It was about noon when Rosaline finally had the chance to explore the manor’s vast library. After her happenstance meet with the Duke in the early morning, Rosaline had tried to avoid going there at that time, but the urge to explore the room where boundless sources of knowledge lay was still in the back of her mind.
No one knew the fascination she had with books even though the only books she had ever read were the Book of Prayer and a dog-eared copy of Gulliver’s Travels lent to her years ago in the charity school by a fellow orphan.
Now, in a house that had more books than she had ever seen, Rosaline was glad that the Duchess had given her permission to use whatever resources she needed. Using the vague permission, Rosaline was going to read whatever she could, as a hunger for knowledge eclipsed her low-born state.
The Duke, to her relief, was out on business and Her Grace was entertaining the two Ogbent ladies in her drawing room. The library’s shelves were a continuous row of wooden shelves that covered the three walls. The middle of the fourth wall was a large marble fireplace that was placed, sensibly away from the books. In the center of the room were padded wingback chairs, a thick rug and small tables for tea cups or for taking notes.
The first thing that drew Rosaline was a large portrait of whom, she could only guess was the ancestor of the Duke of Horenwall. His clothes looked ridiculous to her, and she was tempted to laugh, but she supposed they were in fashion at the time.
Perusing the shelves, Rosaline saw many thick tomes, and by a quick flip of the cover, they revealed themselves to be books on law, science, astronomy, and animals. Some books were written in French, others were manuals for housemakers, and a few were history records. The last book she picked up was one of poetry. Smiling, she chose that one.
Settling in a chair facing the portrait, Rosaline cracked the book open and started to read. The archaic language took her some time to decipher, but when she had read a few good passages, she started to understand what the words meant.
The trip to London to get the fabric for Miss Fawcett’s dress was in three days and Rosaline was nervous. She had never seen the capital before and constantly wondered what it was like.
Soon enough her mind strayed from the book and she remembered what she had heard that evening between Lady Ogbent and Miss Fawcett.
“—but be sure, Mother,” Miss Fawcett’s voice was a bit petulant, “You must have noticed that she resembles her.”
“Nonsense,” the Viscountess snapped, “And I thought I had ordered you to not mention that person again. She was dealt with Isabella, and anyone who poses a threat to us will be dealt with likewise.”
Rosaline did not want to assume but she felt something horrible had happened to some poor lady. Whoever it was, she did not know but felt a deep sympathy for her. In the few days that she had been subjected to the cruelty of those two, she could not imagine what it felt like to have born it, possibly for years before being ‘dealt’ with.
Was she killed?
“Miss Hall?”
Jumping out of her reverie, Rosaline scrambled out of her seat and curtsied to the Duchess. “Good day, Your Grace.”
“I was wondering where you were,” the lady said, “I just received word from Harding Howell and Company. They have received new stock and have reserved their showroom for us tomorrow.”
Rosaline knew that she was being told to prepare for the trip. “We leave for London tomorrow then.”
“Yes,” the Duchess added, “Miss Hall, I know there is tension between you and the Ogbent family, but do not let it hamper your work. Remember, I am the one who conscripted your services, not they.”
The seamstress’ smile was tight, “I do, and I will remember that, Your Grace…” she paused and calmly asked, “Will His Grace be joining us?”
“No, sadly,” the older woman sighed, “apparently, picking out bolts of cloth, and choosing lace trimming is not in the mental makeup of a man. He and Lord Ogbent will be staying behind. Why do you ask?”
Rosaline kept her tone even, “Because Miss Fawcett ordered me to make him a vest in the same color. I believe that his opinion should matter.”
Her words clearly took the lady by surprise and a small smile curved the Duchess’ lips, “In any other matter you would be right, Miss Hall but when it comes to a wedding, the lady is allowed all indulgences.”
She did not see it that way, but it was not her place to protest. Nodding, Rosaline stood and replaced the book, “I understand, Your Grace. I will go and make my preparations for tomorrow.”
“…If it is any consolation,” the Duchess said genially, “your consideration for him is greatly respected.”
She smiled and curtsied, “Thank you.”
Walking away, Rosaline felt her spirits dim. She did not know how long the ride to London was, but she felt that by the end of it, her energy would be drained. It had to be a gift of the two Ogbent ladies, to suck the life out of those who were lower than them.
Forsaking supper, Rosaline took out her best dress once more but felt it too plain. She was about to see London for the first time, she needed something special. With minor hesitation, Rosaline took out her lone shawl, one that Mrs. Caddell had given her years ago but one that she had never worn as there had been no occasion to do so.
It was a thick lambswool creation dyed in the deepest blue with tiny embroidered leaves at each end. It was her highly prized possession, and if there were a time to wear it, it would be tomorrow.
Folding a square of the cloth, she pressed it to her cheek and sighed at the softness, Yes, this will do.
Setting it aside, Rosaline made sure to put her clothes in order for the next day and with her stomach tied in knots, she went to bed.
London was not what Rosaline had imagined. Growing up, and hearing the wonderful tales of the magnificent city, Rosaline had imagined it to be similar to the Promised Land. Instead, it was probably closer to Hell.
The majority of the city that she could see, was a muck and mud-laden town with a foul, garbage-saturated stench. Or, perhaps that was just from the stinking river they had just passed over.
The Duchess of Horenwall had taken out her silver, heart-shaped vinaigrette over ten times to rid her nose of the odor while the two Ogbent ladies had done the same. Rosaline, however, without such appliance was left to press her handkerchief to her nose and suffer through the stomach-turning odor. The slightly coarse texture of the material paled in comparison to the softness of the Duke’s, which was now hidden in a drawer in her room.
Gradually, the shoddy buildings started to change to grander structures, the streets were cleaner and the air changed. The people on the walkways were now dressed in clean and fashionable clothes.
As they progressed, the clean streets were now filled with shining carriages, dark phaetons, and not a buggy was in sight. The women bearing lacy parasols had on wonderous dresses and the men beside them were dapper in their dark coats and even darker top hats.
There are two London’s then, Rosaline ascertained, one for the poor and encumbered and one for the rich and unburdened…I would never fit in either.
While she marveled, the others were impassive. This was not strange to the three other women and it showed in their aloof expressions. The grand carriage slowed and gradually stopped to the side of a lovely garden with trimmed hedges of evergreen bushes.
“Ah,” Duchess Horenwall smiled while looking out her right window, “The Pall Mall at the lovely St. James Square.”
Rosaline caught the eye of Miss Fawcett but quickly looked away. She did not need to draw any condescension her way this early.
They sat still until the coachman, Mr. Taylor, had set down the mounting block and opened the door. The Duchess was the first out, followed by Lady Ogbent and Miss Fawcett. Rosaline was last and as she emerged, she clutched her shawl close.
The air was dry and somewhat heavy but not humid. The Duchess in her thick traveling coat and trimmed bonnet flicked her fan out and fluttered it. �
��Ladies, this is Harding Howell and Company, where, I hope we can get all we need in one place.”
Rosaline felt suspicion curl in her stomach as she considered Lady Ogbent and her daughter. It was not right for the two women to be this quiet. In fact, it felt somewhat ominous.
With the coachman at the helm, they crossed the road and entered the large drapers’ shop. Just as the Duchess had said, it was empty as the merchants had closed the store to cater them alone.
“Your Grace,” a lady in a dark blue dress and perfectly coiffed hair came towards them, “It is a pleasure to meet you, I am Mrs. Copeland.”
She curtsied, “On behalf of the owners of Harding Howell and Company, I thank you. Behind me are my assistants, they will be aiding us today.”
The two ladies curtsied and the man bowed.
“Allow me to present Lady Ogbent, Miss Isabella Fawcett, and Miss Hall, our seamstress,” the Duchess of Horenwall said genially while all three curtsied.
“Your Grace, in your letter, you requested the best gold cloth for a wedding dress, velvet and Honiton lace for the trim?” the lady asked to which the Duchess nodded. “I am glad to tell you, we have the finest selections in place. May I know the bride-to-be?”
Rosaline’s eyes widened as the lady’s eyes rested on her and she hurriedly shook her head. Was this woman addled? Did she look rich enough to be shopping in this place? Moreover, did she look anything close to a bride?
“That would be me, Mrs. Copeland,” Miss Fawcett stepped forward.
“Wonderful, I wish you all the best on your marriage,” the lady was all smiles, “Please let me show you to a sitting room where our assistants will get all the samples you will need.”
At the back of the group, and as it was with the streets of London, Rosaline was again marveling. Passing by the store’s merchandise, she saw a multitude of furs and fans, bolts of fabric, haberdashery items, and a wide range of clocks. She barely glimpsed an arrangement of perfumes on a nearby table before they were ushered into the sitting room.
Inside, was a table that held three teapots and various delicious-looking finger foods. They were invited to sit.
“May I interest you in a cup of tea, Your Grace, Lady Ogbent, Miss Fawcett, and Miss Hall?” Mrs. Copeland offered, and though Rosaline’s stomach was still a bit unsettled, she knew it was bad manners to refuse the offer, so she gave her assent after the other three had.
While the tea was being poured, Rosaline once again tried to analyze the Ogbents—they were strangely tempered. Not once had she heard a snide comment or a seen a scornful look from either of them.
“Your tea, Miss.”
Her eyes darted up just as a soft blush claimed her face. She cleared the throat and accepted the cup. “Thank you.”
Studiously not meeting any of her companions’ eyes, Rosaline sipped her tea and watched as the assistants came in with various bolts of gold cloth.
Rich cloths that had hues between bold and pale, patterned and plain, were paraded before them. Miss Fawcett was given swatches of the presented cloth to feel. She rejected them all until a bolt of heavy silk satin in a light gold color was presented.
Rosaline saw how her face lit up, and she reached eagerly for the swatch. A moment later she nodded, “This is the one!”
“Wonderful choice,” Mrs. Copeland smiled as she directed the assistant to place the heavy bolt on a table. “Now, should we get to the velvet?”
Rosaline saw Lady Ogbent give her daughter a piercing look and then Miss Fawcett’s face colored.
She cleared her throat delicately, “I have changed my mind. I do not think velvet would be appropriate for my train…Miss Hall, what do you think?”
Rosaline nearly dropped her cup in fright. Why were they asking her opinion on the matter? Was not the choice of dress and cloth already written in stone? Perhaps not as seven pairs of eyes were latched on her and under the scrutiny she thought quickly.
“My Lady, how about a sash of the palest ivory? It would complement the dress and I can make the pleats into a fall that though shorter, would give you a beautiful train?”
Once again, the same piercing look was delivered, and Miss Fawcett’s face soured. Her voice, however, was sweet. “I agree. Do you have a cloth like that?”
Rosaline’s head was spinning. What had happened to the spoiled girl who got whatever she wanted? Where were the glare and the defiant bluster of, ‘I want it made in an empire cut with a lovely black velvet train, white gloves…and make a vest of the same cloth for His Grace too so we can match’?
All through the measuring out of the lace, the choosing of fancy buttons, spools of gold and white thread and the silk cloth for Miss Fawcett’s gloves, Rosaline was mystified. Where was the real Miss Fawcett? Even during the choosing of cloth for the chemise, petticoat and cotton twill for Miss Fawcett’s undergarments she still pondered.
It was not until they were making preparation to leave and after Rosaline had whimsically requested a foot and a half of white cotton cloth for herself, that she figured it out.
They are playing nice. They did not want to look pretentious.
She was just about to pay for the cloth when her money was refused. “Her Grace has been generous to us. A square of cotton is no cost to us.”
Rosaline had thought, like anyone would, that if she wanted something, she would have to pay for it herself, but who was she to refuse this gift? Taking the folded square and giving her thanks, Rosaline added her voice to the farewells and boarded the loaded carriage.
Holding her parcel, Rosaline’s theory of the Ogbents playing nice was made certain after she heard Lady Ogbent tell the Duchess her thanks that they had gotten all they needed, and saw Miss Fawcett slump in her seat with a pout.
Was she not as happy as her mother? Why so?
Oh, her cloak of velvet was taken away from her. In keeping with looking humble, such extravagance would have shattered the illusion.
Then she remembered the glare, a silent order to play nice, that Lady Ogbent had given her daughter. Shaking her head, Rosaline looked at the cloth in her lap and redirected her thoughts. Her whim was slowly changing into a purpose.
Your Grace, your handkerchief is wonderful but, I know I can do you one, or three better…
It had not been Norman’s intention to leave Lord Ogbent at home alone while the ladies went shopping, but his duties as Duke were his priority. Besides, the man was an adult, he could entertain himself in the time he was alone.
Sadly, that time had stretched from morning to evening and it was nearly dusk when Norman’s carriage rolled into the driveway of his home. The butler greeted him and graciously took his cloak.
It had been a hell of a day, and Norman was glad that it was behind him. From dealing with a land dispute that had devolved into blows by two tenants to renegotiating the wages for the field workers and eking out a tax payment compliance plan with some other tenants, Norman had the vision of a bottle of wine and his bed dancing before him.
“Send a bottle of wine to my quarters, Colden,” Norman called tiredly over his shoulder.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mr. Colden replied.
Climbing up the stairs, the Duke faintly thought of checking on Lord Ogbent but did not have the strength. It was a rare occasion where his strength was siphoned off to near depletion, but Norman had a few ideas why.
Perhaps it was the late nights he had spent going over court cases or mayhap it was the never-ending upkeep he had to oversee in the town and on his manor’s grounds.
But no, Norman shook his head as he rid himself of his cravat and waistcoat, it is her…it is Miss Hall and what she is hiding from me.
Now that the Ogbents were near, Norman knew it was safe to send out investigators to find out the link between Miss Hall and the family but felt it was not yet time. It was easy, but he wanted her to come and voluntarily tell him before prying into her life.
There was a knock on his door, and his maid handed him the bottle of wine, a go
od night, and a curtsy before she was gone.
Noman was not one to fool himself, out of all the people in his home, Miss Hall was the most intriguing and the most mysterious. She had a beauty about her that was naturally stunning and a personality that was not manufactured by years of formal training.
He just knew that she was a puzzle that needed to be carefully put together. While pouring out a glass of wine and settling in a wingback chair, Norman declined to prod the fire higher but instead delved into thought with Miss Hall as his main focus. What was it about her that called to him?
Was it her honesty? Was it her true modesty? Was it the quirk of her lips when she was amused or was it the glimmer in her eyes with laughter?
No, it is the level of fire in her bewitching eyes.
The Sullen Seamstress of Horenwall Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 8