And who was the furtive scruffy character he’d been with in the coffee house? And why, for the second occasion, had Pierre found no time to call on me at home? Was his excuse a genuine one? Recalling Winterson’s decision to accompany me to Foss Beck to meet my family, I wondered whether that would solve any of the problems or simply create new ones, in the light of Pierre’s attachment to me. Though the outcome was hardly in question, I was still unwilling to be the cause of any bitterness between them. Perhaps the best thing, I thought, would be for me to go there alone, despite Winterson’s instructions.
Chapter Nine
The terrible floods that followed the thaw brought tragedy just as severe as the crippling cold, and now instead of freezing to death, people fell victim to diseases borne upon the waters that carried effluent from broken cesspits into even the most respectable houses. Tavern taprooms were awash, the Guildhall cellars were flooded and, on my Friday visit to Lop Lane to see how Prue was managing, I discovered that the rats escaping from the water had gnawed their way through her store cupboard, eating everything remotely toothsome. Both her father and mother had gone down with the sickness by the time I arrived, and Prue herself was at her wits’ end with worry. It was not the time to tell her about the Customs and Excise Men.
The apothecary on Petergate was running low on the standard remedies for such a prevalent complaint and had quite sold out of mallow-root and seeds for a decoction that rarely failed, in my experience. All he could offer me was powdered bistort root, a syrup of dried roses, and distilled mint-water which, although soothing, were not what I would call outstandingly effective. I purchased all three and took them back to Lop Lane, then I set off to scour the other apothecaries, returning an hour later with a quantity of Dr James’s Fever Powders, Analeptic Pills, and a bottle of Dr Benjamin Godfrey’s Cordial that I’d seen advertised in the York Mercury, hoping that one of them would ease the distressing symptoms. I also sent round some candles and firewood, bread and milk, cheese, soup, clean bed linen and blankets in return for the soiled ones that poor Prue had been forced to use, underlining once again the difference in our circumstances.
She had once been my employer, but now I was reminded of how hard she must be finding it to care for two ailing parents in their dilapidated town house while keeping up the appearance of a thriving business. In some ways, my responsibilities were similar, but in my accommodation I was far more fortunate than Prue, and I longed to help her out instead of giving her the bad news about the smuggled goods that only waited to be told. Nor did it help my conscience much when Debbie assisted me with a final fitting of the ballgown I’d been making all week. If Prue had not insisted that I show it off for the sake of the business, I doubt I would have spent my time so indulgently.
Nevertheless, when Saturday came I could hardly contain a frisson of excitement as Debbie clipped a pair of small pearls on to my earlobes and then, finding little else for her fingers to adjust, she twisted long tendrils of my hair like corkscrews and arranged them in front of my ears. She had threaded ropes of seed pearls through my coiled hair, but I would wear no other jewellery except a small pearl and moonstone brooch to clasp the folds of my gown upon one shoulder.
I had made the dress of white crape, a sheer silk gauze with a crimped surface that produced a matte effect, underneath which the soft sheen of a white satin undergown showed through when I moved. Narrow black satin ribbons crossed over the short bodice to outline my breasts, tying at the back in a bunch, the same ribbons edging the skirt above a narrow hem of black lace. It was a plain easy-to-wear style to suit many shapes and sizes, its greatest extravagance being in the rich drape of silk over satin, like moonshine behind a film of clouds edged with the darkness of night. To add another touch of luxury, I carried a black lace fan edged with black feathers, one of two sent by Pierre in the latest consignment. White satin slippers with pearl-studded buckles, silk stockings, long white satin gloves and a reticule trimmed with black beads completed the ensemble.
Although I was more or less satisfied with my appearance, I was still apprehensive and unable to dismiss the memory of that time, years ago, when the enigmatic Burl Winterson had partnered me, living up to his reputation as a thief of women’s hearts. We had met on subsequent occasions at the Assembly Rooms when I was with his brother, but never again had he stood up with me for more than one dance, which I thought more likely to be a duty than a pleasure.
* * *
He came at eight to collect me, waiting at the bottom of the staircase to watch me descend, his eyes showing the kind of appreciation he had never revealed previously, I suppose for Linas’s sake. He held out a hand to support me down the last stair, not knowing how the steely strength of his arm imparted the kind of secure confidence I’d never drawn from his brother. Then, I had been the supporter. This time, he would be my protector.
‘St Valentine’s Day,’ he said, quietly.
‘Yes.’
‘Six years ago, was it?’
‘Yes, my lord. It’s surprising how much can happen to people in that time, isn’t it? We’ve both changed,’ I said, hurriedly, in case he was about to suggest we might start again at the beginning.
But he agreed with me. ‘We have indeed,’ he said, ‘in many respects, although six years may also confirm first impressions, Miss Follet. In your case, motherhood has made you even lovelier than you were before, to my mind.’
‘For which I should offer you my thanks, my lord?’
His reply was a shade too prompt for civility. ‘Yes, I think you should. What kind of thanks did you have in mind?’
He always took my sarcasm too literally. ‘I’ll think of something suitably momentous, if you give me time,’ I said, looking round me. ‘I have my pattens somewhere, to carry me over the mud.’
‘You won’t need them. I have a chair waiting outside.’ Taking the black velvet cape from Debbie, he draped it over my shoulders, still smiling at my snappy retort, making my heart lurch at the closeness of his hands. If I had indeed been improved by motherhood, then fatherhood had brought him closer to physical perfection than ever, and the thought of walking into a ballroom beside such a handsome beast made me resolve to get the most out of the experience, not to spoil it with petty bickering.
I had seen him in evening dress many times before, always attracting attention by the perfect cut of his coat, skin-tight white knee-breeches and stockings, his neck swathed in a snow-white cravat that set off the healthy outdoor skin of his lean cheeks. His hair, I noticed, had been trimmed, though it still curled, thick and luxurious, over the white muslin. My fingers itched to sink into it. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That was thoughtful.’
‘I would have had them bring it inside, but they’d have covered your hall floor with mud. So this is what we’ll do.’ So saying, he bade me place an arm around his neck, swooped me up into his arms and carried me down the steps to the sedan chair where I was placed in the cushioned interior without a speck of mud reaching the hem of my gown. Then, with the lid lowered and the door closed, I was swayed and jogged along the cobbles to the steps of the Assembly Rooms where a sea of colour dotted with black seethed upwards between the massive pillars into the portico, to the distant sound of a country dance in progress.
Chattering and squeals, shouts and giggles, wavings and trippings-up all contributed to the excitement of seeing and being seen, the promise of liaisons, the affirmation of connections, comparisons, flirtations. It rubbed off on me too, as my eyes singled out the most interesting fashions and a few I had personally designed, sometimes sadly disfigured by fussy accessories, others improved by slender bodies and graceful steps to give them life. Aventurine and crimson, claret and cherry, geranium, azure, citrus and cinnamon, rose, violet mingled with black and white, hairstyles à la Grecque, braided and wreathed à la peruvienne with ears of corn and feathers, turbans, lace caps and knots of hair like steeples. Sashes and shawls, sleeves of puckered net, necklines only a finger-width away from decency, bare sho
ulders and arms, looped trains and glimpses of silk-stockinged ankles all taken in by one sweeping glance as we followed the tide and waited to deposit our cloaks.
‘Lady Osmotherly, lovely to see you looking so much recovered. Lady Percival, so delighted to see you again. Mrs Knopp, I hoped you’d be here.’ I curtsied to the exact degree, endorsing their patronage of Follet and Sanders. They trusted me with their most intimate secrets and I was accepted by them as a friend. Here in York, as in many other provincial towns, the social structure was less rigid than in London, barriers between the great northern families with centuries of inherited wealth and the nouveau riche having often been breached in the unsettled years of war with our neighbouring France. I knew their daughters, had been on the receiving end of their ambitions and disappointments, and had been asked for advice along with hints on fashion, which, as often as not, placed me in the role of confidant. Shy smiles were exchanged across the jostling anteroom, smiles which then settled upon my well-known escort and back to me, approving or envying my choice. Little did they know what lay behind that choice.
After so many years of being held at a distance, it still came as something of a surprise to me that, when he wished it, Winterson could make me feel cherished and so necessary to his enjoyment. It was not what I was used to, nor was it what I’d seen of his offhand manner with other women and, although that never appeared to dampen their interest in him, it would certainly have inhibited mine if I’d been looking for a successor to Linas. What I had found acceptable in a lover six years ago and what I would accept now were two different things, small indefinable things like taking my cloak, offering me his arm, greeting my acquaintances and introducing me to his, none of which Linas had bothered with unless I prompted him.
Mr Medworth Monkton had been correct when he assured me that no one would remark on a show of solidarity in our ranks, he and Cynthia having arrived just ahead of us, already chatting animatedly to a group of friends who apparently saw nothing out of the ordinary in my being there with Linas’s two brothers. Cynthia, wearing undiluted black from head to toe, was complimentary about my evening gown. ‘I might have known,’ she said, ‘you’d create something out of the top drawer, Helene dear. That’s a simply glorious gown. Do you not agree, my lord?’
‘I always agree with you, dear sister-in-law,’ he replied, gazing abstractedly over my shoulder into the assembly. ‘Miss Follet is indeed a glorious creature.’ The last remark was made quietly as if half to himself and half to anyone who could catch the words and, as Cynthia’s berry-eyes twinkled and widened, her husband drew her away with a hand on her elbow and a look of sheer mischief.
‘A game of faro, m’dear, and perhaps a glass of iced water after the shock of hearing Burl wax lyrical, eh? Come, my love. It may be catching.’ He winked at me, in parting.
‘Shall we see you at supper?’ I said.
‘Of course. I’m already starving.’ Cynthia laughed, moving off.
‘I think you should be careful,’ I murmured to Winterson.
‘Of what?’
‘Of where you direct your dry wit, my lord. Your sister-in-law is a dear lady and quite likely to take you seriously.’
‘And you do not, Miss Follet?’
‘I’m learning how to tell when you’re talking moonshine.’
‘Then keep learning. I was not talking moonshine, and that was not an example of what you choose to call my dry wit. And you had better refrain from talking cant while you’re wearing that dress. The two don’t mix. Come over here and watch the dancing for a while.’ Squeezing my arm with his, he led me through the throng, nodding and smiling at friends till we stood behind the dancers. At the far end of the ballroom, the orchestra swayed and gently perspired, flanked by marbled pillars, the gold-topped Corinthian capitals of which clung to each side of the creamy-green room, lit by sparkling chandeliers that hung in crystal tiers above the moving pattern of figures.
Several times I moved away from him, but always found that he had come to rejoin me, and for an hour or so we were engaged in conversation with friends who accepted that neither of us intended to dance. But the talk returned again and again to the severe flooding that had devastated acres of good arable land, drowned many animals, ruined stores of hay and cut off entire villages for the second time in a month. The Vale of York with its wide river was now a disaster area, leaving few families untouched by its broken banks.
Prue, I was sure, would be happy to hear the compliments about the dress for, although it was not quite the done thing to comment, northern folk have fewer scruples about making known their likes and dislikes or issuing praise where they think it due. I didn’t mind, sure we’d be seeing some new customers within the next week or two.
There was one, of course, whose compliments were less than direct. Lady Veronique Slatterly, looking like an overblown peony in a bright pink frilly creation and too much jewellery, wished to know more about the black lace fan. ‘Now where on earth did you find that?’ she said, looking me over as if I’d got it all wrong. ‘It looks Parisian to me.’
‘I didn’t find it,’ I said. ‘It was given to me by my cousin Pierre. And it is Parisian.’
‘Oh,’ she said, looking dubious. ‘You actually have French relatives, do you? I thought perhaps you used the name Follet only for professional purposes.’ She glanced up at Winterson, who stepped in with an unexpected contribution.
‘Miss Follet has no need of an assumed name. We met Monsieur Pierre Follet in York only a week ago, a generous man of about my own years, good looking, good breeding, still unattached and wealthy. Shall we introduce him to you, Veronique?’
Before she could hide it, a look passed across her eyes like a cloud that casts shadows across a hillside and moves on, and I sensed a desperation and a kind of loneliness that stems from having everything except the thing she most wants. Winterson’s glib offer had hurt her, as did the patronising smiles of the group and, for once, she was stuck for an answer.
I put on my school-ma’am voice. ‘If anyone offered to present such a paragon to me on the assumption that I would drop my handkerchief at any niffy-naffy fellow still on the shelf, and a Frenchman too, I would say he had maggots in his head, my lord. I’m sure Veronique would say the same. We’re both more than capable of finding our own beaux, are we not?’ I said, turning to her and placing my fingertips upon her arm.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Indeed we are.’ Her colour had heightened, and I felt she was close to tears.
I could not leave it at that. ‘Shall we leave these coxcombs to their racing talk and repair to the supper room?’ I said. ‘I have an appetite.’
She nodded and turned away, missing my frown at Winterson and the hand I laid on his arm to prevent him from following.
Looking back over the past days, I could see how his recent account of Veronique’s circumstances had affected the way I was beginning to respond to her, for I accepted his word that they had never been lovers, despite her wanting it to be so. Indeed, he had confirmed what his feelings were only a moment ago in that insensitive remark as he rushed to my defence with an unnecessary put-down. Perhaps, I thought, Veronique’s intention had been merely to keep me on my toes with a few needling comments but, whatever the truth of the matter, she had revealed to me that there was more to her than the shallow golden-dolly. Here was a rather sad young woman searching for something that life was not providing her with. My theory, such as it was, was further strengthened in the supper room where we met Medworth and Cynthia Monkton still eating and socialising.
Standing sideways on to a lady dressed in violet and silver, Cynthia’s profile accentuated her newly rounded shape clearly. Unlike others, she would never have attempted to disguise it. There was no need for introductions for they had met Veronique on many occasions at Abbots Mere, but her astonished glance at Cynthia’s bulge brought back the cloud of discontent to her eyes that disappeared almost as quickly as before and, instead of the usual congratulations, she dithered as
I myself had done only a few days earlier. Quickly averting her eyes, she stuttered something about the warmth, accepted a glass of punch from Medworth and gulped it down rather too quickly, pressing one hand beneath her bosom.
After some chatter, I drew Veronique aside in the hope that we might sit and talk together as friends, for once. But it was not to be, for we were joined by Winterson, who seemed determined to sit us down at a table and to share the food he had brought as if to make amends for his earlier tactlessness. If he saw anything unusual in our being together, he gave no sign of it.
Other things had begun to make more sense to me concerning Veronique’s spite, her unconcealed jealousy of my position, especially while I’d been pregnant with Jamie. Did she share with me that yearning for a child? Had it become almost a sickness with her, as I well knew it could? Did she need some real friends? And would she accept me as one?
‘I think,’ I said to Winterson when she had been invited to dance, ‘you might try a little more kindness. It wouldn’t hurt, surely?’
Sitting back into the gilded chair, he crossed his long legs and treated me to one of those superior looks that tell a woman he’ll humour her at the price of a brief skirmish. His eyes narrowed, cynical, amused, as if he enjoyed having to defend himself. ‘Hurt whom?’ he said.
‘You. A gentle answer turneth away wrath, you know.’
Heads turned in our direction as he laughed out loud. ‘Oh, don’t go all biblical on me, Miss Follet,’ he grinned. ‘But to answer your question, yes, it would hurt, eventually. Give some people an inch and they’ll take a yard. You be kind to the lady if you wish. It’s in your nature. But if I did the same, she’d get the wrong end of the stick all over again, just when I think she’s started to see that it’s you I want, not her.’
Marrying the Mistress Page 13