Candle in hand, she paused at the newel post. Her book and sketching portfolio were upstairs; she might as well make an early evening of it, loll in bed, and remind herself why she loved Shakespeare’s tragic romance so very much. But instead, Coralie found her footsteps turning toward the morning room. Only when she’d set her candle on the nearby table and knelt in front of the chest beside her sewing basket, where she stored uncut fabric ready for use, did she understand the wordless yearning in her chest.
A light glowed behind her, stronger than her little flame. “Miss?”
The butler. “Oh, good, Severidge. Bring your lamp closer, please?”
Footsteps on the parquet, softening when they met the rug, then the light poured over her shoulder into the open chest. “I’m sorry, miss. If I’d known you wished for the morning room—”
“No, it’s all right, Severidge. I just wanted—” Don’t babble, she reminded herself. It certainly wasn’t the butler’s business what she wanted and tonight of all nights, after the distracting day she’d survived, she’d not let him make her feel guilty. “A bit higher, if you please.”
A half-dozen bundles, wrapped in old cloths and tied with colored yarn, filled the chest: stored packages of white lawn for Franklin’s shirts, good cotton for linens, a few odds and ends of muslin and silk she’d picked up for gowns not yet made, and the one on top which held the gold crepe. She lifted it from the gloomy depths and paused. The bundle below, swaddled in the tatty remnants of her old green morning gown, held some decadent white silk she’d found last winter, thick and sensuous like an orchid’s scent. Impulsively she grabbed it as well. Balancing both in one arm, she lowered the chest’s lid and scrambled up from her knees.
“Grab my candle and light me upstairs, would you?”
A discreet sigh from Severidge. “Of course, miss.”
The wrought iron banister and balustrade passed in a blur, the thick scarlet runner deadening her scuffing footfalls. Severidge paused at her bedroom door while Coralie dumped the bundles on her bed and retrieved her candle, thanking him before closing the door. She might not like him, there was something almost prying in the way he sometimes eyed her or Franklin’s back, but he did serve the family faithfully and he deserved her courtesy.
But when she turned, she wasn’t alone. A stranger wearing a dust-colored maid’s gown stood beside the dressing table’s little stool. On a chair nearby sat Mrs. Lacey.
Coralie froze, too surprised to speak.
“My dear, this is Ellen.” Mrs. Lacey didn’t rise. They’d long ago dispensed with such formalities; Mrs. Lacey’s rheumatism always pained her hips in the evenings, especially if they’d gone out the previous evening. And from Coralie’s stance in the doorway, even Mrs. Lacey’s knuckles appeared red and swollen against the white wool of her robe, or perhaps she knotted them in her lap. “Ellen is going to brush your hair for me tonight.”
A tiny cold knot solidified in Coralie’s chest. No, please; it’s too soon. But again she caught herself. That was selfish behavior, as unseemly as her silent protest to Franklin, and she’d not give voice to it. Hopefully the smile she forced for Mrs. Lacey was more believable than the one that hadn’t fooled her brother.
“Hello, Ellen.” Coralie took a moment to rip off the string and wrapping for both bundles of cloth, spilling bright pools of color onto her duvet. Then she crossed the room and sat before the looking glass. “Have you been a lady’s maid before?”
Behind her, the girl’s reflection seemed frozen in place. Coralie caught Mrs. Lacey’s encouraging nod from the corner of her eye.
“No, mum, not really.” Finally Ellen moved, and gentle fingers tugged at Coralie’s hairpins. “But at Lady Gower’s, when her lady’s maid were out or ill, she’d have me help her.”
“Ellen is very good with arranging hair.” Mrs. Lacey’s hands unclasped, refolded, tightened again.
The coldness in Coralie’s chest widened. Of course she knew Mrs. Lacey approached the point where standing for the simplest of duties would become onerous, especially in the evenings. Most of the tasks she’d previously performed had been already handed off to others through the years, until brushing Coralie’s hair at night was one of the few remaining, making Mrs. Lacey more companion than servant.
But how could Coralie let her go?
Another tug, so gentle and careful it was almost unfelt. No one could say Mrs. Lacey hadn’t chosen her replacement well. And there was the only possible answer to Coralie’s dilemma. She could only return to Mrs. Lacey the same love she’d been shown for so many years.
“Well, that’s fine, then.” No matter how large that coldness became, no matter how much of her it swallowed, she’d not complain.
Mrs. Lacey smiled and nodded at the glorious unwrapped shimmers, pale and bright, on the duvet. “So have you decided what to make with that beautiful indulgence? New curtains for the drawing room, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.” But she didn’t want to discuss the gold crepe; even if Mrs. Lacey remained hale and hearty, that was her secret project. “Have you received a letter from dear Mrs. Thomas?”
It was the right thing to say. Mrs. Lacey’s reflected face broke into a beaming smile. In the candlelight, her years rested so lightly upon her, she seemed ethereal, ageless and timeless, as beautiful as she’d been when her daughter Ann first came to the Busche residence as Coralie’s governess. But that had been over a decade ago. As the years had passed, Coralie had outgrown her need for lessons, Miss Lacey had moved on to educate the widower merchant Thomas’s children, and Mrs. Lacey had remained with Coralie. No one even pretended surprise when the beautiful governess shortly thereafter married her new employer.
And Coralie wouldn’t be surprised when Mrs. Lacey left to spend her remaining years with her daughter’s new family.
Mrs. Lacey’s hands stilled. They’d reached the nub of the discussion. “She grows nervous as the baby’s time draws near.”
Draws near. Coralie’s chest felt as if she’d swallowed a bucketful of snow. Before the baby arrived, Mrs. Lacey would doubtless give her notice.
Leaving Coralie more alone than ever.
Because no lady’s maid, not even a well-selected one such as Ellen, could ever take the place of a trusted and beloved companion, no matter how blameless the maid nor how competent.
And Coralie would have to bear it as best she could.
Because her companion, dear Mrs. Lacey, indeed was beloved.
The last hairpin slipped from its place. Ellen’s hand, strong and young, reached onto the dressing table and grabbed the brush. And with the first gentle sweep, Coralie realized that, between Franklin’s kiss, the gold crepe, and Mrs. Lacey’s love, she’d forgotten all about that vexing duke.
Her portfolio lay on her bedside table, beneath the volume of Shakespeare’s tragedies. Before snuffing out the candle, she’d sketch her idea for a new gown. Whether she’d actually want to take scissors to cloth in the morning, well, she’d see when she awoke.
“When she was Miss Lacey, she was the most charming governess.” Again, once she’d made her decision, Coralie’s smile felt less forced, more natural, despite the chill that crept down her arms and the emptiness inside. “Now that she’s Mrs. Thomas, she’ll be the most charming of mothers. How proud you must be!”
Chapter Six
Friday, October 22, 1813
The de Lisle footman hadn’t even gotten the front door closed behind Coralie before the evening’s first trial called her name.
“Coralie, dear? Is that you?” Lady de Lisle’s lovely trilling soprano, trained to carry to the farthest corner of the largest drawing room, sang ahead of her into the vestibule. Before Coralie could answer, slippers and silk shushed over the hardwood floor and her hostess scurried in. “Oh, good, you’re early. So glad someone is. But then you’ve always been so… depend…”
The soprano died away and the footsteps faltered along with it. Lady de Lisle paused in the doorway, her violet silk flowing abou
t her, fingers pressed to her mouth. Her natural curls, not yet dressed, not yet greying, bobbed atop her shoulders; her other hand clutched a spray of dusky roses and her gaze fastened onto Coralie’s gown as if stunned. “My dear, that’s — well, it’s beautiful but it’s an unusual gown.”
“Do you like it?” Coralie refused to swallow no matter how hard her heart thudded. Any sign of weakness before Lady de Lisle would see her sent home to change, or borrowing something from Violetta or Lissie. Just the thought of wearing someone else’s castoffs straightened her shoulders, and she smoothed the white silk bodice, embroidered with brilliant gold curlicues, down to the overskirt’s split. The gold crepe crinkled beneath her white glove, loud in the vestibule’s hush. “It took so long to sew, with all the stitching and trim and embroidery and the double hemlines. I wasn’t certain it would be finished in time, but you see it now in all its new-sewn splendor.”
Lady de Lisle’s lips thinned. “I don’t know if it’s proper.”
Exactly the comment she’d been dreading. Time to practice her amateur theatrics. Coralie shot her eyebrows and blinked, looking as innocent as she could manage. “Do you really think so? My brother said nothing.”
Please don’t ask if he saw it. Please don’t ask.
A sudden shriek ripped the heavy silence. Coralie jumped. The white-painted vestibule with its painted cherubs and clouds reappeared around her as her performance fizzled.
Racing footsteps seemed to pound from everywhere at once, then Deborah Kringle tore down the stairs, a billow of white in shift and corset. Her brown hair was either half up or half down — impossible to ascertain which, with hairpins dangling more loosely at every thundering step — and her hand, raised over her head and waving madly to and fro, clutched something that glittered in the vestibule’s candlelight. Elegant Lysandra McTaggart caught Coralie’s eye halfway down the stairs and froze, her eyes bulging and her hand flying to her equally unhidden cleavage, but Violetta de Lisle blasted between Coralie and her mother without pausing, reaching for Deborah’s prize.
“You said I could wear it! You can’t take it back now when I’ve given you my pearls!” Violetta caught a handful of cloth at Deborah’s waist and yanked, bringing the galloping herd to a spinning, giggling stop. Deborah shrieked again and bent nearly double, clutching the trifle to her side and twisting away from Violetta’s hold.
“Girls, girls!” Lady de Lisle threw up her hands. “What will Coralie think? Upstairs, this instant — no, Violetta, I will not listen — you should all be dressed by now!”
Yes, they should, if they weren’t to be horribly late to the Foresters’. There was bound to be a crush of carriages on the narrow lane; they’d probably have to walk a fair distance, gowns hiked up to avoid the filthy pavement where the horses had been, dancing about to protect their slippers. While this particular manifestation of the de Lisle harem wouldn’t mind creating such a comical picture — well, Coralie cringed at just the thought. Besides, she’d so wanted to arrive early. That way she could camp near the entrance, note Mr. Rainier’s arrival — he’d not be late, more’s the pity — and position herself appropriately.
Her heart thudded harder at the thought. The gold crepe would make it difficult for her to hide in the shadows, comfortably anonymous; instead she’d be highly visible, like a single red poppy in a field of green. For the hundredth time since she’d first cut into the material six days ago, she reminded herself that she wanted him to notice her, she wanted to stand out from the crowd. But for the hundredth time, the reminder caused a shudder. The evening was shaping up as a disaster, and she’d not even left Lady de Lisle’s town home.
Violetta and Deborah turned for the stairs, still bickering.
Oh, but if they left her alone with Lady de Lisle, the good dame would have another go at the gold crepe. Could she get herself invited upstairs into someone’s boudoir? Coralie bit her lip, pulse still thudding from the surprise they’d given her. She didn’t know these young ladies that well — she’d always been a bit dismayed by their behavior, a bit shy around the popular crowd, envious of their easy manners — and she could think of nothing to say that might ingratiate herself with them.
“Miss Busche must think us an uncivilized rabble.” Still leaning over the stairs’ Baroque balustrade, Lissie giggled, sounding rather like Deborah. But her glance darted from Lady de Lisle’s pursed lips to Coralie’s rolled ones. “Oh, and your hair is just divine. How on earth did you arrange it that way, and with a gold chain as accent? Will you not come and help me with mine? Please do; this wispy stuff will not stay pinned, no matter what I try.”
Quick-witted, delightful girl! Coralie scrambled for the stairs before Lady de Lisle could finish clearing her throat. “Of course I shall, and we’ll do something splendid with it, you see if we don’t.”
Something splendid, indeed; she’d rip her own hair from her head and arrange it around Lissie’s crown, if that served her new friend’s purpose. Well, perhaps not quite that. But not much shy of it. If she could continue avoiding the subject with Lady de Lisle, then the gold crepe had a chance of survival.
Lissie led the way down the corridor and closed the carved door behind them, shutting out the continuing squabble between Violetta and Deborah. “Pardon my boldness, Miss Busche, but you looked as if you’d rather swallow a live toad than be left alone with Lady de Lisle. I admire and esteem her, of course, but believe me—” Her dimples appeared and vanished in a flash. “—I understand your sentiments perfectly.”
Sticks of candles blazed about the dressing table’s mirror, splashing the guest bedroom with light. Panels of blue patterned silk interspersed with stretches of white pine lined the walls, and the pale stone fireplace sported a lion’s head above carved jungle plants.
A pool of cerulean silk and white lace spread across the bed, white gloves, sash, and ribbons folded and curled atop the chest nearby. Lissie gathered her not-quite-blond, not-quite-brown hair into a tail at the back of her head and slid onto the stool in front of the dressing table, turning her head back and forth and frowning at her reflection.
“What on earth can we do with this mess?”
Oh, dear. She was serious. Coralie set her reticule aside and edged toward the dressing table. Lissie’s father was a Scottish baronet; if she wanted the best lady’s maid in town to dress her hair, she’d have it. But instead—
She wet her lips. “Perhaps a simple twist with some white flowers? That should be easy enough to pin. Does Lady de Lisle have a greenhouse?”
“She does.” Lissie yanked the blue velvet bell pull, perfectly at home. “I must ask you again to excuse my boldness, Miss Busche, but I’ve long wanted to know you better.”
Coralie fumbled the silver-backed brush. “Me?”
“I assure you. Yes, Mary, see what white flowers are available in the greenhouse, will you?”
The upstairs maid murmured and closed the door again as she backed out.
Wispy fine hair beneath her hands, as fine as her own, forming a delicate cloud around the face in the glass. Lissie stuck out her tongue at herself, wrinkled her nose, and rolled her eyes. Coralie couldn’t help it. She giggled.
“Why me?”
“Because—” The dimples flashed again, suddenly there, suddenly gone. “Because as much as I love Violetta and Deborah, sometimes their behavior drives me absolutely wild.”
Blue eyes stared back at her from the glass, crinkling at the outer edges.
They burst out laughing together. Funny, but suddenly the evening to come didn’t seem quite so formidable.
Chapter Seven
Friday, October 22, 1813 (continued)
Deep breath. Another. Coralie quivered, hidden in the upper landing’s shadows, afraid to descend the stairs. The phrase “second thoughts” didn’t do her state of mind justice.
Before her stretched a large and magnificent second-floor gallery, glaring portraits with their disapproving frowns focused on the landing with its sweep of scarlet ca
rpeting. Handsome cherry wood balusters of fluted Corinthian columns edged the gallery and poured down the staircase as if funneling its scarlet runner directly into the ballroom, where another stretch of carpet pooled in a half-circle.
The ballroom was just as glorious with its cherry wood, white pilastered walls, and matching inlaid scarlet tiles forming mosaic patterns between. Dancing had already begun, couples twirling, separating, coming back together, joining hands and skipping down the lines. Brilliant candlelight drew flashes from polished jewelry, from wine glasses amongst the surrounding, gossiping crowd, from Lady Gower’s carefully coifed silver hair.
But not from anybody’s gown. The silks, taffetas, muslins all showed as subdued, especially those with netted overskirts. Her gold crepe was going to stand out to more than Lady de Lisle.
What had she been thinking?
It was all that duke’s fault. He’d unfurled the material in the shop and seduced her with its beauty. He’d—
But he’d not forced her to buy it, sew it, nor wear it. Those were her own doing, as were the white silk bodice and underskirt, the curlicues embroidered in the silk, the overgown’s split in front and slinky demi-train behind. It had seemed gorgeous at home, in her own looking glass. But in the Foresters’ retiring room, she’d not been able to take her eyes from her own reflection. She’d looked like some wild thing poised in fear before approaching a rippling stream, dark eyes flashing, the gold crepe shuddering and whispering on the floor around her. And it was far too late to change her gown, even for someone else’s castoff.
She could return to the retiring room and remain there for the evening. That way, no one beyond her own party would ever see this horrible mistake. The maid in the retiring room didn’t count. Nor did the footmen, nor the Foresters’ butler.
But she’d miss Mr. Rainier’s conversation. Miss the chance for him to see her, perhaps even admire her — it was possible, after all, although not probable. Maybe he’d even ask her to dance. Something inside her twisted. He’d never noticed her yet; if he noticed her tonight, it would be because she wore the most frightful gown amongst the company. She didn’t care what anyone else thought; she’d bear the ton’s scorn without a sniff. But Mr. Rainier, he of the exquisite taste—
Shenanigans in Berkeley Square Page 5