I blinked at him and swayed just the tiniest bit while I let his words trickle through the fogged mass that was presently acting as my brain. “Um. Some of it.”
“Good, good. We just need you to sign a few releases—merely a legality, I assure you—then I’m sure you’ll want to have a bit of rest before the evening’s fittings, the audition, and, of course, you’ll want to read up on the rest of the volunteers for the program.”
Fittings? Auditions? He wanted me for the part? He saw me and he still wanted me? Maybe his eyesight was bad. I held up my hand and waved it before his face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Behind me, Pierce groaned. Roger frowned at me, then frowned at my fingers. “Three. Is there a reason you are asking me that?”
Oh, God, now I’d painted myself in a corner. If I said no, he’d think I was an idiot, the kind of lunatic who waved her fingers around and asked people to count them. If I said yes and explained that he couldn’t possibly want me to be the duchess, I’d have to explain why, and if I had to discuss my overflowing abundance of flesh with one more person, I’d scream. My brain was still feeling fuzzy from the martinis, but I figured the truth was probably the best bet. I’d rather be thought self-conscious than a boob. “Um . . . it’s just that . . . well . . .” I waved a hand up and down my torso.
“Honey, I’ve told you and told you that you’re just perfect for this role!” Pierce hurried forward and grabbed my hand. “She has this idiotic idea that she’s too fat for the part.”
“PIERCE!” I smacked him in the arm. How could he come right out and say the word with no creative euphemisms or polite skating around the issue? “The word fat is politically incorrect. I’m skinny-challenged, thank you.”
Roger eyed me up and down, from nose to toes, then back up to my head. “I don’t see a problem.”
I wanted to kiss him.
“Most of the aristocracy were pudgy. All that rich living, you know.”
The kiss shriveled up on my lips. “Pudgy?”
He gave me a quick grin. “Sorry. Skinny-challenged. Besides, you have your own hair. I would hate to go through the wig trauma again.” He shuddered delicately as he spoke.
I was hired because of my hair? Yes, it was long and fairly thick, but it also had a mind of its own and was an uninspiring plain old brown color. I toyed for a moment with the idea of being righteously indignant that it wasn’t for my more meaningful qualities that I was asked to fill the role, then realized just how stupid that would be. I was getting the job! I’d be out of debt at long last! I’d get to be a duchess for a month! Best of all, I’d get to have that handsome blue-eyed man for a pretend husband for a month! A whole month! My stomach did another somersault at the thought, an action that left me swallowing hard to keep things where they belonged.
“And speaking of that, you’ve met the wardrobe people, yes? Wonderful team we have here, all experts in their field, and very keen on historical accuracy. I’m sure you’ll be utterly delighted with the wardrobe they create for you, but if you have particular likes and dislikes, do tell them. Of course, you’re absolutely free to pick and choose what you wish to wear each day. More authentic that way, you understand.” Roger waved me toward a tall wine-colored leather armchair as he perched on the edge of his desk. I stumbled and half-fell into the chair. Pierce took the matching chair, sitting with an elegance and suavity that I felt far escaped my perspiring, rumpled, sleep-riddled, queasy slump. “Our goal with the Month in the Life project is absolute accuracy and authenticity in every facet of life. To that end, we’re asking each participant to not only live without items that were created after 1879, but to live by the societal precepts of the mid-Victorian era. Manners, values, etiquette, social interactions—all must conform to the standards the Victorians lived by. Are you willing to do that?”
I blinked a couple of times and carefully cleared my throat. “I’m tolerably familiar with that period, so I don’t imagine it will be a problem, although I’m not an expert by any means.”
“That’s why we included a copy of The Glory of Womanhood in the project material. If you have any questions about how you should deal with servants, which fork to use when, how to have a tea for your friends, when you should go visiting, that sort of thing, it’s all covered in the book. And just to get you started, we’ve made up a list of everyone’s duties, from the duke right down to the scullery girl. That’s in the packet, as well, and I urge you to become familiar with it, because as the mistress of the house it will be your duty to interact with the housekeeper to make sure the house is run smoothly. You are ultimately responsible for the servants and their well-being.”
I kept my eyes fixed on his left cheekbone and nodded slowly. If I looked anywhere else, the room seemed to dip and sway, taking my stomach with it.
“Now, regarding the filming—please, please ignore the presence of the cameramen and the sound people. They will do their best to be invisible—and, of course, you’ll have absolute privacy in the bedroom and loo—so I’m sure that after a short time you won’t even notice they’re there. We want you to act just as naturally around them as you would should you be alone, strictly keeping within the guidelines of a Victorian duchess, of course,” he laughed. “No turning your hand to a bit of dusting or putting a room to rights.”
I gave him a weak smile. Did he honestly think I cherished housework to the point that I’d want to do it on what amounted to a month long luxury vacation? “That won’t be a problem.”
“Good. You may, of course, bring any cherished mementoes—black-and-white photos and the like—but we ask that everyone stick strictly to period reading. Worston Old Hall has quite an extensive library, which we’ve supplemented with reproduction and original periodicals and newspapers, so you should have a variety of reading material to choose from. Along those lines, we ask that you not bring any paraphernalia that is not period.”
“Paraphernalia?” I asked, my mind more on keeping my stomach in order than with what he was saying. “What sort of paraphernalia?”
He spread his hands wide. “Anything you can think of that wouldn’t have been available to the Victorians— mobile phones, Biros, electric razors, hair dryers, that sort of thing.”
“Oh. I have a journal and a couple of pictures, but that’s it other than my clothes.”
“A journal?”
“It’s leather bound. I don’t think it would stand out in any way.”
He rubbed his jaw for a second, then nodded. “Just be sure you use the pens we provide. In fact, I think the idea of keeping a journal is an excellent one. Many ladies of the time did, I’m told. And as for the other things, we’ve engaged a variety of companies to supply items that you’d use everyday—sundries, toiletries, accessories—your entire wardrobe, of course, will be provided, including shoes and underthings. That goes for the stationery, dinner service, crystal, silver, wine, various supplies for the servants, as well and oh, did you read up on the masquerade ball? Wardrobe is creating a special authentic costume for you to wear to the ball. You can see that with so much effort being made to create as authentic a setting as possible, it’s vitally important that you do your part in acting the part.”
I gave him a brave smile, brave because I was suddenly struck with how unsuitable I was for this role— not only because of my weight, but because I simply was not raised by duchess standards. How would I eat with servants watching me? Then again, I doubted if Max the architect was brought up in a ducal household, “I’ll do my best.”
“I have every confidence you will.” He tipped his head to the side for a moment, looking at me just as Pierce and Evan had earlier. “You’ll quite enjoy yourself, you know. You’ll be the mistress of the house. You won’t have a care in the world except picking out what frock to wear and whether to go riding in the morning or in the afternoon. We have a lady’s maid for you, naturally, a wonderful woman who is very experienced in the period. All you have to do is enjoy yourself and live a life most of
the world would sell their souls to experience.”
My stomach did a half gainer at that thought.
“Now, on the schedule for this evening is a brief audition—just an interview that we do on film for archival purposes—then I expect the good ladies in wardrobe would like you in for a second fitting, and then we’re off in the morning, very early I’m afraid, but we wish to start filming with breakfast. Our film crew will go out to Cheshire later tonight, but they will primarily be filming the servants first thing in the morning, so we’ll have time to smuggle you into the house and get you dressed before you make your first appearance.” Roger looked up from a stack of papers as someone opened the door. “Oh, Sam, Max, what excellent timing. Come in, I want you both to meet our lifesaver. Tessa Riordan, this is Sam Everett, our head cameraman, and Max Edgerton, who’ll be taking on the role of his grace, the Duke of Bridgewater. You’ll be working very closely with Sam, Tessa, since he’ll shoot all the principle photography, and, of course, you’ll get to know Max very well during the next month.”
Two men entered the room, the first a thin, wiry guy with carroty hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Behind him, a dark shadow flickered in the hallway, then Sam moved aside to allow the dishy man in the photo to enter. My stomach jumped and did a front somersault with a half twist as I got a good look at him—he was even more handsome in person than he was in a stiff, posed picture. His eyes were what most caught my attention. They weren’t just light as the picture showed; they were a clear, crystal blue, a blue topaz blue, a summer sky in early morning blue, framed with sooty black lashes so thick I wondered if he had to comb them each morning to keep them from getting tangled.
Those beautiful eyes, a bit wary as they studied me, suddenly warmed as he stuck out his hand, saying, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tessa. I can’t tell you how thankful I am to know you’ve agreed to take on the role. I hope you are free for dinner tonight. I’d like to talk about the project with you.”
I opened my mouth to say hello, nice to be here, hope you like large women, would you like to have sex after dinner, but all that came out was olives. And three martinis. And the potted meat and black bread and . . . well, basically everything I’d eaten in the last five hours. It all came up, barfed ignominiously onto the plush carpet, a bit of it splashing up onto Max’s neat brown loafers.
Pierce closed his eyes in horror and slapped a hand to his forehead as I stood hunched over, one hand clutching the back of the leather chair, the other hand twisted into the front of my thin gauze dress to keep it from dangling into the mess. I released the chair long enough to take the handful of tissues that Roger thrust from behind me, mopping my mouth as I straightened up.
Max looked from his soiled shoes up to my flushed, sweaty, tears-of-mortification-shining-in-my-eyes face and withdrew his hand. “I take it that’s a no to dinner?”
Wednesday
September 1
2:50 A.M., Greenwich Mean Time
Bathtub, Room 722, Hyde Park Hilton
I can’t believe I fell asleep while trying to write down what happened last night, but I did. Must have been all the energy expended on barfing on the handsomest man I’ve ever seen, not to mention dealing with Hilda the Hun, Roger, Pierce, the wardrobe fittings, the audition . . . everything. Gah.
I would also say I can’t believe I barfed on another human being, and then go into a five minute soliloquy about how embarrassed, humiliated, and disgraced I was that I did so, but I have every confidence that you’re a smart person and can figure all that out by yourself. Take it as read, please, that the scene wherein I ralphed in front of everyone is one that will be etched in my mind for decades to come.
Pierce decided the best thing for me after throwing up would be to get some air, so accordingly he hauled me over to the window and threw it open, shoving my upper torso out the window until I had to clutch at the window frame to keep from falling.
“It’s just jet lag, jet lag and the excitement of working on such a fabulous project, the poor dear,” he rattled off, one hand firmly holding my head out the window, the other on the small of my back as I struggled to maintain my balance. “Tessa always pukes when she gets excited—it’s something hereditary. Roger, honey, you just leave those releases with me, and I’ll make sure she signs them before she leaves the studio. No, no, she’ll be fine, just fine, it’s just nerves and excitement and jet lag. You know how Americans are!”
Over the sound of the wind rushing past my ears, men’s voices rumbled behind me. Mindful of the fact that Pierce had me doubled over the waist-high window, thus putting me in a position where the first thing anyone who looked at me saw was my butt, I began flailing my arms behind me, trying to catch any part of him that could be used to convince him to release me.
“Certainly, certainly, we’ll be there bright and early! Five o’clock! No problem. Yes, I won’t forget the releases, just as soon as she has a bit of air we’ll get them signed, and then I’ll trot her down to the studio to have the interview filmed. Yes, yes, not a problem. Evelyn promised she’ll have the corset and all those other bits, as well as some of the dresses, done by tomorrow morning. The rest should be finished in a few days, so don’t worry one little red hair on your head—you’ll be able to start shooting tomorrow A.M. just as you planned.”
“Pierce!” I gasped, my head buzzing as the blood rushed to my brain. “I can’t breathe! Let me up!”
“Absolutely, one hundred percent. She is completely committed to the project. No, just nerves and excitement. I happen to know for a fact that Tessa doesn’t drink. Hates the stuff. Wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. You haven’t a worry in the world as far as she’s concerned, Rog. Would I lie to you?”
“PIERCE!” I grasped the window ledge with both hands and shoved backward as hard as I could. He suddenly released my head just as the door behind us clicked closed. I staggered backward two steps, then fell onto my butt, luckily well out of the distance of the puddle of guck. “You could have killed me doing that! I couldn’t breathe!”
He stood over me, his hands on his hips, his nostrils flaring wildly. “Honey, there are times when I could just strangle you.”
I pushed a chunk of my hair that had come loose from my chignon out of my eyes and glared up at him. “Do you honestly think I did that on purpose? Help me up. I feel awful.”
He hauled me to my feet (grunting just a little, which was not nice of him), then walked with me to the ladies’ room, giving me only a minor lecture on the wisdom of getting so plastered I vomited in front of the man who was in charge of a multimillion-dollar project that could make my life exceedingly pleasant. I ignored thinking too much about the barfing as I staggered into the bathroom to rinse out my mouth, wash my face, and twist my hair back into a reasonable facsimile of a smart hairstyle.
Pierce sent Evan running for fresh coffee as I sat in a tiny, soundproofed room in one of the studios, reading over and signing the documents that would commit me to behaving and thinking like a Victorian for the next four weeks. By the time I drank four cups of coffee, signed the papers, did a (thankfully brief) interview with one of the production assistants, and stood obediently turning this way and that while three wardrobe ladies swarmed me with some really lovely lace-topped linen nightgowns and chemises, I was more than tired; I was dead on my feet. Pierce offered me dinner, but I waved it away, wanting nothing more than the chance to sleep.
I have since then eaten, slept more, and am now having a bath. In a couple of hours I’ll be on the train, zipping my way to Cheshire and the town of Worston, where I’ll step a hundred and twenty-five years into the past. Me and twenty other crazy souls. And Max, the blue-eyed duke.
I hope he got the barf off his shoes without too much trouble.
Wednesday
September 1
5:31 A.M.
On the train, passing through . . . I have no idea where.
About an hour outside London.
Well, this is going to be interesting.
Not only do I have a head that feels like it’s made up of shards of glass that have been dipped in acid and bonded to laser-mounted scalpels, but I just realized that in four hours or so, I’ll be squeezed into a corset that wasn’t completed enough for me to try on last night, stuffed into a Victorian dress, and trotted out to meet my lord and husband, stepchild, sister- and brother-in-law, and take over the reins of running a traditional country house in the manner of more than a century past, all while a couple of cameras film everything I do for millions of viewers to see.
Oh, joy.
Well, OK, everything but the part about my head and being filmed sounds like fun. I still can’t believe I passed muster, but as I did, I’ve decided not to worry about my appearance anymore. I mean, Max didn’t scream and yell and demand someone skinnier, and Roger didn’t seem to find a problem with my pudginess (what a thing to say!), so who am I to point out to everyone that I’m on the hefty side? If they don’t notice it for themselves, well, so be it.
Mind you, those millions of viewers are bound to notice. I bet the camera adds fifty pounds to me rather than ten.
So, to while away the train ride and to stop myself from fretting about something I can’t do anything about (maybe the corset compressing all my excess flesh will make it disappear?), I looked over the rest of the project material. The photocopied etiquette book I’m saving for later since it looks pretty dense. Instead, since Roger said I was responsible for the servants, I read up on some of the other people who are participating, looked over the house rules, and then perused everyone’s duties.
I figured a good mistress knows exactly what her staff is doing, so I started with Michael Lewis, who was taking on the role of third footman, the bottom rung of the male servants.
Corset Diaries Page 3