A Sense of Belonging

by Wendy Soliman

  Flora thanked Woodley and returned to her own room, wondering what she was supposed to do now. The earl probably wouldn’t believe what she had to tell him, given that he was so judgemental of her behaviour, so a whispered aside in a crowded room wouldn’t serve. She would have to speak with him privately in order to convince him of the danger he faced, but how was she supposed to manage that if he had deliberately steered clear of the house? She almost screamed with frustration as she paced the length of her room and muttered to herself about stubborn, narrow-minded earls who didn’t deserve to be rescued.

  Aware that worry would achieve nothing she eventually pulled herself together, recalled her duties and went to the countess’s room. As she did so she remembered something her ladyship had referred to once during the course of one of her tall stories, and an idea—a very wild and improbable idea—occurred to her. She hoped she would not have to act upon it, but in the event that she was unable to speak with the earl before the ball started she would feel better knowing that she had another plan to fall back on.

  ‘There you are at last,’ the countess said, looking up from the chair she’d been dozing in. ‘I thought you had forgotten I was alive.’

  ‘Now stop making a fuss. You know very well where I went since it was you who gave me permission to go.’

  ‘Yes well, rather you than me.’

  Flora now wished that she had not joined the excursion, too. Sometimes ignorance could be bliss. She checked that the countess was comfortable and then assumed her regular seat on the footstool.

  ‘Tell me all about those priest’s holes and secret passageways in this house that you once referred to,’ she said.

  The countess picked up her lorgnette and peered suspiciously at Flora through the smeared lenses. ‘Why on earth do you want to know about them all of a sudden?’

  ‘I’m curious.’ Flora shrugged. ‘We have to talk about something and I rather fancy that you must have run out of tales about your lovers to shock me with by now.’

  ‘Ha! Much you know.’ Her ladyship’s frown deepened, but as Flora had known would be the case, she couldn’t resist talking about the exploits from her younger days in which the tunnels played a vital part.

  ‘This house was built before the reformation. Well, the main part of it was. Other bits have been added over the generations.’

  ‘Were the original family Catholics?’

  ‘Don’t look so scandalised, young lady. I know you think there’s only one true God and that he doesn’t speak to the Roman church but—’

  ‘Actually, I don’t think that at all. I was simply curious.’

  ‘Well yes, I think my husband’s ancestors were papists, but they were clearly shrewd and eventually saw the light. I mean, principles are all very well, but they ain’t much good to you if standing by them sees you parted from your head.’

  ‘Quite,’ Flora agreed, wishing her ladyship would return to the subject of the tunnels. ‘You can read all about it. There will be records in Luke’s library somewhere, I dare say. Anyway, I seem to recall being told that the then Mr Beranger was persuaded to change his religious beliefs in return for an earldom. Of course, keeping his head attached to his shoulders would have been an added incentive.’

  ‘How very sensible of him,’ Flora replied, nodding her approval.

  ‘Well, there you have it. The tunnels and priest holes were never closed up.’ She chuckled. ‘I occupied the suite of rooms that Luke now has when my husband was alive. There’s a very convenient tunnel that starts in the servants’ staircase—’

  ‘One of the former earls conducted an affair with a servant?’ Flora asked wide-eyed, distracted from her purpose by that interesting snippet.

  ‘One of them? Shouldn’t be surprised if they all did.’ The countess seemed perfectly comfortable with the possibility. ‘There was a very pretty little upstairs maid here in my day. I suspected that my husband kept those tunnels in good working order when I was not around so that he could enjoy her company.’

  ‘You didn’t mind?’

  The countess considered the question. ‘At first I did,’ she admitted. ‘We young gals weren’t nearly so aware as the current generation.’ She cackled. ‘I was that naïve, thinking marriage meant fidelity. Well, no one told me any different. My mother didn’t explain anything and sent me to my marriage bed totally unprepared. Anyway, the tunnel that serves the master bedchamber comes out in the wainscoting on the left of the fireplace. I should know. Used it myself more than once.’

  ‘How does it open?’

  Another suspicious look. ‘Not planning to jump on my grandson, I hope. I’m the last to be prudish about such matters but there are limits.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Flora blushed because the prospect was not that disagreeable, despite the fact that she was angry with him for reaching unjustified conclusions about her conduct. ‘I’m simply intrigued by the…well, the ingenuity of the system.’

  ‘In that case,’ the countess replied, not looking deceived. ‘You press and hold the top section of the panelling and it falls inwards on hinges that probably squeak nowadays. It won’t have been used since Luke assumed the title, I don’t suppose. If he wants a body to warm his bed he doesn’t need to sneak her in.’

  ‘I see.’

  Flora forced herself to change the subject, thinking it better not to give the countess additional fuel to flame her suspicious.

  ‘Shall I ring for Sandwell?’ she asked, trying not to peer out of the window every two minutes, looking for the earl’s return. What on earth could be keeping him? If he came back now there would just be time to explain what she had heard before she too was obliged to change into her finery. If she could somehow get him to listen to what she had to say then she wouldn’t be required to soil said finery in priest holes and secret passageways that were probably home to spiders the size of dinner plates. It seemed like a lot of trouble to go to in order to save a man whom she wasn’t entirely sure deserved saving.

  But his grandmother most definitely did deserve to have her family saved from compromise. Her poignant throwaway remark about her idealistic approach to marriage went a long way, Flora thought, to explaining her subsequent behaviour. Her ladyship hadn’t been prepared to turn a blind eye to her husband’s infidelities. She couldn’t stop them either, so she eventually played him at his own game, no doubt making sure that he knew it.

  Clever lady! The better Flora got to know her, the more she admired the countess’s strength of character.

  Back in her room, she discovered that one of the harried maids had just delivered hot water, allowing her to attend to her ablutions in private without taking up the bathroom. Abandoning thoughts of catching the earl, she unpinned her hair. Spiral curls tumbled down to her bottom and it took her a while to pull a brush through the tangles. She stripped down to her shift and washed thoroughly, reminding herself that she would be attending a ball in a gown at least as fine as any other lady’s, that she would be mixing with the most select of Wiltshire’s society and had no reason to feel intimidated. She would be excited, but for the fact that the earl remained so annoyingly elusive.

  She turned to her armoire and reverently fingered the delicate skirts of her sophisticated ballgown. She felt like pinching herself but was afraid that if she did she would wake up from one of the frequent dreams through which she had escaped her dreary, restrictive childhood. She was not prepared to risk finding herself back in her cold and equally dreary room in Cathedral Close and discovering that Beranger Court had been a product of her over-active imagination.

  For the first time in her life Flora felt as though she truly belonged. She had a purpose, her efforts with the countess were appreciated and she was finally free to surreptitiously use her gift to do good. There was still an outside chance that she would be able to speak with the earl before dinner was served to those residing in the house, prior to the arrival of the rest of the guests. But at present she had hit upon problems of a more practical natu
re. She did not enjoy the services of a maid and was adept at clothing herself—as a general rule. But the ballgown required the tightest of corsets, otherwise she wouldn’t fit into it, and tightening corsets from behind was not something she could manage alone. Nor could she bring herself to ring for one of the overworked maids. What to do?

  Her dilemma was solved when someone tapped on her door and Sandwell put her head round it.

  ‘Her ladyship thought you might require my help,’ she said.

  Flora smiled at the countess’s maid. She had always been suspicious of Flora and not especially friendly, so Flora assumed she must be here under sufferance.

  ‘Thank you very much, Miss Sandwell. I was just now wondering how to tighten this wretched corset on my own.’

  Sandwell gave a not unfriendly nod, took hold of the strings and told Flora to breathe in. She did so and wondered if she would ever be able to breath out again by the time Sandwell had finished pulling and declared Flora well and truly laced.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘That has given emphasis to your small waist and will make you stand out in the crowd.’

  Flora was not sure if she wanted to stand out, but Sandwell was not scowling for once, so she didn’t risk contradicting her.

  ‘I misjudged you,’ she said, almost grudgingly as Flora stepped into the petticoats she held out for her. ‘You’ve brought the countess out of herself.’

  As apologies went it was magnanimous, and Flora accepted it graciously. ‘She is a remarkable lady.’

  ‘That she is, and she’s not had an easy time of it, despite her being a countess.’

  ‘I had reached the same conclusion.’

  Sandwell had nothing more to say, but Flora was encouraged to feel that they were no longer enemies. She glanced in the mirror when Sandwell had finished fastening her gown and this time knew she must definitely be dreaming.

  ‘That cannot possibly be me,’ she said in an awed tone.

  ‘The benefits of a decent corset.’

  But Sandwell smiled as she said it, and Flora couldn’t deny the truth of it. Her breasts swelled almost indecently above the bodice in a manner that would have caused Papa to have a heart attack. The underskirt of plain violet silk was headed by pleated fans of striped stain. The front breadth of the striped silk fastened with pretty bouquets of flowers and the short apron overskirt was trimmed with duchess lace. The Basque bodice and low square neck that would so have appalled Papa was trimmed with white lace that matched the short, off the shoulder sleeves. Her waist did indeed look tiny and the train whispered encouragement each time she moved. Not tripping over it, being unaccustomed to such flamboyance, would be Flora’s greatest challenge. Well, that and breathing.

  ‘Now, sit down and I’ll do something with your hair.’

  Sandwell produced violet and cream silk flowers and wove them into a simple style, working swiftly with nimble fingers.

  ‘There, does that meet with your approval?’ she asked, standing back.

  ‘You’re a miracle worker,’ Flora said, cautiously standing and impulsively giving the older woman a hug.

  ‘Go on with you now. I would be a sorry excuse for a lady’s maid if I didn’t know how to dress hair, and your hair is so thick and curly that there wasn’t a great deal for me to do.’

  Flora pulled on her gloves. ‘Well, I couldn’t have done it myself.’

  ‘I’ll go and finish helping the countess, if you don’t need me for anything else. Give her fifteen minutes, then she will be ready.’

  ‘I will. And thank you again.’

  Alone, Flora took a longer look at her reflection, thinking about how far she had come in such a short space of time. Part of her wished that her family—her mother and sisters—could see her now. But she knew that none of them would approve and thought it so very sad that her sisters, all four of them, were such downtrodden, mousy little creatures. Flora hadn’t been treated any differently to them and yet she had, albeit privately, fought against every unreasonable restriction placed upon her from her earliest years, causing endless friction, especially between herself and her father.

  Her grandmother had taken her side, reassuring in her conviction that it would prove impossible for Flora to fight against her instincts. She understood now what the old woman had meant, and that those instincts sprang from her gift—the same instincts Papa despised in his mother and refused to recognise, accounting she supposed for his anxiety to marry her off. She chuckled, thinking how badly that particular dictate had turned out for Papa. None of her sisters would have rejected Mr Bolton’s proposal and Papa had cleared imagined that even she would not defy a direct parental order, even if it would affect the rest of her life.

  Shaking off such recollections, Flora admired the creamy smooth skin of her bare shoulders as it glowed beneath the lamp light. She had no jewellery other than a crucifix that she had no intention of wearing, but it hardly seemed to matter. All the other ladies would be bedecked with their best gems, she imagined, and it would be pointless attempting to compete.

  Still barely knowing herself, she picked up her fan and left her room, only to come face to face with the earl. He was dishevelled, covered in dust, and strode towards his room with a face like thunder that discouraged her from approaching him. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her. His gaze lingered for a protracted moment, roaming over her body in a presumptuous manner that ought to offend but which caused a slow sizzle of awareness to invade her senses when it occurred to her that against his will, he admired what he saw. His expression briefly gave way to approval, and something more fundamental, but closed down again before she could properly identify it.

  ‘I am glad you are returned, my lord,’ she said breathlessly, but only because the tightness of her corset made speaking in a normal voice next to impossible. ‘There is something I urgently need to discuss with you.’

  ‘There’s no time now. It will have to wait. I am running late.’

  ‘But it’s vital that I—’

  ‘Has anyone died?’ he asked scathingly.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Well then. It cannot be that important.’ He fixed her with a sardonic, taunting look. ‘One of your “feelings” again?’

  Without waiting for a response, he turned towards his room and opened the door, slamming it behind him.

  ‘Well, of all the arrogant, conceited, judgemental…’

  Flora stood with her hands on her hips, wondering what she was supposed to do now. Part of her decided to leave him to sort out his own muddle, but that would probably result in her being dismissed from her position. Miss Carlton did not like her and if she became the earl’s wife, by whatever means, she would find a way to have Flora turned out, and probably the countess too. Flora couldn’t allow that to happen and was trying to gather enough courage to follow the earl into his room when she heard Mr Dalton’s voice coming from within.

  The opportunity was lost to her and with it went her high spirits. With a sigh, she turned on her heel and headed for the countess’s room.

  *

  Luke had been shocked rigid by the sight of the Miss Latimer in her ballgown. The transformation was quite remarkable and it took him a moment to recall that he was out of charity with her. No doubt she had pulled out all the stops for Carlton’s benefit, probably assuming that a proposal would be forthcoming and that he would take her away permanently from any threat of returning to her family. A family whom she clearly didn’t have a great deal of time for. She had said little on the subject to him, but his grandmother was less circumspect and had told Luke in her usual forthright manner that the girl’s spirit had been stifled by religious overload.

  Luke curled his upper lip disdainfully, thinking of her dishevelled appearance and flushed cheeks when she had left that pavilion. She certainly hadn’t allowed the grass to grow beneath her feet when it came to rebelling against her family’s rigid rules. If his grandmother wasn’t so fond of her he would… Would what, he wondered, b
arely listening to what Paul said to him as he disappeared into his private bathroom and made vigorous use of soap and water. Dismiss her? No, despite all reason and common sense, that idea didn’t sit comfortably with him, and not just because of the changes she had wrought in his grandmother’s spirits. He liked having her about the place, he reluctantly decided, and so did his sisters. They would have something to say on the subject if he tried to remove her from her position for reasons that they wouldn’t understand. Damn it, he didn’t understand them himself. How and why she had got under his skin in such a short space of time was inexplicable.

  Carlton had probably kissed her and, as a cleric’s daughter who’d led a sheltered life, she assumed his intentions were honourable, even after the frank exchange she and Luke had had regarding the man’s intentions. The blind fool! How could she allow her head to be so easily turned? Luke had pointed out to her that Carlton required a wealthy wife, and she knew he had ulterior motives with regard to her virtue. But there again, she wouldn’t be the first inexperienced chit to fall for lies and assurances that spilled from the mouth of a silver-tongued rogue. Even so, he had thought she possessed more sense.

  Luke snarled as he considered the man’s audacity in dallying with his mother’s companion. She was not a lady in the accepted sense of the word, but she wasn’t a servant either, so Carlton should know she was off limits insofar as his obvious intentions towards her were concerned. Luke generously gave her the benefit of the doubt and decided that Carlton must have caught her unawares. But that didn’t mean he had to approve of her wilfulness.

  ‘Care to share your thoughts?’ Paul’s tone infiltrated Luke’s muddled thinking.

  ‘I am not going to propose to anyone.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. The Carlton girl would have been a disastrous mistake, made for all the wrong reasons.’

  ‘My sisters, you mean?’

  ‘I do. They don’t want you to marry her either, I can tell you that much. Oh, they haven’t said anything, but I’ve watched them together when you aren’t around and Miss Carlton isn’t trying to make a good impression upon you. They ignore her and she them. Besides, I don’t think either of your sisters is that keen on having a season.’ He chuckled. ‘Certainly not Emma.’