Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  He left but did not leave. That is to say, he went out of the door, stamped around a bit, and then once the occupants of the room were convinced of his departure, he bent his six foot form and stuck his eye to the keyhole.

  He found that he had a splendid view of Miss Fairweather, and if she stayed in the same position, he would be able to see the whole thing clearly.

  She stayed in the same position. It was the physician who approached her. After a few routine questions, the doctor reached for her foot.

  The duke stopped breathing. This was it … the moment of truth.

  Suddenly he heard a deep heartfelt sigh behind him. He froze and then turned to look behind.

  A maid stood staring at his behind in admiration and shock. The silly girl was rooted to the spot just staring with her eyes wide, mouth slightly open and a hint of … Was that drool?

  He glared at her and she did not notice. He straightened and waved and got no response. He hopped from foot to foot trying to attract her attention as silently as possible. When that didn’t help either, he wriggled his buttocks and her eyes wriggled with it. He gave up. He would have to deal with her later. Currently his attention was urgently required elsewhere. He stooped once more to look through the keyhole.

  But before his eye could focus on what was going on inside the room, a throat cleared behind him. The duke squeezed his eyes shut in annoyance. He briefly contemplated ignoring this new interruption and then thought better of it. He turned back to find Perkins had joined the maid.

  Perkins did not look pleased, not by the maid’s awed expression and her point of interest, or by the duke’s unworthy occupation.

  Mutely, Perkins attempted to pull the maid along. In a daze, the girl refused to budge.

  The duke eyed the two irritably and once again bent to peer through the keyhole.

  This time it was a voice that distracted him.

  “Your grace, I—” The unfortunate creature was shushed by Perkins, the maid and the duke.

  He unbent himself … again, his back giving a slight twinge, to find his estate manager, Theodore, also staring at his buttocks. Theodore looked just like how one would imagine a man with his sort of name would look— small, brown and fidgety.

  This time the duke swore he would not look away, no matter who arrived. He bent once again and managed to stick his eye back on the keyhole without any further interruption.

  He could see the doctor kissing the dowager’s hand. He had finished his examination and was giving his verdict. Or had the verdict already been given? The duke was not certain. He panicked. If it had been given, then they would be coming this way. Gathering the last shreds of his dignity, he raced back towards his study.

  The maid and Theodore took off after the duke. Perkins ran after them at the speed of a horse— that is he ran, but in his head. In reality, he hobbled a few inches forward.

  “Leave,” the duke snapped, turning around and addressing the enchanted maid.

  The maid broke out of her trance. Her eyes wrenched away from his buttocks and focused on his face. She took one look at his expression and fled.

  “Theodore, I don’t think I have to tell you but …”

  “I won’t mention the little incident, your grace. Not even on my deathbed.”

  “Thank you, but to be safe you should give me your solemn oath.”

  Theodore repeated his promise with his hand on his heart.

  “Ah, we have to do his sort of thing correctly. Fetch me a holy book.”

  Theodore finally departed after taking his oath in numerous different ways and languages.

  The duke waited in his study for half an hour growing impatient. The physician had left ages ago and he would have told mother and sister that the country girl was a fraud.

  He wanted to look down his long aristocratic nose at his sister and tell her that in future she must defer to his judgement. She was too young to correctly assess a person’s character. He would graciously offer himself as a guide, and instead of looking smug and all knowing, he would adopt an understanding countenance. He would not sneer at his mother. No, he would smile at her and comfort her. A mistake like that was all too easy to make. He would pat her on the back, give her a bit of brandy, and then he would have the acute pleasure of throwing Miss Fairweather out of the Blackthorne Mansion, into a carriage bound straight for Finnshire, and out of his life for good.

  He picked up an inkpot and set it back down. Next he opened a ledger, stared at the numbers for half a minute and then slammed the book shut. His eyes strayed to the clock. He frowned. Half an hour had gone by and his mother had not arrived. His patience snapped, and he decided to inspect matters for himself.

  He walked towards the Blue Room, pausing briefly in front of a large Venetian mirror. He looked at his reflection and scrutinised his expression. He looked too happy. He frowned a little but … no, that was not right either … He then chose his blank aristocratic expression. Perfect.

  He entered the room and found a picture; a picture some would consider sweet, but to him it looked vile. The rosy glow, the sparkling smiles, the feminine laughter, and his mother’s hand gently patting Miss Fairweather’s hand hurt him deep inside. He silently raged at the foolishness of his family members. Had they forgiven her already? Had they no self-respect?

  “Charles,” Lady Anne commented, eyeing her brother’s thundering expression in delight.

  “What brings you here … again?” the dowager asked, hiding her own smile behind a flowery teacup.

  The duke rearranged his expression to look faintly inquiring, “I was just concerned about our guest. I suppose Dr Johnson has seen her?”

  “Yes,” the dowager said.

  The duke waited, and when no further light was thrown on what had occurred, he deigned to ask, “The prognosis?”

  Lady Anne took pity on her brother and said, “He has bandaged her ankle. He assured us that it wasn’t broken, merely sprained. It should be alright in a few days’ time.”

  “So it was sprained?”

  “Yes, she wrenched it badly. It is horrible, all red and swollen. It looks remarkably painful,” Lady Anne replied.

  “I see… I see. I suppose I should get back to work then,” he muttered, turning on his heels.

  “Don’t you want to wish Miss Fairweather a speedy recovery, seeing how you were so concerned about her welfare a moment ago?” the dowager enquired.

  “Miss Fairweather, go boil your head!” the duke stormed, slamming the door shut behind him.

  “How touching,” Penelope murmured.

  “Quite,” the dowager replied, picking up her knitting needles.

  Chapter 10

  Madame Bellafraunde fluttered in with a swish of aubergine skirts, veils and golden tassels. Four uniformed maids followed her. Her massive form immediately collapsed on the nearest sofa while one of the maids urgently fanned her using an exquisite cream and silk lace fan.

  Everyone waited until the smelling salts had been administered and the chilled champagne drunk. Finally, Madame, much revived from the ordeal of walking from her carriage to the doorstep of the duke’s home, lifted an imperious hand in signal.

  Lady Anne immediately launched into an explanation, “No one but you can help us, Madame Bellafraunde. The situation is dire. Miss Fairweather here is in immediate need of your attention. She is raw from the country, poor as a church mouse and has not a single thing to wear, and she debuts next week! I know you do not pay calls to customers’ homes, but Miss Fairweather has turned her ankle. If things were not so grave, we would have waited. But as you can see … only the best can help her.”

  Penelope shuffled her feet doing her best to look pathetic. She had been told that a hint of flattery and a lot of disparaging remarks against the intended victim was the only way the excellent, extremely choosy, and most expensive modiste in town would help her. It was rumoured that Madame Bellafraunde once turned away a countess because she didn’t approve of her smile.

  Penel
ope therefore did not smile.

  The dowager entered the Blue Room and, wonder of wonders, Madame Bellafraunde actually heaved herself off the sofa to bow to her.

  “Can she be made presentable?” the dowager asked.

  Madame Bellafraunde lifted her veil and Penelope stifled a gasp.

  Madame Bellafraunde was not a Madame but a Mr Bellafraunde sporting a faint moustache and day old stubble.

  After a moment of stunned silence, Penelope whirled. She spun on the spot and the carpet and the furniture twirled and whizzed with her. She immediately spotted what she searched for and quick as lighting raced towards it. She sprang over the couch misjudging the distance. She rammed into the back seat and fell landing face down.

  She ignored the pain in her ankle and rallied forces. She scrambled back up and took another flying leap. Her legs spread, her skirts flew and her toes pointed gracefully. Her landing was a tad clumsy, but she had reached her goal.

  She turned like a warrior. Her eyes narrowed and lips parted. Like a seasoned hunter, she lifted the object that she had snatched from above the fireplace.

  The room squealed in shock.

  Penelope held a barking iron— that is to say a hunting rifle— a grey rusted rifle that was the duke’s paternal grandfather’s. The last time it had been used was in an attempt to shoot down a tiger. The tiger survived, but the unfortunate squirrel that got shot in the process … didn’t.

  Otherwise it was used to scare off annoying guests, Lady Anne’s unsuitable suitors and the occasional trespasser. Now Penelope held it and aimed it at the impersonator, the man who had dared to enter the duke’s home dressed in an exquisite silk aubergine gown.

  “Don’t worry, your grace. I have it all in hand. Lady Anne, would you be kind enough to call a few burly footmen? We will tie this imposter up and keep him in the dungeon until the Runners arrive.” Penelope was proud that her voice came out strong and loud. The run in with the highwayman had done wonders to her courage. She had always assumed that she was as bold as a mouse. London, it seemed, had turned her into a tomcat.

  “Err, Miss Fairweather … we do not have a dungeon and—” Lady Anne started to say.

  “Well, we could always lock him in a room or a dingy attic. The important thing is to tie the man up. Stop dawdling and hurry, Lady Anne. Don’t worry, I know I have to press the trigger, and if he attempts to escape, he will be awfully sorry. I have seen my father do it. I have it all in hand.”

  “Pull the trigger, my dear,” the man spoke up.

  Penelope gaped at him. She focused on his expression and was disconcerted to note that the man looked confident and serene, irrespective of the fact that he was facing a loaded gun and wearing yards of silk. Was it false bravado, she wondered, her courage rapidly faltering at his smile.

  “I will pull it … I am warning you …”

  “Please, by all means, go ahead.”

  “No, Miss Fairweather, you do not understand. You are mistaken,” the dowager interrupted urgently.

  But Penelope had already raised the gun to her shoulder and was taking aim.

  The room froze, their throats constricted by giant lumps of fear.

  Penelope shut one eye and squinted. She couldn’t see a blasted thing. How did one see through a hunting rifle? She tried again, desperately peering, her arms already aching from holding the heavy rifle. She gave up and aimed with both her eyes open. She had intended to aim and keep it aimed until help arrived. Unfortunately, that was when the weight of the rifle became too much for her and her back bowed and hand slipped.

  She had pulled the trigger…

  … and thankfully shot the ceiling.

  Lady Anne screamed, the maids screeched and Madame Bellafraunde tsked.

  A few bits of the mortar fell to the ground and with it the tomcat fled. Penelope was back to being as brave as a mouse. The rifle now lay on the ground and she did not dare pick it up again.

  “My dear, we have been trying to explain. This is the real Madame Bellafraunde. She is not an imposter,” the dowager said, staring at the roof aghast.

  “But … But this she … is a he!”

  “I am a man, yes. No need to look so horrified, girl. I am a man with the soul of a female and a brain that can potentially change your life.”

  “I … I am sure you can … I was … I was just surprised. Even in my country village we have heard of your talent, sir … I mean, Madame,” Penelope stammered.

  The dowager and Lady Anne were looking horrified, while Madame … Madame looked content and slightly sleepy, like a well fed cat that would soon lick her paws and purr.

  She hoped that Madame would not refuse to help her now. Good lord, she had almost shot her… and she had shot the duke’s ceiling. No man or women in Madame’s place would take such an imbecile on. It was all over before it even began.

  Distressed, Penelope said to all that were present, “I am sorry for shooting Madame. I mean the roof. I was only going to shoot her foot, but with my aim, I could have shot her in the head instead. I am truly sorry for almost killing you, Madame. The roof is not so important. That is, the roof is important, Lady Anne. It is after all your home, but I think Madame is more important—”

  Madame Bellafraunde lifted a hand and halted her babbling.

  Penelope rubbed her sweaty palms together. Her heart was in her throat. She could see her hopes of catching a man withering and dying. She silently bid it goodbye.

  She cursed herself for her rashness. She didn’t care if a large, hairy man was supposed to choose her dresses as long as he helped her on her mission. Now he would never help.

  “Enough desperation in her tone to almost convince me, but I need to inspect her closer to make the decision,” Madame said, brushing of the incident as if it was of no consequence.

  Penelope raised her lashes, hope once more rising from the embers.

  “What,” Madame asked Penelope, “are you good at?”

  Penelope eagerly replied, “I am a great canoozer of food.”

  “Could you repeat yourself? I don’t think I heard you right.”

  “Yes,” Penelope said, and then repeated loudly, “I am a great canoozer of food.”

  What a rifle could not do, this did. Madame paled.

  The maids rushed to fan Madame’s cheeks, and the smelling salts and champagne were administered speedily.

  At length, she sat back on her seat and turning to Penelope said, “You meant connoisseur, not … Never mind. Let us proceed. Can I inspect her closer?” she asked the dowager.

  The dowager gave a quick nod, and Madame keeping her beady eyes on Penelope approached her. She took Penelope’s face in her hand and twisted it one way, then the other. Her hair was opened and it now fell in thick, silky layers down her shoulders. Her waist was spanned and her ankles inspected. Her nails were frowned upon and her eyebrows tsked at. All the while Madame continued shooting questions at the dowager,

  “Manners?”

  “Abysmal.”

  “Talents?”

  “A spot of energetic dancing.”

  “Drawing or painting? Needlework?”

  “Hopeless.”

  “Cooking?”

  “Yes, she can cook but nothing fancy.”

  “Her fan work?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Charm?”

  “A smidgeon.”

  “Her behaviour in front of men?”

  “My father and the duke despise her.”

  Madame Bellafraunde turned to smile at the dowager, “I am impressed. I have never had such a hopeless case before. Men would run a mile if they saw her approaching and that to me is a challenge. She will be transformed into a man’s fantasy. I will do this. I will do this and succeed. It will be one of the highlights of my career because you, Miss Fairweather, in spite of your glaring faults, will be married to the best the season has to offer.”

  Penelope smiled weakly wondering if she should be unhappy at being called hopeless and having her
faults so blatantly discussed, or happy that Madame had agreed to help her because she was such a lost cause.

  The dowager and Lady Anne let out a sigh of relief.

  After this Madame Bellafraunde changed into another being. Her slow lethargic walk turned into a fast paced trot. Her deep drawl turned into quick rapid speech, and her face was lit with a mad sort of excitement. Miss Fairweather would sparkle, shine, glow, and turn heads wherever she went, and as long as the girl kept her mouth shut for the rest of her life, she would be married and live happily ever after.

  “Strip down to your chemise,” Madame Bellafraunde ordered.

  “Now? In front of you?” Penelope squeaked.

  “Girl, let me educate you. I have the soul of a woman, and that means my bonnet jiggles for a man.”

  “How?”

  “Have you not read any Roman history?”

  “Father reads aloud and I have often hidden under his desk and overheard … I mean, I didn’t know … I thought it only happened in books and history.”

  “A few of us survived outside of dull pages,” Madame replied wryly.

  Penelope glanced at the dowager uncertainly, and receiving an encouraging nod she began undressing. One of the four maids who had accompanied Madame approached Penelope and started helping her. With every cloth that was shed, Penelope turned a brighter shade of red. Her neck and even her arms had taken on a rosy hue. Soon she stood semi-naked wearing a faded corset, bloomers and stockings. Her only comfort was in the thought that most of the audience were female and the only male in the room was more woman than the rest of them put together.

  Right at that moment the door opened and the duke’s head popped in.

  “Mother,” he began and then stopped. Slowly his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in shock. He stared at an almost naked Penelope and then Madame Bellafraunde. The shock turned to anger.

  “I will not have you liaising in my house in this manner. How dare you sneak a man in here? Here under my roof to perform lewd—”

  “Charles!” the dowager spoke up from the couch.

  “How could you?” Lady Anne added.

  The duke deflated as he finally noticed his sister, mother, and four maids present in the room besides Penelope and the man. His face soon registered utter confusion.