by Sophia James
Both women acknowledged her and then Christine spoke again. ‘You are the one who dyed my brother’s hair? In Galicia? He cut it off short when he returned to England to get rid of the black and he looked like a scarecrow for weeks and weeks after.’
‘Scarecrow?’ Was that a good thing or a bad one?
‘Espantapájaros.’ Lucien supplied the word in Spanish and it fell into the library like an interloper. Every tome here was in English, she’d looked at the shelves when he was in with his mother, and there had not been a single title in Spanish.
‘It was a protect,’ she qualified, tripping on the last word as Daniel Wylde moved forward and spoke.
‘Well, we thank you for it, Alejandra, for rescuing Lucien in Spain and saving his life. He is dear to us, you see, and without him...’
‘Is my favour to do. He helps me also from the French. I am agree he is good man.’
Por favor, que me entiendan.
Please, let them understand me.
The words ran under everything she said even as Christine Howard reached out her hand and laid it on Alejandra’s arm, her smile warm.
‘Do you have other clothes with you? Other things to wear? My brother is obviously lacking in his duties in finding you such a gown.’
‘Lacking?’ She did not know this word at all and looked to Lucien.
‘Le falta.’ A further Spanish translation. ‘Don’t tell her of the breeches in your bag or the man’s shirt.’ This was also said in Spanish and very quickly. ‘Christine will never let me hear the end of it if you do.’
Watching Lucien Howard at a disadvantage in the presence of his sister made her smile. ‘I leave all my clothes in Madrid,’ she said slowly and saw the relief on his face.
‘Like a red rag to a bull,’ Amethyst drawled and everyone laughed.
Why should they speak of bullfighting? Alejandra thought, trying to understand the humour. They were brutal and bloody and she had never enjoyed the spectacle. Surely here in the mannered salons of England such a thing would be abhorrent. She turned again to Lucien for explanation and he gave it slowly in English.
‘My sister is a woman with a love of fashion and it would give her great pleasure to help you choose other clothes. It is both her calling and her downfall,’ he added and laughed. ‘No one ever quite measures up.’
‘Ignore Lucien. She has a gift for it, I promise.’ Amethyst said this. ‘Though I think you will not need much help at all.’
‘Except with your hair.’ Christine reached out a finger to touch her head. ‘May I?’
Bemused Alejandra nodded.
‘This is not your natural colour, surely?’
‘No. Is dark, not red.’
‘Much better then for such a shade would suit your eyes and skin. Did you cut it yourself?’
‘Yes. Many times.’ She wondered if she should have said that or not, but Lucien’s sister seemed most adept at identifying faults. She frowned, too, at the scars on her right wrist as the sleeve of her jacket fell back and even the last remnants of the red paint on her nails was noted.
A poor specimen, she probably thought. Lifting her chin, though, she met Christine’s eyes directly and this time real humour marked the light blue. Like Lucien’s eyes, only darker, and threaded at the edges in gold. Were the Howard siblings all as beautiful as these two, she wondered, or as forthright?
‘Perhaps we could start now, Alejandra.’
‘Start?’
‘My room is close and I am certain we could find something more suitable to dress you in. Amethyst will help us, too, and my maid is very useful with a needle.’
Lucien would not come with her, she was sure of it, and the thought made her hesitate. But still this dress was an ugly colour and the shoes were most uncomfortable. If they talked slowly, she would manage.
A moment later she found herself bundled away from the sanctuary of Lucien and his library.
* * *
‘So the fire was mistaken intelligence, then?’ Daniel sat on the chair before the desk and made himself comfortable.
‘No. There was a blaze, only Alejandra had not returned from Pontevedra, the port she had taken me to, and so she escaped it. Her father died, though, and the house was razed along with many of the men living there.’
‘Was it the French?’
Lucien shook his head. ‘It was another guerrilla family who lived close by. Old rivalries,’ he explained and poured them both a drink. He would not say anything of Alejandra’s first husband or the revenge his death had incited.
‘She is very beautiful, your Spanish lady.’
‘Yes.’
‘And very unprotected. The scandal would be huge if anyone were to find out how long you have been in each other’s company. Unchaperoned, I am presuming.’
‘It’s why I didn’t just head to Linden Park from Bournemouth, but came straight to London. With luck no one need know of her past.’
‘Where has she been living since you returned if her home was gone? The perpetrators were undoubtedly still on the lookout for her, so I am presuming she had to hide somewhere.’
‘In Madrid.’ Lucien smiled at Daniel’s deductions.
‘But she never thought to contact you?’
‘No.’ He took a decent sip of brandy and swallowed it.
‘Because she found another protector?’
Lucien shook his head.
‘I am certain she would have had no lack of men interested in helping her. What did she do for money, then, after her home was gone?’
‘She ran a business in La Latina, one of the central barrios in Madrid.’
This time it was Daniel’s turn to laugh. ‘No wonder Amethyst liked her so much. What sort of business?’
‘A brothel.’
‘Hell.’ He repeated the word again and stood. ‘Under her own name? That could be difficult.’
‘No, under a different one.’
‘Another identity, you mean? A dangerous occupation, I imagine, for a small and beautiful woman.’
‘She used the place as a way to extract information from the French customers and move the intelligence on to the British. It was a cover.’
‘Even more dangerous, then. Lord above, Luce, she sounds like the perfect match for you. Don’t you dare let her get away.’
In answer Lucien simply poured another drink and hoped Alejandra was not going to be too overcome by the ministrations of Christine and Amethyst.
* * *
She had never been particularly worried about her body in front of others and when the maid peeled off her gown to discover nothing at all beneath it, she simply stood in the centre of the room naked.
Christine and Amethyst on the other hand both blushed.
‘Oh.’ Christine reached for a blanket on the bed and wrapped it around her bare shoulders. ‘Well, I think we shall have to remedy your lack of underclothing immediately.’
Lack. Falta. Alejandra struggled to remember Lucien’s translation.
‘Though I must say with a figure like yours you will be a pleasure to dress.’
Amethyst Wylde began to giggle. ‘It looks like you go in the sun without clothes, Alejandra?’
She nodded. ‘A long time before when I am a girl. Is hot in Spain.’
‘How wonderful,’ Christine suddenly said. ‘I have become so very sick of all the rules in England. Your Spain sounds like just the place to live.’
And then it was easy. Feeling less different and tense, Alejandra began to remember more of her English and reply without so much trouble.
They were kind women, good women, and the clothes Christine took from a wardrobe, which stretched the whole side of one wall, many and of fine quality.
Christine ordered a maid to bring hot water, to which an infusion of lavender was then added. It made Alejandra feel as if she was home again amongst the aloes and olives and lavenders, such water, the feeling growing as a cloth was brought across her body and the grime and sweat from days and days of travel
was washed away.
Then there was a linen chemise brought out from a box and wrapped in tissue and a cotton stay was fastened above, her breasts folded into the fabric. A petticoat came next, draped across her bareness, the bodice tight and the skirt generous. The soft feel of silk was wonderful as white stockings with garters of ribbon were pulled to her knees.
‘This is just the beginning, Alejandra. Now we must decide on a dress and I am certain that you would suit bold colours in a gown. Like this.’ Reaching over for a vivid red dress from her cupboard, Christine peeled away the calico. ‘Or this.’ Another gown joined the first, royal blue and frothed with lace, and then a third in green and gold.
‘They are all beautiful.’ Alejandra could not believe the softness of the fabric or the fineness of the stitchery.
‘I make them,’ Lucien’s sister said quietly. ‘The Ross estate is trying to gain back what it has lost financially and though Lucien is doing a grand job the money does not yet run to a large budget for gowns and the suchlike. So this is my effort to appear more than we are.’
‘You make the dress of yourself?’
‘With the help of my maid, Jean, and her mother mostly. But I love the feel of fabric and the possibility. It would be better if you kept that bit of knowledge private, though.’
‘To tell no people of your cleverness?’
‘The ton is a group who believe any labouring should be done by the lower classes. They do not believe a woman should earn money or work a day in her life at any interesting job.’
‘Oh.’ Alejandra was taken aback by the notion.
‘I ran a timber company for years and now we have a most successful horse-breeding business.’ Amethyst’s words were soft. ‘Outside of London one can be just who one wants to. People find their places and no one complains as long as you are careful.’
‘And you are?’
‘Decidedly.’
It was almost like at the hacienda. There were rules to break and others not to and if one kept inside the forbidden boundaries one could be...free.
Christine went even further. ‘My brother is not a man to restrict others in doing what they want to for he himself has lived outside the narrow confines of propriety for years. So talk to him and find your own pathway here, Alejandra, and you might be surprised and delighted with what you are offered.’
Turning, she brought the green-and-gold gown away from its hanger. ‘But for now we need to make you look unmatched. Firstly, though, we must do something about your hair.’
* * *
Lucien could not believe that Alejandra was the same woman Christine and Amethyst had whisked away two and a half hours earlier.
Gone was the shabby orange gown that had drooped across the neckline and sagged at the back and in its place was a stunning green-and-gold creation that held a froth of lace on its bodice, highlighting the rounded swell of bosom and velvet skin.
Her hair was different, too, the strands wrapped across each other and secured in curls and waves around her face, giving the impression of its previous length and shine. It was no longer the gaudy red, either, but more like the hue he remembered.
However, it was the look in her green eyes that had changed the most, for the ragged urchin of wariness and carefulness was replaced by a woman who was beautiful. And she knew it.
The words she had given him years ago on the high hills of the Galician Mountains came to mind. Many men have liked me, she had said, and even then he could well believe it true.
But now? Like this? God, she would stand out in society like a rare and exceptional jewel. The very thought was enough to bring him to his feet.
‘We will leave for Linden Park in the morning.’
* * *
Lucien Howard did not like her transformation for some reason. The frown on his face was deep and he looked anywhere but at her as he spoke of his plans for moving south to his family seat in Kent.
Perhaps he thought her murky past might catch up if they stayed in London or maybe he was ashamed of her lack of English. Whatever it was he did not say a word about the things his sister had done to make her look...better. His friend Daniel Wylde, however, was more than effusive.
‘You are a magician, Christine. My wife is always saying you are such and today proves it. The men of the ton will be champing at the bit when they see you.’
‘Champing...?’
Lucien leant forward to explain. ‘They will lay their hearts at your feet. Beauty holds a great deal of sway in London society and a woman here barely needs anything else to flourish.’ His words were laced with irritation and also tiredness.
They had hardly slept since they had left Spain and he’d had a lot less sleep than she. Every night on the boat in her hammock when she had awoken in the dark he had been there, sitting and observing the horizon to keep watch.
She had napped, too, for a good many miles as they came north from Bournemouth in a hired coach, where a doctor had been summoned to see to her foot in a private room at a tavern on the way. The medic had not been gentle. The pain of his ministrations and the effect of the brandy Lucien had offered to dampen the agony had left her exhausted and she’d slumbered in his arms as they had wended their way up to the city of London.
But now here with her foot feeling so much less painful, and her hair and clothes so very fine, she wanted Lucien Howard to recognise the difference, to see her as she once had been many years before, the only daughter of a wealthy and noble Spanish family with a generous dowry and all the chances in the world to marry well.
Half a lifetime ago. The elation dimmed somewhat as she counted back the years. Perhaps this new persona was as false as the last one with the lacy gloves covering the scars on her right wrist and a dozen silver bracelets. She knew Christine and Amethyst had seen the old wound on her left thigh, too. They had looked shocked at the sight before hiding it, but this damaged woman was her as well, marked in danger, formed by war and honed in shame.
‘We will come down next week, Lucien, to see you. There is a man in Orpington who has a fine roan mare for sale that I wish to take a look at.’
Daniel Wylde’s voice cut into her thoughts.
‘We will bring Adelaide, too.’
‘Is she still running her clinic in Sherborne?’ Lucien asked this, interest in his eyes.
‘Yes. Gabe is having a lot of success in new practices of farming and they are halfway through rebuilding Ravenshill Manor. If he can get away we could bring him down. Francis may be able to come, as well.’
Friends, thought Alejandra. Daniel. Amethyst. Christine. Gabriel and Adelaide. Francis. She could not remember a time when she had even had one true confidante her age. A fault that, probably. Another lack her life was full of. England seemed to underline all that she was not.
When she saw Lucien observe her with concern in his face she smiled, a brittle pretend grin that felt wrong in its falseness, but it was suddenly all that she had left. She was adrift here as surely as she had been in Madrid, the future uncertain and the past defining her.
She was glad when the others gave their goodbyes and left, the concentration needed for speaking a language she was not fluent in exhausting.
‘They are good people, Alejandra. Real people.’ He looked at her with question in his eyes as she raised her left arm, the silk tight against her skin.
‘But where does a knife fit in a sleeve such as this?’ Her leg bent next. ‘And what manner of woman could ever escape quickly in these shoes?’
‘It is seldom one has the need to whip out a knife in London, but be warned. Words are the choice of weapon ladies and gentlemen of the court use and they can be as cutting.’
‘And therein lies the problem. I can barely understand a simple sentence, let alone one that might slay me.’
He began to laugh. ‘Beauty is enough here, believe me. Just let that do the talking.’
‘You think that I am? Beautiful, I mean?’
He stepped back and nodded, though the sam
e wariness she had seen before was more than apparent.
Hope rose inside her breast and into her throat, making her swallow away tears, the pale blue of his eyes touching her in all the places she wanted his hands to be. Strangers and lovers. And friends, too, once. The sun slanting in the window frosted his hair with gold and silver.
‘If people here were to ever know who I had been...’ She left the rest unsaid.
‘Scandal has its own deficiencies. If you don’t care enough about the gossip, it is fairly self-limiting.’
‘Like you don’t...care, I mean, about what others say?’
He smiled.
‘I doubt whether the girl who watched me walking along the paths of lavender at the hacienda of her father would have given it a second thought, either.’
‘I am not certain if that girl was ever real, Capitán.’
‘No?’
‘Once, I was braver, but loss has the tendency to take that away.’
‘To live is dangerous, Alejandra. And to love.’
She was silent. It was. It once had been. Here in London he was far more the earl than just a plain soldier and anything between them before was now caught in such a difference.
The perfume Christine had applied most liberally was strong and she had the beginnings of a headache that made her feel slightly nauseous. The love of a man. The love of a child. The love of a country. Each one of these was fraught with the possibility of loss and each one of them had been snatched away from her so very easily.
There was still the problem of his mother, too. She did not wish to be the reason for some difficult family rift. Her own had been the masters of that particular downfall.
But Lucien was looking at her as if she were beautiful and unflawed and honourable and when he stepped forward to take her hand she felt the same shock of awareness she always felt when he touched her.
‘Take a risk,’ he said quietly. ‘Take a risk, Alejandra, and live.’
And so she did, moving forward, feeling his warmth and then his hand lifting her chin, the pale eyes close and questioning. Only now in a world of books and silence, the sound of breath, louder, raw, desperate, and his mouth then against her own, slanting, wet and hard.