The Sullen Seamstress of Horenwall Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  “Miss Keats, please assist Miss Hall with her coat and bonnet. You are then dismissed.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she replied as Rosaline silently took off her outerwear and handed them to the maid who offered a parting word and another curtesy before leaving.

  Alone with the older lady, Rosaline felt the words she needed to say were stuck in her throat. The drawing room was large—and here Rosaline was coming to realize that nothing in the manor was small—with multiple windows facing the east and light-filtering curtains.

  The tic up in the lady’s arched eyebrow snapped Rosaline back into the present. “I apologize, Your Grace, please forgive me. I am overwhelmed by your wonderful home.”

  Her words were simple but truthful as Rosaline could not have found another way to express her emotion.

  “Please, sit,” the Duchess gestured to the other end of a loaded tea table. “I have designed to return the gesture you and Mrs. Caddell so generously offered me. How do you like your tea, Miss Hall?”

  “Weak, Your Grace.”

  Rosaline politely accepted the extended hospitality. The tea service and pastries presented were so far superior to anything she and Mrs. Caddell could ever offer; there was no comparison. The tea had an exotic taste to it; the milk was creamier and the sugar tasted sweeter.

  When pressed to take a scone, Rosaline bit into the warm flaky crust and tasted ripe berries bursting with flavor. No one used to such decadence would have enjoyed their meager fare.

  During it all, she could not stop the pull in her stomach that tightened every time the Duchess’ enigmatic eyes lightened upon her. Had a stubborn lock of her hair escaped her bun? Was there crust or filling on her face? Was she eating too loudly?

  Forcing herself to finish the treat, Rosaline dusted her fingers on the soft linen napkin and folded her hands on her lap.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace,” she said demurely, “But it leaves me to ask, why have I been summoned?”

  “I have called you in because my son is about to get married and I have found that you are the only person worthy of creating my future daughter-in-law’s dress,” the Duchess said frankly. “Your mastery of the craft is prodigious, Miss Hall and as the bride-to-be is a young lady, around the same age as yourself, I am hoping you would get along. I would rather have you deal with this case than the older matrons who have no inkling of the newest fashions or the mindset of the younger generation.”

  The revelation of her summons fell into place like bricks plummeting and shattering unto a pavement, no less surprising or jarring. It took Rosaline a few rapid blinks to understand what the Duchess was saying.

  How can we get along? This Lady’s world is so far removed from mine, that the very thought is laughable. She is from the upper ten-thousand, I am just a commoner.

  “I understand,” Rosaline replied slowly. She knew there should be some happiness in her voice—this was an opportunity of a lifetime—but she was feeling uncertain and her tone mirrored it.

  The Duchess gently lay down her cup and rested her hands in her lap. Absently, Rosaline noted the slender fingers and carefully-tended nails and knew that this Lady did not know what manual labor felt like.

  Rosaline’s hands—marked with calluses from years of work–softly closed in upon themselves.

  “What reservations do you have, Miss Hall?” The Duchess politely inquired.

  Rosaline floundered. How could she tell this powerful woman that there was nothing she and the Duchess’ future in-law could have in common? It’s common knowledge orphans did not get to attend finishing school. She did not speak French, play the pianoforte or know how to dance. She had never seen London, she did not know what the inside of an opera house looked like or even tasted flavored ice. She came from a world of practicality.

  What good could she be to a highly-educated bride? But then, could she let this chance go?

  Once again, she felt the Duchess’ eyes on her, and Rosaline decided on telling the lady the truth, “Your Grace, I am only a simple seamstress, I am not educated in languages nor any of the social graces that make a young lady. I have not the training nor the education that your prospective in-law decidedly has. I doubt Miss—”

  “Fawcett,” the Duchess added.

  Rosaline nodded her thanks. “Miss Fawcett will not have any interest in knowing the difference between a running stitch or a cross stitch.” She swallowed, “I would be grateful if you still want me to help Miss Fawcett, but I believe I would be a poor asset in all other ways. Forgive me for my boldness but…are you sure you want me?”

  Chapter 2

  The Duchess reached for her cup and took her leisure in sipping her tea while Rosaline’s stomach was roiling. Not being able to breathe much less consider sipping another mouthful, the young seamstress folded her hands on her lap and tried not to fidget.

  The silence between them stretched on so long that Rosaline was beginning to despair. The lack of sound was louder than a ringing gong to her ears, and the tension in the room was eating at her skin.

  Just as she was about to believe that all was lost, the Duchess laid down her cup and smiled, “I think you are perfect.”

  If Rosaline had not been sitting, she would have found herself on the floor, so great was her shock. The older lady, however, was unbothered and looked at her with her normal calm and composure.

  Rosaline took in a deep breath but her voice, when it was heard, was trembling. “Then Your Grace, I will be happy to assist you.”

  “Wonderful,” the Duchess of Horenwall smiled, “You will be moved to my guest wing tomorrow, and my footmen are at your disposal if you need anything moved from your cottage.”

  There was not one single thing in the spartan cottage that Rosaline counted as precious enough that she could not carry in her carpet bag. “I do not think so, Your Grace. I do not have many personal possessions.”

  “Very well then,” the Duchess smiled, “We have a happy accord. Please come tomorrow at the eight and we will get you settled. Miss Fawcett will be coming in seven days’ time and during that span, I implore you to make preparations. Whatever instruments that you need will be provided for you when you ask for it, and a stiped allowance will be yours also.

  “The finest cloth will be provided for the bride to choose from, and she might also declare a style. I do know that these young women can be flighty and try to recreate a grand wedding from the days of Queen Elizabeth with the many ruffles and headdresses. I trust that you will use your discretion, see what is best and then negotiate with her.”

  The order pushed Rosaline into a hard place. But what if the lady wants that very thing? Who am I to refuse her?

  Silently, Rosaline swallowed her concerns. Instantly, the pressure to outperform everything she had done in the past settled on her chest and she nodded, “I will do my best, Your Grace.”

  “Do you have any more questions for me, Miss Hall?” The Duchess queried.

  Rosaline thought quickly, “Not at this time, Your Grace.”

  Based on the Duchess’ genial smile, Rosaline’s prudent answer had apparently gained the older woman’s respect. “Then I will answer them whenever you are ready. Thank you, Miss Hall. You are doing my family a wonderful service.”

  The smile Rosaline had on her face was soft and serene even as multiple worries ran through her mind. “It is my pleasure, Your Grace.”

  The Duchess inclined her head, “Well, I believe that is it for now. You are free to leave if you wish. I can assume that this is a major upset for you. –”

  “No,” Rosaline rushed and then flushed at her brusque interruption. “No, not all Your Grace. Yes, I am surprised, but this is not upsetting to me.”

  A slow smile curved the Duchess’ lips and though gentle but, was also knowing. “You are an eager woman, Miss Hall, but you are a terrible liar. Nevertheless, I am glad to have you onboard. You will find your coat and bonnet with Miss Keats. Good day to you.”

  Her flush intensi
fied but Rosaline stood and curtsied, “Good day to you, Your Grace.”

  Rosaline then left the room and closed the door behind her. Her breath had not been on a normal tempo ever since the Duchess had told her that she was going to be in charge of making the wedding dress for the future Duchess of Horenwall. Bleakly, Rosaline became aware that it’d be a while before her breathing returned to normal.

  She had barely crossed the corridor when the lady-maid, Miss Keats, appeared and Rosaline jumped. The maid, on the other hand, did not look affected at all.

  “Your coat and bonnet, Miss Hall,” Miss Keats said while offering up the items.

  With shaky hands, Rosaline thanked her, took the items and donned them. She was fastening her bonnet when her eye caught the swift motion of a man as he passed through the foyer. All she could see was that the man was tall and had brown hair and clad in dark coat, tan breeches, and boots. Her fingers paused.

  “Miss Keats,” Rosaline said, “May I ask, who was that? He breezed through the room like a storm wind.”

  “It was His Grace, the Duke of Horenwall,” the maid replied, “He is usually in a hurry.”

  Approaching the stairs, Rosaline added, “What is so urgent? Is something happening?”

  The maid laughed softly and shook her head, “No, Miss Hall, that is his usual pace. He is very…active.”

  Strange…Rosaline thought as she hit the last rung of the stairs and crossed the foyer. “Good day, Miss Keats.”

  Since the cottage was on the grounds of the manor, there was not a long walk for her to cover. By cutting through a few yards, and crossing over a small field, she would be at her home in good time. However, Rosaline took her time to stroll down the longer paths. She needed some time to get her thoughts in order. It was not hard to do, as the balmy day and cool breeze surrounding her calmed her mind somewhat.

  It was slightly inconceivable how she was chosen over the other more established dressmakers. In fact, the family had enough wealth that they could easily have gotten a dressmaker from the best in London or even the masters from France, but no, the Duchess had chosen her.

  I have been chosen! Me!

  She stopped momentarily to allow the breeze to flutter against her face as glee raced through her chest. By reflex, her hand went up to keep the bonnet in place as the gust of wind was getting harder. She was on a hillock above her cottage now and could make the doorway in the short distance, but the rhythmic thud of horses’ hooves made her spin around.

  On a field to her left was the same man she had seen in the foyer, the Duke of Horenwall. He was on a massive grey horse with muscular thighs and a mane of dark hair. The Duke handled the mount with ease though and the sun above burnished his dark brown hair into glimmering russet.

  This time she properly saw his clothes, especially the dark blue waistcoat and admired how it clung to his tapered torso. His legs looked fairly long, his face was square, and his hair was wind ruffled.

  His children will be very handsome.

  When she realized what had just run through her mind, she castigated herself. “What was I thinking, imagining his children! That is no concern of mine!”

  Hurrying off, Rosaline made it back to her cottage. At the door, she did turn and looked over her shoulder, but the Duke was gone.

  “Probably for the best,” she murmured on her way in. “Him aside…is there anything I can do to make this Miss Fawcett trust me when she comes?”

  Chapter 3

  The Horenwall Manor, with all its fancy trimmings and overdone gilt, was beautiful to look at by a novice. However, to Norman Kinsley, Duke of Horenwall, it was nothing more than gaudy, pretentious and out-of-date construction.

  Inside the massive library and while staring at the portrait of his forefather, Duke Egerton Kinsley, who had built the manor almost two centuries ago, Norman could barely stop from rolling his eyes.

  The man, immortalized in oils, was dressed in a powdered wig tinted with blue, a starched ruff, embroidered doublet, scarlet stockings, heeled shoes, and had a sleeved cloak was draped over one arm.

  “Great-grandfather, I respect you and your plethora of talents, but this house, much like your antiquated outfit, is a monstrosity,” Norman remarked.

  “I concur,” the genteel voice of his mother, Eleanor Kinsley, Duchess of Horenwall, said as she approached. Standing beside him the matron titled her head, “He certainly was a pompous popinjay.”

  “Your words, Mother,” Norman gently replied, “Not mine.”

  “You must agree, though, that his valiant efforts have given us a roof over our heads that has stood the test of time,” the Duchess added.

  Norman slanted an assessing eye to her as he felt, intuitively, that she was interrupting his Sunday morning for another reason.

  “What do you need of me, Mother?” Norman queried as he went to fetch a certain law book he had originally gone to the cavernous room for.

  “Just to remind you that the seamstress, whom I spoke to yesterday, will be arriving today. And that your bride will be arriving in six days.”

  The mention of his bride to be, Miss Isabella Fawcett, sent a thrum of irritation through him, but he controlled his reaction. Ever since he had been told about his soon-to-be bride, a curl of suspicion had formed in his mind.

  I had been on the marriage market a mere day before Lord Ogbent had sent in his daughter’s details. How could they get it so quickly? Something is not right.

  Calmly paging through the book, Norman said, “I have not forgotten, Mother, and even if I had, the airing out of the guest chambers is a glaring reminder.”

  At seven-and-twenty, Norman knew he was at the age to be married, start a family, and make sure the legacy handed down to him by his forefathers would be continued. However, even with his popularity with the ladies of the ton, newly-declared debutantes and those ladies actively on the quest for marriage, Norman still had not yet found the proverbial “one”.

  His mother was getting anxious, Norman knew, which was why after years of fruitless searching, he had given in and allowed her to arrange a match for him. It was more for her comfort than anything else.

  Norman did not openly show it, but it was only in the darkest of nights that he allowed his yearning for true love to rise to the surface. In all other moments, his façade of indifference was never removed from his face.

  “Norman,” his Mother groaned, “I know it is not ideal, but will you give her a chance? She is a wonderful young lady with notable achievements and a wonderful lineage.”

  Finger marking the page with the law he was seeking, Norman faced his mother, “Green eyes and flaxen-haired Mother, I remember. She can speak French like a native, the true speech of the Spaniard’s and some Dutch. She has mastered playing the harp-lute, the pianoforte and can dance like a Queen.”

  His tone was droll, like the dull cant of an orator reciting a passage from the Bible. “Have I left anything out, Mother? Hm? Perhaps, she can knit a cloth over my eyes thick enough for me to blind myself that this arrangement is all for convenience.”

  The Duchess’ eyes narrowed, but her words were uttered with graceful dignity, “Stop being facetious, Norman. We both know this was bound to happen. You have to have a bride, son, or your image will be lowered in the eyes of many.”

  Norman knew exactly what she as hinting about, or rather whom, she was hinting about–the ton. The Peerage of England, the famed upper-ten thousand. In his opinion, they were a band of descendants from old families that had nothing else to do than create scandals and make a mockery of themselves.

  “I am aware of the standard held by our class, Mother, of marrying blue-bloods like ourselves and preserving such lineage through family.” Norman drew in a long breath. “I can still lead my dukedom, married or not, but for the sake of this precious image, I will follow it through. Good day, Mother.” Having said his piece, Norman kissed his mother on the cheek and stomped out the room.

  His powerful strides took him upstairs to the t
hird floor of the family wing to his suite of rooms, and he went directly to his balcony. There, he leaned heavily on the posterior balustrade of the back terrace. He surveyed the hundred-acre span of his manor grounds with a heavy gaze. This high up, the men and women below looked miniscule to his eyes and the rare children were dots.

  His pressed his left hand to his tightly-drawn forehead while he still clasped the book in his right. The reality was that Norman had tried to find his prospective bride by attending countless balls, soirées, and dinner parties where debutantes drew to him like bees to honey.

  Sadly, the Duke had found that the majority of the eligible ones were simple and spoiled ladies whose main focus centered on the latest fashion craze from France.

  “I can bet half of my fortune that Miss Fawcett is going to be another one of those girls. Beautiful and blue-blooded seeking a husband to call her own. Born of noble birth…” Norman laughed to himself, “…is pretty on paper but doesn’t guarantee anything than the fact that she is of gentle birth.”