by Eva Shepherd
The Duchess smiled at her reflection. ‘Perfect, as always.’ She turned her head from side to side to observe the hairstyle from different angles. ‘Last night, just about every woman at the ball commented on my hair and I made sure I told them all about your hairdressing parlour. I think a few lady’s maids might be sent in your direction for some extra training.’
Nellie smiled at her former mistress. ‘Thank you. And I’m happy to attend you any time, you know that. I owe you so much.’
The Duchess waved her hand in dismissal and headed towards the door. ‘Not at all. But for now, I think we’d better organise your escape.’
* * *
Dominic sipped his morning coffee and looked out of his third-floor bedroom window. Luggage was being loaded on to a carriage bearing the Duke of Somerfeld’s crest and Nellie Regan was supervising. Although she seemed to be doing a lot more chatting than supervising, much to the pleasure of the footman and coachman.
The Duke and Duchess were presumably leaving after breakfast, so Dominic would have to find time to talk to the Duchess’s former lady’s maid before they left. He took another sip of his coffee. Sparring with her last night had been irritating, yet unexpectedly invigorating, and, despite himself, he was anticipating talking to her again with some pleasure.
Watching her, unobserved from his hidden vantage point, was certainly a pleasure to be savoured. The morning sunlight was sparking off her red hair, making the lighter, blonde strands shine with reflected light. It was so appropriate, her hair was like fire, just like the woman herself.
The coachman buckled a portmanteau on to the back of the coach and laughed at something Miss Regan had said. Breaking with protocol, the footman joined in their laughter and said something that made all three laugh even more. The two men were obviously quite taken with Miss Regan, but there was no surprise there.
What man wouldn’t be taken by such a feisty, not to mention stunningly attractive, young woman? She had certainly captured his attention last night and not just because of the somewhat unconventional nature of their encounter. She was unlike any woman he had ever met, so spirited, so vivacious, so full of life.
Despite their differences in class he, too, had found himself somewhat fascinated by the young lady. More than somewhat, if he was being completely honest. It wasn’t just her beauty, although there was no denying that she was strikingly attractive. It was her energy and vitality that were particularly captivating. And despite his best efforts he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about those green eyes all night, their striking jade intensity invading his dreams.
The coachman continued to cast glances in her direction as he went about his work, although there seemed to be more laughter and chatter than work taking place. Dominic even suspected the coachman was drawing out his task so he could continue to talk to Nellie Regan. They were fortunate it was such an early hour and most occupants of the house would either be still in bed or dining in the breakfast room. Dominic was sure such public revelry among the servants would be frowned upon by the Duke and Duchess of Ashmore and most of their guests. But at this hour the only people about were the household servants and the troop of gardeners, who were busy trimming the topiaries in the formal gardens that surrounded the house.
Miss Regan clapped her hands together and laughed louder at something the footman had said, the musical tinkling of her laughter reaching Dominic high up in his hidden eyrie. As she laughed, she placed her hand on the footman’s arm and the man smiled down at her, as pleased as Punch that his joke had elicited such a reaction.
Burning bile ripped up Dominic’s throat as if the coffee were too bitter. What could the man have said that had caused her so much delight? What was there between them that meant she could be so familiar as to touch him? Was she involved with the footman? Was he her beau?
She released her hand and said something to the coachman. Standing up on the carriage, he grinned down at Miss Regan, his face flushed with pleasure. It seemed the footman was not someone special in her life. The little minx was flirting with both men and both men were thoroughly enjoying it.
Dominic scowled at the coffee cup and placed it on the side table beside the window. It hit the saucer with an angry clink. Was the coachman the sort of man who could capture Miss Regan’s heart? Or would she prefer the footman? Whoever did have that honour would be a lucky man. She really was a rare beauty that any man would be proud to call his wife.
Although he would have his work cut out for him. A demure, subservient woman Miss Regan most definitely was not. He could hardly imagine her becoming someone’s obedient wife.
The contrast between Nellie Regan and Lady Cecily couldn’t be more striking and he didn’t just mean in terms of the class into which they’d been born. Miss Regan was chatting and laughing with these two men as if she had known them all her life. Even though he and Lady Cecily were now engaged to be married, there was still not that easy familiarity that Miss Regan had already established with these two men. Cecily had never looked at him with laughter in her eyes or touched his arm affectionately as they shared a joke. In fact, conversation between them still remained the polite, strained exchanges of people who barely knew each other and had little common ground.
He looked away from Nellie Regan and the laughing servants, out at the horizon, over the rolling parklands of Hardgrave Estate to the distant horizon, where the summer sun was shining in a clear blue sky.
He should not be thinking like that. He was engaged to Lady Cecily and she deserved his respect. She did not deserve to be compared to other women. In fact, he should not even be thinking about any other woman and certainly not someone who was only one step above a servant. If his parents had taught him anything, it was the devastating outcomes that eventuated when people of different classes mixed.
Not that he had any interest in Miss Regan. None whatsoever. He wished the coachman luck, or the footman, or whoever. If Miss Regan was involved with the coachman, the footman, or any other servant, it would be entirely appropriate. Just as his engagement to Cecily Hardgrave was entirely appropriate. The classes mixing only caused heartache.
He looked back down at the scene taking place before him. The coachman had finally finished his work and was now sitting on top of the carriage, the reins in his hands. Presumably he was going to park the carriage and wait for his passengers. The Somerfelds had a surprisingly small amount of luggage. Only one case was strapped to the back of the carriage.
Still chatting and laughing, the footman held out his hand and Miss Regan climbed into the carriage. The coachman flicked the reins and with a snort of compliance the two black horses trotted off down the drive, the wheels crunching on the gravel.
What was happening? Was Nellie Regan leaving? All by herself in the Duke’s private carriage? She couldn’t be. He still hadn’t had the opportunity to talk to her. He couldn’t disappoint his sister. Grabbing his jacket, Dominic rushed towards the bedroom door. Pulling it on, he raced down the long corridor, sped down the three flights of stairs, out through the entrance hall and down the outside stairs.
The footman looked at him in surprise and then stood to attention.
The carriage was now at the end of the long, tree-lined drive and about to turn on to the country road that led away from the estate. He had missed her.
‘Miss Regan, I must speak to you.’ His loud shout broke the silence of the quiet morning air, causing a nearby peacock to squawk and the gardeners to look up from their work.
The carriage turned the corner and she looked back at the house. He had caught her attention. Thank goodness. She would now return so he could arrange for her to attend to his sister. She leant out the window. From this distance it looked as if she was laughing. When her gloved hand emerged from the window and she gave a little wave goodbye he was certain. She was driving away from him, but not without having a last laugh at his expense.
Chapter Four<
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Nellie stood outside her shop and hairdressing parlour and looked up at the sign etched out in cursive script above the door: Venus Hair and Beauty Parlour, Eleanor Regan Proprietress. She’d been open now for six months, but every time she saw that sign it filled her with a sense of immense pride. And never more than today. After that disconcerting encounter with Mr Lockhart at the weekend she couldn’t be more pleased to be able to return to the sanctuary of her own business, a place where she was in charge and no one was able to push her around. She exhaled a sigh of impatience at the memory of that infuriating man.
Who did he think he was, chasing after her like that all because she had been a bit rude to him? Well, extremely rude. But still.
Anyway, that was all over now. She was now back in her own world, away from men who thought they were better than others just because they were born wealthy.
She pulled open the door and the bell rang out a friendly greeting. All was just as she had left it on Friday evening. She looked around the shop with satisfaction. Along with providing hairdressing services the business sold an array of beauty products that an aristocratic woman would expect her lady’s maid to provide. Bottles of rosewater skin fresheners, lavender skin lotions, hand salves and an array of colognes made from essential oils were displayed on satin cloths. A selection of bejewelled hair clips and other hair decorations adorned the counter, along with ostrich, emu and peacock feathers, artificial flowers, ribbons and lace of all colours to decorate hats.
Nellie also sold a range of cosmetics, including tinted lip salves, rouge and face powders, but told her clients they were purely for therapeutic use and were most definitely not make up. That way they could feel that using a bit of help to enhance their appearance was still socially acceptable.
The scent from the muslin-wrapped lavender bath salts and rose petal pot-pourri filled the air, making the store a lovely feminine retreat. She breathed in, enjoying the sweet fragrance, pleased to be home.
She greeted her two assistants, Harriet and Matilda, who were anxious to hear all about Nellie’s weekend. Under the circumstances Nellie felt it best to leave out details of her encounter with Mr Lockhart. Instead she entertained the girls with descriptions of how beautiful the ballroom looked, what fashions the women were wearing and the grandeur of the Ashmores’ estate. Once the girls had finished recounting their own escapades over the weekend it was down to business.
As usual, the appointment diary was booked solid for the day and the first customer arrived on the dot at nine o’clock. Nellie greeted her and escorted her through to the private hairdressing parlour at the back of the premises.
As happened every morning, when Nellie entered her parlour pleasure washed over her. It was as if she was seeing it for the first time. She had decorated it herself in a style that resembled a fashionable dressing room of an aristocratic lady. She knew that being attended to in such surroundings was an important part of the experience for her middle-class customers. They wanted to feel as if they were having their hair dressed by their own lady’s maid in their own luxurious room. Her customers weren’t to know that the antiques and paintings were all sourced from flea markets and many of them were cheap but good reproductions. It was the illusion that they wanted and that was what Nellie gave them.
Her customer seated herself on the delicately embroidered bench in front of the dressing table and looked at her reflection in the gilt-edged mirror. A mirror that Nellie knew was decorated with gold-coloured paint rather than gilt, but no one knew the difference and it provided the necessary impression of opulence.
The woman patted her hair. ‘I’m off to the theatre tonight and I’ve decided I want something different from my usual style.’ She reached into her beaded purse, pulled out a newspaper cutting and handed it to Nellie. ‘I want to look like that.’
Nellie looked at the clipping from the Illustrated London News, with its pen-and-ink drawing of the famous actress Arabella Huntsbury. Nellie smiled as she saw her own hair styling, with the elaborate tresses piled up high on Arabella’s head, exposing her swan-like neck, and the feminine curls cascading over her slim shoulders. Few people outside Arabella’s immediate circle knew that the famous actress was also the Duchess of Somerfeld, Nellie’s former mistress.
‘Make me look like that, please, Nellie.’ The customer tapped her finger on the drawing, then turned back to the mirror, smiling with satisfaction and expectation.
Nellie looked from the drawing of the young, elegant and beautiful Duchess to her customer, a portly middle-aged woman with several double chins. She knew it was the woman’s dream to look twenty again, but this hairstyle would not do it. It would have the opposite effect and make it even more apparent that the customer’s youth was far behind her.
Nodding her agreement, Nellie began styling her hair in a way that, although unlike the one in the drawing, would flatter her client and draw attention to her still attractive eyes and smooth skin.
Sharing gossip was an integral part of the experience of being attended to by a lady’s maid, so she asked her customer whether she had been to any interesting social events lately.
‘Oh, yes, we dined at the Savoy last night. And that was quite an experience, I can tell you.’
Nellie brushed out the woman’s greying hair and began backcombing it to give the thinning locks more volume. ‘That must have been fun. It’s rather grand and luxurious, isn’t it?’
The woman huffed her disapproval. ‘Luxurious, is that what you call it? Well, I don’t. They’ve put that horrid electricity all through the dining room. It’s outrageous. It shows up every line, every blemish. Candlelight is so much more flattering to a woman’s complexion.’ She frowned at her reflection. ‘I admit, electricity is good for street lighting, but it should never be installed inside. No woman in her right mind would have it in her home. Mark my words, it will never catch on. Not when candlelight is so much more flattering.’
‘Hmm,’ Nellie said non-committally as she smoothed the woman’s tresses over a roll of false hair which would give it a fuller look. She chose not to point out that for the woman’s maid it would be so much easier to just flick a switch rather than lighting countless candles, trimming all those wicks, scraping spilled wax off table cloths and furniture, and extinguishing all those flames at the end of a long working day.
‘But I did see that Daisy Brook, the Countess of Warwick, when I was there,’ the woman continued, puffing herself up with self-importance. ‘They say she’s the Prince of Wales’s latest mistress.’ She pursed her lips in excited disapproval. ‘I don’t know what this world is coming to, men in his position having mistresses. I pity England when the old Queen dies and that reprobate becomes King.’
Nellie teased out a few curls around the woman’s face and stood back to assess the effect. ‘Well, Queen Vic has lived this long, maybe she’ll outlive her son.’
‘Yes, we can only hope. With Bertie’s eldest son, Eddie, dying so tragically the second son will be King eventually. We can only hope the good Queen does outlive that philandering Bertie and George becomes our next ruler. Then we won’t have to put up with these endless scandals.’ The woman nodded once, as if that was the final word on the matter. Then she smiled at her reflection. ‘Oh, yes, Nellie, you’ve captured that look perfectly.’ She moved her head from side to side.
Nellie returned her smile. ‘I’m pleased you like it. It’s very flattering on you.’
‘Oh, yes, it’s perfect. We’re off to see that new play tonight, The Shop Girl, at the Gaiety Theatre. Have you seen it yet?’
‘Yes, I treated my assistants to it a few weeks ago.’
‘I’ve heard it’s rather good, even if the plot is a bit silly. I mean, a shop girl marrying her wealthy suiter would hardly happen in real life, but it makes for an entertaining musical comedy.’
On this point, Nellie had to agree with her client.
Harrie
t parted the gold shot silk curtains that separated the parlour from the shop and quietly informed Nellie that a gentleman wanted to talk to her. ‘He said he needed to see you immediately.’
Nellie teased out one more cascading curl, excused herself and went through the curtained divide. Her smile of greeting died. She froze to the spot, gripping the silky curtain tightly as if she was in danger of falling. It couldn’t be. But it was. It was him. Mr Lockhart. He had followed her to London. This was getting ridiculous.
What on earth was wrong with the man? Didn’t he have anything better to do with his time? Apparently not.
Harriet and Matilda were smiling at her and raising their eyebrows up and down in admiration. They obviously thought there was nothing wrong with Mr Lockhart. But they could only see a sublimely handsome gentleman, his masculine presence somewhat out of place among all the feminine bits and bobs. They didn’t know that he was also a pompous, authoritarian ass and he was here to give Nellie a telling off.
While Mr Lockhart continued to look disapprovingly at a display of artificial flowers and coloured ostrich feathers, Nellie took a moment to compose herself. She released her hand from its grip on the silk curtain, smoothed down her apron and wished she was wearing something a bit more attractive than the simple brown skirt and jacket she wore to work.
Now, who was the one being ridiculous? Who cared what she looked like? Did she need to be dressed up and looking her best just so Mr Lockhart could reprimand her? No, she did not.
She coughed lightly to clear her dry, constricted throat and walked up to the counter. He replaced the hair comb decorated with peonies and forget-me-nots back on the display and turned to face her.
‘Miss Regan. You left before I had a chance to talk to you.’
Nellie drew in an agitated breath and breathed out slowly. That had been the whole point of yesterday’s early-morning departure, so he wouldn’t have a chance to berate her. Yet here he was, still wanting to get his revenge, just because he’d been the subject of a small joke.