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

by Emma Linfield

  Swallowing her surprise, Rosaline turned to Miss Moore, “May, I call you Jane?”

  The girl’s eyes widened but she nodded, “Yes, Miss Hall.”

  “There is nothing to fear here, Jane,” Rosaline assured, “His Grace and Her Grace are very generous and kind people. I know how you feel as I was the same when I first came here, but I quickly learned that they do not behave as other in the peerage do. They do not see us with contempt. I am glad to have you, as my own tutor was glad to have me. Let us work well and make the best dress, hm?”

  The smile of relief Jane had was mirrored by Rosaline’s, “Yes, Miss Hall.”

  Lord Ogbent’s face looked a bit colorless to the Duke when he stepped into his study. Masking his face into an impassive look, Norman greeted him with formally.

  “Please, sit.” For a moment, Norman thought of offering the man an infusion of cordial water instead of the glass of wine he was prepared to give. Perhaps, this time, the man would gather some courage and take what he wanted instead of listening to his wife’s voice in his mind.

  “Some wine, Ogbent?”

  “…I think not, Horenwall,” the man said, “I would rather go into these talks level-headed, don’t you think?”

  And the cowardice shows itself once more.

  “Water then,” Norman said tonelessly before filling a glass and offering it to him. Taking his portion of wine, the Duke sat and cleared his throat. “How has your stay been?”

  “Wonderful,” the Viscount said, “I must give my regards to your grandsire who has built a house that is a timeless masterpiece.”

  “On his behalf, I accept your praise,” Norman nodded. “I do believe the doctor has arrived to attend to Miss Fawcett’s episode from last night.”

  Lord Ogbent nodded before sipping his water, “And I must thank you for such kindness. Isabella has suffered from that malady for most of her fi…er…two-and-twenty years.”

  Noman forced his fist to not tighten even as his acute ears heard the man’s almost slip. Was he about to say five-and-twenty? By God, I was told two-and-twenty. Has she lied to me? If she has lied about this, what more untruths has she told?

  Schooling his face into nonchalance, Norman nodded, “I have heard that it is a horrible affliction. I do hope she will recover soon.”

  Settling his glass, Norman forced himself to act as casually as he could. “Well, to business then, Ogbent.”

  It was just after noon when Rosaline realized that though her estimates of Miss Fawcett’s dress could be appropriate, she hated to be wrong. Since Lady Ogbent, had denied her simple request of measuring Miss Fawcett, the only choice Rosaline had to get an accurate measure, was to ask for one of Miss Fawcett’s dress.

  She entered the sitting room where the two women were with trepidation running doubles through her nerves. “Good day, Lady Ogbent and Miss Fawcett, thank you for seeing me.”

  Lady Ogbent’s glare was mild in comparison to the other times, “What do you want?”

  “I have come to ask if I may borrow one of Miss Fawcett’s dress just to ensure that in case my estimates of her size are wrong, I can correct it,” Rosaline said plainly. She then went on to tell both women the measurements, done only by guesswork, that she believed were somewhat accurate.

  A heavy silence hung in the air after, and Rosaline felt her anxiety grow. Lady Ogbent then spoke, “So you do have some skills after all. Those estimates are correct, so I do not think you would need a dress.”

  “No, Mother,” Miss Fawcett interrupted, “Let her have one. I will not tolerate any mistakes, no matter how minor, when they can be prevented. I want this dress to be perfect! Miss Hall, she at least, has some sense. Most of my Abigails were half-wits when it came to my clothing. Especially Mary.”

  It was!

  “She had the worst sense of fashion I had ever come across and could not tell a tailor my size for a ballgown. She did not even know the difference between wool or cotton,” Miss Fawcett delicately sneered. “I am so glad you got rid of her Mother, Mary was brainless.”

  Confirmation again! It was her sister. It was good to know her suspicions were right even as the news about her sister had come in a tone laden with repugnance. Anger coiled into Rosaline’s chest but she forced her face to stay plain.

  Mary was no fool, she was the wisest and most attentive person I knew!

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Rosaline replied, “But I am glad that my estimates are correct.”

  “A dress will be sent to you this evening,” Lady Ogbent said, then curtly dismissed her.

  Knowing with surety that Mary had been Miss Fawcett’s maid was a minor victory in the seamstress’ book, one she hoped would be the gateway to much more.

  Since Miss Moore had gone home, and the afternoon was balmy, Rosaline decided to take a walk. She did not know how she could prod the Ogbent’s for information but she had to try. Halfway to the main garden, she stopped mid-step.

  “Nonsense,” the Viscountess had 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.”

  And then today, “I am so glad you got rid of her Mother, Mary was brainless.”

  ‘Dealt with’, and ‘got rid of’ were similar…was Mary the person that had been gotten rid of, the same ‘thief’ that had been dealt with? Had they sent her sister to jail for thievery?

  Rosaline’s heartbeat started to increase and her mind was swimming. It was a large step to assume that both persons had been the same but she could not help but wonder.

  Was it my Mary? Did they send Mary to prison for thievery? Could it be that is why she died? But I know Mary, she was honest to a fault! It has to be someone else! But…but, here Rosaline paused as she felt a fleeting bout of hesitation.

  No. I cannot believe that Mary did anything like that…something else must have happened, but what?

  Chapter 11

  Perturbed he might be about Lord Ogbent’s almost slip, Norman was going to stick to his word. He had vowed to give Miss Fawcett a fair chance so that was exactly what he was going to do. That was, if and when Evan and Radcliff decided to free him of their clutches.

  Norman loved his friends, dearly at times, but when they dragged him into conversations about their wives, he was tempted to shoot them.

  “Gentlemen,” Norman snapped when he was almost at his breaking point, “If you have not remembered or considered, I am not equipped to speak on the wonders or, adversely, the horrors of matrimony.”

  His sudden outburst silenced Evan and Radcliffe until the Scotsman snorted, “Marry the lass and you will.”

  “And that is the problem,” Norman grated, “I am not even sure she is who she is anymore.”

  That declaration placed a damper on the jolly spirits of the two, and Evan’s face now sported a frown, “In which way?”

  “In one conversation, Miss Fawcett tells me that she is two-and-twenty,” Norman disclosed, “Then, while speaking with her father he almost slips the word five before saying two. I do not know what to think. I have vowed to try and know her but my doubts from before have doubled in strength.”

  Radcliffe’s heavy brows contacted, “And you think she’s lying?”

  I think they are all lying. And my suspicions are getting deeper.

  “Yes,” Norman admitted, “Even if she is older than she says, why is that a matter? Do I look like I am in the market for unmatured women?”

  Evan leaned back and fiddled with the wrist of his shirt, “Seems to me that is not the only thing you feel disagreeable about the whole arrangement.”

  “It’s not,” Norman did not hold his words back, “Her family is off-kilter. I am not saying it should be perfect, as no family is, but the father is white-livered and his wife is a harpy with her clawed foot sunk into his neck.”

  Both men winced but Norman continued, “And then, without my knowledge, Miss Fawcett goes and orders our seamstress to ma
ke a waistcoat of the same fabric as her wedding dress for me, without my consent.”

  “Consent would indicate that you, at some point, spoke to her on this matter...” Radcliffe delivered in his solicitor tone, “…or on any matter really. Have you spoken to her, Kinsley, because it seems to me that you are avoiding her?”

  “Point taken,” Norman’s tone was dry, “I spoke to her once, but mark you, this order was given before we spoke. Thank god Miss Hall had the politeness to tell me.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Norman saw Evan and Radcliffe share a look over his head, “And this Miss Hall is…?”

  Norman rolled his eyes and quoted directly from Radcliffe’s words, “The same lass with the eyes of fire, which, in happenstance, is much more interesting than that Miss Fawcett.”

  “Norman,” Evan was appalled, “How can she be more interesting than a lady with all the accomplishments? Have you been bewitched?”

  “Let him be,” Radcliffe said while searching in his coat for a cigar, “There are many things that appeal to a man that repulses others. My Maria, she can saddle a horse and hunt with the best of us, but when it comes to playing an instrument, it would be better for your ears to go to the crags of the Càrn Mòr Dearg mountains and listen to the screeches of hawks. I know what he’s saying.”

  “Evan,” Norman tried to reason with his longtime friend, “There had to be some time in your life when you got wearied of the same routine. All the women we are presented with—barring Lady Belthyne, of course—are cut from the same finishing-school-in-France cloth. They have the same mannerisms, the same speech, and actions. You cannot tell me that has not gotten repetitive for you.”

  “Tradition has never let me down before—”

  “—speaks the man with the German wife,” Radcliff cut in with an unrepentant grin.

  Evan’s eyes narrowed and at the end of his rebuttal, his voice had gone stony, “—and moreover, it is what is expected of us. We have a standard of life that we must preserve for generations to follow. And my Ingrid was raised with as many English values as German, thank you very much, Radcliff.”

  “Which, though fascinating, has strayed from the point,” Norman stated, “I am this close to sending an investigator to find what the Ogbents, or my Mother have not told me. I abhor lies.”

  “That is a risky idea, Norman,” Evan cautioned. “Your actions could be seen as a betrayal of their trust and the whole engagement could be called off.”

  Norman was not sure how he could rationalize his answer by saying it was more of finding out the connection they had with Miss Hall than anything else. But how would that be received?

  The details of the Ogbents’ lives, deeds and misdeeds would come as a bonus, but it was mainly for Miss Hall. However, he knew if he admitted that, he would be opening himself up to Radcliff’s jovial hecklings and Evan’s straight-laced censure. Both he would rather do without.

  “It could also save me a lot of pain in the future,” Norman pointed out. “But as I said, I am not decided yet. I will give her chances to come clean but then, if she does not, I will take matters into my own hands. Belthyne, from a legal standpoint, what say you about that?”

  The man stroked his beard, “I’d say, that is the magistrate in you, Horenwall, very…equitable.”

  “Thank you,” Norma added, “And I nearly forgot, my Mother, against my weak objection, has extended an invitation to dinner for you two. Belthyne, you will be bringing your own wine this time.”

  His last words were said glibly.

  “Jesting or not, I do believe that is wise,” Radcliff added with a serious frown and stroking his beard. “Your English wines are poorer than water. Two casks barely get me started.”

  “My point.” Norman grinned.

  Three and a half hours later, and after a meal, unmerciful ribbing from Radcliff and sage counsel from Evan about choosing to do the investigation, the Duke arrived home. The evening was drawing close, and Norman had a goal to accomplish.

  With the closest maid, he sent word to Miss Fawcett to meet him in the music room in an hour and then to ready the harp-lute in the same room.

  He needed to wash off the smell of cigar smoke from his person. Then his valet was ordered to fill his washbasin with warm water and ready his chosen clothes.

  Norman doubted that Miss Fawcett would lie about playing the harp-lute, but he was going to systematically test everything about her, and mayhap, by doing so, could find something that attracted him.

  While combing his hair—a bit futilely as his hair seemed to have a mind of itself—he tried to put his thoughts into perspective. There must be something about Miss Fawcett besides the fact that she was very beautiful.

  Black silk breeches, white stocking, pale ivory shirt, and fitted dark waistcoat, were donned and on a whim, Norman added a timepiece to the outfit. It’s gold chain shimmered against the darker background and added a classical touch as he pulled on his tailcoat.

  I gave my word, I must try to make this work.

  The music room was on the second floor, two rooms removed from the library. The two large leaf doors that lead to the music room opened up to a large chamber decorated with exquisite plasterwork throughout on the walls and the ceiling. As the room was made for evenings of relaxation and amusement, it was fitted out with many padded chairs, tiny tables for treats, a fireplace and, of course, the instruments.

  Inside was a grand piano, a graceful harp and on the stand near a chair was the resurrected and polished harp-lute. On the base of both walls that curved towards the fireplace was a detailed carving of the Nine Muses of Olympus. Each of the beautiful ladies was holding the symbols of their gift to mankind.

  Every time Norman entered the room, he wondered why the symbol of Melpomene the beautiful songstress, who was also the muse of tragedy, was holding a knife. It felt ominous.

  “Your Grace,” Lady Fawcett’s light airy voice greeted as she entered with her mother in tow. She had on a lovely rose and beige silk-satin taffeta gown with poufy sleeves. Her mother was dressed more conservatively in a dark floral print. “Good afternoon to you. What a wonderful occasion.”

  His smile was genial as he bowed, “Good day to you, too, Miss Fawcett and Lady Ogbent. Miss Fawcett, how are you feeling?”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  Norman watched her for a moment before looking back at Lady Ogbent. “Madam, how are you this day?”

  Her lips were pressed thin, but they valiantly tried to smile. “I am well, thank you, Your Grace, and you?”

  “Middling,” Norman replied, “But I must say the talks with Lord Ogbent are going well. I plan to take him hunting as soon as I am not needed in the town.”

  The Duke was expecting her face to sour more, but to his surprise, it mellowed, “That’s a wonderful idea, Your Grace. Richard has not been on the game trails for a while.”

  Norman controlled his reaction and smiled instead, “Wonderful, I am glad he has your approval on something. Miss Fawcett, you told me about your talent for the harp-lute, so I thought it might be a pleasure for you to demonstrate your skill,” Norman added. “Would you agree?”

  “I am delighted,” she said while moving over to the instrument.

  Turning towards Miss Fawcett who was at the instrument, Norman sat and smiled, “Please, do go on.”

  Rosaline was coming from the library when the sound of music drew her closer to a room she had never entered. She did not dare look in but stood at the lip and listened. The music flowing through the air was a glorious symphony, light, melodic and masterful.

  Only someone trained in such art could be delivering such a harmonious tune and Rosaline felt who it was coming from—Miss Fawcett. There could be others such as the Duchess, who, Rosaline was sure had mastered a likewise art or even Lady Ogbent herself but Rosaline felt it was Miss Fawcett.

  Daring to peek around the corner Rosaline saw the Duke and Lady Ogbent sitting on a chaise-lounge with their attention solely placed on M
iss Fawcett. The instrument in her arm was one Rosaline never seen before or even know existed. It was something of a harp but then again, it was not.

  Miss Fawcett’s fingers plucked at the strings with ease and the music they produced was faultless. Rosaline happened to see the enraptured look on the Duke’s face and felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.

  Turning away, Rosaline went back to the library thinking it wise to wait until they were finished. Inside, she softly bit her lip. It is good she tried to tell herself, it is good. I should be happy for him. Shouldn’t I?