A thin smile curved Anne's mouth. "No doubt. I wonder that she hasn't given up the deception and gone to her aunt."
"Oh, you don't know Meagan. She'll never give up. She'll probably surprise us all in the end—find some way to bring it all off in her favor. My brother used to say that she reminded him of a kitten, the way she always landed on her feet."
Anne nibbled at a pastry, carefully framing her next question. "Strange you should say that, Priscilla. I was wondering, figuratively speaking of course, if you think Meagan could have any interest in Lion. Do you take my meaning?"
"Well, I'll confess I've had my worries in that respect," Priscilla replied airily. "No more, though. After all, as far as he knows, she is only a mere serving-girl. Secondly, Meagan has never been particularly interested in men. She wouldn't begin to know how to flirt with Lion and I don't think she'd care to. Lastly, I have the impression that your coachman is keeping her occupied and out of trouble. 'Tis strange to think of aristocratic Meagan Sayers from one of the grandest plantations in Virginia carrying on with a servant, but I don't doubt that she may be more at home with that rowdy type."
"I'm sure you are right. Sayers, hmm? I have an idea that I was acquainted with her parents. In France, I believe."
"No doubt. They were there often." Priscilla leaned forward anxiously then. "You will promise never to breathe a word of this? Why, poor Meagan lives in absolute terror of being discovered and sent off to that old aunt in Boston. I did give my word..."
"And I give you mine, dear Priscilla. Absolutely nothing could persuade me to divulge the truth about Meagan's past to anyone!"
***
"You are going to be in trouble if you aren't downstairs before the guests begin to arrive," Meagan warned. "Can't you just choose one? Must you try every patch in the box?"
Priscilla pouted prettily. Her winged eyebrows had been darkened with burnt cloves and she seemed to be enjoying watching herself in the mirror, lifting first one brow and then the other. Meagan personally thought that her blackened eyebrows and rouged cheeks and lips looked absurd, but she knew any advice from her would be ignored.
"I simply cannot decide between la passionée," she pressed a star-shaped black patch near her left eye, "and la coquette." The second speck of silk was heart-shaped, carefully positioned on Priscilla's upper lip.
Meagan winced at Priscilla's French accent and the expression froze on her face as she studied the two appliques and overdone makeup. "Oh, do wear them both. The total effect is simply indescribable!"
Priscilla flashed her brightest smile, closed her patch box, and stood up. "I should hurry along. Anne did stress punctuality."
Meagan straightened the folds of her mistress's elaborate watered-silk gown, arranged the powdered curls around her shoulder, and forced a smile. "Your looks will be—unequalled."
"Why, thank you, Meagan," Priscilla murmured, her voice honeyed with condescension.
Emeralds gleaming against her white throat, she swept from the room just as Wickham's voice rumbled below, "Senator William Maclay!"
Meagan set about putting Priscilla's boudoir in order. As she gathered up discarded undergarments and organized the clutter of cosmetics on the dressing table, she tried to ignore the cheerful voices and swells of laughter from downstairs. A heavy loneliness stole over her heart, and before she could force it back, a vision filled her mind of Lion and Priscilla dancing, smiling, touching...
Bitter tears pooled in her violet eyes, clinging like stars to the thick lashes. She opened the semanier to borrow one of Priscilla's handkerchiefs and it was then that she noticed the fan which Priscilla had forgotten.
Priscilla had conceived the notion herself of wearing combs in her hair with miniatures of Washington painted on them and having a silk fan embroidered to match with a scene showing him at Mount Vernon. A little gold chain was attached to the fan so that it might be clasped about her waist.
Meagan thought the scheme was typical of Priscilla's taste, but she also knew that once the fan was missed she would be the one to hear of it for days to come. With a sigh, she picked it up and set off for the back stairway.
Minutes later, she stood in the darkness of a hall which joined the brightly lit drawing room. Only a few richly garbed figures were already there, while the crowd in the entry hall grew even as she watched. William, Anne, and Priscilla stood together in a row at the doorway, greeting the guests as Wickham announced them and Smith and other maids took their wraps.
Meagan was acutely conscious of her disheveled appearance. All the other servants who moved among the guests were models of starched perfection, while her own apron was smudged with rouge and burnt cloves, wayward black wisps of hair curled against her neck and forehead, and her mobcap was somewhat askew. All the men wore the Bingham livery and curled white wigs, and the maids had carefully powdered their hair.
Oh, well, Meagan thought with a sigh, brushing back some of the stray curls. She smoothed her skirts and went out into the brilliantly lit drawing room which Anne had taken particular pains to decorate impressively. There were folding doors covered with mirrors that reflected over and over the fashionable Gobelin chairs from Seddon's in London. The rosewood chair-backs were shaped like lyres and trimmed with festoons of crimson and yellow silk, as were the curtains. The carpet was one of Moore's most expensive patterns, while the wallpaper was distinctly French. All around, people were exclaiming over the beauty of the room and its furnishings, but Meagan personally was less than overcome. Increasingly, Mansion House and the life-style of its inhabitants reminded her of everything that she had abhorred about her own youth in Virginia.
Coming up behind the Binghams and Priscilla, Meagan wondered how to transfer the fan without attracting attention. It occurred to her that she might be able to fasten the gold chain around Priscilla's slim waist without anyone even noticing. Robert Morris's wife Mary was greeting Priscilla vivaciously as Meagan surreptitiously tossed one end of the chain and caught it at Priscilla's other hip, smiling a bit at her own skill. The fan dropped to the side as she felt for the clasp, and at that moment her composure withered as Wickham announced, "Captain Lion Hampshire!"
Against her will, Meagan's eyes sought him, watching as he pulled off soft doeskin gloves and a camel-colored greatcoat. Is it possible, she wondered in agony, that a man's looks could improve each day? His hair shone in golden contrast to tawny skin, while his eyes and teeth flashed as he laughed at something whispered in his ear by Eliza Powel. Her gaze hungrily devoured every detail of his appearance, for his clothes were flawlessly elegant as always. He wore an indigo blue suit over a waistcoat of gold and blue brocade. His shirt was a light, dull gold color, making a perfect foil for the simple, well-cut coat, and the narrow ruffled cuffs were warm against his tan hands. Unlike the other men, Lion made no great display of jewels or military decorations; he wore only the plain signet ring and a gold watch, the small chain of which glinted against the brocade of his waistcoat.
Meagan fumbled frantically with the clasp as he approached the receiving line. Priscilla felt her by this time and cast a wondering, irritated glance over one shoulder.
"The fan!" Meagan hissed, near tears.
Priscilla tightened her lips and sought to ignore the commotion at her waist.
Of course, Lion saw Meagan immediately; in truth as soon as he turned from Eliza Powel. Little more than a wilted mobcap and some rebellious black curls were visible behind his fiancée, but he seemed to sense her presence even before identification was made. When Meagan met those dancing sea-blue eyes, all her remaining coordination vanished. Lion made short work of the greeting line, coming around beside her with a roguish look. She blushed rosily under his knowing, laughing eyes, wishing fervently that the drawing-room floor would open and swallow her up. "Allow me, Miss South."
His long, tan fingers brushed against her hands as he promptly fastened the clasp. Meagan shivered.
"Thank you," she whispered, her tone void of gratitude.
"Goodnight, Mr. Hampshire."
Lion watched with a smile as she hurried off toward the serving hall, the lace edge of her petticoats showing in her haste.
Someone else was watching as well, while handing his cape and ivory-handled walking stick to Smith. His eyes remained on her bouncing sable curls until Wickham called out, "Major Henry Gardner!" and the man turned toward his host and hostess, florid face beaming.
Chapter Nineteen
Both kitchens were frenzies of activity, and Meagan found herself pressed against a wall to keep from being run down. Through it all, Bramble was organized, issuing orders to her regiment of servants as they dashed to and fro. The sideboards were heaped with every sort of delicacy as well as dozens of bottles of wine and brandy, all imported from France, while a team of perspiring cooks still labored over their bowls and pots.
Meagan was ready to seek escape back to Priscilla's chamber when Smith's welcome face appeared at her side.
"It is quite a production, is it not?" she asked with a smile.
"Quite!" Meagan agreed, laughing. "I rather fear for my life!"
"Well, when the Binghams give a party, they do it in a grand way. To tell the truth, I was on my way for a bit of air. Won't you join me?"
Meagan grinned her assent and they hurried off together toward the cool night air of the garden. It proved to be a rare, mild evening for March, and Meagan felt herself relax as they collapsed side by side on a stone bench.
"Soon enough the guests will find their way out here," Smith said softly, "but for now, we're safe."
"How did you get away?"
"The initial crush is past. The other maids can cope with the latecomers." She paused, breathing in the sweet, cool air. "That's the glory of being housekeeper. I can dismiss myself!"
Meagan smiled and closed her eyes for a few moments, comfortable in their friendly silence. After a time, she asked, "Do you ever envy them?"
Smith turned her hazel eyes, scanning Meagan's face. "I never thought to. Do you?"
"No. I suppose I do rather long for the gaiety, but I wouldn't take the place of any woman there." She laughed, and the sound was like music in the dark garden. "The patches and paint—ugh! If they could only realize how silly it is."
Smith nodded. "Miss Wade and Mistress Bingham are mild in comparison, too. Did you see some of those women? They've taken to wearing some horrid white paint on their faces. Dr. Rush told the mistress that the paint has lead in it—quite dangerous! Apparently it has been ruining teeth and causing the eyes to swell, and heaven knows what else."
Meagan made a face, but bit off her reply when she spied a liveried figure coming toward them across the grounds.
"Good evenin', ladies!" Brown called merrily. "I thought I recognized my Meagan's sweet laughter!"
When he stopped before them, grinning, Meagan knew the reason for his boldness. The odor of Madeira assaulted them.
"Kevin, should you be roaming about tonight? And drinking?"
He sought to straighten his wig. "My stableboys have matters well in hand. As for the drink—I've barely gotten a taste!"
Smith stood up, apparently much less perturbed than Meagan. "Now that the party is under way, I suggest that you seek a bit of amusement as well, Meagan dear. Go and put on your beautiful new dress for Brown and have a glass of wine. Miss Wade won't be needing you for hours, if at all. These affairs frequently go on all night!"
Meagan was horrified by this suggestion, but Smith seemed cheerfully unaware of her reaction as she waved to them and started back toward the house.
Alone at last with his lady love, Brown did not waste a moment.
"Perhaps," he coaxed, "you'd enjoy a look at the party—see how the other side lives! It might change your mind about the dress." Even in his state of near intoxication, he sensed that more subtle tactics were in order. Meagan was not a girl to be pushed.
"Well..."
He did not wait for her to seize on an excuse. Promptly taking her arm, he led her across the dark lawn toward the drawing room's French doors. The light that poured from within was like white-hot fire, and as they drew closer, vibrant strains of music filled their ears. Brown had to tug a bit at Meagan's elbow to bring her up to the windows, but when they peeked in he smirked triumphantly to himself. What a stroke of luck! There, in plain sight, under the magnificent crystal chandelier, were Captain Hampshire and Priscilla Wade. They were performing an elegant, complex minuet, moving in perfect harmony. The picture they made was that of an ardent engaged couple, and Brown could feel Meagan stiffen when their eyes met in a shared smile.
"They make a handsome pair," he commented casually.
Meagan turned away from the French doors, inhaling deeply of the cool night air.
"I believe you and Smith may be right after all," she murmured huskily. "A bit of amusement is in order. I'll go and dress. After all, I may not get another chance to wear the gown!"
***
Henry Gardner finally found a moment alone with Anne Bingham when she paused between minuets for a glass of champagne.
"Ah, my dear Mrs. Bingham. May I compliment you on a lovely party? The beauty of your home is only exceeded by that of its mistress."
Anne recoiled from the foulness of his breath, but managed to force a bright smile. "Major Gardner, you are too kind. But I shall accept your compliment with some humility, for I understand that your own new home is quite a showplace in its own right!"
Gardner's ruddy cheeks puffed out in a wide smile. "I am proud of it. I hope that you will honor me with your presence very soon, for I plan to host a number of festive gatherings over the coming months and years."
"Your importing business is doing well, then?"
"Confidentially, yes! The demand for wine seems to be on the rise." He could see her beautiful eyes begin to wander and knew that he would have to come to the point before she slipped away. "You know, with the size of my new residence, I find that I seem to need more servants each day."
Anne laughed politely. " 'Tis a problem I am well acquainted with!" At that moment, Samuel Powel stepped forward to claim her for a cotillion, and she gave Gardner a relieved smile in parting. "So nice to see you, Major!"
Disgruntled by the interruption, he looked around to see Marcus Reems standing nearby, his brilliant tiger eyes fastened on the figure of Priscilla Wade who swirled in the arms of her fiancé. Gardner stamped over to him, blustering under his breath.
With a look of sardonic distaste, Marcus politely acknowledged the major's presence, then returned his attention to the willowy Miss Wade.
"Cursed difficult to carry on a conversation, what with people hopping out to dance all the time!" Marcus inclined his head in a gesture that fell somewhere between a nod and a shrug.
"Do you know this household well, Reems?" Gardner pursued, determined to speak his mind to someone.
"I may."
"Any of the servants?"
"A few."
Maddened by the man's cool indifference, Gardner burst out, "The fact is, I am in sore need of help in my new home, and I've taken a fancy to a serving-girl I saw here tonight. Gad, what a winsome little beauty! Black hair, great violet eyes..."
Suddenly, Marcus was alert, but like a panther, showed his interest only in the slight movement of his head and the flickering of his amber eyes. "I know the girl you mean," he said in a bored tone. "Unfortunately, it will do you no good to make inquiries to Anne, for Captain Hampshire is the girl's actual employer. She is lady's maid to his fiancée. I doubt whether he would let the chit go since she accompanied Miss Wade from Virginia."
Marcus Reems's attitude was so discouraging that Gardner fell silent, deciding not to approach Anne about the maid again. The cotillion had ended and she was standing nearby with Mayor Powel and his wife Eliza.
Anne narro
wed her pretty eyes as Marcus asked Priscilla for the next dance—a scandalous act in itself. However, Lion only served to inflame the situation. Moodily sipping brandy, he seemed unconcerned by this breech of etiquette, and when Marcus and Priscilla moved onto the dance floor, he picked up his glass and sauntered off toward one of the other parlors.
"It's the best party we've seen in months!" Eliza exclaimed. She had to repeat herself three times before Anne heard.
***
Lion was bored. The strain of playing the enamored, attentive fiancé had given him a headache and he knew that he would never last the night without a respite. It angered him that he could not summon the strength to carry off one sustained performance in this new role he had chosen. There would be talk about his leaving her alone to dance with Marcus, for the popular custom demanded that the same partners stay together throughout the evening, yet he could not care.
All the parlors on the ground floor were ablaze with lights, but he headed straight for the extensive conservatory which opened off one of them. It offered much needed quiet, solitude, and darkness. Lion longed to loosen his cravat as he moved between the rows of greenery and flowers toward the windows. Leaning against the cold glass, he took a long drink of brandy and felt the tense muscles in his back and shoulders relax.
"It's Priscilla," he mumbled bitterly. "If I cannot abide her now, how shall it be when we are married?" His thoughts spun back in time to the day he and Meagan had strolled together in Markwood Villa's overgrown garden. Lion could hear her voice in his mind, predicting that his act would never work, and he let out a harsh sigh. "She may well turn out to be right. In my blind arrogance, I have probably blundered—"
A movement outside in the trees caught his eye. When he could distinguish the two figures dancing slowly on the velvety lawn, he gave it little thought, assuming that they were errant party guests. His brandy was gone before he glanced out again, and this time a spark of recognition kindled in his mind. There was something familiar about that diminutive, raven-haired girl—then Lion recalled that every woman in the drawing room had powdered hair. A cloud moved obligingly to unmask the moon and in the silvery light, he could see that the man was clad in the Bingham livery.
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