by Edith Layton
Seeing his notice fixed upon the top of her head, Miss Eastwood raised her hands to it. That action caused Lord Leith to drop his gaze a bit lower again, but she was too overwrought to notice.
“I accept that this is not a fashionable cap,” she said defiantly, “but surely some more appropriate item can be made up in a material to match the rest?”
“Such as a turban?” Lord Leith asked languidly, in command of his reactions again.
“Nonsense!” Lady Grantham cried. “Even I do not affect one as yet. I am not in my dotage. And only such females wear turbans, child. And you are far too young for a spinster’s cap. The very idea is ridiculous.”
Watching Miss Eastwood carefully, Lord Leith added wryly, “Of course, Jessica, if you wish to attract attention, to create a stir and cause all eyes to be upon you, we can swathe your head in some material to match each gown you wear. It will cause a sensation. But I did not think you wished to cut such a figure. But, if you insist ... Madame, do you think you could do it?”
Madame Celeste could not disguise the calculating gleam that came into her eye and said pensively, “But it might become all the rage. I never thought of it, but if mademoiselle wishes to be in the forefront of fashion, I could fashion such—”
“No,” Miss Eastwood said abruptly, and then her lower lip began to tremble a bit and she said softly, “I don’t want to create a stir, but I should if I uncovered my hair.”
Lord Leith cursed himself silently and rose swiftly to his feet. It had not occurred to him before, but of course, the child might have some deformity she sought to keep from prying eyes. Perhaps a scar or some unsightly condition, he thought; he had been a fool not to think of it.
“Madame,” he asked quickly, “is there a room to which I can take mademoiselle so that I may speak to her privately? I do not think I can come into your fitting rooms and not overstep propriety.”
Madame Celeste led them to her private office. After ushering Lord Leith, Lady Grantham, and the shaken young woman into that sanctum, she closed the door behind them. As she composed herself to greet the new custom that had just entered her shop, she allowed herself to hope that the trio might solve the problem between themselves. They’d come down handsomely for a complete wardrobe, she thought, and s’truth, with such a shape the chit would be a good advertisement for her skills, even if she were as bald as an egg.
“Now, Jessica,” Lord Leith said softly as he led her toward the window, “we are all friends. Surely you can show us why you refuse to doff that cap of yours? Lady Grantham and I cannot be counted as strangers and we are only trying to help. And,” he whispered too low for Lady Grantham to hear as she seated herself beside the modiste’s large desk and tried to read some dunning letters that had been left out upon it, “now that we’ve got you into fashionable gear, that cap looks most unusual. Just imagine a cavalryman wearing a flowered bonnet and you’ll get the general impression. It just doesn’t suit,” he added, delighted to see a small wavering smile appear upon her lips.
“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” she agreed sadly.
“No matter what the problem,” he urged, “it cannot give us a disgust of you. I’ve seen a great many things in my travels, and Lady Grantham isn’t the sort of female to swoon.” Jessica looked at him curiously, as he went on. “So please believe whatever lies beneath is not about to overcome us. Whatever it is, it will be better if we can see and judge for ourselves what’s to be done.”
Jessica looked up at his earnest face, read sincerity and deep concern in the now-warm gray eyes, and slowly comprehension came to her.
“Lud,” she breathed, “I haven’t got horns.” She reached up to her cap, removed it, and then began to unplait the tight braids that she had woven. “And I’ve got hair, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s only that I know what I’ve got isn’t the thing at all. Cook even said so, she always said it was a pity I hadn’t been blessed with conventional locks, and Papa always laughed at it,” she went on desperately, never taking her eyes from the tall gentleman’s face as he stared incredulously at what she was unloosing. “Cousin Cribb said that I had the badge of a courtesan. There,” she said finally, combing her fingers through the last of the plaits, “you see, it isn’t the thing at all.”
It was not at all the thing for a demure young miss, he thought as he stared at her in the full light of the window. A whole spectrum of shades of hair were acceptable. Despite the fact that brunettes were in fashion this year, blondes were classic English beauties, and raven-haired lovelies were envied, there was yet enough latitude so that light-brown hair inspired poets. Even so, Jessica’s hair was not in style. For as he stood and looked at her, he saw masses of bright deep-red hair falling to her shoulders. Where shadows touched it, it was a dark living auburn; where sun struck it, it sparked blazing fire. It was neither carroty nor a ginger color; rather it was a true and startlingly distinct red.
Cousin Cribb, whoever that gentleman was, Lord Leith thought, had been right. It was the hallmark of a courtesan or an actress. To have such blatantly colored tresses was undeniably exceptional. To even be a redheaded person was thought in some way to be either sinister or strange, as if one were left-handed. There were still some rural places where to encounter a redhead was considered good luck; in others it was deemed bad fortune. Nowhere was it ignored. And, yes, he thought, nowhere was it fashionable.
Yet to see her standing there, wreathed around with that startling mass of hair, was to be enchanted. For the color gave life to her face and brought the hidden fox fire in her ryes to blazing light. Even Lady Grantham was affected. She left off reading a most satisfactory missive addressed to Lady Franklin, requesting overdue bills be paid, to gape at Jessica.
Lord Leith gave up his own reflections, to put up a hand to stop Jessica from braiding it up again. “No, leave it. It is lovely,” he said, unthinking.
Jessica seemed to, shrink back at his words and at what she caught a glimpse of in his unguarded face.
“It is,” he said, recovering his bland, amused expression, “certainly unusual, and yes, you are right, not quite fashionable. But don’t say you are suddenly concerned with being at the peak of fashion, and only after being in one of Madame Celeste’s frocks for the space of minutes?”
“But I don’t want to appear frivolous,” she said, looking at him with trust again, “or spectacular, or as one who is trying to attract attention to myself.”
Or delicious, he thought, though he said calmly, “Of course not. But to hide it only calls more attention to it. The best tactic, I think,” he said reasonably, “is to simply live with it. For what you cannot hide, you must accept. After all, I cannot say that being tall as a treetop is the most comfortable way to go through life, but if I were to slouch or creep, I would look very strange indeed.”
Jessica laughed a little at the thought of this imperious gentleman crouching, and he said bracingly, “Come, we’ll let the good Madame Celeste design some clothes that will suit and perhaps Aunt’s maid can style your hair in some unobtrusive fashion, and we can forget the whole of it.”
“Forget?” Lady Grantham said, startled into speech. “Are your wits begging, Nephew? Why, she’ll be a sensation.”
“No,” he said, giving his aunt a look of such force that she shrank backward. “Not at all. She will only look unexceptional.”
Understanding came to his aunt and she only nodded.
“You see,” Jessica said, “I don’t wish to be sensational In fact”—she laughed a little shakenly—“I recall when I was fourteen I concocted a brew that the apothecary book promised would turn my hair dark. And so it did. I was delighted. But each morning my pillow was a bit blacker, and after I combed it, little bits of soot kept falling. After a week Cook said I looked like a tortoiseshell cat. And so I did. Then is no way that the color could stay, you see,” she confided in her husky voice.
“Well I know it,” Lady Grantham said ruefully, remembering the results of one experiment when h
er tresses first began to gray; she had had to keep indoors for a month.
“But your father,” Lord Leith said as he turned to open the door and began to shoo his aunt away from another promising letter upon the desk, “as a fellow named Red Jack, he had to have such a mop as well.”
“He did,” Miss Eastwood said sadly, “but not so bright as mine. And,” she added, looking up at him, “he was a man.”
“Ah, yes,” was all he could reply, reading the infinite sadness in her eyes.
“A good day’s work, Alex,” Lady Grantham said to Lord Leith as he took his leave of her. “A dozen frocks on order, and two already in hand. And even now, my own little Nellie is fashioning her a suitable style for that mane of hers. Ollie will be pleased as Punch. You’ve done well and I thank you. But mind, you’re not free yet; you’ve promised to take her for a ride in the park when her clothes arrive and there’s the theater next week.”
“I hear and obey,” he said, taking his aunt’s hand and touching his lips to it.
“Shan’t be surprised if we get her popped off yet. She’s well enough in her own fashion,” his aunt mused. “Now if you can work your magic to the point of getting her to speak as a young lady should, we’ll be at the winning post.”
“Is that how a proper lady should speak?” he asked, grinning.
“I’m too old to be proper,” she said airily, “and she’s too young to be improper. So, if you’ll leave off talking of horse-flesh and politics with her for a bit, we may wean her from it.
“And if I do,” he said quietly, “she won’t speak to me at all.”
“That remains to be seen,” Lady Grantham said reflectively. “Now be off about your nefarious ways, Alex, I’ve got to oversee Nellie so there’s not a slip. I shouldn’t wonder if that little amazon don’t stab her with the scissors if she doesn't care for the cut.”
The tall gentleman bowed again and took himself off into lung shadows of the afternoon.
He returned to his town house, where he relaxed and read through the newspaper and then perused a small heap of cards of invitation that his man had left for him. He dined alone. When he was done, he went to his rooms and changed to more formal evening wear. Pocketing a few cards, he told his man not to wait up for him and went quietly out into the night.
He strolled the streets alone, ranging far in deep abstracted thought, and did not even bother to peer into the shadows at alleyways of the quiet streets, as though he knew that his large form gave sufficient pause to any footpads. Then he straightened and made his way with more resolve back to the fashionable section of town.
Lord Leith, it was reported in some tattle the next day, ornamented Baron Oakes levee for the space of an hour, had a run of luck at Argyles, and then had a greater success at a less-reputable hell a few city blocks away. He advised young Percy Swithin on the purchase of a nag, accepted some unasked-for advice on matrimony from a bibulous Viscount Travis, gently repulsed the attentions of Lady Travis, and shared a few jests with an old school friend. It was at an advanced hour of the night, when the lights in respectable establishments began to dim, that he made his way to the imposing, dignified white stone house.
A stolid butler showed him in and, taking his cloak, suggested that, as he was expected, he go upstairs. After taking the flight of steps, he paused and knocked upon the door, although he knew he could have walked straight in, since he was at the moment providing funds for the house, the butler and the person who waited within. Still, he thought wryly, life was made bearable by the inclusion of such grace notes. The female who greeted him did not seem to agree.
“Alex,” she said with delight, opening the door, “why do you stand upon such ceremony? Especially when I have been waiting here for you so many hours?”
“You expected me, then?” he asked entering the bedroom. It was a tastefully furnished chamber; the only feature of it that was not perhaps in the highest reach of respectability was the coloring, which was composed of blatant red and scarlet hues, extending even to the coverings of the huge bed that dominated the room. That, he reminded himself with a smile, and the mirror that was placed in the ceiling above it.
“I always await your pleasure, Alex,” the woman said, slipping up to him and reaching on tiptoe to link her hands behind his neck.
He bent to kiss her slowly, and when he reached to enfold her more closely, she skipped out of his arms.
“Do take off your jacket, my dear,” she said, laughing, “and do sit and speak with me awhile, it has been ages.”
“I have spent an evening in talk, my dear. Is that all you offer me after this ‘age’ of a week?” he asked, standing quite still and watching her.
She laughed again and came close to bend her head submissively. As she spoke, she began to undo the buttons of his waistcoat.
“We can talk later, then,” she said softly, ever compliant, ever obliging, ever accommodating.
It was only later, as he was staring up at the red curtain that concealed the mirror over the bed—for he always insisted she cover it, saying lightly that such sport was for more vain men than he—that he at last did speak to her. She lay relaxed beside him, her dark hair tangled, her plump white body a soft gleaming shape in the dim light. She was not a beauty, he thought idly, looking over toward her. Her hips were too wide, her nose too long, her eyes too close set. For all that she was famous and expensive, she was not an exquisite. Such women seldom were. It was her wit, her cleverness, and her talent that had brought her to the top of an overcrowded profession. The men who sought her out did not seek only beauty, for that was a cheap-enough commodity, but rather the more erotic temptations of making love with a female who might be an intellectual equal. He had met her at Harriet Wilson’s and he had gladly become her protector for a while, for such women had only transitory protectors. Neither did he have to rent rooms to house her, for she had her own establishment. He had only to pay a large sum while she was under his protection, and should he shear off from her, there was a long line of others who would be pleased to take his place. In all, theirs was an easy, undemanding relationship.
Her dark hair and complexion reminded him of his long term mistress, whom he had reluctantly left in India, and her wit amused him. She valued him for his fame, which could only help her reputation as a woman of discretion, and for himself, since it was not often that she had the advantages of having both a keen mind and a comely person embodied in one patron.
He gazed at the bed hangings and thought now only of red. The color seemed to be haunting him today, he realized. To dispel the thought, he turned his head to her and stroked one large hand over her soft stomach.
“Have you ever wished to be a man?” he asked at length.
She laughed again, and rising to one elbow, she looked down at him. In one easy motion, she then swung her body atop his.
This time he laughed till she frowned down at him. Then he gently toppled her over and, propped on his elbows, looked down into her confused face.
“No, no. Not for that mode. I meant it truly. Have you ever wished to be a man?” he asked gently.
She thought for a moment, not quite hiding the calculation in her eyes. Then she answered the false answer that she thought would please him, for she was incapable of any other sort of reply.
“Of course,” she said, “so that then I could make love to myself and discover what it is that most pleases men.”
He gave the subject up. Clearly, she would always sacrifice honesty for the sake of amusing and arousing him.
“Then,” he said softly, “there is no need to trouble. For I shall tell you that which you wish to know.”
Then, successful, she gave herself up to his embrace, and unsuccessful, he soon forgot the question.
5
Jessica had not thought much of the idea of a mere amble about a city park; yet, when Lady Grantham had urged her to get into her new riding habit, one that Jessica privately thought a deal too dashing, she had obediently done so. Though a t
ame canter through the park was not her idea of high adventure, there had been little else to do that offered even that much diversion.
She had sat and read and stood and gazed out the window, or sat impatiently listening for any arrival at the door for three days. Lady Grantham had been pleased enough to see her so docile, thinking her eagerly waiting for her new wardrobe to arrive. Jessica did not think to inform her that it was news from her father’s solicitor that she was on fire to receive. Still, when Lord Leith arrived with two fine mounts in tow, Jessica had been happy enough to rush up the stairs mid scramble into the green riding habit that Lady Grantham had rhapsodized over. She had done up her hair, pleasing her hostess by agreeing to simply draw it up and allow it to fall naturally in back, and pleased herself by being able to set a comfortably concealing hat atop the whole creation.
Still, the hat was necessary for the costume—and roguish as well, Lady Grantham allowed, for her hair could be glimpsed beneath it. And when the two ladies, for once in charity with each other, descended, Lord Leith expressed himself overwhelmed by how well Jessica looked. Much she cared, she thought as she eyed with delight the roan mare he had fetched for her, for even if she were forced to don a spangled ball gown for the excursion, it would be worth it to be able to exercise on so fine a creature.