by Lauren Royal
In addition, the Institute could handle only a certain number of people per day. But James hired men to visit the poorer parishes—whose congregations were most vulnerable to disease—and talk people into bringing their children. Which made it all the more frustrating when those who agreed were forced to stand out in the cold and rain.
He found a box of sugar sticks and sent the girl and her mother on their way, then settled the next patients in the two vacant treatment rooms and knocked on the door to the third room. “Miss Chumford?”
An emphatic sniffle was the only answer.
“Miss Chumford, may I come in?”
“It’s your Institute,” she called out in a ragged voice.
Yes, it was. He opened the door. Then closed it again at the sight of Miss Chumford’s splotchy, red face.
There were few things James feared more than a crying girl. Crying from heartache, that was—as a doctor, he’d learned to console tears of physical pain and discomfort. But the other sort of tears…he just couldn’t think what to do. Anne hadn’t been the emotional type.
With an effort of will, he reopened the door. Now she looked a bit resentful, which was an improvement, to his mind. Resentment he could cope with. “There’s a queue outside,” he said gently, “and if it grows any longer it’s likely to reach all the way to Surrey.”
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered.
“What is amiss?”
Both of her hands pressed to her middle, she looked at him with brimming eyes and said nothing.
He shifted uncomfortably, torn between sympathy and dismay. He had the Institute to run. People in need. He’d employed her to keep the physicians well supplied and make sure the patients were seen to quickly and efficiently. A simple job, really, but a necessary one. And she was the second assistant within a month to—
He looked back to her hands, still clutched at her middle. She couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen, and her stomach was flat, but he had a sinking feeling...
“Are you with child?”
She nodded miserably, with the longest, most pitiful sniffle yet.
Good gracious, his last assistant had left for the same reason! Was there something in the water?
“And you’re not wed?” he asked. After all, she was Miss Chumford.
She nodded again, and words began tumbling from her mouth. “Papa will k-kill me, or at least throw me out of the house. Harry, my…the f-father of my child, cannot afford a home of his own. We shall have to live with his p-parents, and his mother hates me, and his father—”
“Your Harry is willing to marry you?” James interrupted. “And do right by the child?”
She nodded around fresh bawls. “H-Harry is a good man, m-my lord, and a hard worker. B-but—”
“Wait here, Miss Chumford.” He ducked out, relieved to escape momentarily. He knew one way to stop the flood for certain. It had worked last time, anyway.
He had a small safe in his private office, from which he withdrew fifty pounds. A pittance to him, but enough to cover a small family’s rent and food for two years or more. It would provide Miss Chumford and her soon-to-be husband with a new start, and should Harry be as decent and hardworking as she claimed, James prayed the couple would find their way.
After Miss Chumford left—sobbing her thanks—he shook his head and lettered a HELP WANTED sign, propped it in the Institute’s front window, and settled down behind the counter for what he knew from recent experience would be many hours spent interviewing candidates. Surveying the throng of people waiting for treatment, he felt overwhelmed by responsibility. He wished his father were here to guide him.
Well, at least his mother wouldn’t be able to drag him to Almack’s tonight.
SEVEN
TRIFLE
Take yokes of four egges and a pinte of thicke Creame, and season it with Sugar and Ginger and Rosewater, so stirre it as you would then have it and make it warme on a chafing dishe and coales, and after put it into a Silver piece or a Bowle, and so serve it to the board.
Extra-strong Rosewater will put Roses into your cheeks.
—Lady Jewel Chase, 1687
OVER THE NEXT two days, Juliana helped Amanda order an entire new wardrobe. They shopped for cosmetics, hats, shoes, hosiery, and other assorted fripperies. They practiced posture and walking, devised new flirtatious smiles, and perfected the look. Juliana taught Amanda how to apply the cosmetics so skillfully that no one would notice she was wearing any. She plucked Amanda’s heavy brows, doing her best to ignore her friend’s squeals of pain and protest—after all, all but the luckiest of girls suffered for their beauty.
With each hour, Amanda’s confidence grew, as did Juliana’s confidence in her scheme.
At last, Saturday dawned.
Juliana dragged Corinna out of bed early—at noon—to help her make trifle before Amanda arrived to dress for Lady Hammersmithe’s ball. But Corinna was hopeless in the kitchen on the best of days, and considering she’d stayed up painting until seven o’clock in the morning, this day wasn’t her best.
“My arm hurts,” she grumbled. “And I’m tired.”
“Just keep beating until the eggs are creamy, please.” Juliana added two more handfuls of rose petals to the water she had boiled. She was determined to make sure Amanda’s cheeks would be nice and rosy. “I cannot understand why you won’t go to bed at a reasonable hour.”
“I’m not a reasonable person—I’m an artist,” Corinna said dramatically. “I cannot understand why you won’t ask a kitchen maid to beat these eggs.”
Juliana consulted their family’s heirloom cookbook, an ancient volume to which each lady in the family had traditionally added a recipe every Christmas since the seventeenth century. Many of the sweets were thought to be magic charms. She poured the rosewater into a pot of cream and sprinkled it with a bit of ginger. “How many times have you been told that the Chase family recipes must be made by Chase family members if they’re to work?”
Corinna rolled her eyes. “Alexandra has turned your head. You don’t truly believe such nonsense, do you?”
“It hurts no one to try.”
“On the contrary, it hurts me and my arm!”
“You won’t be complaining once you’ve tasted the trifle—you’ll have some, won’t you? If you and I and Amanda all have rosy cheeks tonight, perhaps we’ll all find husbands.”
“If rosy cheeks are all you’re after, a rouge pot would be more effective.” Corinna grated sugar into the eggs. “I won’t tell A Lady of Distinction if you don’t,” she added dryly.
“I’ll take no chances with Amanda,” Juliana said, stirring tirelessly. “She shall have rouge and trifle. Her gown will be exquisite, her complexion flawless. I’ve summoned a hairdresser—”
“Just don’t make Amanda so beautiful she steals your own suitors.”
“That’s an ungenerous thought.” Juliana snatched the sugar loaf from her sister before she could add too much as usual; Corinna had a legendary sweet tooth and no concept of the proper amount of any ingredient. “I’ve no suitors worth safeguarding anyway,” she added with a sigh.
“You’re trying too hard,” Corinna said. “Just relax and enjoy all the attention.”
Relax? Juliana nearly burst out laughing. With the season drawing to a close, Griffin beginning to panic, the baby clothes’ due date looming, and Amanda’s future at stake, the last thing she could do was relax.
“There, it’s creamy.” Corinna banged the bowl onto the big wooden table and rubbed her arm. “Am I finished? Assuming I can still hold a brush, I’d like to varnish my painting.”
“Varnish away,” Juliana said and watched her sister leave the kitchen.
Corinna seemed happy with her life, as though her paints and her solitude were all she required. Juliana was proud and pleased for her, but lately Corinna was so often immersed in her work. And Griffin was the same—between running the estate and ferreting out eligible bachelors, he hadn’t a moment to spare.
&
nbsp; The thought of returning to Cainewood, of facing another year in the country with naught but her siblings for company—including Alexandra’s frequent letters overflowing with marital bliss—was the primary reason Juliana couldn’t afford to relax.
She stirred faster.
EIGHT
THE TRIFLE WAS chilled in its silver bowl by the time Amanda arrived with two footmen carrying boxes. The French hairdresser was waiting, and less than an hour later, Amanda’s once knee-length hair reached only the middle of her back. She watched in Juliana’s dressing table mirror as her golden tresses fluttered to the floor, her face white as linsey, her eyes wide and apprehensive.
Juliana scooped trifle into a cup, thinking it might distract her friend. “Eat this. It will make your cheeks rosy.”
“What is it?” Emily asked, stroking Herman on her shoulder. “May I have some?”
“It’s trifle, and yes, you may.”
The girl cocked her blond head. “Our cook’s trifle has cake and fruit.”
“This is a very old recipe.”
“Our cook is probably older,” Emily said, then spooned the sweet into her mouth and smiled. “It’s good. Your hair looks pretty, Lady Amanda.”
Amanda drew a sharp breath. “Do you truly think so, Miss Neville?”
“Absolutely,” Juliana answered for the girl. “Shorter hair is the thing. I cannot imagine why you hid those gorgeous curls in that plait.” Juliana had always despaired of her own stick-straight hair, but at least she didn’t scrape it all back into a plait so tight it looked plastered to her head.
Amanda grimaced at another snip.
“Hold your head still, if you will.” Madame Bellefleur clipped off a final inch. “Parfait.”
“It’s trifle,” Emily corrected. “Not a parfait.”
“In French,” Juliana told her, “parfait means ‘perfect.’ That length will be so much lighter and easier to put up.”
Madame smiled and nodded. “Now, some shorter tendrils around the face, oui?”
“Brilliant.” Juliana resumed unpacking the boxes, admiring all the dresses they’d ordered. The seamstress had sent only one of the ball gowns, but promised the rest would be ready next week. “Your hair will be stunning,” she assured Amanda.
Amanda responded with a truly bizarre sound, which Juliana interpreted as strangled laughter. She recognized the donkey bray.
She put Amanda’s dresses aside. “You must practice a new laugh. An enchanting laugh, like tinkling bells.”
“Like this?” Amanda attempted a girlish giggle—and even Herman recoiled.
By the time they’d perfected the new laugh, Madame Bellefleur had experimented with different hairstyles, ultimately choosing one in which Amanda’s blond mane was loosely gathered, twisted up, and pinned, with the remaining curls arranged artistically on top of her head. The hairdresser left, and Juliana swept the ball gown off her bed.
Amanda looked from the lavender silk dress to Emily and Herman, then back to Juliana. “I’d prefer not to disrobe in front of a snake,” she said stiffly.
“So that’s why you refused to undress in order to be measured.” Juliana seized on the potential lesson, turning to Emily. “The seamstress, Mrs. Huntley, was also distressed by Herman’s presence. Many find his company unwelcome.”
“I don’t care,” Emily said.
Juliana called her maid and asked her to walk Emily home. But after Juliana and Amanda were alone, it turned out Amanda didn’t want to undress in front of her, either.
“Turn around,” the older girl instructed.
“It’s just me.”
“Turn around.”
Sighing, Juliana did so.
Much rustling followed as Amanda grappled with her garments. Finally it seemed she’d successfully clothed herself when she exclaimed, “I cannot wear this!”
Juliana spun around. “Of course you can. You look beautiful.” She could hardly wait to see society’s reaction to the new Amanda. “Turn around and let me button you up. Once you see the dress properly fastened, you’ll love it.”
But turning around brought Amanda face-to-face with the looking glass. Her hands flew up to cover her collarbone. “The neckline is too low! I must change into something else.”
“You have nothing else suitable. Besides this gown, Mrs. Huntley sent only day dresses. The rest won’t be ready until next week.”
Amanda yanked up on the bodice. “I’m certain the example Mrs. Huntley showed me had a much higher neckline.”
Of course it had, else Amanda would never have approved the order. But that was before Juliana gave Mrs. Huntley her instructions, which, thankfully, the seamstress had followed to the letter.
Amanda had always appeared rather round, but clothing of the proper size showed a surprisingly charming figure—which Juliana intended to use to her friend’s advantage. If Amanda hoped to secure a husband on a tight schedule, she’d need to create a bit of a stir. Anyhow, the gown was cut quite modestly compared to some of the latest fashions.
”It’s not too low,” Juliana said, reaching around to tug the bodice back into place.
“It is so.” Amanda jerked it higher.
Watching her friend in the mirror, Juliana had to laugh. “Look at yourself!”
Amanda’s neckline was indeed at her neck—which meant the ribbon sash that was supposed to circle the empire waistline was perched above her bosom. Her mouth quirked, then spread into a reluctant smile, followed by a nervous titter.
“Tinkling bells,” Juliana reminded her, and Amanda responded with her new, polished laugh.
“Much better.” Juliana reached once more to adjust the bodice, but she mistakenly pulled it too low and revealed a birthmark near Amanda’s breastbone. It was shaped like a fleur-de-lis. “How pretty!”
Amanda quickly tugged the lace-trimmed bodice up to cover it. “You weren’t supposed to see that!”
“Whyever not? It’s quite lovely.”
“Lovely?” Amanda blushed. “It’s private.”
As she tied the sash, Juliana hoped that her improvements would be enough to compensate for Amanda’s shy and standoffish manner. At least her blushing brought out the roses in her cheeks.
She gave her more trifle, just in case. And brushed on a little extra rouge. As she completed the finishing touches, she drilled Amanda over and over again. “Let me see your smiles one more time. And you must practice the look again before we leave.”
All of this preparation was not going to be for nothing.
NINE
“THERE HE IS,” Amanda said grimly as they stepped into Lady Hammersmithe’s ballroom.
“There’s who?” Juliana asked.
“Lord Malmsey.” A frown marred Amanda’s perfectly done-up face. She turned to her surrogate chaperone. “Should I dance with him, Lady Frances?”
It seemed she was already losing heart. Juliana wouldn’t stand for it.
Unaware of Amanda’s engagement, Aunt Frances patted her hand. “I expect someone younger would suit you better, my dear. But if you’ve already been introduced, of course you should dance with him if he asks.”
Juliana doubted he would ask, although if she could judge by his pained expression, he was attempting to screw up his courage. Excellent—here was a perfect opportunity to strengthen Amanda’s resolve. “You definitely should dance with him,” Juliana declared, laying a gentle hand on her friend’s back to steer her toward Lord Malmsey. “It would be the polite thing.”
She figured ten seconds in his aging arms would have Amanda begging for introductions to other men.
Lord Malmsey’s eyes widened as they approached, and Juliana saw him swallow hard. Taking pity on the poor fellow, she smiled when they drew near. “Good evening, my lord. Lady Amanda was just telling me she hoped you’d ask her to dance.”
“Very well,” he said.
Amanda said nothing.
The strains of a waltz rose into the air, and the two of them walked off.
Or rather, they shuffled off.
Aunt Frances joined Juliana and watched them dance. “They don’t seem a proper match.”
“No, they don’t,” Juliana agreed. She’d never seen a more awkward couple. Due to Amanda’s height, her eyes came level with his expansive forehead. Neither of them spoke or looked at each other. Lord Malmsey radiated apprehension, Amanda pure misery.
Juliana could not have been more pleased.
On the other side of the ballroom, she spotted Lord Neville ambling out of the refreshment room. “Wait here,” she told Aunt Frances. “I must speak with Viscount Neville, and he’s sure to leave the ball early.” Having no plans to take a fourth wife, Emily’s father preferred to spend his evenings gambling at his club. “I’ll return momentarily.”
Aunt Frances nodded absently, smiling at the dancers whirling past. Juliana patted her dear shoulder and went off to intercept the viscount.
“Lord Neville, if I may speak with you for a moment?”
“Ah, yes, my dear, of course.” Emily’s father was blond and gray-eyed like his daughter, tall and a bit hefty. As he seemed to overindulge in everything, Juliana wasn’t surprised to see a heaping plate in his hand. He popped a grape into his mouth. “What can I do to help you?”
“It’s about Emily—”
“Ah, yes. I do appreciate the interest you’ve taken in my girl.”
“She’s a delight.” Juliana watched him choose a biscuit and devour nearly half in a single bite. “But I’m wondering if I can prevail on you to discourage her from taking Herman out in public. It’s not the thing for a young lady to carry a snake.”
“Ah, yes,” he repeated, plucking three more grapes off the bunch. “But my Emily is very attached to Herman. She and her mother found him in the garden just before my wife died.”
“I’m aware of that, sir. But earlier this week when we visited the shops, a patron at Grafton House fainted dead away at the sight of Emily’s snake.” While that wasn’t precisely true, it could have been true. “If only you’d heard the shrieks of terror, Lord Neville. It wasn’t the sort of scene a young lady should inspire.”