by Sandra Heath
‘Slender, and not too tall.’
‘Ah, then I’m sure I can accommodate, sir.’ She surveyed him then. ‘But first, milord, you have to tell me all about it.’
He led her to a chair. ‘Very well, madame. The lady’s name is Miss Louisa Cherington, and she is the sister of the late Mr Tom Cherington, of whose sad demise you’ve no doubt heard.’
‘I have indeed, milord,’ she replied in some surprise, ‘but I did not know he had a sister.’
‘Nor did I, until the night before last.’
She stared at him. ‘You did not know her until then, and yet you are now to marry her?’
‘Yes. Affairs of the heart are so unpredictable, madame, but then you are from Paris, you understand such things.’
She smiled and fluttered a little. ‘I do indeed, sir. Oh, how romantic your story is. Love at first sight.’
‘Indeed so. Perhaps you will find it even more so if I tell you that until this morning Miss Cherington was the governess at Lawrence Park.’
She blinked. ‘A-a governess? Mon dieu! And she will one day be the Countess of Redway.’
‘She’s under my protection – in the most proper sense of the word, of course – and will be residing here until we leave for Cowes toward the end of next week. Before then she’ll attend her brother’s funeral with me.’
‘And when will you marry, milord?’
‘That has yet to be decided, but it will be before we leave.’
‘But her reputation …’
‘Will be protected. She’s a lady, madame, without a stain on her character, and it is my wish that we marry as quickly as possible, so that her reputation does not suffer unfairly.’
She sat back, totally bemused by what she’d been told. She’d expected to hear his fiancée was an heiress or a rich widow, she certainly hadn’t expected this. ‘As you say, milord, it will be a talked-of match. Lord Highclare and a governess.’
‘And a lady of gentle birth,’ he corrected. ‘Her family fell on hard times, madame, and she was reduced to seeking a position. But you understand such things, don’t you? You are a lady too, a lady of considerable breeding, but circumstances conspired to thrust you into the world of business. You’ve risen magnificently, and now you’re the undisputed queen of London fashion. I admire your talent and spirit, madame, and certainly don’t think you less of a lady because of your situation.’
She blushed, very susceptible to such praise. ‘You’re so right, milord. I understand such things only too well. Miss Cherington must not be judged as a governess, but as a lady who has suffered misfortune.’
‘I knew you’d understand, and that is why I do not hesitate to entrust you with the story. You’ll tell it as it should be told, madame, because you’re the soul of discretion.’ May God forgive him such a monstrous fib, for the woman wasn’t in the least discreet.
The dressmaker knew nothing of his thoughts. She smiled warmly at him. ‘Rest assured, milord, for I will see that all the chatter is sympathique.’
‘You’re too kind, madame,’ he murmured. ‘Now, then, I won’t waste any more of your valuable time in idle conversation. I’ll have the butler show you up immediately to Miss Cherington.’ He rang the bell.
When she’d gone, he sat down again, leaning back in his chair to gaze thoughtfully at the walled garden outside. It was a peaceful place: long and stone-flagged, with an elegant classical temple at the far end. A raised lily pond adorned the center, with a stone-dolphin from the mouth of which a fountain played, and the whole was dappled with leafy shadows from the cool willows draping their fronds low over the ground.
He was well and truly set upon his promised course now, for by telling the dressmaker he’d made certain of a fanfare over town. The Frenchwoman might or might not attempt to see that the story was told sympathetically, but was bound to repeat his claim that the match was a matter of love, and nothing less. He wanted the furore to be over and done with as quickly as possible, and if that meant causing a sensation, then so be it. Let them make what they would of Louisa’s sudden appearance on the scene, of her improper residence beneath his roof, of their marriage only a day or so after Tom’s funeral – at the end of it all she’d be his wife and society would accept her as such. So would Thea.
He drew a long, heavy breath. Thea seemed to hover close to his thoughts all the time. No doubt word of his marriage would reach the Isle of Wight before he and his new bride did.
Leaning forward, he unlocked a small drawer in a table. Inside lay a sheaf of letters bound with ribbon. He extracted one and began to read it.
My dearest, most beloved Kit,
It’s only an hour since I was in your arms, but it seems a lifetime. I cannot believe that such ecstasy exists, but exist it does when I am with you. You’re my life and soul, my adored Kit, and only the thoughts that one day I’ll be free of my mockery of a marriage to be with you forever sustains me through each day.
Come to me again soon.
My love forever,
T
He smiled bitterly. What a sham her words were, for she’d never had any intention of leaving Rowe. Tom had been right, it was the thrill of an illicit affair that she wanted, and that was all.
Crumpling the letter, he tossed it angrily away. It rolled across the floor, coming to rest behind one of the curtains at the French windows. Then he locked the little drawer again.
There was a discreet knock at the door. ‘My lord?’
‘Yes, Miller? What is it?’
‘Sir Reginald Carruthers has called, sir.’
A spontaneous smile broke across Kit’s face. Reggie Carruthers? The very man to brighten any dark mood. ‘Show him in, Miller, and be so good as to bring a bottle of my best cognac.’
‘Very well, sir.’ The butler’s steps went away.
Kit rose to his feet. It wasn’t often that Reggie sallied forth from the wilds of Devon, and when he did, it was always a pleasure to receive his company. His arrival would also solve a certain problem, that of finding a suitable groomsman for the wedding, which was so soon to set London by the ears.
Reggie entered, striking a pose in the doorway. He was a tall, angular bachelor of about Kit’s age, with a pale, freckled face, soft brown eyes, and a frizz of mousy hair. He was much given to wearing blue, and today he had on a sky-blue coat, a sapphire-blue silk neckcloth, and trousers of such an indefinite gray that they too could have been taken for blue. He flicked open his snuffbox and took a pinch or two before surveying his friend. ‘ ’Pon me soul,’ he drawled languidly, ‘what a wreck of a fellow you are. Sink me, but you’ve a strange air about you. What’s afoot?’
Kit grinned. ‘Reggie, my lad, you’ve no notion of what a dark horse I am. Come, take a pew.’
Reggie flung himself on a sofa, carefully flicking back the lace spilling from his cuffs. ‘I heard about Tom Cherington. A bad business.’
‘Yes.’ Kit said no more, for at that moment Miller brought the cognac, setting the tray on the table from which Kit had a short while before taken Thea’s letter. When the butler had withdrawn again, Kit poured two large glasses and handed one to his friend.
Reggie swirled the amber liquid, sniffing the bouquet and smiling appreciatively. ‘You keep the best French brew in town, and that’s the only reason I keep in with you.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Not at all.’ Reggie sipped the cognac and then settled back, looking shrewdly at Kit. ‘I’m ready for anythin’ now. So what makes you a dark horse, my dear fellow?’
Kit embarked upon the tale, being careful to tell him the same version he’d told the dressmaker, namely that his match with Louisa was an affair of the heart.
Reggie listened in astonishment and then whistled. ‘ ’Pon me soul, you have been busy! But I can’t believe you mean to go through with it. Tom Cherington may have been a stout fellow, but that don’t make his sister suitable for you. Dammit, Kit, she’s a governess! I hardly imagine that will make her acceptable to
your grandfather.’
‘He’s been badgering me for years to do the right thing.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘I’m going to marry her, Reggie.’
‘All right, marry her if you must, but do you have to do it so damned hastily? Don’t rush into it like this, give yourself a little time. If it’s a matter of a chaperone for Miss Cherington, I know my aunt would be only too delighted to come up from Devon to do the honors.…’
‘Thank you, but, no, Reggie. I intend to marry Louisa Cherington before I return to Cowes next week. All I need from you is your presence as my groomsman. Will you do that for me?’
Reggie smiled and nodded. ‘You know I will. Sink me, but she must be quite a girl to have so completely turned your fool head like this. The great Kit Highclare, the catch, and he’s gone to a little governess!’
‘Dine with us tonight and judge for yourself.’ Kit grinned as Reggie raised his glass in acceptance.
While the two friends took their glasses of cognac amicably together in the library, Louisa’s room on the second floor had been virtually taken over by Madame Coty and her assistants. Pages of sketches lay on the dressing table, and a half-finished list of the various accessories a lady of the future Countess of Redway’s standing would require had been left casually on the windowsill. It was a long list, comprising patent shoes, satin bottines, ankle boots, overshoes, reticules, fans and gloves, hats, bonnets, shawls, boas, and mantles.
Beautiful garments were scattered everywhere: on the bed, draped over chairs, lying on the floors like rags, and sometimes hanging neatly on the picture rail. Each garment had a story attached to it, and the dressmaker made certain that Louisa knew every word. The peach morning gown had been ordered by the Duchess of Blyss, who’d then been inconsiderate enough to visit hot climes and succumb to some fatal foreign fever. The blue silk evening gown should have been worn at Carlton House by the Marchioness of Holworthy, but she’d been caught deceiving her enraged husband, who’d refused point-blank to pay any of her bills, including those outstanding to Madame Coty. The wine velvet traveling cloak had been intended for the famous and much-respected actress Mrs Siddons, but she’d been overheard criticizing a gown of which Madame Coty was particularly proud, and so had been refused delivery of any further garments. And so the stories went on, each one recounted in detail as Louisa was assisted in and out of the succession of beautiful clothes.
Louisa was a little overwhelmed. She still could hardly believe her life had changed so completely since the morning, and she was a little in awe of the dressmaker, but not so much in awe that she couldn’t detect sly questions intended to extract interesting snippets of gossip. She gave nothing away, and a disappointed Madame Coty knew she’d have to be content with what Kit had told her.
With a sigh, the dressmaker snapped her fingers at a waiting assistant, who immediately stepped forward with a very fine oyster silk evening gown trimmed with heavy lace. Its skirt was split, to reveal an underskirt stitched with thousands of tiny glass beads. As Louisa was helped into it, the dressmaker regaled her with the story of its intended owner, despicable Lady Codrington, who’d gone on for far too long without even attempting to pay her outstanding bills. The voice with its heavy French accent seemed to drone. Louisa looked at her reflection in the mirror. It was like looking at a stranger.
Madame Coty was holding up yet another gown, this time a dazzling white taffeta slip with an overgown of rich silver lace stitched with sequins. It had a very high waistline marked by a silver drawstring, and little petal sleeves adorned with a shivering silver fringe. ‘Perhaps mademoiselle would prefer this one? It was intended originally for the Countess of Lawton, but she ran away to Gretna Green with a very unsuitable young man and hasn’t been heard of since.’ Madame Coty tilted her head thoughtfully, surveying Louisa’s reflection. ‘Non, I think the one you have on now is much more suitable for the occasion in question.’
‘Occasion?’
‘Your wedding, mademoiselle.’ The Frenchwoman looked at her in surprise.
‘Oh. Oh, yes.’ Louisa felt color flooding into her cheeks.
‘You do not like the gown?’ asked the dressmaker, a little offended.
‘It’s very beautiful, I just have so much on my mind.’
‘Oh, pardon, mademoiselle, on such a sad day for you I should not be rattling on about happy occasions.’ Madame Coty snapped her fingers at yet another assistant, who stepped forward with some somber but beautiful black clothes. The dressmaker quickly helped Louisa out of the wedding gown and into a mourning gown instead. Trimmed with chenille, it had a matching three-quarter-length pelisse, which was to be worn unbuttoned to show off the gown’s exquisite high waist and jet-studded belt. To go with it there were long black gloves, a hat with a heavy, chenille-trimmed veil to keep out prying eyes, and little black shoes. The dressmaker rattled on in her usual way, relating the story of the original person for whom it had been ordered. A certain Mrs Carrington-Haltrop had intended to wear it at a relative’s funeral, but had then fallen out with the whole family and elected not to attend, after all, leaving the garments on the dressmaker’s hands. So ill-mannered! Never again would the dreadful Mrs Carrington-Haltrop know the joy of wearing a Coty creation.
The words flowed over Louisa. Her black image stared sorrowfully back at her from the glass. This was how she’d look when Tom was laid to rest….
‘Mademoiselle?’
Louisa turned quickly. ‘Yes, madame?’
‘Is there anything else you particularly wish me to provide for you?’
‘No. I’m sure you’ve been most thorough.’
‘For a lady such as you it is a pleasure, mademoiselle. You have an excellent figure, and my clothes could have been made just for you. I shall be much honored to know that the, er, famous new Lady Highclare is wearing my garments.’ The dressmaker smiled. She’d been about to say the astonishing new Lady Highclare, but had thought better of it. ‘I shall gather together everything on the list and send it to this address, and when I am ready for you to take fittings of the garments I have sketched for you, I shall send word.’
‘Thank you, Madame Coty. I don’t deserve such kindness.’
The dressmaker beamed. ‘Anyone who is loved by such a man as Lord Highclare deserves everything, mademoiselle. You are the most fortunate of ladies.’
‘I am indeed,’ murmured Louisa, managing to return the smile. Loved by such a man as Lord Highclare? She wondered what the dressmaker would have said had she known the truth about the Highclare match.
15
By the morning of Tom’s funeral, the Highclare story was all over fashionable London. As Kit expected, the fact that Louisa had been a governess and was residing unchaperoned under his roof proved to be of consuming interest. Society accepted his claim that it was a love match, but delighted in discussing the bride’s character – or lack of it – at great length.
Reggie Carruthers proved staunch in his friend’s support, having formed a favorable impression of Louisa when he’d dined at Grosvenor Square. He’d found her a little quiet and withdrawn, strained even, but had put it all down to her understandable distress about her brother. She was, Reggie confided afterward in Kit, a quite delightful little thing, and would make a creditable Lady Highclare. Kit privately trusted that his friend’s judgment was going to prove correct, for Louisa Cherington was an unknown quantity who might yet turn out to be the greatest mistake he’d ever made.
An hour before the funeral service was to commence at St George’s, the streets nearby became thronged with carriages, as the monde turned out to pay its last respects to Tom Cherington; at least, that was its professed purpose, the truth was that everyone was anxious to see the intriguing Miss Cherington.
Louisa was ready to leave. The clock was creeping toward eleven, and she stood by the window of her room, looking down at the sun-drenched square. The weather was beautiful and quite at odds with her low spirits as she pulled on Madame Coty’s costly
black gloves. Behind her veil, her face was more pale and drawn than ever, and there were shadows beneath her eyes. She had yet to break down and cry.
Kit’s carriage entered the square and drew up at the curb. The horses’ bridles were fixed with black rosettes, and the coachman wore a black gauze scarf around his hat.
Kit entered the room. He wore a black mourning cloak from which fluttered long weepers, and beneath it a plain black coat and gray trousers. She went to pick up her little reticule and he saw her hand trembling. ‘Are you up to this?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘It will be a considerable ordeal for you.’
‘I know, but I must go. It’s my duty.’
A light flickered through his eyes. ‘That’s a word I seem to have heard a great deal lately.’
‘It’s an important word,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s the reason we’re marrying.’
‘So it is.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Shall we go?’
Her skirts rustled as they descended the staircase, and when Miller opened the front door, a light summer breeze played with her veil. It was warm outside, and she could hear birds singing in the garden in the middle of the square.
It wasn’t a long drive to the church, but it seemed endless. Louisa kept her eyes lowered to the reticule lying on her lap, for every time she looked out of the window, all she could see was the rose garden at Cherington Court, and two children, a brother and sister, playing hide-and-seek.
The carriage drew up at last outside St George’s, having maneuvered through the crush of similar vehicles conveying the astonishingly large congregation of mourners. As Kit alighted and assisted Louisa down, she was aware of all eyes being upon them. She was glad of her heavy veil, for she could hide behind it. She was glad, too, of Kit’s presence at her side. His black-gloved hand rested protectively over hers, and his fingers were firm and reassuring. She still barely knew him, he was a stranger, but she needed him now.