My Lady Gloriana

by Sylvia Halliday

  She laughed. “You’re a softhearted fool, John Thorne.”

  He turned away to cover his embarrassment, but held tightly to the curl. “Humph. Weren’t we going to have some ale?”

  “Indeed. And then, perhaps you can tell me why you rushed into the smithy like a madman.”

  “Damme, I’d nearly forgotten.” While they drank their ale, he told her of the meeting with Lord Arthur Pritchett and Lady Cholmley, and their invitation to the assembly ball. Gloriana was as excited as he had hoped she’d be, laughing and clapping her hands in joy.

  “But you must come with me, John,” she said, her face suddenly darkening. “I’d be fearful to go alone.”

  “Nothing to fear. ’Tis only a country assembly.”

  She stuck out her chin at a stubborn angle. “The gentry bring their servants, don’t they?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then so shall I.”

  He thought about it for a moment. There was really no need for him to fear that anyone would recognize him from London. He usually wore his periwig in the city, and the only aristocrat who might regularly venture from this backwater to Court was Sir Hugh, whom he had never met. Whitby gossips had mentioned that Sir Hugh and his wife had made an infrequent visit to Court last season, when Thorne had been abroad. “Very well,” he agreed.

  “And you must have a new coat.” She crossed the room to a wicker hamper in the corner and pulled out a strongbox, setting it on the table and lifting the lid.

  Thorne knew he was prying, but he stood up and peered into the box. He was astonished to see a large pile of gold coins within. He whistled. “Miser!” he said with a laugh. “The way you hoarded money, I thought you were nearly destitute. Poor,” he explained.

  She blushed. “My late husband… left me some jewels. Enough to buy this cottage and set up the forge. And some left over. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be thrifty,” she added defiantly. She counted out a few coins and dropped them into his hand. “For your coat.”

  He stared at the money and tried not to look disappointed. Thrifty was scarcely the word to describe her tight-fisted offering. He would have to settle for another scratchy second-hand garment. “And what of you?” he asked. “You’ll need a new gown.”

  “Oh, I shall find something in town.”

  “No. You should have something better than what Whitby has to offer. Let me take Black Jack and go to Scarborough. They have finer shops there.”

  She snorted. “And finer prices, I’ll wager.”

  “No matter. I want you to look beautiful that night.” He smiled warmly, hoping to persuade her. He had already decided to spend whatever he had of his own money, to see her magnificently dressed. “Will you not allow me the pleasure of choosing a gown for you?” When she looked uncertain, he tried one more argument. “With my past experience in the duke’s household, I’m more accustomed to seeing what the fashionable ladies are wearing now.” And he intended to take Dobson with him, trusting in the man’s taste.

  “Very well.” She reluctantly counted out a few more coins and handed them to him. “But nothing too… extravagant? Is that the word?”

  “Indeed.” He hesitated, remembering her easily wounded pride. “Forgive me, but I must ask. Do you dance? Or shall we have lessons this week?”

  She lowered her head, unwilling to look him full in the face. “I… had been learning, but we can practice, if you don’t mind.”

  He lifted her chin with gentle fingers and smiled warmly in reassurance. “For the joy of holding you in my arms, I won’t mind at all.”

  She returned his smile, but her emerald eyes had suddenly turned dark with desire. “No dancing now. I’m hungry,” she whispered.

  Her unexpected words surprised him. “But ’tis not time for supper.”

  “I’m not hungry for supper,” she said with a suggestive grin. She slipped one hand around his body and patted his buttocks through his breeches.

  He shook his head. “Gads, woman, you’re insatiable.”

  She frowned in suspicion. “What does that mean?”

  He tried to hide his grin of pleasure. “It means you’re never satisfied, and always want more.”

  Her frown had turned to a wispy smile of uncertainty. “Don’t you?” she asked in a timid voice.

  He cursed himself for having shaken her fragile self-esteem again, if only for a moment. “Always, my sweet.” He held out his hand in invitation. “Lusty wench,” he growled. “Come along.”

  Fingers entwined, they raced up the steps together, laughing as they went.

  Chapter Ten

  Stooping before her small looking-glass, Gloriana finished tying the last pink bow across her bodice. She ran her hand over her pale green taffeta skirt, luxuriating in the feel of the silky fabric under her fingers. She had worn fine dresses at Baniard Hall, but never one as handsome as this, with its snug waist and belled skirt. She glanced at a grinning Thorne, lounging against the doorway. “Oh, I wish I had a larger mirror, to see how I look.”

  “Let me be your looking-glass.” He appraised her from the top of her head to the pointed tips of her new shoes and nodded in satisfaction. “You look exquisite. That is—”

  “Bloody hell! I know the meaning of that word.”

  He chuckled. “The pupil advances beyond the tutor. And try not to say ‘bloody hell’ tonight. It doesn’t go with your gown.”

  Gloriana made a face at him. She picked up her comb and smoothed several long curls around her finger, carefully placing the locks over her shoulder to rest against the bodice of her shift. At the last, she pinned a tiny muslin cap to her topknot—the smallest one he could find, Thorne had said, so as not to cover too much of her vivid hair. “I don’t know how you managed all this with the coins I gave you. The gown, the petticoat, the cap and shoes.” She patted the stiffness that sprang from her waist beneath her gown. “And even a whalebone hoop. How did you do it?”

  He stirred uncomfortably at her question. “I… I know how to bargain. And then… I had a few extra coins of my own to contribute.”

  “Not from what I pay you! ’Twould never be enough for all of this.”

  He shrugged apologetically. “Truth be told, I’m as miserly as you are. I’d saved a bit of money, thinking to buy a horse.”

  “And you spent it on me?” Her heart swelled with the wonder of this man, his warm generosity, his loving thoughtfulness.

  He crossed the room and pulled her into his arms, kissing her with a passion that took her breath away. “Dressing you like this brings me more satisfaction than would a stable full of horses.”

  She smiled tenderly at him and blinked back the tears of gratitude that had welled in her eyes. I love this man, she thought in sudden wonder, feeling a surge of emotion she hadn’t experienced since Da had died.

  He dabbed at her eyes with gentle fingers. “Are you going to get weepy again, when your triumph awaits tonight?”

  She snorted. “I have no doubt many a fine lady will outshine me.”

  “Would you care to make a wager on that?”

  She turned away, all her old self-doubts returning to haunt her. How could she compete with women who had been born to fine living, gracious manners, cultured speech? “I shall lose, of course.”

  He shook his head. “Not bloody likely. But if you lose, you must sell all these splendid garments and—”

  “Reimburse you?” she interrupted, pleased she had remembered the word.

  He laughed. “Indeed. And if you win, which I know you shall, what are your stakes?”

  “If I win, you must tell me that I’m beautiful every day for a whole week.”

  He stroked the side of her face and kissed her softly on the mouth. “That’s not a fair wager. I could tell you that every single hour.”

  “Even with soot on my face?”

  “Even then.” He turned and picked up her plain woolen cloak, draping it carefully around her shoulders. “’Tis time to go. I’ve saddled up Black Jack. We can
ride double until we near Abbey House. Then I’ll dismount and lead you to the door, as a proper servant should.”

  She smiled wickedly. “’Tis astonishing how you’ve changed since you came here. Burn and blister me, I thought you’d choke those first few weeks, every time you had to be humble!”

  He smoothed back his dark hair, neatly tied with a ribbon. “Truth to tell, humility wasn’t one of my virtues. And perhaps I’ve benefitted by having my pride knocked down occasionally.” He cupped her full breast with a gentle hand. “Of course, I’ve been compensated handsomely.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Rewarded, my sweet.” He gazed at her with hungry eyes that yet held a twinkle. “What say we forgo the ball and go to bed instead?”

  “Oh, get on with you, John. Always teasing. I didn’t spend all this time dressing just for you to see me.”

  He grinned. “Come along, then.”

  She perched in front of him on Black Jack, feeling the warmth of his strong arms around her, like a comforting cocoon. And when they reached the cliff road, his body was her shelter from the salty winds that blew up from the sea below. The sun had set, but its rosy glow remained, a pink halo in the west. She scanned the darkening sky, noting the pale orb that hovered over the water. “The moon is almost full,” she said. “’Twill be a lovely night.”

  “Indeed. I have fond memories of a moonlit night.” He chuckled softly, an odd, faraway laugh, as though he was sharing a private joke only with himself.

  “Oh, tell me.”

  “Perhaps, some day, I shall.”

  They rode slowly past the Gothic ruins of Whitby Abbey, stark and foreboding. Beyond the church lay Abbey House, home to the Cholmleys, its gray stone walls dark against the fading sky. Lighted torches had already been placed along its drive, and Gloriana could see liveried servants running about, helping guests from their horses or carriages. Despite the comfort of Thorne’s arms, she felt a twinge of anxiety. She glanced at the old ruins, crumbling columns still in orderly rows. Like prison bars, she thought. Was her past a prison she could never escape? Surely tonight she would be exposed as a fraud, pretending to be someone she wasn’t, nor ever could be. The guests—and even the servants—would see through her fine clothes to the common London street urchin she had been. She shivered.

  Thorne reined in Black Jack. “Are you cold?”

  “No. Just… a little frightened.”

  He dismounted and lifted her from the horse, pulling her into his embrace. “Foolish child. Frightened of what?”

  She was almost choking on her fears. “Oh, John,” she said, “I don’t belong here!”

  He stared at her for a long minute, then shook his head. “No, you don’t. You belong in a palace. You should be a queen, a princess.” He dropped his arms and let out a shout, as though he’d been struck by a thunderbolt. “Gads! What a fool I’ve been! You should be a duchess.”

  His words of praise restored her common sense and she giggled. “And where is the duke who would be mad enough to marry me?” she said with a snort.

  He hesitated, then swept the cloak from her shoulders. “Time enough to talk later. Your adoring admirers await you.” He kissed her tenderly, then set her back on Black Jack. “One more addition to your toilette.” With a grin, he fished in his pocket and pulled out a fan. “Every proper lady needs one,” he said, handing it up to her.

  She opened it, noting the fine lace, the painted scene of lords and ladies, the dangling wrist-ribbon that just matched the pale pink of her bows. “Oh, it’s lovely. And to buy it for me…” She felt as though her heart would burst with all his kindnesses.

  “If I could, I’d buy you that moon, my moon-kissed duchess,” he said fervently. “Now come along.” He tucked her cloak behind Black Jack’s saddle and led the horse down Abbey House drive. He helped her from Black Jack, handed the animal’s reins to a waiting groom and dropped several paces behind her.

  Gloriana stared at the imposing entrance to the banqueting hall—a recent addition to Abbey House—squared her shoulders in resolve and sailed through the door. A uniformed majordomo, resplendent in blue velvet and gold braid, waited in the antechamber. Thorne stepped forward and whispered to him. At once, he threw open the inner doors to the hall, ushered Gloriana inside and announced in a loud voice, “Mistress Glory Cook!”

  The great hall was elegantly furnished, with small tables and chairs scattered at its corners, and lit with several blazing chandeliers; it swarmed with people, dressed in their finest, milling about and chattering away. Gloriana could hear music coming from another room. At the majordomo’s announcement, all conversation had stopped. Gloriana gulped. It seemed as though all eyes were turned toward her. She managed a gracious smile, then sighed in relief as Lord Arthur Pritchett hurried toward her, decked out in a bright scarlet brocaded coat and breeches, an elaborate periwig over his close-cropped hair.

  “Mistress Cook. What a pleasure to see you.” He slipped her arm through his and led her toward the center of the room. “Give me the honor of presenting you to Sir Hugh. And then you must meet his mother, my aunt. She is most eager to make your acquaintance.”

  Gloriana allowed Pritchett to lead her through the crowd of guests, aware that Thorne followed close behind. Her confidence grew as she noted the admiring stares of the gentlemen, the whispers among the women, carefully examining her costume over their fans. She briefly glanced back at Thorne. He was grinning in pleasure, as if to say, “I told you so.”

  Sir Hugh was polite, though somewhat distant in his greeting, but his mother, Lady Cholmley, seemed delighted to meet her. “My dear,” she said with a warm smile, “you are every bit as lovely as Arthur said you were. And your gown is exquisite. Where on earth did you find it? Not in Whitby, surely.”

  Gloriana nodded in Thorne’s direction. “My manservant, Thorne, made a trip to Scarborough on my behalf.”

  “A blacksmith with taste. You’re very fortunate, my dear.” She swept her plump arm around the large hall, indicating several doors leading to other rooms. “Dancing is through that door. The retiring rooms are over there. That’s the door to the tea room, where you will find refreshments to your liking, I trust. And there’s the door to the garden. You can also reach it through the dancing room, should you feel the need of a cooling breeze.”

  “And that room, milady?” Gloriana pointed with her fan to a door in the far corner of the hall.

  Lady Cholmley shrugged. “Oh, that’s for the fools who think that cards and dice are the whole purpose of an assembly ball. But you, my dear, will be far too busy dancing, I suspect, from the look of the gentlemen who seem to be assessing their chances.” She nodded to Thorne, who still hovered behind Gloriana. “You may rest assured, my good man, that I shall take excellent care of your mistress this evening. You may join the other servants below.”

  He gave a polite bow. “If you please, your ladyship, I should prefer to take my place against the wall, to be at hand should my mistress need me.”

  “As you wish. Good manners as well as an eye for fashion. Now, my dear,” she said, turning back to Gloriana, “let me introduce you to Master Collins, a fine shipbuilder, who hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you arrived.”

  Collins seemed a pleasant older man, slightly portly in his velvet coat, but his eyes twinkled with youthful merriment. He ushered Gloriana into the dancing room, where the orchestra—seated in a gallery overlooking the space—had just begun a lively reel, and led her to the polished floor. Gloriana noted that Thorne had discreetly followed and had taken his place near the door to the garden, arms folded in satisfaction.

  She danced the reel with Collins, several minuets and a saraband with assorted gentlemen who crowded toward her the minute Collins released her hand, and a gavotte with a sighing young man who had barely begun to sprout whiskers.

  The evening flew by in a dizzying whirl. Sir Arthur took her in to supper, lavishing compliments on her as they ate, and complaining about all her othe
r admirers. They danced again, but he was soon kept at a distance by the many gentlemen who wished to dance with the most beautiful woman in the room.

  And through it all, Thorne watched her. Her heart ached that he couldn’t be a part of her triumph. After a particularly fast-paced reel with a clumsy dancer, which left her gasping, she excused herself and stepped aside, snapping open her fan to cool her hot face. At once, Thorne was before her, his handkerchief at the ready, to mop her moist brow, as he had done so often in the forge.

  She looked up at the longing in his eyes, her emotions matching his. “I want to dance with you,” she whispered. “Only you.”

  “They’ve begun another minuet,” he said softly. “Go through to the garden. I’ll meet you there.”

  “But what will people say?”

  “The devil with what they say. We won’t be seen if we stay in the shadows. And I want to tell you something. Something I should have confessed about myself weeks ago.”

  “That sounds… ominous,” she ventured. “Are you secretly a pirate?”

  He snorted. “Not bloody likely. Now go, before I kiss you right here and scandalize the whole village!”

  She hurried out to the garden, waving off the men who clamored to accompany her. “I wish to be alone for a few minutes,” she murmured.

  The moon had risen to its apex, bathing the garden in its brilliant glow. She stepped off the terrace onto the carpet of grass, inhaling the perfume of a thousand roses in the air. She moved around the corner of the building, out of the view of the windows. The stately cadences of the minuet vibrated on the night air, filling her heart with joy. Had music ever sounded so glorious to her? She was aware that every pore, every sense, every fiber of her being was awakened to the wonders around her—the sights, the scents, the sounds. Even the soft caress of the night air on her face.

  Then Thorne was there. He bowed deeply to her curtsy and held out his hand. They danced effortlessly together in the moonlight, turning, pointing graceful toes, gliding across the lawn in perfect rhythm. There was no need for words—their bodies were in sublime harmony, responding to the music, to each other, as though they had danced together forever.