by Laura Parker
“Ow! You’re pulling my hair!”
“Keep scrubbing,” Japonica directed the frightened young maid who had been shampooing Laurel’s hair. She had stirred up a mixture of camphor and borax solution to help cut through the greasy pomade the girls applied daily to their hair instead of washing it.
A little farther away, Cynara and Peony sat mute but miserable because coal oil, which had been rubbed into their heads as a delousing agent, dripped on the sheets thrown around their shoulders.
Two under-maids promoted from the scullery were using combs to untangle the washed heads of Alyssum and Hyacinthe.
“Faugh! You will yank me bald!” Hyacinthe thrust an elbow in the ribs of the maid working on her. “Stupid cow!”
“That will cost you one pound,” Japonica said in a neutral voice. “That is four pounds so far this morning. At this rate you shall not have left enough of your allowance with which to buy ribbons, never mind a gown. If you are dissatisfied, you may comb out your own hair.”
Hyacinthe crossed her arms. “I merely meant for her to have a care. If she is to be my maid, she will needs learn better.”
Japonica saw this as evidence that Hyacinthe was not in opposition to the idea of her own personal maid. Vanity did have its usefulness.
The matter of experienced ladies’ maids was one she could not mend overnight. It seemed the Misses Abbott had survived since nursery days by calling on whoever they could find to help them dress, or did for each other. From what she had seen, the English were often kinder to their servants than Persian masters but she would not tolerate meanness of any kind. Hence the fine each time one of her charges mistreated one of the girls.
The next hour went tolerably well. Only Cynara had to be threatened with banishment to the nursery in the matter of the tub. Who would have thought that a young lady of fourteen would truly believe that she could drown in four inches of water?
Afterwards, while they were still wrapped in sheets from their baths, she sat them down before her and opened the portmanteau with the Shrewsbury crest and took out several bottles and vials. “This is paste that each of you must put on your faces every morning and evening until I see an improvement.”
Alyssum uncapped and sniffed suspiciously. “What is it?”
“A paste of almonds, lemon juice, and rose water. The order arrived from Fortnum and Mason yesterday. If you are very conscientious in your use, you will notice a great improvement in your complexions within a fortnight.”
She unscrewed a second bottle and began dabbing it on Cynara’s face. “This is a poultice of egg whites beaten with lemon juice and honey. It will fade the blemishes you have while the other will prevent more.”
“No more spots for Cynara!” Peony sang out, and received a box on the ear from her sister.
“One pound!” Japonica merely lifted a brow before continuing. “I have made rubbing lotions which you are to apply after your bath to limbs and feet. Each of you has your own unique fragrance. Hyacinthe, yours is thyme. Lavender for Laurel. Mint I think, for Alyssum. Rosemary for Cynara. And lemon balm for Peony. Another day I shall show you how to make it yourselves so that you may always have a quantity for your use.”
Laurel appraised her step-mama with a jaundiced eye. “Why are you doing this?”
“Being kind and courteous and helpful? Why, to set an example. Now then, when you are all dressed appropriately for dinner, we will use the meal as a lesson in dining etiquette.”
Japonica felt a certain pride as she sat in the dining hall surrounded by five scrubbed faces with shining hair set in simple arrangements. The faint odor of borax and camphor was a necessary evil. To her mind they had made a good beginning. After the meal, though, she meant to retire to her room with a glass of sherry and a book. Eight hours in the company of her still-recalcitrant charges was seven and a half past the limit of her easy tolerance.
“We begin with soup.” She nodded to the footman who came forth with a tureen and began serving them.
“What is this?” Hyacinthe glanced up from the thin soup in her bowl. “ ’Tis mere broth.”
Cynara looked as cross as a badger as she pushed her bowl away. “I never eat broth!”
Laurel glanced towards the sideboard where several small dishes sat under their silver lids. “I do not see the Yorkshire pudding and gravy I ordered.”
Unperturbed, Japonica picked up her spoon. “I took the liberty yesterday of reviewing the week’s menus, as is my prerogative as the mistress of the household. There were far too many heavy sauces and creamed dishes and quantities of meats on the menu. I ordered chestnut soup with which to begin, to be served with a portion of pigeon and a roll. Several slices of lean beef with beet root and asparagus will follow. For dessert there are fresh pears from the Shrewsbury orchard and slices of Stilton cheese.”
“No pudding?” the younger two protested.
Resolved to keep her temper, Japonica continued with her explanation. “I am surprised, Hyacinthe, that you have allowed such a shocking waste in foodstuffs. Were we double in number we could not consume the foods ordered each week. I have pared down the quantities to be ordered in future and shall put the money saved to better use.”
“You would starve us while you live off the profits!” Laurel sang out.
“It will be easier to deny yourself a little if you remind yourself of the reward you shall gain in a slimmer figure and better skin.”
“Why should we all be punished?” Cynara snapped. “We are not all fat like Laurel.”
“I’m not fat!” Laurel shrieked. “You are jealous because I have a bosom while you are flat, flat, flat!”
“Who can be jealous of a cow!” Cynara flung back.
Japonica, who thought she had endured the worst the sisters could offer, watched dazedly as Laurel went over to the sideboard and lifted the lid from the soup tureen then picked the dish up. It was not until she turned from the sideboard that Japonica realized her intent. “No! You will not … !”
She leapt from her chair but it was too late. The contents of the tureen had already taken flight behind a hearty toss. Most of it crested like a wave upon the table but the force of the heave was enough to catch those at the table in its back splash.
Cries of outrage more than fear of a scalding burst from the occupants at the table while the rolls prepared to go with the soup were hurled in Laurel’s direction.
So much for clean bodies and shiny hair. All but Laurel stood dripping in the creamy residue of mashed chestnuts.
At that precise moment Bersham who, to her knowledge, should still be in London, flung open the doors of the dining room.
Startled by his appearance, Japonica cried, “What are you doing here?”
In a sonorous voice at odds with the wild scene, the butler announced, “Lord Sinclair has arrived, Lady Abbott.”
A footman stepped into the room carrying a stack of boxes tied with bright ribbons. Behind him came Devlyn Sinclair, his cockaded hat sitting at a jaunty angle upon his head. “Merry Christmas to you—!”
“Gifts!” The girls, spying the boxes and having heard the cheery note with which Lord Sinclair had begun his entrance, rushed forward to pull the boxes out of the hapless footman’s arms.
Japonica could not contain her shock. Her mouth fell open in undiluted horror and then in consternation that surpassed every effort of civility.
She picked up the heavy silver ladle that had landed near her and marched toward her charges shouting, “Sobhanallah! If you do not step back at once I shall smite you heartily! As Allah is my witness!”
Chapter Fourteen
Appalling! Inexcusable! Unthinkable!
“I meant to strike them.” Japonica looked down at the makeshift weapon in her hand. Her voice was as dull as her expression. “I should have.”
She could not imagine why the viscount had not knocked them all senseless himself. The Shrewsbury Posy had snatched the boxes from the st
artled footman’s arms before she could stop them. Then like the naughty girls they were, they dropped into curtsies and murmured thanks before fleeing with their booty. Their awe of the viscount, it seemed, came second to the prospect of receiving a new bauble.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Sinclair advancing upon her. How handsomely he was dressed, in civilian smallclothes of buff superfine and a claret swallowtail coat. Had he dressed with such care just for a visit to Croesus Hall?
A giddy, ridiculous feeling sped through her. It died the moment she spied the telltale gleam of metal at the end of his right arm and her gaze jerked up to meet the furious scowl upon his face. A shiver passed through her but she told herself that whatever he might be about to do and say would be no more than she deserved.
“This is an example of your new authority?” he roared at her. “I should have better command of a pack of wild mongrels!”
She lowered her gaze. She could not bear to look into his expression of accusation and disdain. “You mustn’t beat them. I won’t allow it. Nor will you lock them away with only bread and water. It is not that they don’t deserve it, and more, but they are such foolish creatures. They do not understand the harm they cause. Motherless. And a father who could not be bothered ….” She let her plea trail off into a sigh.
“So you would defend them against me? With your ladle, perhaps? Madam, you run a household of most unusual style.” His voice sounded tight, as if he were making an effort to keep from choking on his venom.
“Unusual?” Because she had just threatened her stepdaughters with a soup ladle? Because her dinner table overflowed with chestnut soup? Because she could not imagine a more horrifying and ignoble tableau than the one he had stepped into? Nor one more likely to wreck her fledgling plan to see a Shrewsbury daughter launched up on the sacrosanct Season?
The disaster was complete, the humiliation of her situation so much more than she had ever thought possible. Knocked to nothing, all her effort almost before it could be begun. Agitation bubbled up from the depths of her despair and spilled from her lips. She looked straight into his face and laughed.
She saw surprise register in his face for only an instant before he shuttered all emotion. “You, madam, are in need of a drink!”
He took her briskly by the arm and steered her into her former chair.
“Sit down!” He reached for her wineglass. When he saw that the contents were contaminated by chestnut soup he tossed it from him. “Wine, Bersham! The best claret in the cellar!”
As the butler scurried away to do his bidding, Devlyn took Japonica—who was still laughing in ever-shriller lilts that sounded very much like hysteria—by the arm and lifted her to her feet. “Come with me, madam. We are in need of privacy.”
She drank a little more of the wine than she meant to. She had, in fact, planned to drink none of it. However, the specter of Devlyn Sinclair shading her every movement was a very daunting thing. When she had drunk the first glass per his order he refilled it twice without speaking a word. She noticed that he did not touch a drop of wine himself.
At least he cannot this time have drugged it, she thought as a giggle escaped. Nor would he mistake her for an houri so beautiful a mortal man might be tempted to steal from her a bit of Paradise. Not when the drying patches on her gown were the evening’s first course. She put a hand to her mouth but another small giggle escaped.
Devlyn lifted a brow. “So then, you are feeling somewhat the better?”
“Yes.” The wine had given her a better lens through which to view the situation. Though he scowled as deeply as ever, the man standing over her seemed more exasperated than incensed. She would almost swear that a smile lurked in his gaze. Almost.
“Do you always call upon Allah in moments of great distress?”
She gazed at him, conscience-stricken. She had hoped he had not heard her. For a man who had lost so much of his past he did not miss much of the present. “It was my father’s expression.”
He looked as though he wanted very badly to press her about the matter but he only said, “You must tell me about that gentleman at some other moment.”
Not if she could help it! “I am dreadfully sorry about your gifts, Lord Sinclair. Your kindness cannot be amply rewarded with thanks.”
How prudish she sounded, governess-like, when at the moment she felt anything but straitlaced. She had to keep her admiring gaze from straying to the man beside her. “Though Christmas is a sennight away, I’m sure the girls have already opened them and will presently seek you out with their own words of thanks. They are not, I assure you, always so thoughtless.”
“Thoughtless?” He rolled the word over his tongue as though it were foreign and completely incomprehensible to him. “Is that what you call that band of rabid bi—er, vixens who set upon me?”
“Dreadful conduct.” Japonica went to gesture with her hand and found it contained a half glass of wine. A little of it splashed over the side.
“You’ve had enough.” He reached out to take it from her with his hook. The touch of steel against her skin surprised her and she jerked away. The reaction caused more wine to splash upon the carpet. She heard him swear under his breath as he maneuvered the glass onto a tabletop.
She found it impossible not to stare at his prosthesis. She wanted to ask why he had chosen such a vicious-looking appendage, but there was such a thoroughly disgusted look on his face that she dared not mention it directly.
“You need a patch,” she said aloud and then covered her right eye with her right hand. “Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum!” Amused by her own temerity, she chuckled.
He frowned. “Yes, you’ve had quite enough wine.”
Yet Devlyn was not altogether displeased. Most acquaintances and certainly strangers went out of their way not to meet his eye or to look at his hook. She had the spirit to not only look but to make fun of his infirmity. It was the wine, of course. She had drunk quite a lot. She looked flushed and happy, one might almost say radiantly at ease. Not quite pretty, perhaps, but something more, something he found enchanting.
He sat down across from her, prepared to carry on with his purpose. “So then, I have done your little family a kindness, however unintended.”
Japonica nodded slowly, for she was no longer quite certain where her head met her shoulders. Why had she thought him severe? He was quite handsome, though not in any fashionably romantic way. If he would only cease frowning he would appear as charming as the Hind Div himself, she decided. “Most men know nothing of the lift to the morale it is for a lady to receive a gentleman’s attention.”
Unless her vision played tricks on her, his expression had relaxed into something near a smile. Not quite friendly, perhaps, but compelling, certainly. “I suppose that means I have misjudged you,” she murmured in non sequitur.
“Does a bit of ribbon and lace mean so much?”
“For a young girl there is no better gift than a silly extravagance that she may wear to show off to her friends.”
“I see.” He looked away for a moment and then back at her. “The gifts were all meant for you.”
“For me?” She cocked her head to one side, certain that her hearing was now as defective as her reflexes. “You brought gifts for me?”
The look she gave him made Devlyn uncomfortable. She appeared quite struck, and grateful. It came to him that this was not the kind of advantage he wanted with her. Gratitude, genuine gratitude, implied affection as well as obligation. He did not want her finer feelings. Pure self-interest motivated his largesse. “There is a purpose to them.”
“Purpose?” It disturbed him almost as much to see the light fade from her eyes; turquoise ringed her dark irises. “You mean Need comes riding on the Gift Horse’s back?”
“Precisely.” He did not care for her phrasing, but it was the truth stated baldly.
He moved to pick up the box he had lain aside upon entering the room, and he held it out to her. “A
t least I was able to spare the main gift for its rightful owner.”
Japonica stared at the gift without reaching for it. It was a lovely round box stamped with violets. A lavender-striped bow held it closed. “No one has given me a gift since my father died.” She did not mean to voice her thoughts aloud, but at the moment it was difficult to distinguish what could be thought and not said. Then she shook her head. “I cannot.”
“Did you not just tell me there lives no lady who can resist a box tied in a ribbon?” he said mockingly.
When she looked into his golden eyes she did not see the cold sarcasm of their last encounter, but a genuine desire that she accept. And something more, something she could not afford to examine. She took the box, set it on her lap, and folded her hands together. “So then.”
He continued to stand over her, staring down. She really wished he would take two steps away. He must not guess what his nearness did to her.
“Will you not open it?”
“But if ’tis for Chri—”
“ ’Tis for when I say! Open it at once!”
Even filled with wine she did not like to be ordered about. The fact that he was intimidating her, and in fact depended upon it to get his way, brought forth the rebel in her. “But I have no gift with which to return the spirit of the season.”
Devlyn glowered at her, feeling none of the spirit of the season whatsoever. “You are being missish and ridiculous. Open the damned box!”
“One should not be sworn at over a Christmas package,” she answered as she reached out to untie the bow. “It quite spoils the gallantry.”
When she had pushed away the tissue paper she lifted out the gown by the shoulders, spilling the sheer emerald silk skirts onto the carpet. “Oh my! ’Tis quite—!” Struck dumb, she turned to look at him with an expression of wonder.
“So then, you like it?” He did not mean to sound harsh, but he wanted more than her awed silence as assurance. After all, he had made a right fool of himself by deciding that he should outfit her. The least she could do was let him know if his idiocy in choice far exceeded his audacity in daring to choose for her at all.