A Rag-mannered Rogue

by Hayley A. Solomon

  “I did not bully!”

  “Of course you did. You always do when you don’t get your own way. And how, pray, is she scheming? I collect that if she had accepted your offer, she might be placed in that category!”

  “Mother, if you have nothing useful to say, do pray leave me to the sanctuary of my library!”

  “The sanctuary of your precious Madeira, you mean. Not on your life, my son. I have a mind to meet this girl.”

  “To what purpose? She is probably happily cooing at some aging marquis . . .”

  “Nonsense and tommyrot!”

  “What do you know of the matter?”

  “I am a female. I know how females think. They do not prefer aging marquis to godlike earls.”

  “I am not godlike.”

  “Ho, ho! Indeed, not! But you are blindingly good-looking despite your battle scar, and you would be a fool if you did not own it!”

  “Perhaps she is not moved by good looks.”

  “A sensible chit, then, for I already see the silver peeping through your splendid head of hair. You shall doubtless be as white-haired as your father before you.”

  “How comforting.”

  “Indeed, for he was a wickedly handsome fellow, but I digress. . . .”

  “Indeed you do.” But the twinkle was back in Nicholas’s eye. He could be very indulgent with his mama, whom he loved dearly, despite their frequent tête-à-têtes.

  The Countess of Cathgar smiled and dug deep into her reticule for a sugarplum. “What did you say she was going to do? Draperies or some . . .”

  “Millinery. She is going to become a milliner’s model.”

  “There you go, then! I knew it was all a hum!”

  “Mother, must you talk in riddles?”

  “Nicholas, I declare I have never known your wits to be so addled! If she had such a scheme, she could not be betrothed to any peer. Not even a baron would permit such an outrage!”

  “You don’t know Tessie. I doubt if she has ever waited for permission in her life! She tumbles into scrapes like I—”

  “—dip into the bottles of French port your father laid down. A very bad habit. We must try to cure you both. I wonder which milliner she will be likely to approach?”

  “Bond Street, I think she said. What does it matter?”

  “I would prefer, Nicholas, that your future wife is above reproach!”

  “Good God! Then don’t, I pray you, look to Tessie!”

  “Well, I shall, for I have taken an unaccountable liking to this little lady. We shall deal famously together, for if there is one thing I cannot tolerate, it is a milk-and-water miss. I have always had the liveliest dread you might wed such a one, for there are times, Nick, when you are most preposterously stuffy.”

  Nicholas ignored this last admonition, his attention, at last, arrested.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I am going to buy myself bonnets, Nick! It is high time my wardrobe was refurbished. Yes, I shall purchase myself several. And crimson feathers, I think. Oh, yes, indeed.”

  “Doubtless you shall be sending the reckoning on to me?”

  Despite an incipient headache, Lord Cathgar’s thinking was still clear. “But naturally! It is a small price, my dear son, to pay. And I shall have the satisfaction of being in turbans and tippets—I do hope they sell those glorious swansdown tippets—for the remainder of the season.”

  “Doubtless a strong inducement!”

  “But naturally! I am so delighted Miss Hampstead did not decide to become a baker, or . . . or . . .”

  “Blacksmith?” Nicholas provided helpfully.

  His mama rewarded him with a peal of laughter at such an outrageous suggestion.

  “Oh, you are absurd! But she shows great good sense, the little one, to think of hats. Hats are always so delightful.”

  “And costly.”

  “Tut, tut, Nicholas! Remove, if you please, that frown from your countenance. I swear, you grow more like your father each day.”

  “You fell in love with my father.”

  “Indeed, but that is no reason to gloat. Now, do be a good boy and call me up a coach. And you might as well send a notice into The Gazette. If that girl does not marry you within a fortnight, I shall eat every damn bonnet that I procure!”

  The Earl of Cathgar was still chuckling over this unlikely image when his beloved mother, inclined to think his answer might be biting, disappeared from the room.

  It was not fifteen minutes later, however, that she could be viewed from the gallery window. She was being helped into a crested carriage and was wearing the most hideous muff Nick had ever laid eyes upon. When she glanced upward, her eyes danced with youthful mischief. Nick, caught in the act of staring, could only bow ruefully and wave.

  Milliners, Tessie learned very quickly, were a breed apart. She was treated reverentially upon her arrival at Millicent Dorsom’s fashionable enterprise. Indeed, she was seated upon a velvet chair and treated to a chorus of compliments regarding her height, her build, and, naturally, her abundant but curly shock of dark hair. It was quickly agreed that she was sadly—sadly—in need of a bonnet, for her own, though fashionable, was lackluster and needed the enhancement of several ostrich plumes, or possibly even a quilling of blond about the edge.

  Tessie wholeheartedly agreed but went on to explain that she had precious little money for quilling, never mind plumes, though indeed, Miss Dorsom’s was famous enough. This compliment fell on deaf ears, for the smiles quickly froze on the faces of her listeners.

  “No money? Then why, pray, are you here? We do not extend credit, except, of course, to a few of our more select young ladies. . . .”

  “No, no, it is not credit I want!” Tessie could not help smiling at the notion. “No, I would like very much, Miss Dorsom, to apply for a post with you. I know it is unusual, but I assure you I would apply myself most diligently, and I am not unskilled, you must understand, with a needle. I have trimmed many of my own bonnets—some with gros de Naples, which is hideously expensive, but it was worth the risk, for they came up perfectly. . . .”

  “My dear,” Miss Dorsom herself twittered, “we cannot possibly hire you! Why, we are overstaffed as it is, and what with the Prince Regent canceling the royal regatta at Clyde, we are positively having hats returned! Yes, I do assure you, it is mortifying! Petra here has no wage but only her board paid, and even that, I tell you, is a hardship. Now, if you were to be interested in another line of work . . .”

  “Like what?” Tessie, determined to be positive, clutched eagerly at this crumb.

  The girl called Petra laughed. “She ’as the looks for it, proper lady an all.”

  “Yes, and excellent lines, though a trifle on the voluptuous side . . .”

  “No gennelman has ever complained about that. . . .”

  A series of friendly chortles followed this incomprehensible dialogue. Tessie, looking around her at the hats, felt uncomfortable.

  “Are you talking of my being a milliner’s model? That would suit me perfectly! I am quite accomplished at hemming silks and net, but if you thought I could learn . . .”

  Again the twitter of high-pitched giggles and a couple of whispers behind large bolts of milliner’s lace. Tessie started to feel annoyed.

  “I am a trifle clumsy but . . .”

  The annoying chuckles deepened. Tessie had to school herself not to lose her famous temper. “I don’t see what is funny about my proposal. I will naturally prove myself before you need feel obliged to pay me. . . .”

  Miss Dorsom looked at her little circle of stitchers. They all had an assortment of kerseymere, velvet, and sarcenets on their laps, half-finished bonnets and tippets and bandeau with feathers. No one, however, seemed to be in any hurry to sew, though some intricate beading caught Tessie’s interested eye.

  “Deary,” Miss Dorsom said. “We are not talking about high pokes or cambric biggins. We are talking about . . . gentlemen, and their singular preferences for . . . nove
lty.”

  Tessie understood at last! “You mean you are all . . .”

  “Not all . . . some of us. The pretty ones.” Again the laughter and the sly glances here and there.

  Tessie thought rather irreverently that it was then unlikely that Miss Dorsom was impure, for she was as ugly as she was twittery. But she sobered up sharply when Miss Dorsom set down her stitchery and pointed a long, manicured fingernail in her face. Her polished accent slipped a little with every breath she took. “You ‘ave the makings, lass. If you are interested, you may ’ave the room upstairs and full board. Two hours in the mornin’ beautifying and the afternoon’s yer own. Can’t say better’ n that. Terms of ‘alf an’ ‘alf, of course. Only fair with lodgin’ an’ all.”

  Tessie did not dare ask what the evenings were for. She was not as green as Nick accused her of being.

  “I am not interested in that kind of work.”

  “Oh, la di da, ain’t yer?” Miss Dorsom’s smile faded. She directed her attention at an opera hood lined in moss silk and ornamented with lilies of the valley. Her needle flew in and out with perfect precision. “Well, ye’ll find many a lady ‘ard on ’er luck wot ‘as taken that road, and none complainin’—or none of my ken. If you change yer mind, come back. If not, you can let yourself out by the back—there, the bell is tinkling—hush—oh, dear Lady Salisbury, what a pleasant surprise, how wonderful you look in that white tiffany tunic—dear, dear, is that a lozenge front I detect? Yes, I see you must be employing Paris designers, how naughty of you, though naturally you must look your best. Now, you have come about bonnets, have you not? And, oh, what a delicious sampling I have for you. Yes . . . saved especially. Oh, you must see what we have prepared for you. Elsie, fetch the Ionian cork bonnet. Ma’am, it is a dream . . . composed of twelve thousand—twelve thousand, mark you—pieces of Ionian cork. We’ve arranged the pieces in the same manner as mosaic gems . . . oh, do sit down . . .”

  The milliners had dropped everything—beads scattered all over the shiny parquet flooring—as if on cue. Tessie could see bonnets of all sorts—silk and straw, the velvet gypsy, the Spanish hats of satin, all appearing as if by magic, practically from nowhere. The woman named Elsie modeled upon her head an enormous cork confection lined in strawberry satin. There was a twittering again, but this time all over dear Lady Salisbury and her plentiful purse. Tessie, forgotten, slipped past Petra and the other ladies.

  She had come up a marble stairway with banisters curled and gilded in gold. The back way was slate, and covered largely in grime. Tessie grimaced. It would be better, she thought, at someone more reputable. Madame Fanchon’s perhaps. She, surely, was everything that was respectable! Tessie refused to let her spirits sink. Further, she refused defeat.

  Madame Fanchon’s was not a milliner precisely, but she was a premiere seamstress. Tessie was a trifle disappointed, for she was certain the wages of a novice seamstress would not match that of a milliner’s model, but she was game nonetheless. She only needed, after all, to keep herself for a six month.

  Tessie had no qualms about applying for a post, for though she had never fashioned any gowns before, she was positive she could set her mind to stitching up mantles at the very least. Indeed, when she was younger, she had fashioned for herself a blue levantine pelisse edged with blond floss silk of which she had been most proud. It was sitting up in the attics, out of the way of Grandfather Hampstead and his pistol cloths, but was doubtless still as good as new. Tessie sighed for it a little, for though she knew she was being foolish, she did so love fashion! Madame Fanchon could surely use an extra pair of hands—she’d purchased her present drab olive from her and could see at once how busy she was.

  It was a considerable walk to Madame Fanchon’s, for Tessie did not think she could spare the money for a hack. She meant to start as she intended to go on. She would not whittle away at her precious ten thousand pounds while there was still life in her feet and the morning, though mild, was not as cold as it might have been. Her toes might curl up in her half boots, but they would not actually freeze. She comforted herself with this thought as she walked past a vendor selling hot apples off a charcoal stove. She shook her head at the baker, calling out, “Hot loaves,” and selling rolls at two a penny. No, indeed. She ignored steadfastly the fact that she was hungry, and her mouth watered from the warm, freshly baked smell.

  She scolded herself and walked on, wishing for her cape and muff, another black mark chalked up against Oliver Dobbins. A young man, not dissimilar, tried to stop her course, but Tessie scowled blackly and uttered such a vile epithet that he was startled. Miss Hampstead took advantage of this opportunity by calling, “Thief” and running, with her skirts slightly above her ankles, across the road. She did not stop traffic precisely, but she caused a great deal of reining in of carriage horses and muttered oaths from ostlers. She was hardly aware of it, lost in her thoughts.

  Unfortunately, she was contemplating her forthcoming interview to such a degree that she noticed neither one of the newfangled gaslamp posts that proudly blocked her way, nor the eel-pie hawker who shouted his wares. It was in such a shrill tone, too, that it was a testament to the serious nature of her thoughts that she heard him not at all. Crash! She smacked straight into his basket and knocked her head against the lamppost.

  Her bonnet was knocked almost off her head, for the ribbons loosened in the turmoil. The hawker was furious, shouting all kinds of threats and demanding an outrageous compensation for such a small calamity. Just as Tessie was despairing, alternately apologizing and fussing with her bonnet and smiling at the vendor and wishing, most prodigiously, for one of his flattened pies, a familiar face appeared before her, mumbling, apologetic, and sweetly sincere.

  “M-M-M-miss Hampstead. De-de-delighted to see you again. May I h-h-h-help?”

  “Yes, you may! You may pay for all the bleedin’ pies what the young lady squashed. No eyes in ’er ’ead, I say!”

  Lord Alberkirky ignored the man but dug into his morning coat of smart purple stripes to reveal a shining sovereign.

  “There y-y-you are, m-m-man. Stop h-h-hounding the lady. Very uncouth.”

  The vendor stopped his grumbling and bit into the coin. It must have satisfied him, for he dropped the basket—Lord Alberkirky had evidently paid handsomely for the privilege of owning all the damaged pies—and took off at a trot. He was no slow coach, that one. As he later regaled his mates, “ ’E was not loikely to ’ang about for the downy cove to come to ‘is senses, ’e wasn’t. It was up and off ‘e was, with no further murmurin’, for ‘oo,” he asked, “up an’ pays a guinea when a common coach-weel would be regular right and tight?”

  Tessie was not, of course, privy to this jubilation, but she was privy to Lord Alberkirky’s kind ministrations as he made a rather incongruous bow regardless of the curious onlookers and the basket that stood between them.

  “Thank you. I don’t know how I came to be so clumsy!”

  “As to that, i-i-i-it was the villain’s fault. He stepped forward on your gown just as you were passing. I—I— I—I happened to see it, you s-s-s-see, from my chaise.” Tessie looked up and noticed that a barouche, headed by a team of four matched bays, was circling the area.

  “Is that yours?”

  “Yes, I leaped out wh-wh-when I saw your dis-distress. The d-d-d-driver could not let them stand.”

  Tessie hid a smile. “No, indeed. Lord Alberkirky, it appears I am once more in your debt. You are a very kind person indeed.”

  With which compliment, Lord Alberkirky started stammering more than ever, and Tessie was positive she could see a hint of youthful color rising to his cheeks. Not that she could make out much of his cheeks, really, for they were hidden away under a collar of quite preposterous proportions. This was compounded by a neckerchief of striped poplin tied in the style of the great Beau Brummell, further obscuring any possible vision Tessie might have acquired of his chin. Upon his person were a great deal of fobs and seals, and Miss Hampstead notice
d that several portions of his close-fitting morning coat sported pads.

  She did not mind in the least, for his good nature more than compensated for these minor deficiencies. Besides, not all men could look perfect. Nicholas Cathgar—and why she should be thinking of him at a horrible time like this she could not say—was merely the notable exception. She would have been horrified to know that the notable exception was even now bearing down upon her from across Great Grosvenor Street on the right.

  She did not know, however, so she salvaged the steaming eel pies and offered them to Lord Alberkirky, who looked quite bewildered at the offering.

  “No, no, Miss Hampstead, I ate at B-b-b-b-Boodles. Very fine dishes they have there, if you must know, with a fine Bordeaux too . . . y-y-yes, by all means t-t-t-t-take them. . . .”

  Tessie tucked the basket under her arm. It did not compliment her ribboned reticule, still containing naught but her pistol, the handkerchiefs, and the oddment of pennies and ha’pennies that she’d permitted herself after banking Lord Cathgar’s fabulous sum. Nevertheless, the basket exuded the most mouth-watering smell, especially since some of the pastry had yielded to the inner filling, so that great whiffs of the warm, aromatic eel could be detected blocks away.

  She rather thought that when she had rid herself of the kind ministrations of Lord Alberkirky, she would partake of lunch. Madame Fanchon, with whom she had no appointment, could surely wait.

  “Allow m-m-m-m-me to g-g-give you a r-r-ride.”

  “No, indeed. I can walk. Truly.”

  “I would s-s-s-s-so like to. See, my horses are restless. Y-you would be doing me a f-f-favor.”

  “Tarradiddles, Lord Alberkirky! Your fine horses do not need me to be aired! They are in high fettle already, though I fancy the front left is faltering just a little. Perhaps if you were to adjust the harness a fraction?”

  “By criminey, you are right! V v-v-very perceptive for a female, if I m-m-m-might s-s-say so!”

  “I own a stable of high steppers myself. At least, I used to. Mr. Devonshire is organizing their sale.”