by Megan Daniel
“I am aware of it, ma’am. Not all of us have been blessed with your good fortune,” he replied stiffly.
“Oh, I know. No need to poker up on me. The world is a remarkably unfair place. A pity there is no time for you to go to London. You’ll not find Weston’s like in Bath. But Ossett, in Union Street, is said to make a tolerable coat.” Boots, shirts, hats, gloves, in short everything a gentleman of fashion might require, were well covered in her inventory. j
“And you, miss,” she went on, turning to her niece. “We must see at once to changing your prim and proper image. Fleurette, in Milsom Street, has reasonably deft fingers and some sense of style. She can manage several dresses on short order. Now for hats . . .”
On and on it went till Saskia considered pleading a headache and retreating to her room. Instead she retreated to a quiet comer of the drawing room to which they repaired after dinner—an actual drawing room this time, with chairs and tables and all—and busied herself with the making of numerous lists of details to be seen to in the coming days.
Derek spent the evening allowing Lady Eccles to win a close game of piquet. At least, he thought he had allowed her to win. He was admittedly uncertain. She was a devilish sharp player.
And so both young actors in the coming drama were reasonably fresh and ready to begin their adventure when they met over breakfast after a good night’s sleep. Saskia was the first to appear. She’d always been the earliest to stir in the van Houten household. She cherished the quiet moments lingering over her morning coffee, accompanied only by a book or her own thoughts. It was the only part of the day that was truly hers.
Discounting the presence of a snarling tiger with unpleasantly sharp teeth just over her head, she settled down with her cup and the final volume of Pride and Prejudice. She felt sure this was the last such leisurely breakfast she would enjoy for some time to come.
It was with a definite twinge of annoyance that she saw her cousin enter the room soon after she’d settled into her book. Good manners forbade her continuing to read at table in his presence, and the volume was reluctantly laid aside. So much for the precious time to herself!
“Good morning, Miss van Houten," he said gravely, helping himself to the strong, delicious coffee and taking a seat.
“Good morning, Mr. Rowbridge. I trust you slept well?”
“Quite, thank you. And you?”
“Quite, thank you.” This channel of conversation didn’t seem too promising. Saskia buttered some toast. Derek carved a slice of ham. They ate. They stared at the table. “I trust I do not interrupt your reading?” he said at last.
“It is of no moment. I may finish it another time.” An- i other silence. They sipped their coffee. This time Saskia ! spoke. “Do try some of this cheese I brought our aunt. It is Dutch, but quite innocuous, I promise you.” This last l statement was unhandsome of her, but she couldn’t | resist, nor keep the light of challenge from her eyes, even as she smiled.
Derek had no desire to come to points with her so early in the morning, and he refused to rise to her bait. He accepted the wedge of creamy yellow Edamer cheese with a nod of thanks. In hopes of turning the conversation into less dangerous channels, he picked up her discarded book.
“You are a reader, Miss van Houten. Excuse me, but may I call you Cousin? I fear Dutch names are too much of a mouthful for me.”
A pause. “As you wish .. . Cousin.”
“I see you have been sampling one of Miss Austen’s efforts. Pride and Prejudice is my favorite of her works. Are you enjoying it?”
Her face lit with genuine and admiring surprise. “Why yes, very much. Have you read it? I thought gentlemen did not enjoy such lighthearted nonsense.”
“If it comes to that, I cannot imagine you, Cousin, indulging in anything nonsensical. But I cannot agree to your description of Miss Austen’s work. They are much too true to life to be called nonsense.”
“Oh, yes. To be sure they are. But then I find much of real life nonsensical. My own family certainly is.” She began to warm to her topic. “I suppose in many ways we might have been a prototype for the Bennet family in Pride and Prejudice. Of course, two of us are boys, and Neil isn’t the least bit flighty. But if Mary Bennet—
you know, the plain and terribly serious one—had been a boy, she might well have been my brother Cornelius. And the twins are quite silly enough to serve for the youngest sisters.”
He was actually smiling now. “And you?”
“Oh, I am Eliza Bennet, unquestioningly. She is very down-to-earth, you know. And, like her, I enjoy laughing at people’s foibles.”
“But you are the eldest, are you not? Was it not Jane Bennet who filled that role? I believe I preferred her to all the others.”
“Why, how unhandsome of you, when I have just admitted my own likeness to Eliza!”
“But I did not mean . . .” She cut him off with a laugh.
“Oh, I know what you meant, Cousin. You need not apologize. I am sure many gentlemen would prefer a Jane, all compliance and amiability. Never a harsh judgment or acid comment And pretty into the bargain! For myself, I find such sweetness a bit cloying and such compliance insipid.”
"Yes. I do not believe anyone could call you compliant.”
“Not in the least!” she cheerfully admitted. “I expect it comes from being so long in charge of things. I do hope I am not stubborn, when shown to be wrong in my judgments.” With a moment to consider she might have blushed, for she knew very well that she was occasionally stubborn. “Like Eliza Bennet, I have strong opinions, but I am willing to have my mind changed when the evidence warrants. Were I a man, I should much prefer a woman with opinions to one who simply agreed to my every pronouncement, however inane. What a shocking bore that would be!”
“But then you are not a man,” he said coolly. “Gentlemen like to have their superior judgment deferred to and to feel that their protection is needed. I have difficulty imagining you standing in need of protection from
anything.” Except your own rashness, he nearly added, but bit back the words in time.
She gave his words serious consideration. “No, perhaps not protection, for I am usually well able to look after myself. Support, perhaps, would be a better word. Someone to lean on, an ally. And companionship, of course. A friend to trade thoughts with, to bandy opinions about with, even when they are wildly awry.” As she spoke, the words struck her with their truthfulness. This was her view of the ideal marriage, even though she had never so expressed it before, even to herself. Could she even imagine such a relationship with Mr. Kneighley? The thought made her giggle, and she choked over her coffee.
As if reading her mind, Derek said, “And was there not a cousin in the story, a preacher? Quite ludicrous as I recall. I hope you do not see me in the role?”
“Oh, no! You would not do at all for Mr. Collins, cousin or no. Besides, we already have one pompous, prosy rector exactly like Mr. Collins, and I promise you one is quite enough!” She banished the hapless Mr. Kneighley from her thoughts, and concentrated her attention on her cousin. “I rather think you must be Mr. Darcy. He is very stiff and proud, you know, so I think he’ll suit you very well.”
“Now who is being unhandsome?”
“Do you not admL-e Mr. Darcy? I rather thought you might.”
“I do, very much, though he is perhaps a trifle toplofty. But I consider him to be a thorough gentleman.” She smiled. “Yes. I imagine you would.”
This interesting discussion was interrupted by the entrance of Lady Eccles. Even leaning on her cobra- headed cane, she was a very grand sight in a day-dress of claret-colored gros de Naples, a striped shawl of red and gold silk tied around it as a sash, and another, of finest cashmere, wrapped about her head into a large, enchanting turban. Saskia surveyed her impersonally,
marveling that anything so flamboyant could be so tasteful and so, well... so right.
She had breakfasted in her room and was looking quite as fresh and rested as the young p
eople who were less than half her age, and quite as ready as they to face the day and beat back any and all resistance to her wishes, by main force if necessary.
“It’s time we were off. Rowbridge, I leave you to your own devices. Just do not, I beg you, come back looking like a fop with your collar up about your ears. You, miss, will come with me. We will begin with Fleurette, then move on to that clever little French milliner. Then up Milsom Street to ...”
“I beg pardon, aunt,” Saskia interrupted, "but I really believe we must begin in Laura Place. It is of the first importance to make arrangements for Mama’s reception there. My wardrobe can easily wait.”
Fond as she was of shopping, Lady Eccles had to admit to the logic of this. “Very true. I should have considered it myself. Where do you get this common sense of yours, girl? It can’t have come from your mother, for never did a Rowbridge have a grain of sense or practicality that I could see. I certainly had none, unless you consider the very desirable results of marrying three wealthy gentlemen. Rut I might just as easily have fallen in love with a string of paupers and then where would I be now?”
As she spoke she donned a quite remarkable cloak of silver-grey astrakhan and picked up a huge muff of the same. She was not as yet acclimatized to the horrid English weather. “Are you quite sure you’re a Rowbridge, girl?” she asked. “You’ve the look of one, no denying. All angles and brown eyes. But you’re sadly common-sensi- cal, it seems.”
Saskia could not forebear smiling as they made their way out to the waiting carriage. “I expect it comes of my being half Dutch, ma’am. Of course Papa hadn’t a particle of practicality, nor does Mama. But I do have at least one good burgher uncle and an aunt, Tante Luce,
who, though very kind, is the absolute soul of boring practicality.” She cast her cousin a beatific smile as he made to hand her up into the carriage. It was far more wounding in its assumed innocence than the most blistering scowl. “Surely you know, ma’am, the Dutch reputation for hard-headed business sense. Why, I even believe some people think us clutch-fisted in the extreme! Good morning, Cousin Derek.”
It was a totally unscrupulous Parthian shot, as she well knew. After all, he had apologized for his faux pas in the inn. But she couldn’t resist. She was rewarded by a wounded look which smote her conscience the whole of the morning.
Her guilt would have faded rapidly and completely had she been privy to the smile that replaced his look of hurt as the carriage rolled away. Pricked pride slowly gave way to some degree of admiration and a softly muttered “touche” as Mr. Rowbridge made his way down the street.
Chapter Eight
That morning began one of the most incredible and frenziedly active weeks of Saskia van Houten’s young life. The house at Number Two Laura Place was beautiful, elegant, and entirely overwhelming. It required a small army to run it. She had to see to the hiring of an intimidating butler, two footmen, a housemaid-nanny for the twins, a pair of kitchenmaids for Jannie, plus the abigail that Aunt Hester insisted was de rigeur. A comfortable desk must be found for Mama and new hangings ordered for the back sitting room where she would work. One look at the bilious green damask now draping the windows and not a word would she be able to write.
Rooms must be allotted, linens and china checked, pantry staples ordered. Letters must be written to one and all with explanations and instructions. Saskia handled it all with an outward calm that belied her harried spirit.
On top of this, hour on endless hour was spent with milliners, mantua makers, bootmakers, and linen drapers. Saskia was amazed, appalled even, at the number of dresses, gowns, habits, shoes, bonnets, scarves, and reticules her aunt was intent on ordering for her. She demurred at every purchase, asking the price of every bolt of muslin, until she finally put her aunt out of all patience and was roundly admonished to “Stop all this claptrap and put on that dress! I want no more nonsense from you, my girl!”
Two circumstances encouraged her finally to go along with her aunt’s high-handed dictums. The first was a promise that an equal number of beautiful and costly gowns would be provided for Beatrix. And second was a realization that Lady Eccles was enjoying herself enormously. Despite her ‘limited mobility” Saskia was hard put to it to keep up with the woman! It seemed that her leg only bothered her when confronted with anything she wished not to do. Then she became the veriest cripple.
Derek took the week at a more leisurely pace, not having the imminent arrival of a large family to worry about but he accomplished nearly as much.
With a natural good taste he had never had the money to indulge, he outfitted himself with style and quiet elegance and with none of the exaggerated quirks of fashion that marked the Dandy. The rugged and healthy shipboard life he had lived so long had given a lithe grace to his sturdy form, and the molded coats of Bath superfine, Melton wool, and kerseymere showed off his broad shoulders to advantage and boosted his self- confidence.
An experienced valet was located; a groom was engaged. A gig was procured, but at his aunt’s look of disgust was none too reluctantly exchanged for a sporting curricle to be pulled by a pretty pair of match bays from his aunt’s stable. There was also a beautiful and spirited roan which had instantly become his own.
The cousins met daily, as they were still sharing their aunt’s roof. They generally shared breakfast, chatting about books or music, safe topics not given to controversy, which interested them both. Their animosity was curbed slightly with the familiarity of daily contact. Saskia still thought him odiously proud and stiff; Derek still found her pert and managing. But they had learned
to be civil to each other most of the time, snapping at each other no oftener than once or twice a day.
Lady Eccles had seen their first sparks of animosity with gratification. She watched them tread warily around each other with a growing sense of amusement and carefully noted the occasional look of admiration of which they were not themselves even aware. This prank of hers really did look to be even more diverting than she had imagined.
Derek had agreed to choose a horse for Saskia to ride, and this added yet another chore to the harried girl’s week. Although she had at one time been a notable horsewoman, she had not ridden in years. Keeping a horse at Eynshant had been far beyond their means. But never, never, would she admit to her cousin her fears that she might have lost the ability to sit a horse creditably.
And so every afternoon saw her stealing off for an hour or so to Mr. Ryle’s Riding Establishment in Monmouth Street to practice and regain her confidence.
It was a lucky thing she did so, for the horse her cousin chose for her from Lady Eccles’s large stable was no placid lady’s ride. It was instead the prettiest little golden mare Saskia had ever seen with the spirit of the Arabian deserts where she had been born.
“I thought somehow you’d not be satisfied with a slug,” said Derek as Saskia gazed in admiration at the animal. “She’s called Sunshine.”
Saskia stroked the sleek neck and patted the velvety nose. “Goede morgen, Zoonschijn,” she greeted it softly. Goede morgen, nieuwe vriendin.”
Curious, Derek watched her with the animal and saw how well the horse responded. “What are you saying to her?”
“Just good morning, and telling her what good friends we are going to be. She is beautiful, Cousin. Thank you for bringing her.”
“She’s a high-spirited animal. Do you think you can handle her?” he asked with a lamentable want of tact.
Saskia answered in a voice tinged with sarcasm. “I shall do my poor best, Cousin.”
Trying to make a recover he asked brightly, “Well, would you like to try her now?”
“Oh, yes!” she said with enthusiasm. “Only . . .” She suddenly recalled the sad state of her wardrobe. None of her new habits had arrived, and she had nothing decent to wear. For her riding lessons she had worn an old black habit which Mrs. Beach had managed to borrow from a friend, a governess to a family farther along the Crescent. It was devastatingly ugly and made her look th
irty at the least.
But she did so want to get on that horse. And why should she give a fig for what Derek Rowbridge thought of her appearance? He could scarce think worse of her than he already did. And besides, she had no reason to care if he did. His opinion was of absolutely no consequence to her.
“Yes, of course. I will ride her now,” she said snappishly. Derek wondered what he had said to get her hackles up. With such a waspish female it didn’t take much. “If you will give me ten minutes to change,” she continued, “I will be with you directly.”
He should have known that when she said ten minutes she meant ten minutes, but he was nevertheless surprised to have her reappear so quickly. He was not in the least surprised by her appearance, however. That severe black habit was just the sort of thing he would expect her to own, all prim and serviceable and unlikely to show soil. Its bone buttons marched in regimental order straight up the center of her jacket; the high neck and long cuffs of the skirt showed nary a touch of softening.lace. She looked dowdy and mannish and exactly as he had imagined she would look.
“Shall we go?” Sternly as she had told herself she cared nothing for his opinion, she could not keep her voice from sounding stiff with her self-consciousness.
“Certainly,” he replied with an equal lack of warmth. He tossed her up into the saddle, surprised at how light