Miss Goldsleigh's Secret

by Amylynn Bright

  Once inside the private room, Olivia was stripped of her borrowed dress, and the seamstress’s assistant helped her into a lovely creation, a sheath of pale yellow silk with an overdress of delicate gold lace. It had a high waist as was the fashion, with a band of gold-beaded satin under the bosom and cap sleeves with the same color bugle beads on the edges. The lace was pulled up and artfully pinned around the bottom of the skirt, creating a lovely scalloped effect. The skirt flowed loosely from the high waist into a short, beaded train to trail behind her as she walked.

  The dress was stunning, and she was stunning in it. Even under her own critical eye, she admitted she was beautiful. The dress took on a kaleidoscope effect as her eyes filled with tears. If only her mother or stepmother could be here to enjoy this moment with her. She gazed wistfully at her reflection and considered how much she looked like a fairy tale come to life, just like they had promised. After a deep breath and a long blink, she brought herself back under control.

  The seamstress and her assistant came up behind Olivia and clucked and crowed over the fit and the alterations that needed to be made, plucking and pinching at the fabric. Olivia stood like a statue while they fussed about her, tears ruthlessly unshed. She couldn’t allow tears, not here in this fashionable establishment where too many curious eyes would notice, not anywhere. She’d given up the right for frivolous girlish emotions the minute she grasped her brother’s hand and fled into the night leaving a dead body on the kitchen floor.

  At last the shopkeeper looked up at her, smiling broadly, and spoke to her in her heavy French accent. “I was right, cherie, zis is the perfect color for mademoiselle. You are glowing with this color. You will be a goddess.”

  Penelope nodded her agreement from the doorway to the changing room.

  By the time Olivia had been fitted and measured and fussed over for what seemed like hours, she was finally allowed back into her borrowed dress and permitted to step down from the dais. Madame Bolivant promised to have several frocks delivered to the townhouse by the end of the day and, most importantly, the ball gown would arrive by noon the next. Evelyn had ordered more dresses than Olivia thought she could ever wear; morning dresses and walking dresses, a riding habit and dresses for evening. There were several pelisses and capes and other things Olivia lost count of. The footmen loaded box after box into the boot of the carriage.

  “Excuse me, miss.” Olivia tapped the shoulder of one of the young ladies working in the shop. “May I please have a copy of the bill you’ll be sending to the marquess?”

  “Ummmmm.” The girl looked around with nervous eyes. “Désolée, mon Anglais n’est pas très bon.”

  Right, French. She thought back to the dreadful years of conjugating French verbs. “Puis-je avoir un double de la facture?” The foolish girl looked terrified, darting her gaze around for help. “Quel est le problème? Donnez-moi simplement un double de la facture.” Her accent was atrocious, but she was fairly certain she had the right words.

  Madame Bolivant approached the counter, her hands clasped together at her waist and a broad smile on her face. The shopgirl scurried over to her and rattled off a near hysterical torrent in French which was much too fast for Olivia to follow.

  The seamstress shushed the girl with a harsh word and pushed her in the direction of the back room before turning her practiced smile on Olivia. “Mademoiselle.” She clucked her tongue several times before taking Olivia by the elbow and steering her toward the door and her waiting party of ladies. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about the bill. Your beautiful gowns will be at your door soon, and you will be the belle of the ball for certain.”

  Inwardly, Olivia rolled her eyes in frustration. She had tried to keep track in her head a tally of the bill, but as the pounds began to run into the three digits, her head pounded and she felt sick. Her remorse grew with purchases of slippers, and underclothes, hats and trimmings. She’d figure out the total somehow. There was no way she could let Evelyn and the marquess spend this much money on her with no plan to pay it back.

  Her seat in hell was assured, but she’d go there wearing cute new slippers.

  * * * *

  The man watching from across the street spit tobacco into the alleyway behind him then shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The pretty little lady would look like a piece of cake wearing that yellow frock in Newgate Prison. He chuckled at the picture in his head before ambling off to follow the carriage when it joined the traffic down Bond Street.

  Chapter Seven

  Olivia stood in the middle of her room, surrounded by towers of boxes. An endless stream of footmen passed through, adding to the stacks: shoe boxes, dress boxes tied with fancy satin ribbon, hat boxes with the names of French milliners stamped on the side. Maids scurried about sorting and unpacking, the sound of silks being shaken and the hum of the maid’s voices providing background music to her nervous breakdown.

  Oh, Livvy, what have you done? There must be thousands of pounds sterling here. How are you ever going to repay these good people? One day, just one day, and I’ve dug myself in so deep, I’m never going to get out.

  Olivia absently pulled out the pins holding the piles, braids, and twists of hair on top of her head, then massaged her fingers into her scalp, trying to relieve the ache forming there. She sank to the floor and exhaled an exhausted puff of breath, an overwhelming sense of powerlessness washing over and threatening to drown her.

  There was a quick rap on the door then a click as it swung open. Hidden in the bundles of lace and silk, Olivia didn’t know who entered until she heard the voices.

  “My,” Penelope exclaimed. “One would think we had nearly bought out Bond Street.”

  “I know,” Olivia responded from her seat on the floor. These first words uttered out loud since the realization of how monumentally buried she was in a mire of her own making threatened to undo her self-control, and she clapped her hand over her mouth as if she could forcibly keep tears and screams from erupting.

  “Livvy?” said someone who sounded like Cassandra. “Are you in here somewhere?”

  “Send up a flare, darling,” Penny suggested with a giggle.

  Olivia raised her free arm and waggled her fingers from behind the boxes. She had no idea if they could see her or not, but they must have because she heard them making a path, threading their way through a trail of packaging. An “oof” was followed by a clatter of boxes and Penelope’s grinning face coming into view.

  “Well, hello there.”

  “We shouldn’t have spent so much. I’m sure your brother never meant to be this generous,” Olivia whispered, certain the words spoken aloud would provoke an embarrassing response.

  “Oh pooh.” Cassandra snorted in a most unladylike manner as she appeared around the leaning tower of haberdashery. “Henry won’t even notice.” She lifted the top off a hat box and withdrew a charming little straw bonnet with red ribbons, silk cherries and flowers. “Oh, I’d forgotten about this one. It’s just darling.”

  “Excuse me, miss,” a young maid asked Olivia. “When are the other dresses expected to arrive?”

  Oh my God. Olivia inhaled a calming breath. She was going to hyperventilate. She remembered standing still for the modiste to measure her for the gold evening dress and recollected all the patterns and fabric swatches she had nodded her mute approval over during the course of the day. She had only come home with the things that were ready to wear. The bulk of the order would come in the next day or so. The bulk of the order! The hole suddenly seemed exponentially deeper.

  “The shop will deliver some tomorrow, then more later in the week,” Penny answered the girl, who nodded with a smile and returned to the monumental task of unpacking. Penny reached for Olivia’s hand. “I can’t allow you to sit on the floor and fret. There is no need to worry about Henry. My brother won’t bat an eye at another set of modiste bills, and you must admit you were in desperate need of these things.”

  Olivia allowed her friend to pull h
er to her feet. She scanned the inventory of nearly every shoppe on Bond Street again and tried not to feel the panic.

  “Enjoy yourself, Livvy,” Cassandra added from underneath a green tucked silk bonnet she’d pulled from yet another box.

  Olivia had never owned so many clothes. She took a step outside herself for a moment and stood agog, in awe, amid the vast sea of ruffles and bows, the lace and silks and velvets, gawking at the rich bounty. She thought for sure she would cry but, unbelievably, a giggle escaped her. She clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle it, appalled at herself, but even more giggles leaked out until she was laughing uncontrollably.

  Penelope and Cassandra watched her rapidly lose her already tenuous grip on her emotions. Olivia had doubled over by this time, holding her stomach and shaking from the great peals of high-pitched giggles. She sank back to the floor, sitting with her knees bent, her legs folded under her, tears streaming down her face. The maids had excused themselves at the first hint that Olivia was losing control, walking out of the room with piles of dresses over their arms. Her friends, however, continued to observe her indulgently, not sure what was going on, but clearly enjoying this outburst much more than the possible alternative.

  Eventually, the laughing subsided, and she took a couple of deep breaths, calming herself, until she snorted in a great, honking breath, and that set her off again. Her fit had been going on several minutes before Penelope and Cassandra succumbed to Olivia’s hysterical laughter. At first their participation consisted of nervous giggles which led to a snort or two of their own, but before long, both ladies joined Olivia. Perhaps they didn’t really know what they were laughing at, but they found her mood infectious nevertheless. Finally, the three ladies began to wind down. Penelope, now stretched out on her back on the rug, one hand over her mouth, the other on her stomach, sighed a long, high breath. Cassandra straightened her hair and wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “Ahhhhh.” Olivia’s breath came out in a big relaxing whoosh. “I really think I needed that.”

  “I guess so.” Penelope nodded, her eyebrows arched in question, the smile still playing about her mouth. “What was that all about?”

  Olivia shook her head. “I’m not sure,” she answered truthfully. “Today was…well the last two days, have been too much. Words fail me. Was it really yesterday I was living on a park bench? And today I’m in a veritable castle, literally surrounded by riches. My brother is safe and fed. I find myself at a loss. I am sure this is all a wonderful dream and I’m terrified that I’ll wake up and it will be all over. I’ll be days away from having to make some horrible decision in order to save myself and Warren. And yet…” she took the hat from Cassandra’s head, “…I’m holding the most charming bonnet, and it feels real to me.”

  Cassandra reclaimed the bonnet and placed it on Olivia’s head, tying the green silk ribbons in a big floppy bow at a jaunty angle under Olivia’s chin. “It’s real,” Cassandra assured her. “I can’t imagine how this must feel for you. Fantastical is probably an understatement.”

  Penelope nodded in agreement. “It’s true. You and your brother are safe here.” She rose to her feet. “Come on, Cass. Let’s give Olivia a chance to breathe.” She took her sister’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “Have a rest before dinner. We don’t have any engagements for this evening. It’ll just be family, so there’s no pressure.”

  Olivia was sure she’d never be able to rest, not with so many thoughts swirling around in her head that needed sorting out. Amazingly enough, it was only minutes after her head touched the pillow that she was off in a dreamless sleep.

  “I like the dapple gray,” the boy pointed towards the mare with authority.

  Henry smiled. “Why? What makes that one superior to, say, the black stallion over there?” He pointed with his walking stick at a random black horse following a tether as a groom led him through the paddocks.

  Warren glanced over his shoulder at the black horse but subsequently paid it very little mind. Henry watched with enjoyment as the lad processed everything he’d learned today about quality horseflesh. He waited patiently for Warren to formulate his argument.

  “Well.” He peeked nervously at Henry out of the corner of his eye and then continued with a tad more confidence. “The gray has a bigger rear end than the black. Her haunches are more developed, and her legs seem longer compared to her body than the other.”

  “Good!” Henry told the beaming boy. “You’re a quick study.”

  “Also, the mare is prettier.”

  “Indeed,” answered a deep voice from behind. “Always go for the prettier girl, although it’s never good form to mention the size of her backside.”

  Henry recognized the voice of his friend, Christian Bellings, Duke of Morewether. Well, his voice and the outrageously inappropriate comment. He plucked his watch from his fob pocket and made a show of checking the time. “Up awfully early, aren’t you, Morewether?”

  The Duke shrugged and grinned the smile of a dedicated reprobate. “There’s a filly here today I’m interested in. I left one pretty little filly to buy another,” he finished with a wistfully comical sigh.

  “I’m sure you’d be hard-pressed to say which one costs you more.”

  “The cost doesn’t matter when you weigh in the return. One pays me back in coin, the other…”

  Henry prudently interrupted before the conversation turned too blue. “And on that note, let me introduce you to my young friend.” Henry placed a hand on Warren’s shoulder. “This is Master Warren Barton.”

  Morewether extended a hand to the boy for a friendly shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, young man.”

  Again, Warren amazed Henry with his composure when he shook the duke’s hand like any member of the peerage. “And you, Your Grace. Which horse are you here to see?”

  Morewether raised his eyebrows at Henry before focusing his attention on Warren. “There’s a two-year-old thoroughbred here my stable master is keen on.”

  A hopeful grin transformed the lad’s face back into that of an excited child. “May I see the horse? Lord Dalton has been teaching me all about purchasing fine horseflesh today.”

  Morewether grinned back at the boy, more than happy to discuss one of his two favorite topics. Henry, hardly a prude, was still relieved to have the conversation drift into animal husbandry and away from the duke’s other hobby, women. He didn’t know Miss Goldsleigh well, but he was certain she wouldn’t appreciate her young brother coming home with new and fascinating opinions on bedding merry widows and actresses.

  Henry ambled a step or two behind Morewether and Warren and idly watched the crowd as they strolled in the direction of the paddocks. It was an extraordinarily busy day at Tattersall’s. A combination of uncharacteristically clear London sky and a shipment of thoroughbreds with outstanding bloodlines had caused a broad slice of London society to turn out.

  Henry tuned back into the conversation. “…can be traced directly to Byerley Turk.” He chuckled when Morewether’s pronouncement of the lineage of the spirited stallion in the pen before them fell flat. Warren stared at the duke expectantly, waiting for further explanation.

  “What has Dalton been teaching you if not bloodlines?” Morewether snorted.

  Warren looked to Henry for help, but Henry shrugged with one shoulder and grinned. “Anything you ever wanted to know about horses, Lord Morewether is your man.”

  “Well, he explained to me about withers and leg ratio and things like that,” Warren told the duke.

  “All that is important when buying a horse.” The duke settled into a no-nonsense professorial drone, and Henry tuned him out. Henry and their friends teased Morewether about his obsession with horses and women, but the man did know his stuff – about both topics. Henry didn’t need a refresher course.

  Henry stepped to the side and watched the horse dance about the ring. A young lad held on to her leash as she pranced in high, leaping steps, showing off. She was indeed a fine example of equin
e beauty, but she was too high-spirited for Henry’s needs. He was in the market for sturdy workhorses and solid breeders.

  He glanced around the crowd again, paying little attention to the throngs of cocksure young men. Instead, he was looking to see which animals the seasoned stablemen were interested in. Those were the horses Henry would most likely be purchasing. The crowd was denser than it was mere minutes before, and he took several steps to the left in order to see the horses parading on the far side of the paddock.

  He made every effort to concentrate on his program and what the other men were saying, but it was the golden-haired waif who occupied his mind: the way her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks when she slept, the feel of her fingers sliding around his neck and into his hair when he carried her, the sweet, unconscious nuzzling of her cheek into his chest.

  He was recounting the smell of her hair when he heard the scream and yelps of the crowd. He’d only stepped a few feet from where Morewether and Warren had been standing, lecturing and learning, and it was close enough to see that Warren no longer stood near the top rungs of the paddock. He shoved back through the crowd at a run as the duke launched himself over the fencing. In a lightning-fast inventory, Henry took in the form of Warren lying on the ground, the skittish mare screaming in terrifying, high-pitched shrieks and stamping the ground dangerously close to the boy, the trainer ineffectually pulling on her tether.

  Henry placed his right foot on the middle rung and vaulted the fence, swinging his legs over the top and landing on the soft dirt next to Warren. Morewether had grabbed the lead from the petrified young man and, using his bulk and eerie skill with horses, was moving the frantic beast farther across the pen and away from the unconscious lad. Henry scooped the boy into his arms, noting the sickening swing of his right arm at the elbow. He was prepared to climb back over the railing, but fortunately one of the grooms opened the wide gate enough for him to slip through and into the throng of people. Mindful of Warren’s injury, Henry strode through the crowd, his intent and mien of purposeful authority clearing a path before him towards the large circular drive. Halfway to the glut of carriages blocking the avenue, Morewether caught up with him.