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

by Emma Linfield

  Is it too much for me to meet a lady whose nose is not lofty or has magnanimous visions of grandeur?

  Rolling his eyes at his own fallacy—expecting a lady from the Peerage who didn’t expect an opulent life to actually exist—Normal sighed and sagged just a bit more. Pushing off from the balcony, the Duke meandered back into his quarters and after laying his book down, rang for his valet. He needed to prepare for the day and get some work done.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” Mr. Baxter Dunn, a slender man with carefully combed black hair and grey eyes, greeted with his bow. “How may I assist you today?”

  Norman resisted from rolling his eyes. He and Dunn had a set routine every morning, but the man insisted on asking him the question, even though he knew the answer.

  “The usual, Dunn,” the Duke ordered, “Scentless soap this morning too. The cloying lavender aroma is not to my taste. And the usual garb— breeches, shirt and a blue waistcoat.”

  “Understood, Your Grace,” Dunn nodded, “I will get the tub filled.”

  With the manservant gone, Norman, on a whim, took to the front balcony that looked over the long lines of carefully-tended hedges and the cobblestone driveway. His long fingers closed over the railing when a lady, clad in a nondescript coat, plain bonnet, and holding a small carpet bag neared the doorway.

  Cocking his head to the side, Norman watched her come closer but stopped at the step. This must be the seamstress.

  She was clearly hesitant about approaching, and Norman found it intriguing. An emotion Norman had never expected to feel, after that irking exchange with his mother, possessed him—he felt mischievous.

  “It is not going to leap out and bite, you know,” Norman called, his lips curled at one end.

  Her hand dropped just as her head snapped up, but the Duke did not move. From her viewpoint, just a foot away from under his perch, there was not much she could see unless she had the eyes of a falcon. Even if she did get a glimpse of him, his dark old-fashioned, double-breasted banyan was all she could possibly perceive. The balustrades up this high were walls, featuring a bath façade, that hid his lower half from view.

  Her head was craning up and swishing from side to side to find the speaker. While she was searching, Noman glimpsed warm golden skin, an oval face, and a slender neck.

  “Your water is ready, Your Grace,” Dunn said from behind him and with a measure of reluctance, Norman retreated into his quarters.

  Norman found his inquisitiveness being piqued by the woman nonetheless. She looked…interesting.

  Rosaline was mystified. It was the first day of her new position at the Horenwall manor; one she had hoped it’d pass without incident.

  Who just spoke to me?

  She stood rooted in her place, mere feet from the front door to the manor trying to discover who had spoken to her. She searched, her head was snapping around so many times, she feared that she looked like a common fowl searching for a grain of corn.

  Once, very briefly, she had caught sight of a dark blue coat but then it was gone. She did know, however, the voice, so deep and sonorous would be marked in her memory for a long time.

  “It is not going to leap out and bite you, you know.”

  Eventually, after not hearing the teasing tone again—and what a cad he was to mock her!—Rosaline gathered herself together and bravely stepped up to the door. The handle of her old carpetbag was precariously clutched in a damp palm as she knocked with the other hand.

  The door opened; she saw the footman from her first trip and the Miss Keats beside him.

  “Welcome, Miss Hall,” he said. “Her Grace has assigned Miss Keats to show you to your quarters.”

  Smiling timidly, Rosaline returned the greeting.

  “Your rooms are on the second floor, Miss Hall. Miss Fawcett and her parents will be your neighbors,” Miss Keats said, “May I take your bag?”

  “Oh no, no,” Rosaline rushed while amazed at the offer, “I can carry it myself. It is not heavy at all. Is Her Grace present that I can offer my greetings?”

  “I am sorry, but not at this time,” Miss Keats said, “Her Grace wakes as nine and entertains at ten o’clock. You can offer your greetings then.”

  Nodding, Rosaline, returned, “I will do that then. Please, show me to my room.”

  As they mounted the stairs, Rosaline could not help but feel an inordinate level of responsibility and pressure descend on her shoulders. In six days, she was going to be tasked with making the dress of her life. Everything about her future hung on this one dress— absolutely everything. They were halfway up the second flight when a man came down.

  Rosaline instantly recognized him—it was the Duke. His hair was darker in the shade, but nothing else about him had changed. He still had the same erect posture and lean, muscular frame.

  Even though he was steps above, Rosaline knew that he would tower over her average height. Clad in dark breeches, boots and a coat, Rosaline barely saw his smile when Miss Keats stopped them both.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” Miss Keats greeted with a curtsy.

  Snapping out of her reverie, Rosaline did the same even as her shame of imagining his children last evening colored her face, “Your Grace.”

  “Good morning, Miss Keats,” the Duke’s voice was sonorous, radiated power and was it!

  It’s him! It’s his voice! Rosaline’s head lifted and her eyes narrowed at the infuriating smile on his face. What a cad! Duke he might be, but he is a cad!

  “And you,” he said, “You must be the seamstress whose praises my Mother was singing.”

  Her jaw clenched—how could he suddenly be so courteous, knowing what he had done? She dared look at him and met blue eyes with her hazel. “I am, Your Grace, Miss Rosaline Hall.”

  Their eyes locked and Rosaline’s irritation grew even as his smirk spread. How dare he act like it was nothing! I was terrified!

  “Well, I am praying that you will not make my mother recant her faith.” the Duke arched his eyebrows and smirked. He was silently daring her to say something, but her jaw clenched.

  He smiled. “I must be on my way, ladies. Please excuse me.”

  With that, he was off, and Rosaline was left trembling in indignation. She literally spun to watch him walk off with a notable jaunt in his step.

  The nerve of him!

  “Miss Hall?”

  Miss Keats’ voice cut through the building storm inside her and with a stiff jaw, she turned. “My apologies.”

  “No need,” Miss Keats smiled with indulgence, “His Grace has that effect on everyone who meets him the first time.”

  If I have a say in it, it will be the last! Rosaline swore.

  Chapter 4

  “Something has gotten you into a cheery mood,” Lord Evan Leeson, the Viscount of Edgehill commented while handing Norman his snifter of brandy. “You know, considering the sourpuss you were since the day you found out you are about to be leg-shackled.”

  “Tis trite entertainment, I assure you.” Norman smirked while smelling the potent aroma of grapes, aged for years in barrels made from the finest French oak.

  Evan’s piercing green eyes met and held Norman’s blue with a deeply analytical gaze, “I know you, Norman, nothing is ever trite with you.”

  Swallowing his first mouthful, Norman shrugged, “You are correct, but I still hold it as amusing.”

  “While we are waiting for our third party, tell me about it.”

  Straightforwardly, Norman told his childhood friend about his encounter with the seamstress, one from his balcony and the other from the stairwell. “I swear to you, Evan, her hazel eyes were lit with hell’s flame.”

  “You should get burned then,” a deep baritone, with the cant of Scottish brogue came from the one and only Radcliff Sculthorpe, Baron of Belthyne, jarred both men.

  Radcliff was a beast of a man, towering six-feet and seven-inches tall with a thick frame; he was broad and sturdy like that of an ancient oak tree. Born from an English father an
d a Scottish mother, the Baron had tasted the best of both worlds, English culture and mannerism, and then, an education in Law from the University of Glasgow.

  “So, which lass has the eyes of fire?” Radcliff asked while shaking his and Evan’s hand.

  “The seamstress Mother has acquired for making the dress of my bride-to-be,” Norman said while reaching out for the bottle of brandy and a third glass. “She has some passion in her, I can say that much.”

  Handing the glass over to Radcliff, Norman mused, “I do not know what I am going to do if I cannot find an ounce of steel in this Miss Fawcett. There is an ominous rake over my skin that tells me she is, forgive me for devolving into derogatory terms, a hen-witted girl.”

  “But a rich hen-witted girl,” Evan remarked, “You know that with all things, she will not be taking your money.”

  “Aye,” Radcliff added while reaching for the bottle. “But if you need it, I can happily get a friend of mine to draft a marriage settlement for you.”

  Noman was taken aback at the mention, but then he snorted into his liquor while Evan spoke up.

  “Oh, right,” Evan added, “I keep forgetting that you are a solicitor of the Court of Chancery, while still being a landowner—a contradiction in the peerage because gentlemanly professions were slated to second sons of the gentry.”

  “And furthermore,” Norman added with a downturn of his lips, “Mother would flay me alive if I ever broached the topic of a prenuptial agreement.”

  “Then, you will suffer in silence,” Evan remarked. “To this day, I do not know why you did not do what I did.”

  “Because I have no intention of using a German interpreter to get my simplest point across to my wife, or going à la bavaroise, when meeting with my father-in-law.” Norman scowled.

  “Aye, Edgehill. Your knobby knees would put the lederhosen or bundhosen to shame, anyway,” Radcliff chortled over the rim of his glass, “kilts too.”

  Evan’s eyes narrowed, “I suspect that you are trying to poke fun, but I have never and never will I dress in that ridiculous cloth the Germans call pants. So, stow it.”

  Pushing his glass aside, Norman leaned over the desk and clasped his hands. He sighed and he rubbed his face, “I suppose I will have to suffer in silence.”

  “You can easily cry off,” Radcliff added.

  His suggestion earned him an evil eye from the Duke, “And cause a scandal upon my name and hers? I think not.”

  Evan was shaking his head, and Norman secretly envied how he could do such without a hair moving from its place. His mahogany locks went pell-mell with the barest breath of air or with the slightest movement.

  “Norman, despite your mother’s pressure, you are the one who holds the cards here. You certainly don’t need money or acclaim, or anything from this lady. Go into it with an open mind, and perhaps she will have some talents that delight you. However, if she is not what you want, then do not marry her. Ultimately, it is your happiness in peril, not your mothers.”

  The thing is Norman mused bitterly, I still don’t know entirely what I want, but I have an inkling of what I need.

  “Time will have to tell then,” the Duke added while fiddling with his glass. “Our courtship will be close as she is moving into the manor in six days’ time—scandalous, I know.”

  “It is in reverse,” Radcliffe opined. “Louis, the Lion King of France, married Blanche of Castile and their courtship started after they got married. Consider yourself lucky to have a chance to escape humdrummery before the fact.”

  “And, on that topic, King Ferdinand at the age of three-and-twenty went to Spain to propose marriage to the Infanta, Maria Anna, the daughter of Philip III of Spain. So, a precedence was set. ” Evan added.

  Evan upturned the rest of the bottle and grimaced at the little amount that came out. “Then there’s Henry the Eighth who took a fancy to Queen Anne who was Queen Catherine’s maid of honor. By all accounts, she was an educated woman. She had style, charm, and they say a wicked wit. She was fluent in French, and she sang and even composed several songs and poems. But then again, she ended up headless,” Radcliffe added with a regretful shrug, “so, you have your advantages and disadvantages. The point Kinsley, is if kings could do it, what is the concern of a lady doing so?”

  Norman laughed wryly, “Your efforts at trying to make me see some valor in this arrangement is not working, friends.”

  A sudden bleakness consumed Norman and his smile was tight and decidedly humorless, “I wish I could go back in time and smack myself over the head for my foolish nit-picking over some decent ladies.”

  Casting a bleak eye over the two, Norman suddenly remembered the fire in Miss Hall’s eyes and chuckled under his breath.

  Mayhap there is a silver light after all. She is decidedly an interesting one.

  Standing up, Norman tugged his waistcoat and shook hands with Evan who stood, too, “I will have to face my fate, I suppose. I will update you on my progress or the opposite in the following days. Radcliff, always a pleasure to delve into the dour recesses of your mind. Good day, gentlemen.”

  It was hours after the stunning meeting on the stairs, but Rosaline was still seething. The very gall of the man to act like he had not done anything to her.

  The anxiety of arriving at the ducal manor had plagued her for hours on end, and she had obsessed about giving a good impression. Her dress was painstakingly chosen, her few possessions secured in a garment bag and a pair of rarely-worn shoes were on her feet. Still, she felt like a pauper.

  Three hours of sleep the night before had not given her any sort of calm, her nerves were on edge, and then came this rascal. She knew she was taking it the wrong way—a simple jest had been played on her but in the frame of mind she was in, it felt like she was being mocked and ridiculed.

  Huffing out a breath, Rosaline went to the window of the room Miss Keats had taken her to and had to admit, her new quarters were three times the comfort of what she had previously known.

  She ran her palm on the satin coverlet on the four-poster bed and smoothed her fingers along the tufted headboard. She had heard about bombe legs but had never seen them on a night table, and here was a matching set.

  Curiously, she walked to the stone fireplace and imagined how a warm, glowing fire would light up the curved arch. And there were fire strikers and tinder available. Would she have to light it, or would Mrs. Keats have someone take care of it?

  She circled around the room with appreciative eyes. The walls appeared a muted grey, yet a closer look revealed a pretty pattern of embossed flowers a bare shade darker than the walls around them.

  To the side was wardrobe and a writing desk with drawers that she had access to. And a padded chair! For the novelty of it, she sat and marveled at the softness. Sighing, she walked to the window and looked out with awe at the majestic view of the manor’s flowing backlands. This room was unlike anything she had seen, let alone live in.

  She wanted to appreciate the sight before her mind constantly went back to the Duke and his cocky smirk, and her spirit soured.

  “The gall of him to look at me thus,” Rosaline fumed.

  A knock was on her door and she turned to see Miss Keats. Instantly, she forced a smile on her face. “Miss Keats, what brings you by?”

  “Her Grace is now ready to receive you, Miss Hall,” the maid said. “Is the room to your liking?”

  “It is wonderful,” Rosaline remarked, “The intricacies around me are marvelous. I have never seen such interesting styles before.”

  As they made the trip down the halls and down a flight of stairs, Rosaline made a mental note to try and form a friendship with Miss Keats as she did not look that much older. They arrived at the Duchess’ door and Rosaline nervously tugged at her dress. It was a simple dark-green muslin which she embroidered the sash, neck and sleeves, but she prized it.

  “Enter,” the soft command came.

  As they went in, greeted and curtsied, Rosaline was beckoned forward wh
ile Miss Keats was dismissed. The Duchess had on a sky-blue silk taffeta dress with a white lace shawl tucked around her shoulders—the perfect attire for her matronly silhouette. Her hair was wrapped in a silk turban with fringes resting on her shoulder.

  She could be a queen.

  “Miss Hall,” the Duchess greeted with a smile, “Welcome, I hope you have found the accommodations to your liking.”

  The words were not a question but Rosaline had no complaints either way. “They are wonderful, Your Grace. Thank you for your hospitality. How are you this day?”