“Uncivilized, that’s what this is!” Aunt Pru covered an enormous yawn. “Getting out of bed at such an hour.” She peered into Bristol’s fresh face, and her own formed a rueful smile. “I’m not as young as I once was.”
Bristol laughed. There was an agelessness about Prudence Adams Hathaway that challenged any attempt to blame attitudes or conditions upon age.
Aunt Pru grinned as if she too understood this, and she then launched into a stream of informative chatter, punctuated by frequent thumps of her gold-headed walking cane.
Bristol learned her wardrobe was henceforth out of her hands and transferred to Aunt Pru’s fashionable management. Molly Whitney was assigned the care of Bristol’s clothing and personal needs. Servants, Bristol was instructed, were considered family; they could be scolded and ordered about and screamed at and threatened. But never were servants abused at Hathaway House. “It’s a limiting restriction, I’ll admit,” Aunt Pru sighed, “but they’re like children. One has a certain responsibility toward them.”
Seventy-two servants maintained the house, another thirty-six cared for stables and gardens. Bristol gasped at the number. One-third the people dwelling in Salem Village were required just to keep Hathaway House functioning. For three people. The idea staggered her.
And she had not entirely escaped rules of behavior. Young ladies of quality, as Bristol now was, were permitted to walk on the immediate grounds of their homes so long as they were not exposed to the street. But if Bristol desired to fully explore the three acres of gardens, at least one male and one female servant must accompany her. She could (and would, Aunt Pru promised) attend, a large number of hunts, parties, teas, dinners, and the like, but she must always have a chaperon.
“Your chaperon—me—needn’t be at your side every minute, however.” Aunt Pru grinned. She studied Bristol a moment, then leaned forward and touched her niece’s knee, blue eyes narrowing shrewdly. “I have an idea your mind wanders.” She watched Bristol stroking the golden chain at her throat. “Perhaps the young man in Salem that Noah mentioned? You’re thinking of him?”
A rosy color brightened Bristol’s cheeks. “No... it’s someone else,” she blurted.
Aunt Pru nodded wisely, her orange hair threatening to fall from under an important headdress. She studied her niece thoughtfully. “Are you in love with this... someone else?” she asked curiously.
“I... I don’t know.” Bristol lifted stricken eyes. “I only know it hurts to think about him. And he’s never really out of my thoughts; all the time I wonder where he is and what he’s doing, and it feels like something is twisting my heart. It hurts!” She felt ridiculous making this confession, but the words poured from her lips.
Aunt Prudence’s booming laugh filled the carriage, and she stamped her cane. “That’s love, all right!” She patted Bristol’s knee sympathetically. “The only cure is having the man... and sometimes that only makes it worse.” She chuckled. “I confess you’ve dashed my hopes at finding you a suitable match. Well? Am I to meet this someone else? Or is he in New England?”
Bristol closed her eyes. She didn’t know where Jean Pierre might be now. And if he came searching for her, he’d begin by looking for a Prudence Adams who had not existed for twenty-four years. He’d search London’s poorer sections and never think to look among the splendid houses in Pall Mall. “I don’t know where he is,” she whispered.
Aunt Pru clicked her tongue, but her face brightened as she learned her matchmaking instincts were not to be completely thwarted. “A pity,” she murmured insincerely as the carriage rocked to a stop in Paternoster Row. “You must try to put him out of your mind,” she advised, and now her voice carried the ring of sincerity. “The best cure for an old love is a new love.” Aunt Pru thrust her head and shoulders out the carriage door. “Push, girl!”
Bristol placed her palms on Aunt Pru’s wide bottom and popped her aunt through the coach door.
“Careful!” the driver warned, catching Aunt Pru with a deft hand. A stinking river of liquid and solids rained upon the sidewalk, thrown from above. “The mornings are hazardous,” he added unnecessarily.
“Disgusting,” Aunt Pru sniffed, sweeping grandly through the door of Collette’s shop, but not before she had to strike away the hands of clutching beggars. Bristol began to understand why Aunt Pru carried the cane.
Inside the shop, Prudence Hathaway proceeded to roll over Madame Collette’s shrieks of protest like an advancing tidal wave. “It can’t be done,” Madame Collette cried, waving tiny hands in the air. “I can’t have a gown finished by Friday!”
Aunt Pru calmly removed her gloves and accepted a glass of wine. “Of course you can, Collette, but not if you waste your time arguing.” She sipped her wine and leafed through a sheaf of sample materials and colors. “Green is definitely my niece’s color, just look at those eyes. But something brilliant and bright and gay!”
“Madam, I am telling you it cannot be done. I won’t attempt it!” Madame Collette shouted over her shoulder while she circled Bristol’s neck with a piece of string and called a number to an impassive assistant. “It is impossible! Every woman in London wants a gown for your ball, Lady Hathaway. I can’t possibly finish in time!” She dropped the string to Bristol’s breast and muttered, “Magnifique!” and shouted another number, then did the same for Bristol’s waist and hips. “I tell you, Lady Hathaway, there is not enough money in England to get this girl a gown by Friday!”
Lady Hathaway drew herself to her full height and looked down her powdered nose at the tiny Frenchwoman. “A gown like you created for Lady Morriston’s daughter would be acceptable—only finer, of course.”
Madame Collette threw up birdlike hands and a fusillade of French shot past her pursed lips. Surprisingly, Aunt Prudence responded in French as rapid and explosive as Madame Collette’s. They marched back and forth across the small shop as the battle of wills ebbed and flowed with much shouting and waving of hands.
At the finish, Lady Hathaway smiled and Collette glared with her fists on slender hips. “It will cost double, Lady Hathaway! Double!”
Aunt Pru grinned and leaned forward from the waist. “In a pig’s eye, Collette.”
Bristol gasped, not thinking it beyond the fiery little Frenchwoman to eject them from the shop. To Bristol’s astonishment, Collette returned Aunt Pru’s grin and shrugged with Gallic resignation. They’re enjoying this, Bristol realized. She smiled weakly and returned to a low stool to wait and watch and sip her wine.
The ball gown settled, Aunt Pru moved on to arrange the remainder of Bristol’s new wardrobe. The contest waged for more than an hour, with both women circling, shouting, drinking wine, and, Bristol suspected, loving every minute. At the conclusion of the negotiations, everything from petticoats to gloves to riding habits to morning dresses to more evening gowns and shawls had been arranged for. Bristol didn’t dare calculate the cost.
“Hathaway is paying for everything,” Aunt Pru explained when Bristol interrupted with a worried whisper. “He insisted. Dear girl, Hathaway is very rich. And generous. My dear, if a man choses to indulge you, you must always remember to let him do it!” She gave Bristol’s arm a squeeze. “Hathaway would be deeply wounded if you refuse his assistance.” Her eyes lingered pointedly on Bristol’s plain high-necked Puritan gown. “And probably embarrassed. Now, you wouldn’t want that, would you?” Happily Aunt Pru returned to shout down Collette on terms of payment.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of errands, most of which Bristol was too weary to recall that evening. What she remembered most vividly was the array of color and material at Madame Collette’s, and the feel of Aunt Prudence’s massive bottom; Bristol thought she surely had shoved Lady Hathaway in and out of the carriage no less than fifty times. She could scarcely keep her tired eyes open throughout dinner.
“What on earth did you do to her, Pumpkin?” Uncle Robert asked with a cheery smile. “Did you make the poor child carry all the money you girls spent on today’s
spree?”
“Hathaway, you old fool! You know perfectly well I wouldn’t dream of carrying coins!” Aunt Pru fluttered her eyelashes and adjusted her husband’s shawl. “Are you warm enough?”
He nodded. “Send the poor girl to bed, then have your pipe and tell me how you bested Madame Collette.” Lord Hathaway winked at Bristol. “Your aunt is never happier than when she’s beating the French.”
Bristol stood, hiding a yawn behind her hand. She tried to thank Uncle Robert for his generosity, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He waved a hand. “The pleasure of seeing you as the most beautiful young girl at the ball—besides Pumpkin, that is—will be thanks enough.” He pressed her hand as she bent to kiss his hot, dry cheek. “Be careful of young Robbie. Engaged or not, I suspect the rascal is a devil with women.” He laughed. “The lad comes by it naturally. So was I before Pumpkin here took me in hand. We Hathaways have a way of losing our hearts to red-haired women!”
Bristol returned the pressure of his fingers and kissed them both good night.
The next days passed in a blink, filled with a dizzying swirl of ball preparations. Bristol followed behind Aunt Pru, up and down stairs, outside, inside, through all the rooms of the house, and with every hour her respect grew for Aunt Pru’s sharp eye and gift for organization. Under her direction, an army of green-and-white servants scrubbed a ballroom nearly the size of the Salem Town square, cleaning and scrubbing and polishing and shining. Messengers and delivery men seemed to arrive hourly, mixing with a distinguished flow of gentlemen calling on Lord Hathaway. Sprays of spring flowers appeared in the hallways and entry and festooned the walls. Fresh wax candles of various scents replaced half-burned stubs. Carpets were dragged away and returned, beaten free of dust. A large red-faced woman wearing a soiled apron and a dour expression appeared at intervals to discuss the mountain of food building in the kitchens.
“That’s Maggie O’Hare,” Aunt Pru whispered after one encounter when the red-faced woman stamped away, swinging a long ladle like a machete. “A genius, but nasty-tempered. Evil!” Bristol stared with awe at Maggie O’Hare’s retreating back. To intimidate Aunt Pru, the woman must be nasty indeed. “Never set foot in Maggie’s kitchen,” Aunt Pru warned with a light shudder. “I did once, about twenty years ago, and Maggie threw a pot at me.” Aunt Pru’s blue eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Imagine! Throwing a pot at a lady of the realm!” She shook her pumpkin head mournfully and returned to the voluminous lists. “If I could replace Maggie, I would; I don’t know what our kitchen looks like. But the woman can do things with seasonings and sauces that make me the envy of London.” Aunt Pru looked up with a weak grin. “Maybe I’ll outlive Maggie; then I’ll get a peek at the kitchen.”
The preparations continued, with Aunt Prudence as field marshal and Bridey Winkle acting as first lieutenant. And at the end of each exhausting day, Bristol and her aunt fell into their chairs in Robert Hathaway’s study and repeated the trials and triumphs of the day for his enjoyment.
“And would you believe it, Hathaway, the second-floor mistress announced she couldn’t polish the silver on that floor. Couldn’t do it!” Aunt Pru shook a mound of orange curls in disgust, slicing into a lump of boiled beef with a tired sigh.
“And why not, Pumpkin? Did you demand a reason?” Uncle Robert’s gray eyes twinkled, waiting for the entertainment twenty-four years of marriage had conditioned him to expect.
“Well, of course I did. She said they had plenty of vine-ash to make the silver polish, but...”—Aunt Pru paused dramatically—“but they were out of urine to mix the ash with. Imagine that!”
Uncle Robert threw back his head and roared with appreciative laughter, being careful not to move his foot. “Over one hundred people in this house, and no urine?” He scratched his head. “What are we to do, Pumpkin? Serve our guests on blackened silver?” His eyes sparkled.
“Certainly not!” Aunt Pru exchanged a glance with Bristol, and they both giggled. “I had to send out an order that someone urinate at once. Two someones.” The giggles exploded into side-aching laughter. “And then...” Aunt Pru gasped. “And then... no one could do it, so... so Bridey Winkle did. Bridey Winkle!”
All three collapsed with mirth. And the evening ended, as they all seemed to, Bristol thought happily, on a tired note of shared affection and laughter.
At last Friday dawned, and Bristol, Bridey Winkle, and Aunt Pru dashed about the house satisfying themselves all was in readiness. Bristol’s gown arrived at noon, just as Aunt Pru was preparing to send an outraged message to Paternoster Row. The gown was whisked upstairs to Molly before Bristol had a chance to see it.
“Thank God! I was beginning to imagine Collette would have a revenge on me!” Aunt Pru pulled out a chair and sank into it, careful not to disturb the gleaming silver laid out on the long dining table. “There’s time for a nap, Bristol, and I advise we both take one.”
Bristol nodded agreement, but her shining eyes indicated she’d have trouble sleeping. This was, after all, her first ball and her first French gown.
Aunt Pru sighed with a smile of understanding. “It will be a late, late night... supper at midnight, and I imagine the dancing will continue until dawn.” She stood up and stretched, her rounded shape rippling. “I don’t know if I’m more excited about the ball or about seeing Robbie.” Her weary blue eyes lit from within. “You go ahead to your nap, dear. I believe, I’ll just check Robbie’s room once again. I want everything to be absolutely right.”
Bristol yawned despite herself and nodded assent. “I believe I will, Aunt Pru.” She hugged her aunt, smelling powder and lavender. “If you need me, just call.” She smiled affectionately. “I’m glad Robbie is corning home. I know how much he means to you and Uncle Robert.”
As Bristol ran lightly up the curving sweep of staircase, she wondered curiously if the younger Hathaway could possibly be as wonderful as his parents saw him as being. She smothered a yawn. It didn’t really matter; she was determined to like him for their sakes.
14
“You look devastating!” Aunt Prudence beamed as Bristol floated down the stairs to take her place in the entry hall beside her aunt.
Bristol blushed with pleasure. She’d just come from Lord Hathaway’s study and a flow of extravagant compliments delivered in the old gentleman’s gallant style. Unfortunately, Lord Hathaway could not bear any weight on his swollen foot, and he would miss the ball. But he’d insisted on seeing Bristol before she ran downstairs, asking her to turn this way and that so he could admire each cunning tuck of Collette’s masterpiece. He praised Bristol’s beauty until her face flamed to match her hair.
Collette had designed the gown to sweep over Bristol’s shoulders and dip low, displaying a creamy swell of breasts; the gown then draped in to emphasize her tiny waist before flaring out in puffs of brilliant green-silk trimmed at bodice and cuffs with lace as delicate as cobweb. Molly Whitney had dressed Bristol’s shining hair in soft loops to frame her face, and a flow of curls dropped from the crown of Bristol’s head, cascading past her shoulders in a shimmering river of golden red.
When Molly finished, Bristol peeked shyly into the mirror, catching her breath in surprise and delight. The beauty staring from the glass was a woman no one in Salem would recognize. This woman had outgrown the simplicity of Puritan tailoring and wore the low-cut silk gown as if born to it. If meekness and humility thrived inside that small curving body, no hint glimmered in Bristol’s sparkling eyes. The woman in the mirror exuded youthful confidence and eager surety. Anyone observing her would be convinced she knew the power of her rare loveliness.
And tonight, remembering how she looked, hearing the delicious whisper of rich silk, Bristol felt as if she’d been transported into a new more fitting image. An image always existing just below the surface, waiting to be brought out.
Aunt Pru fluffed Bristol’s puffed sieves and fussed over her; a touch here, a tuck there. For herself, Prudence Hathaway had chosen a frothy concoction of pink and
mauve. On a less flamboyant personality, such colors might have clashed offensively with the mounds of carrot-colored hair; but Aunt Pru carried the combination brilliantly. She smiled approval at Bristol. “The green exactly matches your eyes, dear, each doing justice to the other.” She chuckled proudly. “The men will be fighting to meet you. I’ve extended last-minute invitations to several interesting young men, with your future in mind.”
Aunt Pru’s words faded in Bristol’s ears, and a buzzing filled her head. She stared at the man striding through the entry door, and her face flamed, then drained of color as a sudden suspicion flashed across her thoughts. Her hand fluttered to a racing heart, and Bristol felt rooted to the floor.
“What...?” Aunt Pru turned to follow Bristol’s wide helpless gaze. Then Prudence Hathaway’s round face lit with happiness and she ran forward, throwing her large pink-and-mauve arms around the man in the doorway. “Robbie!” she cried. Aunt Pru buried her face in the man’s broad shoulder, tears of joy choking her voice.
Jean Pierre La Crosse stared at Bristol over Prudence’s shoulder, his gray eyes locking to hers.
Reaching behind her, Bristol’s fingers found the edge of a table, and she leaned against it, her hands whitening on the table rim. Shock jolted through her mind. Jean Pierre and Robbie Hathaway were the same person! But that couldn’t be! She swallowed hard and tried to drop her eyes, but his flickering stare held her gaze. Dear God, Bristol thought wildly, no wonder Lord Hathaway had seemed so comfortable and familiar from the first. Seeing Robert Hathaway’s son, Bristol recognized her uncle’s gray eyes, his firm set of jaw and chin, the high aristocratic nose.
Aunt Prudence wiped her eyes and tugged Jean Pierre toward Bristol. “I want you to meet my niece. Robbie, this is—”
“Mistress Adams. We’ve met, Prudence.” Jean Pierre took Bristol’s trembling fingers and bent over them. She closed her eyes as his lips brushed her hand, and his warm fingers filled her palm.
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