Gilding the Lady

by Nicole Byrd

  “That is no way to address a lady, Mrs. Bathcort, and certainly no way to speak to my sister.”

  The governess drew herself up. Since she came only to his shoulders, that was not an easy accomplishment, but she managed to assume an air of offended dignity. “If you’re going to discharge me, Captain Fallon, you can save your breath. I hereby tender my resignation. No one can teach this imp from Hell how to behave like a lady. I advise you to ship her off to some convent school for the mentally deficient, preferably one where the nuns administer only the strictest discipline and feed their charges bread and water. Perhaps that might make an impression on your sister! Certainly, I have not, and I will be the first to admit it.”

  “I think you should go upstairs and pack your things, Mrs. Bathcort,” Matthew Fallon said. His jaw seemed to be clenched. “Both your advice—and your insults—are unneeded.”

  To Clarissa’s gratitude, he said no more as the woman lifted her chin and marched away, her footsteps heavy on the flagstones. When the door to the hallway had swung shut and the sounds of the governess’s passage faded, he turned to gaze at his sister.

  Across the kitchen, both the cook, who stirred something in a bowl, and the scullery maid, who was scrubbing potatoes, had their backs to their master and his sister as they bent over their tasks. They were very patently pretending the pair were not present. Clarissa was thankful for that, too.

  Should she tell her brother what she had seen on the street, explain her fears? She hesitated. His expression was not angry, which she might have borne more easily, but instead disappointed.

  “Clarissa—”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “I’m bloody—I mean—very sorry, Matthew. Really, I am.”

  “Despite Mrs. Bathcort’s offensive manner, some of what she said is true.” He took her hand and led her into the hallway so that they had more privacy. “You really must learn to behave like a lady again,” he told her, his voice very gentle. “I know it’s my fault that you were sent off to that wretched foundling home and then sold into service, but—”

  “I don’t fault you for going to sea,” Clarissa interrupted. “Matthew, you ain’t—I mean—you are not the one to blame. You were only trying to provide for Mother and me, and I know that you made a fine captain during the war. If that dishonest solicitor had not abandoned me to the foundling home after our mother died, I wouldn’t ’ave ended up working as a nursery maid for that awful man.”

  “I was the one who chose the solicitor,” Matthew told her, his expression darkening. “And between him and that bullying matron at the home, as well as your brute of an employer, you had a terrible time of it.”

  For an instant she saw again the face in the street and shivered. But in her brother’s reassuring presence, her dread had faded, and now she felt less sure. Had she really seen the person she still feared, or was it only a vision out of her nightmares? And how could she add to Matthew’s already heavy load of guilt by telling him of her moment of panic?

  As she shuddered, Matthew said quickly, “But that is all behind you, Clarissa. You are safe now, I promise you, and you will never be abandoned again. Please go change your dress. You’re covered in dust and cat hair.”

  Clarissa glanced at the cat, who sat a few feet away, licking one paw and washing its face. No bad memories haunted the cat. It had no responsibilities except to capture any mice that strayed into the house, no rules to follow, no etiquette and code of manners to memorize. She wished for a moment she could trade places with the animal. Sighing, she stood and tried to brush off the skirts of her checked muslin gown. But the dust clung stubbornly. Matthew was right, she would have to change her dress.

  She left Matthew and went back into the main part of the house, climbing the staircase and trailing one hand on the carved bannister. She’d had a hard life as a serving maid, rising early, working hard all day on scant rations—at least her brother and sister-in-law fed their staff well! But she hadn’t had to change her gown several times a day, or remember to sit up straight at dinner, and as for her speech—she sighed again. Their widowed mother had seen that, despite their penury, Clarissa had been well brought-up as befit their station in life, but during the years spent among the lower classes she had picked up less refined habits, and now she found them hard to break.

  On the bedroom landing, she encountered one of the housemaids dusting the bannister. “Ruby, would you please come and help me change?”

  “Oh course, miss,” the girl, who was hardly older than Clarissa, said readily. She tucked her dust cloth into her apron pocket and followed Clarissa to her bedroom. Matthew had wanted to hire a lady’s maid for Clarissa, but she wasn’t ready for that, not yet. She still felt she should be the one on her hands and knees cleaning out the grate or scrubbing the floor; it was hard to remember that she had been, and was now once more, officially a lady.

  Ruby undid the back of her muslin dress, and Clarissa shed the dirty frock. She washed her hands and face in the bowl on her dresser. Then they looked into the clothespress and Clarissa selected a clean muslin dress, this one sprigged in blue. With the maid’s help, she put it on.

  “Shall I brush out your hair and pin it up again, miss? It’s coming down in the back,” Ruby suggested.

  “Yes, please,” Clarissa said, though again, it still felt very strange to sit still on the stool and allow someone else to pull out the pins and brush her thick blond hair with its glints of red. For the last few years, she’d just crammed it beneath a servant’s cap and hurried to get on with her work. Now she had the luxury, the opportunity, to be pampered once again. She should have been thankful, and she was, but it didn’t feel right. She felt like an impostor.

  “There now, miss,” Ruby said. “You look very smart.”

  Clarissa gazed into the looking glass. Yes, she looked well enough, ladylike and trim. The pristine white dress with its sprigs of blue skimmed her petite frame and breasts, the fair hair was drawn up on top of her head, and even the pearl eardrops, which had been her brother’s gift on her nineteenth birthday last week, looked just right. There was no doubt that she looked like a lady. Why was it so hard to feel like one?

  Clarissa turned her head to take a searching glance at Ruby. The servant was pleasingly plump, with ruddy cheeks and brown hair tucked beneath her cap. Her apron and gown were neat, and her hands strong and slightly calloused from her work.

  Clarissa glanced down at her own hands. The callouses were just now fading, after several weeks of ease in her brother’s home, and the bruises from her last employer’s abuse had also disappeared. She appeared little the worse for her years of exile, except, perhaps, inside her head. The sense of not fitting in, the nightmares that troubled her sleep . . . seeing the ghost of an old nemesis amid a crowded street . . . Had the encounter been real or only her imagination? The more she thought about it now, the less certain she was.

  “Are you happy here?” she asked impulsively.

  The maid looked surprised. “Of course, miss. Lady Gemma, and the captain your brother, too, are very kind and always fair, though they expect good work, of course. It’s the best ’ousehold I’ve worked for since I left ’ome, and I’ve been in service since I was fourteen.”

  “I’m glad,” Clarissa said simply. “Thank you for your ’elp—help, Ruby.”

  The maid curtsied. As she turned to leave, the door opened, and Clarissa’s sister-in-law came into the room.

  “There you are, and looking very pretty, too,” Gemma said with a smile.

  Clarissa smiled back as the maid made an unobtrusive exit.

  “I heard about the, ah, unfortunate incident with Mrs. Bathcort. We shall inquire for a more patient governess, Clarissa. I’m so sorry you felt harassed. She came with such excellent recommendations, too.”

  Clarissa made a face. “It was as much my fault as hers,” she confessed. “I ran away from her on the street and ended up in front of a men’s club, White’s, Mrs. Bathcort said. In fact, she said the whole str
eet is not for ladies?”

  To Clarissa’s relief, instead of looking shocked or angry at her sister-in-law’s gauche behavior, Gemma laughed. “That’s true, I’m afraid.”

  “Why?” Clarissa demanded.

  “I don’t know, it’s just how it is,” Gemma told her. “But you should not run away from your governess. You might get lost, Clarissa, and there are dangers for a lady alone in the city.”

  Clarissa nodded reluctantly at the gentle reminder. “I try to remember the rules, but some of it makes no sense. We had been shopping only a few blocks away . . . Oh, Gemma, I don’t know if I can do it—learn to be a lady again, I mean.”

  Gemma came closer and put one arm around Clarissa’s shoulders. “You are a lady, Clarissa, just as your mother was. That is your birthright. And the habits, the demeanor, that will come back to you. I know it’s very hard.”

  Clarissa thought that Gemma did know, much better than most. Gemma had once briefly been subject to the harsh rule of the foundling home herself and had met Matthew when he first returned to England and began searching for his lost sister. Clarissa was very glad that Matthew had chosen Gemma to marry—she could not have asked for a more loving or understanding sister-in-law.

  But still, she bit her lip. “I don’t know, Gemma. I don’t feel right, inside. I should be happy. When I was told that my brother had died at sea, I thought I was doomed to a life of servitude forever. Now he’s home, safe, and I have him and you and a nice house to live in and no worries—at least, except for the bad dreams that come at night, and, during the day, trying to mind my tongue and remember to behave like a proper lady. But I feel so . . . so confused inside. Why should I feel this way?”

  Gemma hugged her again. “Why should you not? Your whole world has been turned upside down, and even though it’s a happy change, it takes time to adjust. Don’t fret yourself. You’ll feel at ease again, eventually.”

  Clarissa was not so sure, but she didn’t argue. It was ungrateful to worry Gemma and Matthew just because Clarissa seemed so twisted inside. And as for her fright on the street, she opened her lips to bring it up, but Gemma continued to speak.

  “Get your shawl,” Gemma suggested. “Let’s take a stroll before dinner. You don’t need to sit in your room and brood. Today was the first day you’ve been out of the house all week.”

  Nodding, Clarissa rose. “Yesterday Mrs. Bathcort made me parse two dozen sentences because I kept using ain’t, as well”—she added, determined to be fair—“as a few other words she considered improper.”

  They headed out together, walking a few blocks and looking into shop windows, then visited a lending library. At least Clarissa’s knowledge of reading and writing had not left her, though she had had little chance to use those skills during her years as a servant. She looked eagerly over a stack of new novels and chose a three-volume set to take home.

  They returned in time for dinner. Gemma went upstairs to change, but Clarissa simply washed her hands—surely, she did not have to change clothes again!—and came down at the appointed time.

  Gemma must have said something to her brother because Matthew said no more about the departed governess. They chatted amicably through the first course.

  They paused as the footman and one of the housemaids returned to remove the linen cloth, then an array of desserts was served. Clarissa dipped her spoon into a serving of creamy blancmange—sweets were still a great treat to her unaccustomed palate—and wondered if Gemma, too, had moments of unease in her new role of lady of the house. She had not always known her parentage, Matthew said. She, too, had had doubts about her identity. But Gemma seemed so much the lady. . . . If her sister-in-law could conquer her uncertain past, perhaps Clarissa could, too.

  Nose tickling again, Clarissa put down her spoon and, this time, remembered to draw her handkerchief out of her pocket and dab discreetly at her nose.

  But even as she congratulated herself on remembering to use her handkerchief, her elbow brushed the table and knocked her spoon off her plate.

  It clattered to the floor. Clarissa dived off her chair to retrieve it and bumped into the footman, intent on the same mission.

  Red-faced, Clarissa accepted his help in returning to her chair. She sat and stared at her plate, and in a moment, the servant brought her a clean spoon.

  She was afraid to look at her brother, knowing that his face would show not anger but the guilt that he would always feel. He would always believe that her years of exile and her current struggle to learn how to act like a lady were all his fault.

  “It’s all right, Clarissa,” Gemma said, her tone soft. “Eat your dinner, my dear.”

  Blinking back tears, Clarissa obeyed, though the creamy pudding seemed to have lost its sweetness.

  “Perhaps,” she said, not looking at either of them, “I should wait till next Season to make any appearance in Society. I’m so—I’m not learning very quickly, and I do not wish to disgrace myself, or you.”

  “You would never disgrace us, Clarissa,” Matthew told her, his inflection firm.

  And from the corner of her eye, she saw Gemma shake her head. “The Season is still in full swing. You have plenty of time. Even attending a few social events this year will make it easier for you, Clarissa. Otherwise, you will spend the rest of the year dreading next spring. It’s confidence you lack, more than knowledge. I’m sure your ease in Society will return to you.”

  Clarissa took another bite of the sweet and wished she could be so sure.

  The next morning in the drawing room Clarissa sat properly, her back erect, doggedly studying a book entitled, A Gentlewoman’s Guide to Proper Decorum. She would have much rather been deep in her new novel, but, aware of her brother and sister-in-law’s faith in her—however misguided she feared it might be—she kept her eyes on the text, trying to memorize a list of titles, and who took precedence over whom in social situations. An earl’s wife was a countess, and a marquess’s wife was a—she sneaked a peek at the page when the title did not spring to mind—a marchioness. And marquesses were second only to dukes, who ranked beneath princes. . . .

  Then the door opened, and Gemma looked in.

  “Here you are, Clarissa. Your brother and I have been discussing a replacement for your departed governess. And I have someone for you to meet.”

  Clarissa braced herself. Whether the next governess was stout or thin, tall or short, she would—Clarissa had no doubt—soon wear the same disapproving, hopeless expression of the last one.

  But when Gemma stepped inside the room, Clarissa’s eyes widened. In the doorway appeared, not the middle-aged woman she expected to see, but a young man—a very good-looking young man.

  Two

  Clarissa tried to compose her expression. But, bloody hell—she shook herself mentally—he was a most seemly young man. He had curly hair so black that it seemed to glisten beneath the sunlight bouncing off the looking glass on the wall, deep-set dark eyes, a thin mustache, and a slim build with somewhat narrow shoulders but a trim waist and erect posture. He was of medium height, so he did not loom over her petite frame as so many men did. His clothing was that of a gentleman, his black coat and neatly tied neckcloth just right, his pantaloons smooth over firm thighs, and his stockings and shoes spotless.

  “This is Monsieur Meidenne,” Gemma told her. “Monsieur, this is my dear sister-in-law, Miss Fallon.”

  He gave her a graceful bow. A few seconds too late, Gemma sank into an answering curtsy that was not half so well done.

  “Monsieur Meidenne has kindly agreed to add you to his list of dancing students,” Gemma explained.

  Clarissa felt a flicker of disappointment. Not a gentleman then, exactly, but the dancing master Gemma had promised to find for her. With the Season already begun, it was not easy to find a competent instructor who was not already overbooked with anxious young ladies practicing for the all-important balls and assemblies they would soon attend. Gemma had already obtained vouchers for Almack’s for Clarissa, tha
t hallowed institution where rules of propriety were all important, although Clarissa had not as yet had the nerve to even consider attending.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Fallon,” he said. He had a slight accent that was hard to place.

  “I am happy to meet you, sir,” she answered. “You are French?”

  His expression slightly affronted, he shook his head. “Belgian,” he told her. “We shall begin z’is morning with something simple, perhaps z’e allemande.”

  Oh hell, already?

  “Clarissa is eager to learn,” Gemma suggested. “And I will play for you on the pianoforte when you are ready to practice.” She rang for a servant, and under her direction, the footman rolled up the rug so they would have a smooth floor to practice on.

  Already feeling her feet three times too heavy, Clarissa put aside her book and crossed the room as the new tutor took his place. She wished she had had more experience with the social arts as a child, but her widowed mother had entertained rarely, and there had been few family parties where she might have observed the dancers or followed along on the sidelines.

  She stood straight and tried to follow his instructions, still nervous to be standing so near to such an attractive man, and even more intimidated by the thought of having to learn dance steps.

  “Z’is foot forward—no, no, mademoiselle, z’is foot, z’e foot on z’e right—”

  Blushing, Clarissa tried again. She felt as awkward as—and her feet as big as—one of the oxen who pulled the farmers’ carts.

  “Mademoiselle, if you would attend, s’il vous plait?”

  “Sorry,” she muttered, pulling her attention back and thrusting out a foot—again, as it turned out from his frown, the wrong one.

  The rest of the hour stretched on for at least a week, until at last Monsieur Meidenne, his smile a little forced, bowed to her again. “I shall return on z’e Friday. Until z’en, mademoiselle, you will recollect all z’at I have said and you will practice z’e movements, yes?”