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

by Emma Linfield

  “Oh, I see, I see,” the man replied.

  Was that a flash of desperation in his eyes?

  “I will get to it as soon as it lands on my desk,” the Duke assured. “In lighter news, I must tell you that I just had a riveting conversation on the state of the Regent’s newest government scandal. Miss Fawcett, said very eloquently, that he is now forcing us into a state of confusion and eternal runarounds by appointing both Marquess Richard Wellesley, and Francis Rawdon-Hastings, the second Earl of Moire to construct a bipartisan ministry at a time when neither party wants to share power with the other, and I cannot agree more.”

  The man’s eyes were lit with joy and he chuckled, “Ah, Isabella, she never fails to surprise me. Now I know why she keeps taking the newspapers after I read them.”

  “And soaking up the information like a sponge, too,” Norman added. “To recall all that information without fault or error is a gift, and her insights were very accurate.”

  “She was an intuitive child,” Ogbent added, “and now a wise lady.”

  There was no particular giveaway in the man’s behavior, but Norman felt he was angling for something. “Is there something troubling you, Ogbent?”

  “No, no, nothing really,” the Viscount added, “I am just musing on the fortunate developments. Horenwall, do you know that Isabella saw you at Dame Northgate’s autumn ball years ago but believed you to be engaged? Now, that she is your engaged, that to me is very ironic but fortunate.”

  So, the little Miss Fawcett had eyes on me over five years ago…

  “Dame Northgate’s autumn ball…you say,” Norman said as he tried to travel back in time to that night. “It was a masquerade affair, five years ago, I believe?”

  “Verily so,” the man smiled, “I admit, I only heard after the fact as I was in the card room for most of the night…the dress she had on was a recreation of Aphrodite’s robes. A wonderful dress of princely purples and laurel flowers. She shone like a star that night.”

  Curious…. I do not remember her. But then again, if she is really two-and-twenty, what was a ten-and-six-year old doing at such a ball?

  “Speaking of dresses,” Ogbent said casually, “Do you know if the wedding dress is ready yet?”

  A tiny creased dented Norman’s brow, “I have not the faintest…but I would imagine, if it was done, I’d probably be at the altar, don’t you think?”

  “I would,” Ogbent said, “The seamstress, Miss Hall is it…I think she must be wonderfully talented to garner the attention of the Duchess of Horenwall.”

  Something suspicious flared inside Norman’s chest. Where was this going?

  “I think I will take that wine now if you have it,” the older man said.

  Glad that he did not have to call for the bottle as he had one in the room, Norman rose to fetch it and a glass.

  “She is,” Norman replied while opening the bottle, “uniquely so.”

  “And a beauty as well.”

  Norman’s hand nearly let the bottle slip before his fist went tight. A red-hot flare of anger—which when the Duke reflected on in hindsight was actually jealously— possessed his chest.

  Calming himself, Norman reprimanded his emotions. I do not have any claim on Miss Hall. “I agree, it is evident.”

  Carrying the glass over, Norman realized why the Viscount had begun the conversation in the first place. Was he trying to fetter out if he and Miss Hall were involved? Or was it something more—was he interested in her? A woman, half his age?

  He tried to control twitching of his jaw as he waited for another word about Miss Hall to come from the other man, but none did. Instead, Ogbent went back to the matter of their trade agreement, and Norman breathed out slowly through his nose.

  Miss Hall has better prospects than you, Ogbent.

  His bitter thought almost made him drop his glass. Since when had he become the arbitrator of Miss Hall’s affairs?

  Once again, Rosaline felt as if she was entering the den of a ferocious beast when approaching the sitting room where Miss Fawcett and Lady Ogbent were. The two women were seated on separate wingback chairs and a tray laden with a pot of tea and tarts set before them.

  Her knock was received by a cool look of acknowledgment and dismissal from Lady Ogbent, but was then waved in by Miss Fawcett.

  “Good Lady Ogbent and Miss Fawcett,” Rosaline greeted with a curtsy. “I have prepared a few drawings of the train for your gown Miss Fawcett and I need you to pick one.”

  Secretly, Rosaline was hoping to find chances where she could subtly ask questions about Mary. She had not had an opportunity yet as she and Ogbent’s had no business to discuss, and a random question would be incredibly suspicious.

  “Oh,” Lady Fawcett smiled and reached out for the papers in Rosaline’s hand, “hand them to me.”

  There was no ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, just a direct order to relinquish the papers and wait until the lady inspected them. The first was a light sketch of the gown with pleats mounted on the middle-back of the gown and fell into a graceful train.

  The second was of the same outlined gown with a lace tulle train and the third, was her favorite. The sash on the outline of the gown was made of light ivory cloth with inserts of the dress’ gold cloth. The streamers of the sash fell into a lovely chapel train.

  The paper was held up and Miss Fawcett’s eyes had grown wide. “This one, this is lovely.”

  “Let me see,” Lady Ogbent demanded.

  Rosaline stood there, furiously wondering how to work Mary into the conversation when Miss Fawcett did it for her. “What do you think Mother? I think it’s divine. I cannot believe that a servant came up with this. I am sure that the little brains Mary had would have shattered if she even thought of this.”

  The emphasis on the word servant stung, but Rosaline was happy Mary had been brought into the conversation. “You mentioned she was sent away.”

  She did not dare add the ‘why’ to the end. It was her hope that Miss Fawcett would do the rest.

  “Oh, yes, we had to, she was a thief and a liar. She was sent to prison where all of her kind belong,” the lady spat spitefully while patting her perfectly-coiffured hair.

  Miss Fawcett was not aware of the glare Lady Ogbent was trying to drill into her head, but Rosaline was. “That is very unfortunate to hear.”

  “Here!” Lady Ogbent spat while shoving the paper at her, “It’s fine, now leave us.”

  “Mother!” Miss Fawcett’s delicate face tightened, “No, not yet. We must speak more on the design.”

  It was comical to see Lady Ogbent’s face deepen to a shade of purple that Rosaline was sure signaled a burgeoning apoplexy. But in true form, she bent to her daughter’s wishes and sat there steaming while Rosaline outlined how the train was going to be made.

  Internally, Rosaline was counting down the moments for the lady’s head to explode and just before she finished speaking the lady cut in again, “That is enough! Leave us!”

  Rosaline had jumped slightly with the vehemence of the lady’s words but she collected herself and stood.

  “I will begin the construction of your dress, Lady Fawcett; the underclothes are done. Good day, Lady Ogbent and Miss Fawcett.” Rosaline said with a curtsy.

  Leaving the room Rosaline felt her worst fears had come true. Mary had been sent away for thievery. But how could her sister—her wise sister—have done something so foolish? The seamstress reached her workroom in a solidly unsettled state and seeing the person inside only made it worse—Duke Horenwall.

  That flush she has is beautiful.

  The first thought that ran through Norman’s mind was not brushed away like the others. Ever since he had noted how spellbinding Miss Hall’s eyes were, he had not tried to fool himself into believing that he did not notice the rest of her.

  The curve of her neck, the cupid’s bow of her lips. They are all wonderful.

  The hour he had spent with Lord Ogbent had not calmed him, instead, it was prodding him the o
ther way. Norman knew this jealousy was uncalled for. He had no standing with Miss Hall in any way and by God, he was about to get married.

  He had left Lord Ogbent after directing him to the library and instead of going back to his study, found himself in Miss Hall’s workroom. The protégé was not there, to his relief. He had sat and considered what was the real reason for him to be in the lady’s workspace? Was it really jealousy, which he had no right to be suffering from, or was it just a natural concern for her?

  No, the pressing issue was the lack of her presence, he knew. It chafed him to know that he had initiated the friendship, and just as it was beginning to grow, it was thrown back into his face, willingly or unwillingly.

  I must speak to Miss Hall, it is inevitable!

  So, he waited, and in his wait, allowed his curiosity to once again prod him to look and touch. His fingertips flitted over the scissors, the rulers, snippets of lace, soft silk and the mannequin clothed with the most luxuriously detailed chemise he had ever seen. This has to be Miss Hall’s work as the protégé was nowhere nearly as skilled.

  “Y-Your Grace?”

  Calmly turning around, Norman noticed the flush on her cheeks and her softly-parted lips—from the gasp he knew.

  “Miss Hall,” his words were even just as his stare was.

  She came in, and Norman saw the small stagger. Why was she losing her footing? Surely seeing him could not have made her that disorientated?

  “Your Grace,” she said with the flush rising rapidly, “May I ask, why are you here?”

  He stepped forward and felt pleased that she did not turn or step away. Her chest did heave and her cheeks colored, but he could ignore those.

  “May I ask why you have become a stranger?” he asked enigmatically.

  Her jaw slackened before it firmed and then she deliberately held his eyes before turning away, “It is not good for you to be here, Your Grace.”

  Norman was puzzled. “Not good to be here? What the deuce do you mean? This is my house.”

  “Your Grace, please.”

  “Answer me, Miss Hall.”

  “I would rather not,” she began to plead.

  “Tell me, why can I not be here?” Norman ordered.

  She slapped a few pieces of paper on the table and turned to him with— great God— fire in her eyes. The heat in her gaze had transformed the benign butterscotch into fiery gold, “Not the house—with me! I am warned to stay away from you!”

  The moment those words had left her mouth, the red of shame had stained her face. Norman’s eyes had flown wide with the shout and felt tense as the echoes were still in the air.

  She seemed to deflate where she stood and her shoulders sagged. “I am not to be near you, Your Grace, for your safety and mine.”

  Norman heard her words but he was enraptured with how she looked. The strong red on her face was fading, but what remained rendered her warm skin a glowing, entrancing shade. The light dancing in her eyes was hypnotic, and he felt pulled towards her.

  “Why?”

  She swallowed tightly, “To save you from a scandal. In this time, the only lady you should be spending your valuable time with should be Miss Fawcett.”

  Norman stepped forward, “And what if I do not?”

  The air was suddenly so heavy that it was a labor of strength to breathe it in. Norman stopped a mere foot away from her hazel eyes, eyes that he noted had tiny flecks of green merged with the gold.

  “And what if I do not, Miss Hall?” he repeated, unknowingly letting his voice drop to husky tones.

  “I-I can be terminated, and you can be mired in shame,” she said weakly, “I am merely a servant, Your Grace, and despite your…benevolence in asking me to be your friend, I cannot in good conscience do so. Your future is much more important than mine.”

  By the time the last word had slipped from her lips, it had come out in a whisper. His eyes lowered to her red-bitten lips and then back to her eyes that, frankly, looked tortured. It was the look of a soul dying to reach out and get contact, warmth, companionship…even dare he say it, love, but was held back by unbreakable restraints.

  God, how would she react if I kissed her? How would the skin of her cheek feel where I to cup it? How would she kiss me back if I did press my lips to her trembling ones?

  He wanted to soothe the pain she had inside with the tender and intimate gesture—but did not. He could not because Miss Hall was too pure and too noble and—damn it—too right. He was on the cusp of a lifelong commitment and any idiosyncrasy, big or small could sully his reputation for decades to come.

  He stood still, allowing himself to feel the delicious tension, before he slowly stepped back, and back, and back some more.

  “I am sorry, Miss Hall, that you are in such a perilous situation,” Norman hated every empty word. It was as if acid was inside him, cutting up all the organs he had, but even with the pain inside he then bowed, “I do wish to have you as my friend…but I will obey your wishes. I will keep my distance.”

  Halfway out the door, Norman glanced over his shoulder to see Rosaline, with her head twisted away and balled fist to her mouth. But what hurt him the most was what looked like the beginning of tears that were wetting her lashes.

  Still, he left.

  Chapter 15

  The pain she felt was agony in its truest form. Rejecting the Duke to his face so brutally had not been something she had wanted to do. In fact, if she could dial it back, she would have done the same thing.

  But she did not want to! The Duke had taken her by surprise at the very worst time in her existence, mere moments after she had information on why her sister had been sent to jail. The anger that had blossomed in her chest had instantly mixed with the pain that came from her sister’s death. She had gone to the workroom hoping for a quiet place to cry but had instead come upon the Duke and questions she had hoped to never answer.

  The connection with him—small as it was—was like a lifeline to her. In the days when she had been free to see him, just hearing his voice was a soothing balm to her soul. Their conversations, his dry wit, and frank honestly had made her believe that not all of the peerage were monsters.

  For God’s sake, the man, in a princely-like stature had offered her, a pauper, to be friends, and in her fear, she had not taken up the offer until it was ripped away from her.

  She was the monster in this situation, and she hated herself, but life had to go on. She had to finish Miss Fawcett’s dress and do justice to the Duchess’ faith no matter how her soul felt like shriveling into itself.

  “Miss Hall,” Jane Moore said while carefully cutting a section of the gold cloth, “how many layers are we going to need for the full skirt?”

  “Just two, Jane,” Rosaline said quietly while stitching the gold and ivory pieces of the sash together. “The stays, chemise and full petticoat will be enough layers for Miss Fawcett.”

  “I hope so,” a sickly sweet but snide voice came from the doorway of the workroom.

  Instantly, Rosaline and Jane were on their feet with curtsies while Miss Fawcett, Lady Ogbent and the Duchess entered. It was a rude entrance but Rosaline swallowed her irritation.

  “I do apologize for the sudden visit,” the Duchess said, “But the ladies and I are going for a ride through the park and Miss Fawcett wished to see how her gown is coming along.”

  Having nothing to be ashamed of, Rosaline nodded and moved around her seat, “Completely understandable, Your Grace. Would you like to sit, perhaps?”

  “No,” Lady Ogbent snapped, “There will be no time for sitting, we just need to see for ourselves what is being made.”

  Fighting the urge to thin her lips, Rosaline nodded and made her way to the three mannequins, all clothed with sections of Miss Fawcett’s soon-to-be dress.

  “Here we have the unclothes, the stays, chemise, and petticoats ready. Please examine them if you will.”

  Miss Fawcett, clad in royal pale violet, approached the mannequins and viewed them. Her
fingers then traced over the seams and stitching and she huffed under breath. Rosaline tempered her smile, knowing that the lady had come to find fault in her work but there was none to be had.

  She repeated the same process with the chemise and petticoat and when she was done, flashed her head and spoke grudgingly. “They are… acceptable.”

  They were perfect and everyone gathered knew it.

  “Lady Ogbent,” she said, “would you like to examine what we have so far?”

  Lady Ogbent’s cheeks pinched so tightly Rosaline wondered if she could breathe. “No, I do not think that is necessary. Isabella has already said they are adequate.”