by Laura Parker
He looked up as he was passing a modiste shop. There in the window was an emerald gown of such sheer fabric that it seemed a mere veil in which only the most daring of ladies would drape themselves. The thought of Japonica Abbott dressed in such a gown made his jaw drop.
A lady of style, Ouseley had said. Lady Abbott had no style, unless she be labeled an Antidote. If she agreed to help him she would need to be outfitted from the top of her head to her toes. And grandly, to impress the Persian taste for ornate beauty. ’Twas equally obvious she would need help.
Uncaring of the spectacle he made as a gentleman alone entering a ladies’ shop, he pushed open the door and pointed to the gown in the window as the owner hurried forth to greet him. “Wrap that up.”
The woman, sensing a man on a mission, smiled warmly. “La, the monsieur has exquisite taste. A little something for his chére amie, perhaps?”
Devlyn’s mouth firmed in a slight smile. “Are there other things … ?” He waved an impatient hand around the shop, “Accoutrements?”
“Mais oui. Allow me to show the monsieur …”
“Sinclair,” he said firmly, bending over a case of beaded reticules. “Lord Sinclair.”
Though he seemed in a hurry, the shop owner noted with approval that he had definite tastes. He took great pains in choosing the accessories of slippers, shawl, even stockings and a hair brooch with a feather. When they were done, he had a pile of boxes to carry out.
“A Merry Christmas to you, Lord Sinclair,” the shop owner called gaily as he departed, her fake French accent abandoned in her delight at his spending. For, miracle of miracles, a nobleman had written her a bank draft for the entire amount. Unheard of!
“Christmas gifts! Of course!” Devlyn was feeling rather proud of himself as he looked around for the Shrewsbury carriage. Now he had the very excuse he needed to seek out Lady Abbott. How she responded to his proposal would tell him a great deal about the kind of woman she truly was.
“I am glad to be home.” Alyssum smiled shyly and continued to plait silk ribbons into a band for the new bonnet that Japonica had ordered for her from London. It was not as pretty as the first, but she had a talent for dressing bonnets and had a particular reason for wanting this one to be especially fetching. “I should have been loath to celebrate Christmas anywhere other than our own sweet little church.”
“Since when have you cared to attend church?” Laurel asked.
“Since there’s a new vicar.” Cynara smirked. “Alyssum thinks him quite dashing.”
“A cleric?” The puzzled expression on Laurel’s face was genuine. “I cannot imagine any lady being truly interested in a man who has dedicated himself to the troubles and ills of others. Shepherding lost souls calls to my mind a man minus all of the attributes I most desire in a husband.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “A dashing air, a handsome face, and of course, a vast quantity of disposable wealth.”
“Whose wealth is disposable?” Japonica questioned as she entered the morning room.
Unlike the first days, the elder pair of sisters no longer showed her open hostility. Since their return to Croesus Hall they had resorted to treating her with the indifference one showed to servants. They did not speak unless and until she did.
This morning they shared the usual conspiratorial glances before deferring to Hyacinthe, who bore an expression of amusement on her long face. “Laurel was discussing the merits of a fortunate match.”
Japonica nodded. “I should be interested to hear what you believe would be an advantageous match.”
“Naturally you wouldn’t know.” Laurel’s smile mocked her. “Aristocratic women marry our own kind, gentlemen whose incomes are sufficient to supplement our dowries, and whose breeding and bloodlines guarantee a family lineage unblemished by scandal or shame or mésalliance.”
Japonica ignored this reference to her own marriage. “And have you found such a person?”
“Alyssum has!” Peony pinkened with delight at her mischief. “She’s enamored of the v-v-vicar!”
“Tale bearer!” Alyssum flushed a painful shade of red. “If you say a word to anyone, I’ll ….”
“What? Weep all over us?” Laurel scoffed. “I dare say you’d weep regularly, wed to a pious soul who spends his time and income among the poor. Might as well wed a commoner.”
Again Japonica ignored Laurel’s rudeness, for she had come here with a purpose. “How do you propose to find a paragon worthy of you?”
Laurel brightened perceptibly at this phrasing. “I shall find him in London during the Season.”
“The Season,” Japonica repeated and took a seat. “What, exactly, is the Season?”
The sisters quickly filled in the details, their replies tripping over one another.
“ ’Tis the time of year when all the great and noble families come to London to share society—”
“Depends upon the opening of Parliament—”
“Not until the frost is out of the ground and the foxes begin to breed.
“Which means some families remain in the country until March.”
“Others come to town right after Christmas.”
“So many functions. Balls and routs, the opera—”
“Dinner parties and soirees—”
“In the spring, exhibitions and concerts—”
“Balls and the theater—”
“Dances and sporting events—”
“And balls!” Laurel supplied for the third time.
Japonica sat amazed by the emotions the very mention of the Season inspired in them. “And this is important for marriage?”
“Why, Miss, ’tis the only way to meet eligible parties.”
“In order to form alliances—”
“In order to marry.”
“Of course, one must be ‘out’ first,” Hyacinthe pointed out.
“And that means?”
“When young ladies have reached the age of seventeen, they are presented to the sovereign at St James’s. Until they have had that honor they do not go out in society or attend dinner parties or receptions.”
“All young ladies must meet the King?” Japonica said in amazement.
“All who have aspirations of a good match,” Hyacinthe answered shortly.
“Then you have done so?”
Hectic color mottled Hyacinthe’s cheeks as her mouth thinned with annoyance. “No.”
“We are none of us ‘out,’ ” Laurel said frostily, “for there must be a sponsor. I expect that will change now that Lord Sinclair is in town.”
“Don’t depend upon it,” Japonica murmured under her breath.
She could not get the image of Lord Sinclair’s mocking face out of her mind. It had followed her on the journey back to Croesus Hall. He would not entertain the suggestion of introducing his friends to her charges. Less likely he would be to sponsor the Shrewsbury Posy at court.
He does not remember me! Each time she recalled that revelation, the shock of it quite took her breath away and hurt her more deeply than she should have imagined possible. Her son’s father lived, yet it could not matter to her a jot!
All at once she felt the inexplicable push of tears at the back of her eyes and realized that she was about to burst into weeping.
She stood up quickly. “I—I have something in my eye.” She turned toward the door adding, “Excuse me!” and fled the room.
Once in the hall she pushed a fist to her lips to keep back a great sob. Sending a desperate glance down the hall she spied an open door at the far end. It led into the music room. She had just enough time to enter and close the door before her restraint burst and she fell against it and slid to the floor, sobbing as though the world would end.
Chapter Thirteen
For more than a minute there was only the wrenching sound of Japonica’s hard sobs and the tingling fear that she might be overheard.
She did not understand herself at all thes
e days. Frequently, and for no reason at all, she would suddenly burst into great weeping.
It must be that she missed Jamie. Nearly a month had passed since she left him behind. Would she seem a stranger to him when they reunited? Would he refuse to come to her? She spilled a few tears each time she finished one of her daily letters to Aggie, begging for details of her son’s life. So far she had had no replies. Of course, Aggie had a small babe to care for and her writing skills were never strong. Yet the lack of mail did not entirely explain Japonica’s moods.
Oh, how unfair life was! She had accepted her fate to bear a child with no father. She was prepared for every eventuality—except the possibility that the Hind Div still lived.
He did not recognize her! No, of course not! The loss of his memory aside, she doubted a merchant’s plain daughter would have made much of an impression on the Hind Div.
“Governess, indeed!” she complained between sobs. His tactless comment, the least of her worries, had insulted her to the soles of her feet.
Rousing herself from the floor, she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and vigorously blew her nose. Why should his assessment of her matter? No man’s ever had before. Not since she was sixteen.
“Insufferable man!” But it was a weak attack against a humbling truth she must now admit to herself.
She was profoundly shocked to discover that she was suffering from all the feminine weaknesses she had thought quite beneath her: pride, vanity, and the wish to be adored. She had not sought to make a good impression upon Lord Sinclair, but now she could not deny she had made a very poor showing as a woman.
“It doesn’t matter, none of it!” she whispered. He could not remember Baghdad, or being the Hind Div, or the little houri who dared bargain with him for her life and lost her innocence instead. What matter?
She began to pace, hoping the exertion would stem her tears.
Amazing that they should meet again, thousands of miles from Persia! Astonishing that he should be the new viscount! Inexplicable that she should have wed a relation of his! It was as if the cosmos had concocted a great joke with which to torment her.
She moved to the piano and sat on the bench to collect her thoughts. Of more import was the impossible bargain she had made with the man.
The cruel caricature Lord Sinclair had drawn of the five young women in her charge rang true. Then he had had the temerity to ascribe their lack of breeding to her own example. That stung. In fact she resented his remarks all the more because—Because they are true.
She took a deep steadying breath. No one could turn those sows’ ears into silk purses in one short month.
“What is the matter, Miss?” Peony had stuck her head in through the door that Japonica had not heard open.
Looking away, Japonica smoothed her hand across her face, but she knew she could not hide swollen eyes. “I am just a little unwell.”
“Was that a sniff? What could she possibly have to cry about?” Hyacinthe’s voice would never be mistaken for anyone else’s.
Japonica turned her head to find that all five girls stood in the doorway. No doubt this was what they had hoped for, to find her weeping with defeat. They would think it was their doing.
A final tear dripped from her chin onto her hand and the sight of it made her blaze with anger. How dare they feel that they were entitled to her thoughts and feelings when they treated her as if she were incapable of one and without the other! “If you must come in, do leave the door open. I can scarcely bear to be closeted with the five of you.”
“What do you mean?” Hyacinthe asked as she came forward. “I demand to know.”
“You smell.” She rose to her feet to speak her mind before their shocked faces, to reduce them to tears like those that had just fallen from her own eyes. How smug the elder girls looked. But they did not realize what she knew. They were unwanted by this world and had not the wits between them to recognize it. Over-bred, over-privileged, lacking in character and decency! They did not realize that she could, by simply walking out, leave them to well-deserved disaster.
The words swelled in her mouth, the bitterness of them, bile on her tongue. But she could not speak them. Hyacinthe’s and Laurel’s faces, puffed up with ridiculous misplaced pride, stopped her.
Despite their ages, they were only silly, ignorant young women. Oh, they acted so sure of themselves. This was their country, their home, and they thought themselves wrapped securely in the mantle of their aristocratic heritage. Yet if she abandoned them, they would be lost.
They are my responsibility. Her conscience would never long allow her to forget it. A month might not be time enough in which to spin them into silk, but she might just be able to dip them in gilt! But first she must gain control.
“Your hygiene, ladies, is deplorable.” She heard her own voice as a distant calm and measured voice of sanity. “Beginning today, you will bathe twice weekly.”
“Twice a week?” Cynara yelped as though she had been asked to jump naked into the snow-covered fishpond.
Japonica continued her speech as she moved toward them. “You will also wash your face, neck, and hands each morning and change your linen every other day.”
“That is preposterous. No one bathes so frequently.”
She paused before Hyacinthe. “There you are wrong. In Persia women spend many hours making themselves beautiful and sweet-smelling. In the best Persian society, no one wishes to entertain people who smell like a pigsty.”
“Pigsty?” Laurel swelled up with rage. “How dare you! How d—”
“Pigsty!” Japonica bore down on the younger woman with a determined expression. “You may change your gown six times a day and waste good perfume, ’twill do you no good. Unless you rid yourself of the sour odor of turnips and horseradish which envelops you at the moment I very much doubt you will find many English gentlemen willing to come close enough to admire the effect.”
Laurel sputtered and fumed but for once it seemed she had been reduced to silence.
Then her younger sisters did the unforgivable. They gigged.
Japonica turned quickly upon them with a smile. Alyssum, Cynara, and Peony at least were allies. “So then, we are in agreement. Starting today you shall practice how to walk and speak as young ladies. There can be no more running in the halls or shouting of any sort, indoors or out. You shall learn proper deportment in all social situations.”
“We are not ponies to be put through our paces by the likes of you,” Hyacinthe declared.
“No, you aren’t as well trained as ponies. You are rude and ill-bred, a disgrace to your station in life. That must change.” Japonica smiled, ready to offer a carrot on the stick. “Surely at least one of you aspires to being presented at court?”
“Court?” Laurel lifted her head from her pose of utter defeat. “Did she say presented at court?”
“What must we do?” The younger three asked, pointedly ignoring their two elder sisters’ frowns of disapproval.
“You shall have to earn the privilege. It will not be easy.” Japonica lifted the piano lid. “Which of you plays this instrument?”
“I do,” Laurel answered readily.
“We all play,” Cynara corrected. “Monsieur Mallett was our teacher. Miss Haversham, a former governess, engaged his services.”
“Laurel took the most lessons,” Alyssum allowed.
Japonica noted the sly giggly glances that passed between Cynara and Peony but said nothing. “Very well. Play for us, Laurel.”
Laurel dimpled. “Certainly. I am well versed in Mozart. But I dabble in Beethoven and Haydn as well.”
“Mozart will do.” Japonica took a place beside the pianoforte.
Laurel played with a great deal of elan and expression, all of it on her face. Her fingers, alas, were a different matter. They were ill trained, tripping over keys and keeping an uncertain tempo. Parts of the melody were incorrectly reproduced while other measures were skipped altoget
her. Yet she turned when she was done with a triumphant smile.
“You may be well-versed in Mozart but you play him exceedingly poorly,” Japonica pronounced. “You need practice, my girl, and plenty of it.”
Laurel sniffed. “How would you know what Mozart should sound like?”
Japonica chased the younger woman from the piano stool with a flutter of her fingers and then sat and played the same piece at the right tempo and with only a single mistake.
When she was done she smiled in self-satisfaction. “We have music teachers in Persia, too. When each of you can play at least as well as I, you will receive a hundred pounds with which to purchase gowns at Madame Soti’s.”
“Ooooh,” chorused three of the five.
Hyacinthe sniffed. “I do not require new gowns, though I shouldn’t accept your generosity in any case. It is not for you to distribute the Shrewsbury wealth as your own.”
Japonica eyed the taller woman with the exact degree of disdain to which she was often subjected. “Do you never tire of being tedious?”
Hyacinthe flushed, an unfortunate reaction, Japonica thought, for it made her appear as if she had contracted hives.
Satisfied at last to have both her true adversaries on the defensive, she continued, hoping for a full rout. “Laurel, will you, too, toss my generosity back in my face?”
Laurel, who could not imagine rejecting any offer of a new gown, looked away from her eldest sister’s frown. “I don’t see what difference it makes who pays, as the money should be rightfully ours from the beginning.”
Yet when Japonica turned away, Laurel shot her a hostile glance. She had been humiliated! She would find a way to repay the little commoner in their midst even if she must seem to bow to her wishes at present.
“I will practice first,” Peony said, but Cynara beat her to the piano stool.
Watching as the maneuvering threatened to erupt into a spat, Japonica sighed. Her need of a miracle could not be overstated. “I will draw up a practice schedule for each of you and post the hours in the morning.” She glanced at Hyacinthe, who did not ask to be excluded.