"You have some lovely things m'um. If you care to choose out the gown you'll be wanting for supper, I can have it sent down and steamed for you."
China nibbled on the corner of her lip. She had not thought about gowns or hair or baths; she had foolishly assumed that what she was wearing would suffice.
Tina was holding up a soft-skirted gown of pale yellow satin. "This would look grand on you m'um. A spot of steam here and there will bring it round in no time. Such lovely cloth as well, soft as butter it is."
"The gown was--" China caught herself before she said 'my mother's'-- "crushed in the trunk for several days. I suspect it would need as long to hang out the wrinkles."
Tina turned and smiled. "I do a mean trick with a kettle and an iron. I can have it looking spanking new in a wink. The petticoats as well; the lace has all been folded over itself."
China's gaze was still fixed on the yellow gown. She had found it along with several others in the attic after her father's death. It had seemed a shame at the time to simply throw them away, but now the thought of actually wearing one of them gave her grave reservations. She was determined to do nothing that would draw more attention to her inadequacies. Lady Prudence would surely recognize the cut and fashion of a gown fifteen years out of style and would not hesitate to make a comment.
"In truth, Tina, I would prefer something not quite so...frivolous."
The girl's eyes widened. "Oh, m'um, forgive me. I was told, but I never remembered. My own father passed, but two years gone."
She set the yellow gown aside and, with a small frown of resignation, selected another of dark blue velvet with long fitted sleeves and a demurely squared neckline.
"You will still be wanting the petticoats steamed out," she said, casting an eye to the lack of fullness in China's current skirt.
China smiled. "Yes. Yes, I would, thank you Tina."
This was all so new to her, so hurried. And she suspected it would only get worse as the time grew closer to the wedding.
"That will be Miss Pim now with the water," Tina said, cocking an ear toward a door at the far end of the dressing room.
A second, dark-haired maid entered the room. She nodded politely to China then tipped a finger to someone out in the hallway. The tiny chamber seemed to crowd instantly as half a dozen footmen entered carrying full buckets of water. China was at a loss as to where they would put it, having seen no washtub in the room other than a small hand basin. Tina solved the riddle by introducing her to the sofabath, the brocaded divan that, when the top was lifted and set aside, revealed a long brass tub beneath.
After the servants emptied their buckets and filed out, Tina scurried about gathering soap, sponges and towels, laying everything out in readiness. She circled around behind her new mistress and began unhooking the row of buttons down the back of the severe black gown. It was unceremoniously discarded along with the two limp layers of petticoats and the plain cotton corselet. Despite earlier protestations, the pins and combs were worked from her hair and the chignon was unravelled, the jet black waves of hair sent tumbling halfway down her slender, pale back.
Tina inspected the young mistress with mild surprise. She had not known what to expect; none of the household staff had known. They had been told only that Miss Grant was country bred and thus they had braced themselves for big-boned, hearty farmer stock. The girl who stood here now, flushed with embarrassment over her nudity, was hardly as old as Tina herself, had long, shapely limbs and a gentle, slender body. Her breasts were on the small side, what Tina could see of them beneath the modestly crossed arms, but they were rounded and firm, leading nicely to a tiny waist. The raven black hair was as shiny and thick as any tresses Tina had ever seen, and the sharp contrast against the whiteness of her skin would take any man's breath away.
"Into the tub with you, m'um," Tina said, ushering her charge into the perfumed water. She handed the blue velvet gown and an armful of petticoats to Miss Pim with orders to have everything steamed and back to the dressing room quick as a wink. "And I will need hair irons. As many as you can find. We've no time to do a proper wash, but we can certainly put a few curls and twists into place."
"But Mrs. Biggs told me--"
Tina snatched Miss Pim's arm and dragged her out of earshot. "Never you mind what Mrs. Biggs told you," she hissed. "I'm telling you what I need to turn our little mouse into someone who might bring a smile to the Master's face."
"I warrant that would take a miracle, but aye. I'll fetch what you need."
China, oblivious to the murmurings, had eased gratefully into the steamy water. She had not realized how tense every muscle in her body had become and for a few long moments of bliss she sat back, closed her eyes, and let the heat work it's magic fingers. The bliss was short-lived as other fingers put soap to sponge and began to lather arms and back as if she was incapable of doing it herself. It brought a wry smile to her lips as she thought of the round wooden tub she had been accustomed to bathing in since childhood. Two buckets filled it and she had to sit with her knees almost tucked under her chin. The only time she had required assistance was when she had fallen out of a tree when she was seven and broken her arm.
"There now," Tina said, noting the smile. "I knew a good hot bath would do the trick. You just wait until I've finished with you--you're own shadow will sit up and take notice."
When the irons arrived and were set onto the hot hearthstones to heat, China was helped out of the tub and rubbed down vigorously with a thick warmed towel. Wrapped in a chenille robe, she was treated to a manicure and a pedicure then fussed over with the hot irons until her hair was twisted and pinned and coiled into a fall of shiny black curls. The dark blue gown arrived back steamed and pressed and again, like a child, she was helped into stockings and corset, underpinnings and petticoats, and finally the buttery soft velvet gown. Tina continued to fuss and natter, straightening a seam here, fluffing a fold there.
China could only stand in front of the mirror and stare. The gown fit her like a glove above the waist and she had forgotten how low the neckline fell. What she lacked in substance across her bosom was made up for by the tightness of the bodice, which pushed everything up and plumped it out. Her hair looked almost scandalously luxurious after a year of sombre chignons and she felt a flush of nervous tension return to color her cheeks.
"The Master will be expecting you, m'um," Tina said gently. "He's a prompt one he is too. When he says dinner will be at nine, dinner is served at nine and not a minute later."
China nodded and gathered her courage once again. She followed Tina's instructions on how to find the main drawing room--'past the great hall and library then down the gallery on the left, past the conservatory; you cannot miss it'.
There were fully a dozen doors leading off the main hallway. The gallery itself was wider than most houses she had been in. the ceiling was vaulted, protected from drafts by huge hanging tapestries. The lights from the wall sconces cast yellowish circlets of brightness on the rich, dark panelling, but for the most part, were bathed in gloom. There were deeper niches of darkness every few feet, alcoves which contained portraits of the Cross ancestors and their immediate families, the earliest Lord of Braydon Hall wearing a doublet and ruffled neckpiece. As each successor inherited the title, his portrait was painted into the largest frame and set into its own niche.
Near the end of the gallery she came upon the most recent generations and there she paused to take her first unimpeded look at the family she was soon to become part of. Sir Anthony Cross, wigged and posed in regimental uniform, caught her attention instantly, stirring faint memories of having met him as a child. He was as ruggedly handsome as his son. His gray eyes were so piercing and held such authority, it was difficult to break their hold long enough to search out the small engraved plaque below bearing his name and the dates: 1763-1815.
He had been dead ten years.
China raised her eyes to the chiselled face again. He seemed so real, so alive, she felt she could h
ave reached out her hand and touched a smile to his lips, much as she had done as a child.
Flanking the portrait of Anthony Cross were smaller oval frames containing likenesses of Sir Ranulf and two other men China assumed to be the brothers. She was about to move closer to study the faces when the candle in the sconce overhead flickered and drew her attention to the next niche. Sir Ranulf Cross was already painted and positioned in his own alcove. She walked to it slowly, thinking that whoever the artist was, he had certainly managed to capture the air of brooding aloofness. The face was proud and self-assured, handsome in a brutal way but striking nonetheless. The space beneath was empty, no doubt waiting for portraits of his own wife and children.
A blush sent China back to the previous niche. Sir Anthony's wife had been slender and fine-boned, the oval so tiny China had to bend low to examine it properly. Those of her sons were not much larger, but still shadowed by the wavering light.
"Rather a disagreeable likeness, wouldn't you say?"
China gasped and whirled around. She had not heard a footstep on the floorboards, nor had she seen any of the doors ajar along the way. But it was no ghost. It was a man of medium height, a girth tending to huskiness, with a face as disturbingly direct as the one above her painted in oils.
"I told the scoundrel who painted it that he hadn't quite managed to catch the regal lift of the chin, but alas he took no notice of an honest criticism. The eyes are not too disastrous, but the nose--" he waved a deprecating hand and smiled. "How boorish of me. Of course you will have no inkling of who I am. Allow me." He bowed low with a flourish. "Eugene Cross, at your service. And by deductive reasoning, you must be Miss China Grant, the lovely soon-to-be bride of my brother Ranulf."
"How do you do," she managed to stammer.
"Quite splendidly, thank you. But come, you seem to have been shaken to the roots. I should have coughed or stamped my feet by way of warning; it was not my intent to startle all the color out of your cheeks. Ahhh, and there it returns in full bloom. But pray do not tell me they have abandoned you to your own devices so soon?"
"I was trying to find my way to the drawing room," she admitted.
He laughed robustly and held out his arm. "You do have a look of a lost waif about you. Allow me to escort you there in safety."
China relaxed enough to smile and accept the offer, resting her hand lightly on top of his wrist. They started walking along the hall when a tall, shadowy figure stepped out of one of the rooms and searched for the source of the laughter.
"Oh, it's you," said Sir Ranulf, frowning slightly when he saw Eugene. "And Miss Grant. "I gather you have introduced yourselves?"
"And charmed her to the rafters, brother mine. Another moment alone and we would have eloped through a back window."
Eugene bowed again, releasing China's hand as he strolled past Sir Ranulf into the brightly lit interior of the drawing room. China met her fiancé's cool gaze and her unease returned tenfold. He was resplendent in a dazzling scarlet frockcoat and white breeches. A full ruff of lace spilled from between the high edges of his collar, emphasizing his bold, praetorian features. For a long moment, only his eyes moved, taking a long slow perusal of China from the hem of her skirt to the crown of black curls.
Whether or not what he saw pleased him, his expression did not change. He took a measured step toward her and extended his hand.
"Coming Miss Grant? We were just about to go in to supper."
The heat remained high in her throat and cheeks as she accompanied Sir Ranulf into the drawing room. The Berenger-Whytes were seated by the fireplace, Lady Prudence stuffed into an astonishingly low cut gown of striped green crepe. Sir Wilfred smiled, seeing China, and bowed over her hand.
"Exquisite, m'dear. Simply exquisite. Will you take some wine before dinner?"
China felt the support of Sir Ranulf's arm withdrawn as he seated her on a divan then joined Eugene by the sideboard. While Sir Wilfred was replenishing wine glasses, Ranulf turned his back briefly to the room.
"You might have had the courtesy of seeing me when you arrived," he said quietly to his brother.
Eugene sipped his own wine. "I am seeing you now. She's a sweet young thing, Ran," he grinned. "No wonder you've been so secretive up until now."
Ranulf ignored the sarcasm dripping off his brother's voice. "I will want to hear all about the meeting with the bankers after supper. Join me in the library."
"Whatever you say, brother mine."
Ranulf rejoined the small group by the fire just as Sir Wilfred was offering a toast. "To the lovely Miss Grant."
The toast was echoed by all but Lady Prudence who was still inspecting the blue gown and deciding whether to approve of it or not. "Ranulf, we shall have to take this poor child into the city and see that she is properly fitted out, top to bottom. Not that there is anything dreadfully wrong with what you are wearing, dear--indeed, anything is an improvement over that drab black. But you will find the city so much more demanding than what you may have been accustomed to; what might be suitable for a country fair is hardly the height of fashion for a night at the opera or an elegant dinner engagement." She paused and touched a hand to the glittering, bejeweled turban perched on her head. "As it happens, I employ an excellent couturier--Percy Cabot--who would be more than happy to take you in hand, as a favor to me, of course."
Eugene snorted. "That fop? He scarcely knows how to dress himself when he isn't wearing a skirt. Ran...what is the name of that woman who runs the shop on Delancy Street?"
Sir Ranulf's face was blank as he replied. "Madame Rochelle."
"Ah yes, that was it. Rochelle. Now there you have a woman with flair. She will have our Miss Grant the talk of the town in no time."
"Rochelle?" Lady Prudence frowned. "I don't believe I have ever heard of her. Does she have a patroness?"
Eugene chuckled. "She has many well known patronesses."
Sir Ranulf's eyes narrowed coldly. He sensed where Eugene's line of conversation was headed and he finished his drink in two swallows.
"Ladies," he said. "I believe we are expected in the dining room. Eugene, perhaps you would be so good as to escort Lady Prudence. Sir Wilfred, if you will take Miss Grant on ahead, I will join you as soon as I select the wines."
~~
Dinner passed in a blur of roasted mutton, boiled potatoes, and vigorously creamed vegetables, all tasteless for the most part. Several bottles of wine complimented the various courses and for China, it was the only thing that did not lodge stubbornly at the base of her throat. No one spoke directly to her. Opinions and light banter went back and forth across the huge oak table, but for all of the importance placed on her inclusion in the conversations, she might well have been just another stick of furniture.
The occasion did, however, afford her ample opportunity to study and compare the two brothers. Where Sir Ranulf was overtly indifferent to a great deal of the gossip and idle chatter, Eugene was sardonic and quick-witted, a fount of titillating details that had Lady Prudence leaning forward on the edge of her chair. He continually baited his older brother, camouflaging it with humor, though China could not even begin to comprehend why. More than once the two pairs of hazel eyes clashed across the table and she held her breath, waiting for the explosion that somehow never materialized. Either Sir Ranulf's self-control was extraordinary, or the two had a long standing history of pushing each other to the edge and knew the precise moment to step back.
The physical resemblance between the brothers was less pronounced. Sir Ranulf's hair was darker, thicker; his muttonchops extended neatly almost to the corners of his mouth and ended with a razor sharp line at his chin. Eugene's hair was wiry, showing signs of thinning on the crown, and his facial hair was two streaks of fuzz descending from his temples. Ranulf carried the scarlet dinner attire with comfort and elegance; Eugene seemed to have his shoulders stuffed into the constricting broadcloth and she suspected the stains on his waistcoat were longstanding.
Lord Wilfred Beren
ger-Whyte was the surprising saving grace of the dinner hour. Having determined him to be an incurable gossip and blowhard, he rattled on about the weather and the upcoming hunt season. He steered the conversation deftly away from politics and finance, two topics that spurred Eugene into a blatantly deliberate testing of Ranulf's patience. Obviously, Sir Wilfred had witnessed the pattern of attack and counter-attack previously and had taken it upon himself to preserve the peace for one night.
Lady Prudence, on the other hand, thoroughly enjoyed the meal and the rivalry between the two brothers. She chewed and spooned and talked all in one endless motion. She did so enjoy hearing herself speak and was an unrelenting authority on all topics, never running short of advice or instruction that, after the second glass of wine, made China want to reach over and stab her with a fork.
When the last of the plates were cleared away, and the men retired to their brandy and cigars, China followed Lady Prudence back to the drawing room, dreading having to endure a further hour of patronizing advice for brides-to-be.
"I trust your room is satisfactory? God knows why Ran put you in the older wing of the house, the view is ordinary and the rooms are drafty. Mind, he is having his own suite of rooms refurbished to reflect his upcoming marital status, so the discomfort will be temporary."
"The room is fine, Lady Prudence, as is the view. In Devon, my windows overlooked the--"
"And the girl Tina? We were all shocked...shocked, I say...to hear you were traveling to Portsmouth unaccompanied by a personal maid. Surely the estate was not so destitute as to deny you the basic needs, child?"
China Rose Page 3