by Amy Corwin
Shrugging, Mary helped Hannah slip the blue gown over her head. “February always be cool.”
“Cool? I should say this is quite cold for this area, is it not? I had always heard that southern England has warm winters.”
“Cornwall?” Mary corrected her. “It be warm enough for any body, as I reckon it. Shall I brush your hair?”
Hannah grimaced. “If you can. It is so full of knots that I don’t know if it will ever be possible to get a brush through the tangles.”
“Never fear.” For the first time that morning, a slight smile turned up the corners of Mary’s thin lips. “I’ve brung the dowager’s French pomatum. It’ll do the trick, and it be made of lard—not nasty bear grease, as some use.” She pulled a small, blue jar out of the pocket of her apron and opened it, holding it out for Hannah to see. “Made it myself.”
The fragrant scents of lavender, orange flowers, and jasmine filled the cool air, and Hannah grinned with delight. “That smells lovely—thank you so much for thinking of it. It was very kind of you.”
Blushing, Mary stared at the floor and mumbled under her breath as she guided Hannah to a ladder-backed chair near the washstand. She dipped her work-worn fingers into the pomade, rubbed it between her palms and began working it through Hannah’s hair. The scent was so soothing and delightful that Hannah closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Before she knew it, her hair was free of tangles and twisted into a sophisticated knot at the base of her neck.
“There,” Mary announced, stepping back.
Startled, Hannah stood and moved to stand in front of the mirror. Her hair almost glowed golden-blonde in the sunshine, smooth and fragrant.
“The dowager’ll be waiting,” Mary reminded her, putting the blue jar back into her apron pocket and stepping to the door. “I’ll show you the way.”
“Thank you, Mary.”
Staring at the floor, Mary murmured a vague reply.
Hannah followed her, repressing a sigh. She might not have been able to win over the dour maid yet, but with luck, there was still time, and she had the inescapable feeling that she was going to need friends.
Nonetheless, despite her determination, a sigh escaped her as she followed the maid down the grand staircase. One night’s rest had not completely restored her, and her limbs felt stiff and achy. The gashes on her palms and shin throbbed and itched under their gauze wrappings, and a permanent chill had settled into her muscles.
She was still staring thoughtfully at the maid’s thin, rigid back when Mary stopped at a wide doorway and stood aside.
“Miss Cowles, Lady Blackwold,” Mary announced. She curtsied and waited, eyes downcast, for Hannah to enter.
The dowager, seated at the head of a long cherry table, was resplendent in a brilliant red silk dress, with thick ruffles of lace frothing at the neckline and wrists. An astounding confection constructed from the same red silk and lace, with the addition of several curly white feathers, covered her thick gray hair.
She nodded to Hannah and waved at the chair on her left. An elegant place setting of delicate, gilt-edged china and beautifully polished silver awaited her, and Hannah noticed that there were two other place settings on the dowager’s right.
“Good morning, Lady Blackwold. How are you?” Hannah’s hand touched the base of her neck. Her fingertips brushed her bare skin, missing the smooth warmth of her pearls.
My pearls! Where are my pearls! And the pocket containing her family jewelry? They’d taken her dress and belongings while she’d bathed, after her arrival. What had they done with them?
The dowager grinned at her and held up her right hand. “It occurred to me that you might be concerned about the whereabouts of these.” The stained bag containing Hannah’s jewels rested in the dowager’s palm. “They are very impressive. Assuming they are real.”
“Of course they are real!” Hannah said, striding over to the chair at the dowager’s left. She forced herself to adopt a calm, cheerful smile. “So, I am understandably relieved to see that I didn’t lose them. Thank you.”
“Did you imagine we would steal them?”
“No, of course not.”
“Sit, then.” The dowager motioned impatiently to the chair next to her. “My eyesight is not as good as it once was, so it was difficult to be sure if those jewels were paste or not. Though the pearls appeared valuable enough in the dim glow of the carriage lamp.”
“Well, they are exactly what they appear to be.” Hannah accepted the small bundle and after a moment’s hesitation, placed it on the table to the left of her place setting before she took her seat. “I must thank you again for ensuring their safety.” She resolutely refused to open the bag to check the contents in front of the dowager.
The dowager picked up her napkin and shook it out just as footsteps clattered across the floor. Both women glanced up, and the dowager’s grin widened.
“Blackwold! So you decided to join us after all,” the dowager said, her dark eyes brightening.
A huge, shambling bear of a man, with shaggy brown hair and wide shoulders, ambled over to the dowager. He kissed her cheek before throwing himself into the chair on her right. His neckcloth was awry, and his dark blue jacket had clearly seen better days, as the elbows were worn, and the cuffs barely covered his strong wrists.
Hannah judged him to be in his mid to late twenties, and her first impression was that he was quite handsome, with a determined, square chin, wide Nordic cheekbones, and a proud nose. But his expression was so abstracted and distant that she immediately revised her opinion. Most likely, he was one of those peers her father had commented on with such disgust; one in whom intelligence had long ago been bred out of the deteriorating line to leave only a sort of doddering, drooling wreck of a human being.
“Blackwold! Adam!” the dowager repeated with increasing exasperation, her hands curling into small fists that she banged on the edge of the table. “Pay attention! We have a guest!”
His brow wrinkled. “Grandmother?”
“Yes—honestly, Blackwold. What is it that concerns you now and prevents you from noticing anything except your plate?”
“Now?” He gazed at her. “Dinner, I would think.” He picked up his napkin and flung it into his lap, his brows rising as he looked at the dowager. “What else would I have on my plate?”
“Truly, you do this deliberately to annoy me—I am quite sure of it,” the dowager said, frowning.
A grin widened his mouth, and he jerked his head back to fling a thick lock of hair out of his brown eyes. “I shouldn’t think so. But good food deserves deliberation, and you always set an excellent table, Grandmother. You must forgive me if it distracted me.”
“I was not talking about eating.”
He glanced at her again, his brows rising.
“You know perfectly well I was not. Where are your manners? Must you act like such an oaf when we have guests?”
“Guests?” He glanced around, his brown eyes resting only momentarily upon Hannah.
For half a second, she thought she saw a flicker of deep, amused intelligence in his glance, and she held her breath, suddenly feeling confused. A heated flush rose to her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze to the table. Her hands fluttered over her plate, and she picked up her napkin and shook it out, almost flinging it over her shoulder in her nervousness. Her flaming cheeks grew hotter.
Blackwold grinned again. “I thought you said it was only a bit of flotsam that you found last night. Or jetsam—I always confuse those. A bit of something washed up on the beach, at any event.” He looked at his grandmother. “Speaking of which, we had another wreck last night, poor devils. Blown off course.” Another wide smile stretched his mouth. “It’s hardly surprising to find flotsam and jetsam everywhere.”
“Miss Cowles, may I present my grandson, Lord Blackwold?” the dowager said in the dry voice of extreme exasperation. “Blackwold, Miss Hannah Cowles. Of Boston.”
“Just that little bit of flotsam,” Hannah murmured before fix
ing a smile on her face and nodding. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Blackwold.”
Blackwold’s chair squealed in protest as he pushed it back to sketch a brief bow before he sat down again. “Pleasure’s all mine, Miss Cowles.”
“Miss Cowles was apparently a passenger on that ship, Blackwold,” the dowager said as she gestured to a gangly red-haired footman to begin serving dinner.
“Indeed, I was. The Orion,” Hannah added as the footman ladled white veal soup into the dish in front of her.
As if there were truly any doubt that I was a passenger. Apparently, indeed, she thought, studying her bowl. The delicious meaty, slightly salty fragrance reminded her of the warming broth she’d eaten the night before. Clearly, it formed the base of the soup today.
“I understood there were no survivors,” Blackwold commented as he picked up a spoon and began eating.
Hannah’s heart thudded and she caught her breath. No survivors. Her spoon clattered against the side of the bowl.
No one else had made it to shore and escaped the men waiting for them on the beach.
Hot tears pricked her eyes. She blinked rapidly, concentrating on slowly eating her soup. Her grief was so intense, so overwhelming that she could barely swallow. She’d had dear friends on board the Orion—all those pleasant souls looking forward to one last supper together before docking—all of them, gone.
She’d hoped—truly prayed—that someone else might have survived.
She took a deep breath and gritted her teeth against another deep surge of emotion. Not wanting the others to see how badly the tragedy affected her, she forced herself to continue eating a few more spoonfuls. The slightest hint of mace was soothing and familiar, reminding her of being tucked under the thick blankets the previous evening, but the sensation did nothing to assuage her feelings of loss and loneliness. She put her spoon down.
“Miss Cowles apparently survived and managed to climb to the road, where she forced Beamish to halt the carriage.” The dowager finished her soup and waved to a maid.
The girl hurried to join the footman and clear away the bowls. With her help, the footman began serving the roasted duck, poached eels, large rack of beef, and several dishes of vegetables that formed the second course.
“Brave, indeed.” Blackwold chuckled. “And resourceful. I am not sure I’d trust old Beamish to halt on that road. Not at night.”
Another hot flush burned Hannah’s cheeks, embarrassed for no real reason. She kept her eyes on her plate and pushed a small piece of fish from one side of her plate to the other. “It was not particularly brave. I had no choice.”
Blackwold’s gaze flashed to his grandmother. She grinned, and in that small, silent communication, Hannah had a sense of the loving bond that existed between the two. And more than that, she realized something important about the dowager’s character. Lady Blackwold was one of those who adored verbal duels—matching wits with an opponent. Her words were often insulting—even cruel—not with mean spirits, but because she hoped to provoke a rapier-sharp response.
Unfortunately, Hannah’s blade was usually so rusted in its scabbard that she couldn’t respond in time, and sadly, she was better known for her honesty than her wit.
When she glanced up, Blackwold’s gaze was resting on the lumpy bag on the table next to Hannah’s plate.
“Odd way to carry around jewelry—one would think,” he said thoughtfully. “Surprised you retained the forethought to take it if the ship was sinking.”
“I was dressing for dinner!” Hannah stared at him, but he was busy spearing a bit of cauliflower. She glanced at Lady Blackwold.
Lady Blackwold chuckled and shrugged, stepping aside from this particular duel.
“You saw—I was wearing my best gown!” Hannah added.
“You were dressed inappropriately for the weather,” the dowager admitted. “As I noted before.”
“I was in my evening gown—dressing for dinner—when the ship hit the rocks! And I had my jewelry out to decide what to wear. I…” Her chin rose. “I just put them into the pocket without thinking.”
“Took them without thinking,” Blackwold commented absently, his attention seemingly focused on reducing the mound of vegetables on his plate.
“I did not take them! They are mine!” Hannah’s voice rose. “The emerald and diamond necklace belonged to my mother; my father gave it to her when they were married! Before I was born!”
“I am sure he did,” Lady Blackwold said. “No need to weep about it.”
“I am not crying,” Hannah said, wiping the back of her hand over her damp cheeks. She felt beleaguered and almost feverish with desperation, despite her insight in the dowager’s difficult character.
What were they accusing her of? Stealing? All she wanted to do was to go back upstairs, crawl into bed, and stay there. Her back ached where she’d been hit, and her hands were growing stiff under the light gauze covering her palms.
“What brought you to England, Miss Cowles?” Blackwold asked, changing the subject abruptly.
Hannah swallowed and took a deep breath. “I wanted to see London; my father spoke about it.” She was not going to admit that she’d hoped to join Polite Society and enjoy a Season as a wealthy American heiress before purchasing her own estate—her own home.
Her dream seemed further away than ever, however. Her trunk—everything she’d possessed—was gone.
“Your father?” Blackwold glanced at her, the sharp sparkle of probing intelligence in his dark brown eyes.
“Lord Rothguard,” Hannah replied proudly, staring at him in challenge.
Lady Blackwold laughed and shook her head. “Ah, I see. That Cowles.” She wiped her lips with her napkin. “That barony is dormant, my dear. The last in the line, Richard Cowles, never claimed the title—went off to the colonies or some such nonsense—or so I heard. In any event, if you are the sole living child of that line, I suspect the title will go extinct. There is no Lord Rothguard—hasn’t been since I was a girl.” She smiled at Hannah. “I have a Debrett’s if you wish to see it.”
Hannah studied her, disconcerted. So her father wasn’t a baron. He was still the son of a baron, so how could it really matter?
“Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage,” the dowager clarified.
“Well, titles are not used in Boston. It does not matter,” Hannah said, staring down at a small piece of eel rapidly cooling on her plate. The strong, oily odor, originally so appetizing, made her stomach churn. “The only point I was trying to make was that the jewels are mine. I inherited them from my father. And mother.”
“Or managed to slip them into your pocket before the ship foundered.” Lady Blackwold waved her hand as if shooing away any protest Hannah might make. “No matter. You are here now. It will be amusing to see what Society makes of you when we remove to London next week.”
Blackwold pushed his plate away and rose to his feet. “Excuse me, Grandmother. Miss Cowles.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode out.
Watching his stiff shoulders as he left, Hannah had the distinct impression that he was annoyed.
His grandmother must have noticed it, as well, for she chuckled and waved to the red-haired footman to remove her empty plate. “My grandson is not looking forward to the Season, I fear. But he must go and at least pretend to have some affection for Lady Alice. It is time for him to attend a few dances at Almack’s with her and show that he can be a gentleman, when he wishes.”
Hannah caught her gaze, and the dowager shook her head.
“He is a marquess, you see, and Lady Alice is the daughter of an earl.” Her dark eyes glittered. “After all, he must look far higher than the supposed daughter of a man who could not be bothered to claim his title. No, indeed. He shall marry Lady Alice or one of the girls vetted and approved by the patronesses of Almack’s. The Marriage Mart does have its uses, you see.”
“To keep wealthy American heiresses from marrying peers, perhaps?” Hannah replied coolly.
> “To keep peers from making social blunders by marrying those who are inappropriate,” the dowager corrected her complacently. She leaned forward, her small fists supporting her against the edge of the table. “I hope we haven’t disappointed you, Miss Cowles, by explaining our circumstances. We may seem rude, or even cruel, but you must realize; you could be anyone. My grandson has not confided in you, but I have been known…” She shrugged and sat back. Sighing, she said, “Other supposed ladies before you have tried to take advantage of me.” Her mouth twisted, and her fingers moved restlessly as she picked up and twisted her napkin. “I dislike speaking of it, but it is best that you understand the situation. I must live here with my grandson because I have no real choice. I was once quite as wealthy as you may have hoped. Well, there is no point in tiring you with boring memories. Suffice it to say, you will not find your fortune here.” Her sharp gaze softened. “And you must not take what any of us say to heart. We are all known for little thought and sharp tongues. I only meant to warn you that if you are an adventuress taking advantage of the wreck of the Orion to assume a position not your own, you would be well advised to admit it now. I will not hold it against you, my dear.”
“I am not an adventuress. I am Hannah Cowles, daughter of Richard Cowles, son of Lord Rothguard.”
Lady Blackwold nodded wearily and rubbed her napkin over her mouth again. “You might regret surviving the Orion, then, for I imagine your reputation is quite ruined after last night.”
“Simply because I was silly enough to survive?”
“Because you were wandering alone, at night, in the company of disreputable men.” She lifted her brows. “Did you think we did not see the men climbing up to the road behind you?”
“I—” Hannah felt shaken at the thought that the wreckers had been that close to her—close enough to be seen by the dowager.
Lady Blackwold held up a gnarled hand. “Young ladies do not wander the roads of England alone. Particularly at night. And apparently, no one can identify you or perform introductions on your behalf. Other than me, of course.”