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

by Emma Linfield

  “I am well, Miss Hall, and you?”

  After sharing pleasantries, Rosaline asked a burning question. “Do you have a workroom already made for me to use, or am I the one to choose?”

  The lady looked contemplative, “There have been three rooms selected but ultimately, it is your choice. Your comfort is most desirable, Miss Hall. They are all wide and spacious, enough for mannequins, tables, and anything you might desire for your work.”

  “Well the basic equipment such as needles, scissors, thimbles, and pins are a must have but I cannot in good conscience acquire those before choosing the cloth. And the thread also. Not every cloth goes with every thread,” she added.

  The Duchess smoothed non-existent wrinkles out of her skirt. “A very prudent decision, Miss Hall. Rest assured though that no expense will be spared when Miss Fawcett makes her decision on the cloth and embellishments. The finest and most luxurious imports around from France, Italy, and India found at Harding Howell and Co, Waithman and Sons, or even the Shawl and Linen Warehouse will be at your disposal.”

  The names, said with ease and familiarity, went right over Rosaline’s head, and she could only nod. “Would you be able to describe Miss Fawcett to me? A mental image might give me an inkling of what she might prefer.”

  A knock preceded a voice that instantly irritated Rosaline, “I believe I can give you that image, Miss Hall.”

  The Duke—the vexing Duke—had returned.

  It irked her, but Rosaline stood and curtsied, “Good day, Your Grace.”

  The Duchess’ head swiveled between the two, “You have met, I see.”

  “Briefly,” the Duke said while entering. He dipped to kiss his mother’s cheek and then sat beside her. “too briefly that I was not able to properly introduce myself. My apologies, Miss Hall, my mother raised me better than that.”

  “None taken, Your Grace,” Rosaline replied tightly.

  Oh, how wonderful it was to see the same passion from before. Her eyes glistened with ire, but Norman knew it was not prudent of him to feed the flame, especially in front of his mother.

  “Miss Fawcett is a flaxen-haired lady with—” He began until his mother stopped him.

  “Norman,” his mother, Duchess Eleanor said genially while laying a hand on his knee, “I do believe that an accurate description of her should come from one who has actually seen the lady, no?”

  Even while his head was twisted to his mother, Norman could see Miss Hall’s arched eyebrows. He knew she was surprised that he—the prospective groom—had not seen his bride-to-be before. In the next moment, her surprise was gone and replaced with placid patience.

  “An accurate description is one I think Miss Hall would also prefer, hm?”

  His mother’s words, canted as a suggestion, were actually orders and he bowed to them. He saw a satisfied smile curve on Miss Hall’s lips before she ducked her head to hide it.

  She delights in my subjection.

  “As astute as ever, Mother,” Norman replied and sat back.

  “Miss Fawcett has the golden hair of angels and pale, cream-like complexion, so warm tones would not be best. My opinion is light pink or yellow, teal perhaps and a lovely shade of green can be considered, but again, the decision must come from Miss Fawcett.”

  “Not only her, Mother,” Norman said, “I am assured that her mother, the Viscountess Ogbent will also have a hand in it too.”

  A sudden strangled choke came from Miss Hall the very moment after he had uttered the name. Without a second thought, Norman was ready to lend a hand as her face drained of all color. She weakly stopped him by fanning her hand and took in some deep breaths. The Duke was mystified.

  What caused such a peculiar reaction?

  Getting up with his lips pressed together in consternation, Norman found a table where a jug of water and a glass sat and poured the young woman a drink.

  “Thank you,” her voice broke when he handed it to her. After a few sips, she curved her bloodless hands around the glass and weakly said, “Excuse me, did—did you say Viscountess Ogbent?”

  “Yes,” the Duchess said in clear concern, “Why? Is there a problem?”

  Chapter 5

  A problem! Yes, there is a problem!

  Rosaline could not believe this was happening to her. This had to be a cruel jest. She clenched her fists to stop trembling under her fingers were numb. She nearly swallowed her tongue, and the shock running through her body had still not calmed when she barely managed to answer the Duchess’ question.

  She considered telling them the truth about her sister who used to be a maid in the Ogbent household and how Mary was suddenly sent to prison and then died of consumption three days later. But she refrained.

  “Miss Hall, are you alright?” The Duchess’ voice was filled with apprehension.

  I must keep my composure. This is the perfect opportunity to find out the truth and confront my past. They cannot know I am familiar with the family.

  “I apologize, Your Graces,” Rosaline added with a brave face. “The name took me by surprise as I thought it familiar, but I was wrong. Please forgive me for causing any distress.”

  Rosaline did not dare meet the Duke’s eyes as she felt—deeply felt—that he was distrustful of her words. She knew her declaration was weak, but she prayed that neither of them would question it.

  “I will fulfill my pledge to your family, Your Graces,” she assured while hoping that she could bluff her way through the rest of the meeting. “But back to our previous conversation. I do concur with you, Your Grace, pink, blue and green would be beautiful against her pale complexion.”

  Her attempt to turn the conversation back to the previous point was met with visible hesitation from both parties, but relentlessly she pushed forward and they followed. She and the Duchess went on to discuss possible cloth choices, ornamentation, and complementary lace for a veil.

  Through the discourse, Rosaline felt the Duke’s eyes on her and though unnerving, the look was thrilling to her at the same time. Why was she holding his attention? When a soft pause came between her and the Duchess’ conversation, Rosaline dredged up the bravery to ask the Duke a question. The steady blue of the Duke’s gaze nearly dissuaded her, but she asked away.

  “Your Grace, do you have an opinion you would like to share?”

  The Duke’s face was unreadable, but he shook his head as he uncrossed his legs, “Not at this time, Miss Hall. I think I am out of my depth in this matter, and as I am useless here, I will leave you two be. Mother, I will be in my study if you need me. By the by, Lord Edgehill and Lord Belthyne send their regards.”

  Her face lit up with delight, “That is wonderful! Norman, you must invite them to dinner this week.”

  Norman’s left eyebrow ticked up, “Mother, do you remember the last time Lord Belthyne was here? He drank enough to fill a gorge—twice.”

  “It does not matter,” the Duchess admonished with a dismissing wave, “Invite them anyway.”

  “As you wish, Mother,” the Duke nodded, “Miss Hall.”

  Halfway down the corridor from the sitting room, Norman stopped and looked over his shoulder. The stricken look on Miss Hall’s face was not of a misplaced memory, he was sure of that. It was one laden with pure, unadulterated fear and palpable panic.

  “What are you hiding from us, Miss Hall?”

  He made a mental note to find out more about her but first and foremost, he had to know who he was dealing with when it came to Ogbents. He still did not feel at ease with the situation but he was going to humor his mother for the time being.

  Evan’s words came back to him. He did hold all the cards and he was not going to play a losing hand.

  Hours later, the tremors of finding out that Miss Fawcett was the daughter of Viscountess Ogbent—an enemy if Rosaline knew what the word meant—still had not dissipated.

  Rosaline had no definitive proof that the Viscountess was connected to her sister’s death, but she felt it. The feeling was so deep
in her soul that it would take a miracle to remove it. She did not know why or how the lady was involved, but she now had a way to find out.

  Her knees were still shaky as she again stood at the window in her room. Braced on the sill, she rested her almost feverish head on the cool stone. Her listless eyes scanned the nearby land without seeing much until her third pass over.

  The Duke was once again on his horse, trotting in an open field a good distance away. Her eyes darted up to the sky and a tiny frown marked her face. It was getting dangerously close to dusk and if she trained her ear, she could discern the soft hoots of owls.

  Rosaline knew he had left the manor not long after leaving the sitting room, but to stay away all day? Is he that terribly busy?

  She stood there, watching him direct the powerful thoroughbred over the grassy stretch like it was a second thought. Secretly, the young seamstress admitted an old wish. When she was younger, she had wanted to learn how to ride horses. On the rare trips to the main town of Horenwall, she would gaze with enamored eyes on the rich ladies in their fancy riding habits, sitting side-saddle atop a horse with the mien of queens as they rode through the town.

  Unfortunately, orphans, under apprenticeship for a trade career did not get the opportunity or have the means to take equestrian lessons.

  “I was fortunate to have two meals a day and a warm bed to sleep in,” she remarked dully.

  Turning away, Rosaline went through her room, trailing light fingertips over the expensive furniture. The bedposts were sanded down to a smoothness that only the best carpenters could evoke. She admired the upholstering done in rich velvet and damask, framed by gilt-wood and bright marquetry.

  I am being trusted here, Rosaline realized, this room has so many things that can be sold or pawned for a tidy sum. Many would be tempted.

  Nearing the chair, she sat and pressed her palms to her eyes. In a matter of days, she was going to meet the Viscountess, the very same lady that her sister had been working for. Nearly a decade had passed with Rosaline still mired in ignorance about the cause of her sister’s death. Nonetheless, now that she had the chance to find out, she was not going to let it pass.

  But…does the Viscountess know that Mary had a sister? Does she know about me? If so, I may have lost this endeavor before it has begun. If she knows who I am…

  A palpable fear began to descend upon Rosaline. Could she carry on a charade under the lady’s nose without being caught?

  I must! This is my only chance! I can only hope that she does not know or remember any mention of me. I must find out what happened to my sister!

  While still mulling over it, her mind flitted over the Duke. She felt the old irritation from his jest spring up, but this time it did not have the same anger as before. Her jaw did clench when she remembered the cocky smirk on his face but even with her annoyance, she had to admit, the man was handsome.

  His blue eyes were a shade she had never seen before. They were not light nor dark but were hued on the spectrum between. Sometimes, she even believed the hue changed with his emotions, from wickedly sharp cyan of amusement to a mellow azure brought on by thought.

  She frowned slightly at a fleeting memory, “Was there a scar on his cheek? Why I wonder…” Moments later she scoffed, “I do not care. As long as he leaves me alone, we will get through this time splendidly.”

  Norman had no intention of letting go what he had seen with Miss Hall. The lady was clearly distressed by the name Ogbent, but she had adverted attention from it with poise fit for any gambler on their losing hand. It was a matter he kept reflecting on during the hours he was out in the field and exercising Goliath.

  The Duke knew that he could easily use his influence and investigate the matter, but felt it was a bit too early. Moreover, it would not do him any good to poke into the affairs of his soon to be in-laws so soon.

  The family could get word of his investigation, decide he was untrustworthy, decline the marriage, and therefore, upset his mother. He could not afford that. It was better to investigate when they would be closer to home—inside his home, actually.

  Now in his study and pouring out a dram of sherry, Norman smiled at the passion he had seen in Miss Hall’s eyes. Rarely, had anyone shown him that much true emotion for fear of reprisal. Most men did not dare do so as they knew who he was and what power he held. And for them to be outdone by a young woman, a mere fraction of their age gave Norman feeling a delight he had never felt before.

  “Why do I suspect that things are going to change around here…and all because of you, Miss Hall.”

  It was the day before the Ogbent family was to arrive and the manor was relatively calm. The past two days had the servants doing only the finishing touches in the rooms where the family of three, the Viscount, his wife, and his daughter, were to stay in.

  Fortunately, Rosaline had not been able to avoid interactions with the upsetting Duke but when she did, she made herself act politely. His never-fading smirk still irked her and though he was from the upper tier, he had the soul of a rascal. She was hoping to avoid him on this day, the day before his betrothed was to arrive but sadly, she came upon him in the library.

  “Drat,” she whispered to herself at seeing him but did not have the courage to just turn and walk away. A snub like that would not be taken lightly by anyone, much less a Duke.

  “Ah,” his smooth drawl washed over her, “Miss Hall, what a fortunate surprise.”

  “Your Grace,” Rosaline replied with every intention of making a polite exit, “Forgive me for intruding. I will go.”

  “Did you not come for something?” his voice still had that dratted tease as its undertone. “Don’t mind me, Miss Hall, you are free to get what you have come for.”

  Turned away, Rosaline swallowed tightly, “It can wait.”

  “Hm.”

  The sound felt somewhat peculiar—somewhat judging—and Rosaline could not stop herself from turning back to him. Their eyes met while a thick silence stretched on and so did Rosaline’s patience. While she was getting annoyed, the smile on his face told her he was enjoying her discomfort, and that irked her more.

  Huffing slightly, she made to leave when this was said, “You are still not in arms about the simple jest I played on you the other day, are you?”

  “… In arms is a curious term, Your Grace,” Rosaline replied stiffly, “One would imagine I am brandishing a sword or holding a knife to your neck. But I have no ill will towards you.”

  The Duke stepped into the stronger light and there Rosaline saw his morning attire of tan breeches, dark waistcoat, and white shirt. His coat was missing but his cravat was tied expertly and imbedded in the center was a blue gem as the pin.

  “And what about our trust?” he questioned.

  Trust? What trust? She floundered for a moment then she remembered his parting words on the staircase, “I will not fail your mother’s faith either.”

  His head tilted to the side and his lowered eyes and smile were enigmatic, “I can still see the fire that you are valiantly holding back, Miss Hall. Let me assure you, my jest was not one of a vile nature, and I apologize for causing you to think so.”

  She was sorely tempted to disregard his words, but they rang with a note of truth. Disgruntled, she said, “I…thank you, Your Grace.”

  “How old are you, Miss Hall?”

  “I am twenty years, Your Grace,” she replied, slightly wondering why he was asking her such particulars.

  His eyebrow lifted. “Miss Hall, there is a fire in you that I rarely see in men thrice your age. I must admit, feeling your glare centered in the middle of my back when we met amused me, but the novelty has passed. I cannot in good conscience allow you to think that I am a cad.”

  Her eyes widened, a telling motion that made the Duke laugh. “Which, I see, is what you have held me as, no?”

  Rosaline’s cheeks warmed, “I—”

  “Do not lie to me, Miss Hall,” the Duke cut in, “I am mature enough to take your words gra
cefully. You must admit, it was warranted.”

  Her flush was intense, “I had believed so, Your Grace.”

  His husky laugh warmed her face but this time it was for another reason; she felt shy and his gaze felt…warm. She felt as if he was seeing her and not what position she held as mere servant.

  “I propose a truce, Miss Hall,” the Duke added. “I will not aggravate you anymore. Sadly, though your glares did amuse me, it is time to move past it, agreed?”

  “Agreed, Your Grace,” Rosaline replied in relief, “May I ask, what has caused you this change of heart? Is it that your intended is arriving on the morrow?”