Viola had the servants carry Lady Caroline up to her bedroom. Bramwell, her ladyship’s maid, started up in surprise as the footman tossed her mistress onto the bed.
“This is Bramwell,” Lucy said quickly. “Bramwell, this is Miss Andrews. Miss Andrews has come all the way from London for a visit.”
“I’m the new nurse,” Viola announced abruptly. “I shall be managing Lady Caroline’s treatment from now on.”
Lady Caroline lifted her head and moaned. “I’m seeing spots,” she whined piteously. “Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Spots floating everywhere like eyes.”
Bramwell eyed Viola with dislike. “Your coat is making my lady sick,” she accused.
Viola only smiled. “Mr Rampling has gone to fetch the doctor. Get her ladyship undressed, and clean her up as best you can. We don’t want to embarrass the doctor, after all.”
“Who are you to give me orders?” Bramwell demanded.
“You’d better do as she says,” Lucy fretted. “Indeed, you had.”
“You’re the nurse, Miss Andrews,” Bramwell glowered. “Why don’t you clean her up?”
“Because I’m not a servant, I’m a professional woman,” Viola replied, crossing the room to open the door. “Miss Rampling, would you be good enough to show me to my room? I’m quite fagged from my journey.”
“Sorry, Brams,” Lucy whispered, following Viola from the room. “I’ll explain later!”
Chapter Sixteen
Hudson arrived the next morning at Newgate Prison to attend his master. Apart from a few bumps and bruises, Julian was none the worse for wear. “I apologize for the delay, Captain,” said Hudson. “They would not let me see you last night.”
“Hudson, thank God!” Julian exclaimed, embracing his servant. “It’s all a mistake, of course. I’m not plotting against the government. The whole thing is ridiculous.”
“Of course not, Captain! Now, I’ve scraped together enough money to have you transferred from the common area to a private cell. I’ll be allowed to stay and attend you.”
“No, you must stay and look after Mary,” Julian said firmly. “My poor darling! She must be out of her mind with worry. Tell her it’s all a mistake. Tell her I’ll be home in a few days.”
“I’m afraid Mrs Devize has gone.” Out of respect for his master’s feelings, Hudson tried not to sound pleased. “She took her maid and her dog with her. She’s left you, Captain.”
Julian stared at him. “Mary would never leave me,” he said slowly.
“I know it’s difficult to accept such betrayal,” said Hudson. “Lord Simon Ascot called yesterday, and…and Mrs Devize allowed herself to be persuaded to leave. I’m sorry, Captain.”
“Ascot! I don’t believe it.”
“Here is his lordship’s card,” Hudson replied, glad that he had brought the proof of Mrs Devize’s perfidy.
Julian felt sick to his stomach, and a feeling of bleak desolation came into his heart as he looked at the raised letters on Lord Simon’s card. “But she doesn’t even like him,” he muttered.
“She seems to have overcome her dislike.”
Julian sank to the bench that served as his bed. “I’ll kill him. I’ll bloody well kill him!”
“Perhaps,” Hudson said gently, “it is for the best, Captain. If Mrs Devize would rather be his lordship’s mistress than your wife, then we are better off without her.”
Julian sighed. “I’ll probably hang, you know,” he said grimly. “Mr Harman of the Bank of England is giving evidence against me. God only knows what Mrs Dean is saying. At least with—with him, she will be assured of a roof over her head.”
“Come, Captain,” Hudson said gently. “Your private cell awaits.”
Lady Caroline awoke the next day with a splitting headache. Otherwise, she was quite her usual nasty self. She snarled at the servant who brought in the breakfast tray. She threw a china shepherdess across the room and broke it to bits. She accused her daughter of stealing her peridot ear bobs. When the ear bobs were found on her dressing table, she lambasted Bramwell for her carelessness. All this she accomplished without leaving her bed.
Lucy arranged the pillows and helped her mother sit up. “Do you remember last night at all, Mama?” she asked gently, when the servants had gone.
“No,” Lady Caroline snapped, lifting the silver cover of her breakfast. “Should I?” Scowling, she poked at her food with her spoon. “What the devil is this beastly muck?”
“It’s porridge, Mama,” Lucy answered. “Lady Viola says it is very healthful.”
“Oh?” Lady Caroline sneered. “Does she? Does she indeed? Well, I may have to lick Lady Viola’s boots when I see her, but she ain’t here now! I’ll be damned if I eat porridge.”
“But Lady Viola is here, Mama,” Lucy said quickly. “She arrived last night. Don’t you remember? She’s taken over the house, more or less. The servants are all in terror.”
Lady Caroline was stunned. “Does she know we’re behind on our rent?” she shrieked. “Is she here to evict us?”
“I don’t think so,” said Lucy. “She wants us to call her Miss Andrews.”
“What on earth for?” Lady Caroline demanded.
Lucy shrugged helplessly. “She says she is incognito. She does not want to call attention to herself. She told Brams she’s your new nurse.”
“Nurse? Why do I need a nurse? I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“I’m afraid Cornelius told her ladyship that you were ill,” Lucy answered. “He had to explain to her ladyship why we were not in London for the Season. He was quite surprised when Lady Viola declared her intention of coming for a visit.”
“Why did he make me sick?” Picking up her spoon, Lady Caroline watched gray porridge fall from it in unappetizing, drippy lumps. “Why couldn’t you be the sick one? With your long face, you’d made a perfect patient. I hate porridge! Where is her ladyship now?”
Lucy looked out of the window almost fearfully. “She’s gone riding with Cornelius. Thank goodness the head groom wouldn’t allow us to sell the duke’s horses.”
Lady Caroline wrinkled her nose. “Cornelius? Is he here, too?”
“Yes, Mama. He accompanied Lady Viola from London.”
Lady Caroline gasped. “Are they engaged?” she demanded. “Oh, Lucy! If Cornelius could catch a wife like Lady Viola…!” Cured of her headache, she flung off the bedclothes and jumped out of bed. Her brain commenced scheming at once. “Oh, I knew he was not so handsome for nothing! Call Brams! Help me get dressed. Hurry!”
“But Mama,” Lucy protested. “Remember Lady Viola thinks you are ill, and your…your behavior last night seemed to confirm it. You must not leave your bed.”
Lady Caroline scowled. “My behavior? There’s nothing wrong with my behavior, Miss Lucy! I’m the eldest daughter of the Earl of Southwood. I am above reproach. And if Cornelius doesn’t ruin his chances with Lady Viola, I will take my rightful place in Society again. I will make those bitches rue the day they ever snubbed me! See if I don’t!”
The door opened at that moment, and Viola walked in, resplendent in a scarlet riding habit. She pointed at Lucy’s mother with her riding crop. “You should be in bed, Lady Caroline. The doctor was most explicit in his instructions. You are a very sick woman. You must have complete bed rest, plain food, and nothing but fresh water to drink. It’s the only way you’re going to get well.”
Lucy’s eyes widened in amazement. The doctor had said quite plainly that the only thing wrong with Lady Caroline was a superfluity of strong liquor in her blood.
Lady Caroline blinked rapidly. “How sick am I?” she cried in terror.
“I don’t want to alarm you, ma’am,” said Viola, leading Lady Caroline back to bed, “but you could die at any time. So, please, don’t get out of bed.”
“I don’t want to die!” cried Lady Caroline, clutching at Viola’s arm.
“I’m quite sure you’re not going to die, Mama,” Lucy hastened to assure her.
; “No, indeed,” said Viola, moving to inspect the breakfast tray. “Not if you do as you’re told. Lady Caroline, you naughty thing, you haven’t eaten your porridge!” she scolded.
Lady Caroline forced a smile. She forced herself to pick up her spoon. She forced herself to take a bite. The porridge was cold and drab, but she forced herself to swallow it. “Delicious,” she forced herself to say. “May I have just a little treacle, Lady Viola?” she pleaded.
Viola smiled. “Tomorrow,” she promised sweetly. “If you are feeling better.”
“I’m feeling quite well now,” Lady Caroline said pathetically.
“Don’t try to talk, dear,” Viola replied. “You must conserve your strength. Your recovery depends on it.” Walking about the room, she opened all the curtains, admitting volumes of bright sunlight. Lady Caroline cried out in pain. “What a beautiful morning!” said Viola, striding for the door. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes, dear Lady Caroline, and if you do not eat every bite of your porridge, I shall be very, very angry with you. Come, Miss Rampling,” she said imperiously.
Lucy jumped nervously. “Yes?”
“It’s time you were dressed, dear. You and I must make something of this glorious day.”
Lucy looked down at her gown in confusion. “But I am dressed, Lady Viola!”
“No, you’re not,” Viola informed her firmly. “You’re merely clothed, and that’s something very different. And you really must remember to call me Miss Andrews,” she added. “Come. Your poor mama needs her rest.”
Nothing in Miss Rampling’s humble wardrobe escaped Viola’s wrath. “Rags!” she snarled in disgust as she tore through Lucy’s dresses. “How long has it been since you had anything new?” she demanded. “Everything you own looks like it got caught in the rain, then dragged through the mud. I never saw so much brown and gray in my life.”
Lucy summoned her dignity. “I have no need of fancy clothes, Lady Viola. I live quietly in the country, and I’m too old to keep up with fashions.”
“One is never too old to be fashionable,” Viola objected. “Besides, you’re only thirty. I shall be thirty in nine years. I certainly don’t intend to be old in nine years!”
“What I mean is I’m a confirmed spinster,” Lucy explained. “I shall never marry. So, you see, there’s really no point in my dressing like a young girl in the market for a husband.”
Viola was appalled. “We do not dress for men, Miss Rampling,” she said sternly. “Most men cannot tell one dress from another. The point is always to look one’s best. It has nothing to do with finding a husband or being young. Now, then,” she went on, taking a position at the open clothespress. “Which of these appalling gray things do you wear in the morning, when you are writing letters? What do you wear to receive visitors?”
“This, I suppose,” Lucy replied, indicating the striped gown currently enveloping her thin frame. “But we rarely receive visitors, Lady Viola, and, surely, it does not matter what one wears when one is writing one’s letters,” she added, chuckling.
“Doesn’t matter?” Viola repeated angrily. “Doesn’t matter? My dear Lucy, even if you do not receive visitors, you must receive your housekeeper, and your butler. You must discuss the menu with Cook.”
“The servants do not care what I wear. In any case, Mama meets with them.”
“Well, now that your mother is confined to her room, you must assume the role of mistress of the house,” Viola said firmly. “If you continue to dress like a dishrag, the servants will never respect you. This certainly explains the dust I discovered on the mantelpiece!”
“What does my dress have to do with dust on the mantelpiece?” cried Lucy.
Viola turned Lucy to face the mirror. “If I were a servant, I wouldn’t dust the mantelpiece for somebody who looked like you,” she said brutally. “Now, look at me!” she went on, taking Lucy’s place at the mirror. “Who wouldn’t want to dust my mantelpiece?” she asked, preening. “There’s nothing else to do, Miss Rampling. You must have all new clothes.”
“We cannot possibly afford it,” Lucy protested breathlessly.
“My dear girl, you can’t afford not to,” Viola said briskly. “You must keep up appearances. You are the granddaughter of an earl, not the scullery maid. Come to my room. I’ve got heaps of idea books from London. You can look at them while I change.”
Lucy had no idea what an idea book was. She was doubtful, but Viola prevailed, as always. Viola’s room was next to Lucy’s, separated by a shared dressing room.
Cork, who was just beginning to unpack Viola’s trunks, curtseyed as her mistress came in. “Your bath is ready, madam, but I can’t find your dressing gown!” she wailed.
Viola went to the correct trunk and put her hands on the dressing gown instantly. “This is Miss Rampling, Cork. She wants to look at my magazines.”
Cork obligingly placed Viola’s collection of magazines on the worktable near the window. Lucy reluctantly sat down to look at them while Viola went into the dressing room.
The magazines had names like Le Bon Ton, Les Modes de Paris and Le Petit Courier des Dames. They all featured drawings of beautiful ladies in fantastic costumes. Lucy tried to imagine herself wearing “a half-dress of geranium jaconet muslin with a demi-train; body of Imperial purple and white shot sarsenet, richly embroidered in heliotrope, made in the same manner as last month, except that the waist is a little shorter; the sleeve, which is of delicate pink jaconet muslin, is very full, and is looped up with a scarlet floss silk ornament in the shape of a heart.” In such a garment, Lucy felt sure she would look ridiculous.
Twenty minutes later, Viola emerged from the dressing room clad in a peacock blue gown that might have come straight from Paris. Worn over an almost transparent high-necked chemise, it had a deep, square neckline, elbow-length sleeves, and a skirt that was flat across the front but gathered at the back. The waist was longer than the prevailing fashions, almost at the natural waist. On impulse, Viola had pinned a small diamond brooch at her décolleté, and the tiny stones caught fire with the rise and fall of her breasts.
“This,” Viola announced, joining Lucy at the worktable, “is the perfect morning costume for the country. With the shorter sleeve one need not worry about ink-stained cuffs. I despise an ink-stained cuff. You, my dear,” she went on seamlessly as Lucy tried in vain to hide her ink-stained cuffs, “are blessed with a thin, slight figure. That means you can wear the minimum. Something like this, perhaps. Is it not a charming ensemble?”
As Viola held out the fashion plate for inspection, Lucy’s eyes widened in alarm. The lady in the picture seemed to be wearing a dress made not of fabric but of flowing water. “I don’t think I care to wear the minimum, Lady Viola!”
Viola paid no attention to Lucy’s objections. Taking out her pencil and paper, she began to sketch gowns on a pad of paper, talking all the while. Lucy’s head began to spin. Resignation succeeded her initial panic. It seemed she was doomed to be the recipient of an entire new wardrobe which she could not afford and certainly could not wear with any confidence. Her only hope was that Viola would lose interest in her latest project and find something else to occupy her time before any of these outrageous costumes were ever realized.
“Have you seen the garden, Lady Viola?” she asked desperately.
“You have reminded me,” Viola said gratefully. “One needs at least three garden costumes in the country—there are so many flowers to cut.”
Lucy sighed. “Shouldn’t we check on Mama?” she pleaded.
“We will check on her when she is feeling a little better,” Viola answered serenely, completely absorbed in her work.
“When will that be?”
Viola smiled. “After luncheon, I should think. I’ve ordered a delightful gruel for her midday repast. She’s to have it in her room on a tray. You and Mr Rampling and I will dine alfresco, under the pavilion.”
“What pavilion?” Lucy asked nervously.
“The servants are
erecting it as we speak,” Viola replied. “When one is in the country, it is a crime to stay indoors when the weather is fine. Do you mean to tell me you’ve never had luncheon on the grass?”
“We often go on picnics in summer,” Lucy replied.
“Then we must definitely order a few picnic costumes for you,” Viola murmured. “And, of course, we mustn’t forget God.”
Lucy was startled. “God?”
“One cannot go to church looking like a church mouse,” Viola explained.
As Viola had predicted, Lady Caroline was perfectly well after luncheon. She was so much better, in fact, that Viola allowed her to have one glass of watered claret with her dinner. During the night, however, Lady Caroline suffered a relapse. In the morning, she was discovered in the wine cellar, quite unconscious, surrounded by empty bottles. Viola seized the keys to the cellar from the butler, and Cornelius carried Lady Caroline up to bed.
“She must have slipped on the empty bottles,” Lucy insisted tearfully.
“Indeed!” Cornelius agreed bitterly. “After she guzzled the contents!”
Only Lucy objected when Viola took the unusual step of locking Lady Caroline in her room. “Can we really do that?” she asked. “I mean, must we?” she corrected herself.
“It is for her own good,” Viola said grimly. “We don’t want her slipping on any more empty bottles, now, do we?”
Cornelius spent the afternoon attempting to make sense of his mother’s accounts, while Viola and Lucy met with the local dressmaker. Feeling rather like a pincushion, Lucy stood in her petticoats for what seemed like hours while Viola argued with the woman. After the dressmaker’s departure, boredom ensued, and, to relieve it, Viola threatened to “do something” with Lucy’s mousy hair.
Lucy was spared this indignity, however, by the unexpected arrival of two visitors. Mr Rampling received them in the drawing room while the upstairs maid was dispatched to inform the ladies that Lady Cheviot of Cross Mere, and her brother, Mr Devize, had called.
The Heiress In His Bed Page 26