He cast an appraising eye on the sorry state of C.J.’s yellow muslin and seemed to arrive at his own particular assessment of the situation. “Very good, mum. Shall I ask them to wait while her ladyship—”

  “You will call her Miss Welles, Collins. We will continue to avoid my brother’s name for the nonce.”

  “Very good, mum. While Miss Welles is afforded the opportunity to . . . put on her tea gown.”

  Taking Collins’s meaning in an instant, Lady Dalrymple’s hand flew to her mouth. No, it would never do for Lady Oliver and her nephew to meet Cassandra in her present state of disarray. “Precisely, Collins. The very thing. Perhaps they might like to view the Gainsborough before coming up.”

  “I believe her ladyship has seen the Gainsborough—when she last called. And on the half dozen visits before that,” the butler calmly responded, indicating that it would provide neither distraction nor subterfuge.

  “Well, she may have the pleasure of enjoying it yet again. Her nephew can discuss the brushstrokes with her, or compare it to the classical style,” Lady Dalrymple retorted. “Heavens! I don’t give a fig what you tell them. Just keep them downstairs.”

  “Very good, mum,” replied the butler, the enormity of his assignment evident in his lined face. He bowed slightly and closed the heavy double doors behind him.

  “Heavens! Whatever am I to do about your wardrobe? I do not suppose you have a trunk somewhere?”

  “I’m sorry, Lady Dalrymple—”

  “Call me Aunt Euphoria. It’s time you started getting used to it.”

  “I have nothing but the clothes on my back, Aunt Euphoria. Such as they are.”

  The dowager clucked her tongue. “I thought as much, of course. Oh, if only the wish were father to the deed.” Lady Dalrymple tugged at an embroidered bellpull.

  C.J. surveyed the deplorable condition of her gown and, remembering the zipper, drew the now-shabby coquelicot scarf about her. “Can we not simply tell them that I caught my heel in a stone and took a fall in the road?”

  “Augusta Oliver is a perceptive woman, Cassandra. Her two most positive attributes are that she employs an incomparable modiste, and that she eschews cream in her tea. She is also the most powerful tabby in Bath. Needless to say, Gustie is my dearest bosom friend. No, my dear, we must have a proper remedy, albeit a temporary one.”

  In response to the summons, Saunders appeared through the double doors.

  “Stand next to my niece, Saunders.” The maid gave Lady Dalrymple a look of perplexity. “There is no other young female person in the room, Saunders. Back to back with my niece, Cassandra Jane, if you please.”

  The lady’s maid eyed the newcomer with suspicion but hastened to obey her mistress. She and C.J. were roughly the same height, although Saunders was a good deal less curvaceous.

  “Yes. It will have to suffice,” her ladyship sighed. “There is nothing else to be done at such short notice. Saunders, you will be so good as to lend Miss Welles your Sunday frock for the duration of the day. Tomorrow we shall pay a call on Mrs. Mussell to have some new gowns made up. No expense will be spared. And Saunders?”

  “Yes, your ladyship?”

  “My niece will be staying with us from now on. You are not to address Lady Cassandra as ‘your ladyship,’ but will refer to her as ‘Miss Welles.’ Please see Miss Welles to the blue room, and take care that she is provided for as she may require. I will make inquiries for young ladies in search of situations so that Miss Welles may have her own lady’s maid in future.” The countess smiled, once more revealing her deep dimples. “I would not wish to tax your good nature any more than my own personal needs demand.”

  “Yes, mum,” responded the maid, curtsying to her mistress as she beckoned C.J. to follow her.

  Even when Saunders appeared to crack a smile, C.J. thought the woman looked grim. While Lady Dalrymple was possessed of a definite playful streak, her lady’s maid was a mirthless creature entirely lacking a sense of humor. A rather odd match, that. She refused Saunders’s assistance, terrified that the already suspicious domestic would discover the zipper in her costume. C.J. took her cue from the countess, asserting that she could not abuse the maid’s good nature by overtaxing her, and that as her ladyship no doubt required her services, C.J. would willingly dress herself.

  Saunders, who was not particularly eager to increase her duties, nonetheless departed with a degree of hesitation. For a gently bred young lady to dismiss a servant in favor of dressing herself was irregular behavior indeed. There was something about this newfound “niece” of the mistress that did not tally. The girl was a parvenue, perhaps, or a fortune hunter who preyed on good-natured elderly women of uncommon wealth and generosity.

  Saunders inclined her head and listened for a moment outside the closed door of the blue room, certain she heard “Miss Welles” lock something away. Not customarily prone to the peregrinations of a fanciful imagination, the lady’s maid resolved to learn the truth about the soi-disant Miss Welles and to maintain a vigilant aspect where the visitor was concerned.

  After locking the distressed yellow muslin dress in the uppermost compartment of a mahogany highboy, C.J. slipped the small iron skeleton key into her reticule. Having dismissed the servant, she had no alternative but to dress herself. Saunders’s simple “round gown” was deceptively difficult to don, infinit
ely more complex than Lady Wickham’s ugly brown livery. C.J.’s own lightweight petticoat sufficed as an underpinning, but as she and Mary had always helped one another to dress, it had never occurred to her how hard it was to fasten a garment while she was corseted, however lightly, by her wrap stays, which resembled a modern sports bra.

  At least the small bustle pad that puffed out the back of her gown just below the shoulder blades was secured to the stays’ ties by two long strips at the back, just the way her By a Lady accessory functioned. But the easy part was over. C.J. now regarded the gown as though it were a Rubik’s Cube, engaging in several sallies of trial and error before successfully dressing herself. She finally determined that the narrow bands from the front waist passed through worked loops at the center back bodice and had to be held in position there before being tied at the center front under the bodice itself. Her arms ached from trying to hold one part of the dress while tying another. No wonder people had ladies’ maids! C.J. struggled to button the high stomacher. Although it was snug, she was grateful to be fastening something in front of her chest, rather than straining to reach her back. She made a mental note to eventually thank Milena, should she ever see her again, for the anachronistic zipper.

  It seemed like hours before C.J. reappeared in Lady Dalrymple’s drawing room, reattired in Saunders’s church dress, with its modest neckline and nondescript hue. She felt like a pregnant wren. The seams at the bodice strained to contain her full breasts. At least her sprigged muslin had been tailored to fit her figure.

  “Well, niece, at least you look healthy,” the countess sighed.

  “I feel very much like a poor relation, Aunt Euphoria.”

  The dowager’s face broke into a dazzling smile of revelation. “Heavens! Yes—the very idea. You are a poor relation, of course! And we do not discuss my brother Albert in polite company, so I will not trouble you at present with any more alarming facts and circumstances than you have already been privy to. Not with Augusta and her nephew about to join us at any moment. The person of Lady Oliver presents enough of a challenge. You shall have to call upon all your powers of imagination, child.” Lady Dalrymple chattered on. “You must think the way those actresses do. Perhaps you would not know . . . but then, of course, we shall say that you have lived in London. Have you indeed been to the theatre?”